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#dieter bravo
chronically-ghosted · 19 hours
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stay sexy and don’t get murdered
rating: E for Explicit! 18+
pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader
word count: 6K
summary: Trapped behind a secret wall to hide from a murderer, the close proximity forces you and Dieter to confront feelings you rather bury underneath your case to prove your favorite neighbor didn’t commit suicide. 
(This is the Only Murders in the Building smut fic in the chaotic stylings of Dieter Bravo.)
warnings: brief moments of tv-appropiate terror, arguing, mentions of suicide, mentions of death/murder, but more importantly: smut (like half of this is smut), oral (f!receiving), dieter’s bare ass nearly catching on fire, too many feelings for something that started as a crack fic idea
a/n: this is my submission for the Dieter Brainrot Club server challenge! Thank you so much to @sp00kymulderrr for putting this together!
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On the other side of the false door, the floor creaks. Fear arches up the back of your spine, your fingers digging into your thighs, your heart pounding somewhere near your ears. The threads of light that struggle through the nearly invisible cracks fade and emerge as heavy boots cross back and forth over the wooden floor. A thousand panicked thoughts pierce one after the other –
Did you shut the door all the way?
Could the intruder see the seams in the wall? 
What were they waiting for?
And then, like a red, bright flare barreling through your brain: what the fuck were they after in Dieter’s apartment?
Another step closer to the false door and dread smothers every thought in your head, until you can hear the thundering of your own heart, the quick draw of your breath that is obviously so loud, the intruder has to hear it. 
Another bootfall, another creak, less light – he’s coming right for you you’re drawing him in – you inhale sharply, fear beating your heart against your breast bone the closer and closer the shadow comes – all the light is gone – and –
His hand slips over your mouth and draws you against his chest. The chill of the hidden crawl space dissipates against his warm skin, his solid forearm like a protective barrier over your chest, his fingers suddenly around your wrist as if to catch you. Your body must think it's falling because your hands grip him around the forearm, pulling him even tighter, his warmth a balm to the sinking cold of fear. 
Shhh . . .
Maybe he says it or maybe you just hear it in your head, his lips against your ear, not a gust of air between your bodies, his own breathing so faint you vaguely think he might be holding his breath. The heady scent of his muted cologne – days old at this point – mixed with the zing of something citrus-y has your head fogging up faster, fear dripping away like melting ice. You want to keep your eyes trained on the cracks of light, keep your muscles tense and ready for a fight when that door inevitably opens – but you swallow against his fingers when you realize that underlying smell of spice coming from him is the smell of Takis sticks and how much it turns you the fuck on. 
In the silence, the footfalls stop. The pressure and overpowering heat at your back makes sweat peak at your hairline, heartbeat at a low thrum. You’re entirely sure both of you have stopped breathing, just waiting, hoping –
You squeeze your eyes shut – 
And then the boots turn away. Heavy, lurking, but in the opposite direction. The invader paces up and down the length of the apartment, never coming near the secret door again. And then, as quickly as he came, the front door opens and shuts. 
There is quiet, a ringing silence. 
“Oh thank fuck,” Dieter gasps out. He lets you go, giving you space again, and you are instantly cold. He drops his hands to his navy sweatpants over his knees, head dropping down against his chest. “Holy shit I thought we were gonna die.” 
Your lips are still warm from his hand so as if to give it back because you don’t want anything from him, you pout them out.
“If you didn’t fight with me about hiding, we would have had more time. Why are you physically incapable of listening to me?”
You watch sweat roll down his temples and you realize your back is also damp. Your knees quake as the adrenaline subsides. The droplet from his hair continues down his throat, catching on his collarbone between the two folded edges of pink-and-black see-through kimono he wore like it was a totally normal thing. Of course this is his painting outfit. 
If Dieter catches you oogling, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he straightens up and rubs his eye with the back of his wrist, still a bit out of breath. 
“You know, when someone with tits like yours pushes me into a dark closet, I’m not really one to argue, but I think I should get some credit for not calling the cops on the first person who broke into my apartment today. What the fuck were you doing in there?”
You’re not quite sure what makes you flush harder: that he caught you doing something highly illegal or that he thinks your tits are dark-closet worthy. 
“Your apartment is one of the few original rooms built as part of the Rhododendron,” you answer defensively, arms crossed. “And since these passageways never showed up on any later building plans, I figured no one knew they were here.” 
Dieter frowns as he wipes the back of his neck with his palm and your eyes definitely don’t track it. 
“You’re saying there have been people living in my walls, watching me jerk off and I never knew?” His dumbstruck look melts into one of lewd satisfaction. “Nice.”
No, see, this was why nothing was ever going to ever happen between you two. 
“God, Dieter, you’re disgusting.” You shove past him and lean into the door. “People aren’t living down here. Didn’t you hear what I said? Hardly anyone knows about this at all – and they aren’t waiting around – to watch – you come –,”
Three hard pushes and the door remains firmly shut. What the fuck? Your fingers skim the seams, looking for a latch or a handle, something.
“You can yell at me once we get back inside.” He shudders and wraps his arms around his chest. “I’m freezing my nips off in here.” 
“I’m trying, Dieter, but it won’t open –,” you push harder, using even more force than you did to open it on the other side. “It’s stuck.” 
“Move, I’ll do it –,”
“Fuck you, Dieter, I got it.”
“We’d be outta here by now if you did.”
“Just help me–,”
“Ugh – fine –  on the count of three – one –,”
“Two –,”
“Three!” 
Nothing. He slumps to the floor, his bare feet sprawled out in front of him. 
“For this much grunting and sweat,” he pants, “we should definitely be fucking.”
You flick his ear, glaring at him, the heat of exertion sparking up to your cheeks at his words. He scowls up at you and claps a big hand over his ear as if to protect it from further assault. 
With a huff, you take out your phone and slide on the flashlight. As suspected, the crawlspace continues on, long into the dark. 
“C’mon, there has to be a way out somehow.” 
“You’re not serious,” he snaps from behind you. “Even I know in an emergency situation you have to stay put and wait for the authorities.”
“Oh, you mean the authorities that don’t know we’re here and probably will never know, with my –,” you check your phone for emphasis, “zero bars!” 
His hands fly to his pant pockets and groans. “Fuck, I don’t have mine.” 
You step back, hinging at the waist in a low bow. “Then lead the way.”
“Fuck, this is not how I wanted to spend my night.” He groans again and shoves the heel of his palms into his eyes before crawling to his feet. He wraps the air-thin kimono around his torso and fixes you with a solid glare. “Fine, but I’m charging you for every toe I lose to hypothermia.” 
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The hallways grow colder and darker the further you go, the air thickening with dust. You walk longer and longer as the passageway narrows until his shoulder bumps yours and eventually he has to follow an inch behind you to get through. But he’s not close enough to be warm.
“Can’t believe my last fucking meal was Froot Loops,” Dieter announces to the darkness after what feels like you’ve been walking for hours. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s scowling. “Fucking nasty.”
Your jaw aches from how tightly you grind your teeth together. 
“If it was so nasty, then why did you eat it?” 
“I couldn’t UberEats Captain Crunch,” he sniffs and you realize how cold your own nose is. “There’s a blizzard going on outside, didn’t you hear? Or were you too busy playing Nancy Drew, Baby’s First Break in?”
“I didn’t think you’d be home so early. You usually stop painting around eight, not 6:30.” 
“And just what were you hoping to find?” The casual sarcasm has been leached from his voice and genuine anger crackles over your shoulder. “I told you Mags gave me that key to her apartment of her own free will –,”
“– which you just conveniently forgot to mention–,”  
“– she gave it to me months ago and, so, yeah, sue me for forgetting!” You want to bite back with something, something to make the painful ache in your chest when you found out he had been lying to you go away. Something to scrape the taste of shame and disappointment off your tongue. But you know everything you’d throw at him would be unfair and childish. You stew so long in a bottle of your own rage and hurt that you don’t realize the silence has stretched on far too long.
When Dieter speaks again, he’s several steps behind you. You shine the flashlight on him and he barely flinches. You can see his broad shoulders shivering and you do think his feet look worryingly pink.
“The last time I saw Mags was just before a six month shoot. She gave me that key and told her to surprise her when I came back.” His teeth are chattering but he won’t look up at you. “I meant to call her, check in, while I was gone, but I just . . .” He shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “I got back into town an hour after they found her body . . . which means I didn’t kill her, for the record. You can check my ticket.”
Your mouth drops open, shame spreading out like an electric shock across your skin. “Dieter, I never thought that you . . .”
His glare levels you and you wonder what his face looked like after you slammed the door behind you that night you found the key. You had spent two weeks afterwards wandering the halls looking for secret tunnels to peel the image of his face just before you left in a rush from the walls of your brain. What had he done in all that time apart?
“Whatever. Let’s just go. I think you already owe me a thousand bucks.”
He tries to move forward but you block him, standing in the middle of the hallway. The light of your phone hits him from underneath and his jawline plays shadows on his chest. 
“I didn’t leave because I thought you killed her, Dieter. You lied to me. I’ve been running in fucking circles over this thing for weeks and all this time you kept something from me! It felt like you were . . .”
“What?”
The heat of your anger rolls up to the back of your neck. “It . . . i-it felt like you were manipulating me. Play detective with the little idiot in 2B because you’re bored and I was . . . available. Like what we were doing, it didn’t matter to you.” 
Dieter’s teeth clench on the right side of his jaw. “Of course it matters to me. Mags was the only one in this entire building who treated me like a person and not a fucking spectacle. She was important to me and I know she didn’t kill herself. I wanna get the fucker who did it as much as you do.” 
“But you kissed me!” You feel the cold in the air drop down into your lungs so fast your chest aches. “You kissed me, Dieter, and then I found the key on accident – like you were hiding it from me – a-and I heard the message Anika left on your voicemail. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but . . .” You squeeze your eyes shut, the cold from your lungs seeping into your bones. It’s nearly hard to breathe. “You and I are very different people, Dieter, and there’s not a world I can imagine you want anything to do with me, or Mags. I thought you were just . . . playing with me.”
The light of the phone hovers between you and him. Your toes are starting to ache from the ice-cold concrete and you briefly consider taking off your shoes and giving him your socks because that’s the instinct he draws from you. Despite how you fought it, how you clawed and scratched, you want Dieter Bravo to be okay, to be happy. But you can’t prostrate yourself on the altar of someone who wouldn’t do the same for you.
Not again.
“Dieter, please say something.” You can see his pant leg tremble in the blue light. “I’m sorry I–,”
“Did you ever think I like the fact that you’re different from me? From everything that my world means? That everything that makes you, you is amazing and gorgeous and I’m so fucking drawn to it, I lose sleep at night.” His voice is deep, hulking in a way that fills up the dark corridor until you feel like you are being smothered. But it’s not angry, not aggressive. If anything, his voice is thick with regret. “Anika was . . . a mistake. She knows that now. She’s seen it. So I can’t blame you for r-running the way you did, but . . . I’m not lying to you. Not about Mags, or how I feel, or anything else. I never have and I never will. You got that?”
Swallowing the grisly, meaty knot in your throat that could be mistaken for your emaciated heart, you nod. You are suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to fall to your knees and confess your own sordid past that made you the way that you are because he needs to know you’re NOT amazing or gorgeous or anything resembling someone worth losing sleep over. 
He needs to know he should run from you
“I’m starting to lose feeling in my toes, seriously. We need to get out of here.” 
He stands there staring, the dark shadows abandoned by the light of your phone hiding whatever is in his eyes. And then you realize he’s waiting for you to move. Your knees and elbows locked from the cold and the weight of his confession, you stiffly turn around, heading into the darkness without looking back.
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About an hour later, Dieter bursts through his apartment again with a cry of relief and immediately bolts for the fireplace. He twiddles with the switch a second before a massive fire belches from behind the sleek black grate. With another deep groan, he drops in front of the fire and sticks his hands centimeters from the metal fence. He wiggles his toes and props them up on the marble lip. The stiffness recedes, the pink fading, and he glances over his shoulder.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Either come in and shut the door . . . or leave.” 
Your fingers wrap around the edge of the black door. You are cold. Your fingers are cold. The hole in your heart that’s been growing there long before you met Dieter . . . makes you step through the threshold and shut the door behind you.
Dieter wiggles his toes against the marble lip, his elbows over his knees, his eyes the color of earth in autumn. He neither tenses or relaxes when you sit down next to him, extending your own extremities closer to the fire. 
The color has returned to his lips and you can’t find anything else in the room to look at. 
“I’d offer you a drink,” he murmurs to the flames, “but I still can’t feel my feet.”
I lose sleep at night.
“Dieter, look, I’m . . .”
His thick fingers wrap around the bone of his wrist and he shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t . . . don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” 
“Thank you, Dieter.” You glance at him. The fire crackles in his eyes, wide in disbelief, fingers tangled together. “I mean that. I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have without you.” 
He chuckles after a pause. “That’s not what you said when I broke into the super’s storage closet for you.”
“You’re going to get us arrested,” you roll your eyes and bump your shoulder into his. With a grin that is innocent and hopeful and full of bright fire from behind the grate, his gaze drops to the plush of your mouth, the wet crease where your tongue soothes dry skin, and his bottom lip curls between his teeth. 
“Oh,” he murmurs, “I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs.”
As though his gaze has a solid presence, it licks fire down your throat, over the back of your neck, rocketing into your spine and swooping low into the peak of your thighs. It darts over your lips, your nose, your cheeks, your ears, dragging lightning in its wake.
It isn’t the first time you’re consumed by the thought of kissing Dieter Bravo and it certainly won’t be the last, but it’s the first time you are made so overwhelmingly helpless by it, the wind is knocked out of you for a second. 
You wait too long to breathe, too long to tear your gaze away from his lips, too long to realize you’re leaning into him, until his broad hand redirects your forward motion up into his open mouth. 
This is the first time you’ve ever kissed Dieter Bravo and dear fucking god, please don’t let it be the last. 
His tongue lines your bottom lip, tasting, memorizing, marking that place that has you tilting in closer. Beneath your fingertips, the recluse beard scratches and burns and you take his jaw in both palms because you can’t wait to push it between your legs. His fingers wind into your hair and he’s leaning over you, consuming you like only your dreams of this kiss had before. 
All it takes is one soft sigh, one final moan of relief, your fingers curling around the flimsy kimono, and Dieter pins you to the floor in a single fluid motion. His knee digs into your thigh, trapping your legs apart, to make room for himself in the cradle of your hips, pressing himself into you and pushing air from your lungs. You can feel him hard, the tip of his cock warm against you, and that simple fact – the fact he wants you so badly – has you slotting an arm around the back of his neck, tugging him in tighter, closer, because not even sex would bring him deeper inside you. With a grunt, Dieter’s hand leaves your cheek, running hotly down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, and into the dip of your hip. He squeezes and you whine against his teeth. He rucks his leg up under your thigh, squeezes you again, rougher, more intentional, and you tug your head back, gasping for breath, lungs on fire and mind whirling like a book flipping open in the wind. 
You groan, air precious and limited, as he sinks just a hint of teeth into your jaw, your earlobe – harder, then – your throat, his tongue going flat and fat against your skin, then the valley of your collarbone. He mouths lower on your chest over your shirt, need overwhelming logic, and your fingers fly to slide up your own shirt, wriggling between his cock and the floor, and when he sees you peel your shirt up over your ribs, his mouth parts, eyes dark, framed by darker lashes.
“Fuck.”
Your back arches towards his mouth, towards his tongue and lips and teeth and the hot pant of air coming from the back of his throat. The lip of your shirt exposes your heaving tits and Dieter plants his mouth in the curve, groaning with a mouthful of your skin. He sucks, teeth prickling the skin, as if he could eat his way through you. His hips sway forward, heavy against the seam of your jeans and his nose draws up to your jaw before he’s kissing you again. 
“I’m not manipulating you,” he hums out of nowhere. He blinks his bleary eyes at you, his wide hands stilling in their touch, and you want to laugh and grin and tell him he’s being silly but you can’t, you can’t over the wild beat of your heart, the sincerity in his voice a grounding force beneath the bloom of pleasure riding up from where his hips press into yours. He dips his head and drops a hot, open-mouth kiss to your throat. “‘M not, I swear, I swear–,”
“I know, Dieter.” You tug his chin up with the press of your thumb, into your seeking mouth, and he groans, tasting the transference of want, of truth, of pure desperation on your tongue. The slip of lip between his teeth turns his touch frantic. 
“I want this.”
“Me too.”
Shifting over you, he kisses back down your neck, short whiskers stroking tiny burns against your skin, down your chest until he dips his head over your right breast, and bites – then soothes with his tongue. His hand nearly maps your other tit in one palm.
He squeezes as he bites again and your hips drive up into his, bliss sparkling like lightning between storm clouds beneath your skin. You aren’t sure if you moan his name or if it’s just pasted over every thought in your head. He makes you lose all sense. 
With a groan he lifts his head just an inch, the cold tip of his nose drawing senseless shapes over the curves of your breast.
“Wanna see your tits – can I see your tits, please?” His hand slides up your back, between your bra band and your hot skin and digs his nails in. “Please, pretty girl, please.”
You whine your consent, nodding into the messy heap of hair that tickles your chin, and he pinches your bra off before the last dip of your head. He flings it into the darkness behind him and with a strained groan, Dieter opens his mouth around your nipple and sucks.
The corners of his mouth are still a bit cold, the heat of the fire not quite enough, and when he slurps up from the underside, the fat curve of your tit, up to your nipple again it’s like someone outlined your goosebumps in ice. You scratch at his head, begging him deeper into your chest, and he obliges with a wet, swollen hickey on the top of your tit. His teeth hurt but with each suck, it’s like he’s plucking at the string connected directly to your cunt. You throb for him. 
His fingernail grazes the irate pink of your nipple, circling it again and again before he pinches and you arch, right into the flat hardness of his cock. You shake and intentionally, unintentionally, you don’t know your own body right now, rub up against his cock and Dieter, with your tit halfway in his mouth, chokes. 
“Fuck, I’d ask you to do that again, but I’m gonna come like a fucking jet engine in my pants. Lemme in,” he’s babbling as his hands drop to the button of your jeans and wrench the zipper down, “I’m gonna eat you out till you’re fucking dry.” 
Shoulders pressed back against the white shag carpet, you help him yank your pants down over your hips, up your calves, and off your feet. Dieter’s eyes can’t find a place to land – from the purple claim he’s laid over your tits, to the sucker pink swell of your lips, to the wettest cunt he’s maybe ever seen in his whole life –
He sits up on his heels and nearly gets caught up yanking the kimono off his shoulders. With shaking fingers, he unties his sweatpants and tugs himself out. 
You’d never noticed before when your mouth flushes with spit at the sight of a good meal.
You do now. 
He’s not overwhelmingly long, but he is thick, thick and a ruddy red, cream dribbling out. The sweat on his chest and stomach a few inches above sparks gold and warm in the light of the fire. In a single swipe over his palm, Dieter spreads that wet precum over his long cock, easing a few smooth strokes. 
“Mhn, this is what I look like when I fuck myself at night t-thinking – thinking of you,” he groans. His hand curls around your thigh, keeping you pinned, keeping you spread. But the sight of him jerking off and moaning your name drops your knees apart and your hand on your clit. With every swipe, you circle faster until you think it’s his hand on his cock that’s doing this to you. Dieter watches, mouth open, shoulders curved as you spin yourself wetter and wetter. “Came so hard I blacked out with the thought of you like this in my head. Wait, baby, move, I wanna –,” 
His hands on your knees, he shuffles closer and like you can see his words without asking, you tilt your hips up towards him, receiving him as he rubs his cock between your soaked folds. His blunt head catches your clit again and again, and you twitch, as though shocked in an electrical storm. 
“Oh, fuck, baby –,”
You dig your nails into the back of his hands over your knees, using the leverage to speed up his thrusts, the ruddy tip smacking where you need him most but never inside. His eyes flutter as he feels you soak his cock, slick dripping between your thighs and the shine against your skin nearly knocks the wind out of him. He grips you harder. 
“Fuck it, I gotta know what you fuckin’ taste like.” 
In a move that catches your legs over his shoulders, rolls your ass up off the floor, and his body back and further down, Dieter tucks his head and latches onto your cunt, presented high near his face. He inhales as he drinks, as he eats, as he dines on the spillage down to your ass. Dieter moans and suddenly the boiling heat of pleasure rages to an inferno when he wraps his lips around your clit and licks with the flat brim of his tongue. 
“Oh, oh-h-hmy fucking god, Dieter!”
It’s whiny and debauched, but it’s also a plea, a desperate bid to the last traces of your sanity. Your eyes roll back in your head and your back, flat, on the floor, but Dieter lays flat on his stomach, fingers pressing into your thighs, shoulders shoved up against the curve of your legs – his tongue still dragging breathless gasp after breathless gasp out of you. He’s tapping out nuclear launch codes with little licks of his tongue, eyes as effective at pinning you down as his thighs were. 
You can feel yourself drip for him, on him, into him because his mouth is pressed right up against the seam of your pussy. Words rise and fall and die in your throat, your mind following the rising path of your orgasm into nirvana. 
“Say it, baby,” he husks into your damp curls. “Tell me how good I fuck you with my tongue.” 
You groan, riding his nose. “So fucking good. Oh, fuck, wait, right there – oh, shit – Dieter, baby, ahh–,”
It comes on without warning, without slowing down, without giving you a second to breathe before bliss flattens you like a train. It courses through you, singeing your blood and showering sparks behind your eyes. You spill more for him, so much for him, and he eats, like drinking honey from the source – spill, and spill until there’s nothing but a thready pulse inside your body. 
He’s sucking directly from your tingling pussy when you finally push him back with a groan. Dieter retaliates with a huff, mhm mm, eyes black like the coals inside the grate, the entire bottom half of his face hidden from view as he hungrily tugs your hips to him with both arms. You’d never seen him quite so sure about something, so possessive.
Like he already owns your cunt. Stop me, I dare you, he taunts with his eyes.
“Dieter,” you plead, mouth dry, heart fluttering with each lick of his tongue. Your poor clit is drenched and stiff. “B-baby, I need you . . . up here.” 
With one last prod that slides just barely between your cheeks, up through your leaky hole, and swiping your clit one last time, Dieter unplugs himself from you, murmuring and wiping his mouth as he goes. Your skin glistens where his mouth leads and he can’t resist shining up that purple swell as if showing off where he lanced you through the heart. 
You half-expect him to shove his pants all the way down and shove himself into you, but he doesn’t. Instead the man known for his hedonism around the world and certainly within the building crawls up your body, drops a grateful kiss into the bend of your neck, and one by one, folds onto his elbows over you. His face smells like you, his aquiline nose inches from your own, his lips still damp and warm, and the soft brush of those lips high on your cheek has you shuddering in his arms, digging your nails into his expansive shoulders and tipping him into your waiting mouth.
He kisses you for a moment, breathing roughly out of his nose, before he wipes his broad palm across your forehead and pushes your hair back over your head, cupping the curvature of your  skull. The motion drags your eyes open.
“Hi there, baby,” he murmurs quietly across your lips, eyes soft and a thousand miles deep. Your legs tuck up around his hips. “Can I fuck you now?”
You nod through the sudden blockage in your throat, the swelling in your chest making your heartbeat twice as hard. You think you might die if he doesn’t. Dieter presses a kiss with just a hint of teeth against your cheek before sliding back down, littering your skin with kisses full of praise and heat, and hovering above your belly button, he knees off his sweatpants, fully down from his hips, the motion bending him forward and pressing his face into the swell of your stomach.
“I wanna make this last,” he slurs into your skin, “but I don’t think I can. Fucking dreamed about you for weeks. Scared out of my mind when you didn’t pick up your phone.”
Dieter covers you with his body, his palm planted by your ear, the other hand wrapped around himself, and his words register in your brain, the desperation peeling back the fog of lust-drunk. 
“W-when didn’t I answer my phone?”
His eyes, dark and wet, glance up from where you’re nearly combined and you nod, hands sliding from his biceps up to his shoulders. With a groan deep in his chest, Dieter rolls his hips forward, the blunt head of his cock sliding you apart and your mind nearly in half. You arch your back to take him more fully.
Half-way in and he drops his other hand to mirror the one by your head. He keeps pushing, keeps making room for himself, the thickness nearing choking you into blackness. You whine, incoherent syllables, and he grinds his jaw together.
“W-when you – fuck, baby, you’re so tight – when you went to that m-meat – ngh –,” he’s almost flushed against you, “that factory, ah-all by yourself.” 
Are you sweating? How are you sweating already? 
He ends against you, and you both groan at the sensation of his thick weight settling inside of you. You bury your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and tug – how dare you make me feel so good why haven’t you done this before please god don’t fucking stop now
“You were f-filming – Dieter! – you were in another countr-ry.” 
With half a laugh, delirium twisting his mouth up into a smile, he lowers down and kisses you, your own mouth slow to follow him. He pulls back, a fraction of an inch. 
“I would have dropped everything for you. Now, hush, I gotta fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” 
His palm cupping the back of your head, his arm curled with his hand flat on the floor, Dieter starts slow, his pace deep, curious just how much of him you can take without actually tearing apart, and his cock brushes something that sends sparks up behind your eyes, splits your mouth apart, and wrenches his name out of your mouth.
“There we go,” he hisses in your ear and speeds up his thrusts. Like music cranked up on a radio, you can feel yourself pulse, your heartbeat in your neck, as every tap of his cock overwhelms your body with pleasure. The least you can do is hold on; you wrap your arms around his heaving back, and tuck your legs up to your ribs and he squelches in deeper. 
“Hm – yeah – needed that–,”
Heat builds between you: between your neck and his panting breath, between the flushed skin of his chest inches from your sweaty one, between the brush of his course curls against your clit. He’s trying to make you remember every fight you had, every touch you shared, every shallow drop of his heart when you pushed him away again and again – he fucks you like he wants you to synonymize him with the very sensation of heat itself. But you’re unspooling rapidly with every thrust of his hips – more of you leaves as more of him comes in. 
For the first time in weeks, you don’t think about Mags. Or her murder. Or her blue-cold apartment. You don’t think about failure or fear, or your anger that you wield like a weapon. You don’t think of your parents or what the fuck you’re going to do with your life when this mystery is over – when Dieter inevitably tires of you – you can’t think at all. He won’t let you.
He knows you want to recuse yourself, retract and hide, but he won’t let you. 
The unimaginable stretch keeps your mind unfocused, blurred, and just when you think you might stabilize under the sensation, he kisses you. Harshly, softly, any kiss he knows you need to keep you in your body, forced to receive every devastating wave of pleasure he gives you. He palms back your sweaty hair off your forehead, salt clinging to his own curls, and sucks on your earlobe, asking how’re you feeling, my good girl? from between his teeth. 
Your stifled sigh is answer enough. 
“Almost there, love, what do you need, huh? What can I give you?” His words, offered in a voice so lust-strained, you feel the vibrations over your skin. You palm the center of his back, muscles hot and tight, and you answer with the only thing that’s on your mind:
“You.”
Breath suddenly short in his chest, he quickens his pace – shorter, faster thrusts that send you higher, sprinting towards an inevitable, bright end. His grip shifts as he squeezes your hip, that low ache tightening and locking down, the overwhelming sense of Dieter spiraling you apart. 
“Show me you mean it,” he whines, the scruff of his beard rubbing your jaw raw. “Come on this cock for me, baby, show me who you need.” 
You yank on his hair again and with a snarl, he snatches your wrists from around the back of his neck and pins them above your head. 
“Gonna fill you up with e-exactly what you need, gonna fuck you so full of me, your undies are gonna drip white for weeks–,” 
“Mhmn, yesDieterplease, yes, m’yours, y-your –,”
Another release, this one wild and spiraling, tears through you, up your spine, out of your mouth in a wide, silent scream. Your body curls around him, clinging to him as you pulse and seize, your legs twitching. Your hands tingle with a sudden loss of sensation as Dieter squeezes down on your wrists, head tucked into your neck, and with a shuddering, “f-f-fuck,” he follows your release with his own. A rough shove and he breaches your squirming cunt with his warm cum, the feel of it tugging your own smoldering orgasm along a bit further. Basking in the last twitches of your cunt, Dieter lowers his head to your shoulder, his thumbs distractedly rubbing soothing circles around your wrist. You can’t move, can barely breathe with his weight on you, but the pounding of his heart through his chest into yours settles the haze in your brain.
You know now you can’t hide the thunderous machinations of your own heart from him either. 
“Don’t wanna move,” comes the dispassionate grunt at your neck, “but my ass is on fire.” 
A smile then a full body laugh, that makes Dieter lift his head. His own smile strikes you in your heart: adoration, a little sleepy, and relief. He glances over his shoulder at the exposed flames mere feet from his bare ass. 
“S’ what I deserve, fuckin’ in front of an open fireplace.”
“We all must suffer for our art.”
At that he turns back to you, grinning wildly and a tad bit proud. His own ego blown up to excuse his softening cock, Dieter slides out of you and onto his back. Without his chest, the heat from the fireplace collides with your bare, sweat-slick chest and you shiver.
“Cold?” He sits up and tries to catch a loop of the sheer blanket on the back of the couch but you still him with a touch of your hand on his back. The look in his eyes, that dopey ease by which Dieter lives his life, makes your other hand on your stomach tremble.
You don’t want your overthinking to ruin a truly blissful mood, but anxiety chatters at the back of your teeth. Instead of suggesting you both go to his room to shower off, or if he thinks the police might know about the secret passageways, you ask:
“Did you mean it?” 
His face softens, eyes go warm. You should specify which part, but he doesn’t need you to.
“Yeah. I did.” He leans down and kisses you briefly on the mouth, knowing you have more to say and worry over. 
“But–,”
“As cute as your but is, we’re not gonna do that right now. You’re going to get under this blanket with me and we’re going to talk about what you’ve found about the case and then we’re going to solve this mystery together.” Dieter reaches back and finally snags the blanket. With a shuffle, he, sweat-streaked and cum-covered, lays down with the blanket over his shoulder and opens his arms to you as though he’d done it a thousand times. Your face hot and your eyes painfully dry, you curl up into him. 
“Together,” he repeats. “Did you hear that part? That’s important. We’re going to Scooby-Doo this together.”
Silence, where all the wrong things sit heavy on your tongue, your own twisted morality desperate to push him away and run out the door – silence stretches, uncomfortable and tight and –
“I’m proud of you for that pun, and not using it like I’m gonna ‘Scooby-Doo-Screw-You’.”
“Fuck,” Dieter groans and you giggle. “It was right there!” 
His chest is warm as you bury your face into his skin. 
You watched true crime television specials to be prepared for the worst. You listened to podcasts about missing women to avoid making deadly mistakes. You fought and hid-away your whole life to keep yourself safe and protected, but nothing – nothing in the entire world – could have prepared you for falling in love with Dieter Bravo.
His smile is soft and he knows you well enough to know that you’re thinking about something. With a brush of his thumb over your cheek, he asks:
“What?” 
And all you can do is shake your head, the deluge of words and feelings trapped behind your lips and the only noise you can make to keep them inside is a squeak.
You press your forehead into his shoulder and his arms smooth across your back, tugging you closer.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . I feel safe with you.” 
Safe, and happy, and loved.
+
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nerdieforpedro · 1 day
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A Poor Plan to Confess
Dieter Bravo x plus size female reader (Moon Pie)
This is fic is for readers 18+ MDNI
Word Count: about 2.1k
Warnings: Dieter being a bit rude, porn use, mention of masturbation, teasing, improper toy use?, very bad communication, some mentions of sexual activities and acts, Nerdie is unsure of what she wrote
Summary: Dieter is doing his best to stay sober. You have a large part in his plans. They aren’t well thought out.
Notes: Written for the Dieter Bravo Brain Rot Server Challenge. @wannab-urs brought me back to Dieter, originally I didn’t have any ideas for this and then boom! 🤯 I had a few. Thanks to @missladym1981 for beta reading for me. 😘
Main Masterlist / Dieter Bravo Masterlist
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A joke between old friends. Dieter was doing well. Three years sober, well from the harder drugs. He still had the occasional joint and alcohol. You weren’t really into the weed, thought it stunk to high heaven. Dieter always managed to find some really fragrant strains though, smelled like incense. Type you would burn laying on a chase couch in a fancy silk robe. Maybe smoke one of those long cigarettes except it had bubbles coming out of it. Dieter bought you one and told you to make bubbles come out of it over FaceTime.
The two of you have many silly jokes over the years. Some about video games, some about animals, some about his job and yours. He never wanted to hear about relationships and didn’t mention any of his to you. You asked why one day because friends normally at least mention if they’re dating someone or not and Dieter flat out told you, “I don’t need to have the image of you fucking somebody in my head.” Had you not been as secure as you were, you’d take offense, but you left it alone, keeping it in the back of your mind.
One thing Bravo hadn’t joked about thankfully was his sobriety, finally taking it seriously. He told you that if he ever called you mentioning coke or pills to lock him up and prevent him from calling anyone for the drugs. This was another joke. He even bought you handcuffs, zip ties and some bondage tape. His assistant dropped it off with a quizzical look on their face. You smiled and put them in your office. You knew why they had that look, you two as just friends and Dieter’s never given you anything like that before. Like an idiot, you googled how to use the zip ties and tape, ending up on Pornhub and unaware that someone was banging on your door.
When the next pop-up blocked your screen again, that was when you heard, “Hey! You alive in there?! Open the hell up! What kind of friend are you?” Running downstairs, you open up the door recognizing the voice, Dieter’s at your door. It’s 11:30 at night. He stares at you and you wonder why. Ah…I’m in my nightgown. My pink satin one to match the handcuff fuzz. I don’t think I washed my hands, and they smell like…fuck.
You now know why.
“Moon Pie, you got someone up in here? Didn’t know you had someone. I need your help your help though, just a room.” He pleads at your doorstep, before you can answer, whatever ad has finished and there’s loud moaning from the video you had been watching. His eyes cut upward to where the noise is coming from. “Or maybe not. I didn’t think you watched porn.”
Putting your hands on your hips, “Anyone can watch porn Dieter. Am I not allowed according to some weird ass rule you have? I have sex sometimes too!” His eyes went wide as you stepped aside letting him in and he raised his hands to signal defeat, though he did laugh when you said the word sex.
“You can’t even say fuck Moon Pie. Listen, let’s not talk about that. I need you to keep me here. I’m feeling like I may need to make a bad call. I did give my assistant my phone, but I don’t want to chance it. You still got that box?” He pays your shoulder, plopping down on the couch.
“Go find your silly box yourself Dieter. I’m going back upstairs.” Waving your hands, you start upstairs, making it up three stairs before some slaps are heard from your laptop in your room. You really need to turn that off.
“To finish your porn instead of helping your friend?” He popped up met you at the bottom of the stairs, “Come on! You still have the tools, right?” His hands ran up your arms. This man. Despite showing up unannounced, late, interrupting some ‘me time’ and requesting he use tools you don’t know how to use save for the handcuffs, you’d still help him out. Even if he could be troublesome and rude at times, he always supported you in work endeavors and listened to you talk way too much about Final Fantasy games. He blames you for knowing about crystals and different jobs like paladin and black mage.
You didn’t answer him and walked upstairs to your room, to turn the porn off but the screen was frozen, playing the same moan ever and over. The image had a man zip tied to a pole while standing as a woman sucked him off. They both were letting out a combined moan. Swallowing hard, Dieter watched you switch your weight between your large hips, he removed his robe and brown t-shirt leaving himself in his brown pajama pants and removing his gray socks. “Moon Pie. Have you ever done that sort of thing? I doubt it.” His voice snapped you after your haze, turning to look at him, confusion dots your face.
“Why did you remove your shirt? I just need to tie you up and prevent you from leaving right? Put your shirt back on Dee.” His chest only has a small splattering of dark hair on his golden skin. He lays across your bed grinning. “Wait how long am I supposed to keep you here? You’re not getting me arrested.”
“I was hot and until I don’t feel like using. Where’s the box?”
“Stay there, it’s in my office.” You’re back momentarily with the fabled box and open it, taking out the handcuffs, zip ties and tape. “Here which do you want me to use? I’m tired.” Dropping the box on the bed, he frowns, you’re not playing along, you see annoyed. Shouldn’t you be happy he’s across your bed? Dieter is, why aren’t you?
You are tired sure, but you’re hornier and more aware that Dieter is not going to want anything to do with relieving any frustration you have. Holding your hands palms out, “Just tell me what you want me tie you up with so I can set up the guest room.”
“Hey, why are you pissed at me? I’m not leaving until you help me, you said you would.” Dieter scoots to the edge of the bed and leans on his elbows. “Are you really that mad I stopped you from finishing your porn? You don’t need it.” He picks up the handcuffs out of the box and studies the pink fuzz. It looks about the same shade as your nightgown. Moon Pie hasn’t used these has she? No, they don’t look used. I think. These are mine, I bought them for her to use with me. She shouldn’t be watching porn. I need to be the toy.
“Damn it Dieter! I’m not just your friend, I’m a woman who has needs no matter if you wanna think about it or not! Fuck you!” Charging at him, you grab his shoulders and knock him back on the bed, pinning him to bed. He slaps the handcuffs on your wrist and his. “What the hell?! They’re only supposed to go on you not me!”
Bravo licks his lips and turns his head to the side to kiss your hand after pulling his wrist to his mouth. “Oh, I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs. You should fuck me Moon Pie.” His curved nose inches closer to your hand and sniffs it. He has your scent now, sticking one of your fingers into his mouth and pulling it back out.
The sensation from his lips went straight to your cunt and you stifled a moan. He will not have his way; you can ensure even if you’re handcuffed to him. “You said you couldn’t picture me fucking Dee? Are you looking for that much of a distraction?” You moved to sit beside him on the bed, but he pulled you back on top, his free hand roaming freely over your love handles. “Dee, I’m not just going to be used for you staying sober.”
Leaning forward, his face connected with your neck, licking it, “I’ve been using you to stay sober since I finish rehab three years ago. I knew if I went back, it would disappoint the hell out of you.” His teeth bit into your neck and a whimper escaped, small but it was enough to encourage him. “I didn’t want to think of someone fucking you other than me. I’m sure you have; they’re flies drawn to honey.” His hand ran from your rolls to your ass squeezing it. “If I’m going to stay sober for you, I should have you, shouldn’t I?” Rolling his hips up into yours, he licks the bite and lets go of your ass slapping it.
Dropping your hips, you press right into his clothed bulge, feeling it throb against your bare cunt. “You’re insane Dieter, how does that make any sense….?” Unfortunately, he’s making it so much worse, your nipples are visible through your nightgown, erect as you leak onto his pants from your core. “This is only because you stopped me earlier with your stupid request.”
“Whatever you want to tell yourself Moon Pie. Only I’m going to see you like this from now on, right?” The pads of his fingers trail up your spine and pull down one of the straps of your nightgown letting a breast become fully exposed. He licks it before blowing on it, eliciting another whimper. “Tell me I’ll be the only one. I’ll take the handcuffs off and make sure you come. Don’t be difficult tonight. Not when I need you.” He doesn’t wait for your answer before taking it in his mouth, and sitting up, pulling you into his lap. Instinctively, both of your hands grab his head, pulling his one hand back. He disconnects from your nipple to yelp from his shoulder suddenly going back.
You grin and try to reach for the key that’s in the box since he’s distracted, but Dieter gets on his knees and pulls on his wrist, having your arm come back toward him and making you fall face first into the bed. “Dieter let me get the key, then I can lock you in another room. Clearly you need to be.” His fingers trace your thighs but don’t go any higher, sighing, he lays down next to you.
“You seriously don’t want to have sex with me? Even after I tell you I want you to be my only one? So cold to me.” He pouts. This man is seriously pouting after he’s teased you? He doesn’t move as you get the key and unlock yourself. You consider handcuffing both of his hands but release him as well. Moving to the edge of the bed, you stand and turn off your laptop then return to sit on the bed.
“You’ve got to do better than trying to guilt me into it. You’re horrible at this.” You laugh as does he. If it had been anyone else, you’d never speak to them again at minimum, Dieter rolls on his side and kisses your thigh.
“We’ve been friends how long? You know I’m shit at this. I feel like I should ask, you’re not going to have me arrested for this are you?” You poke the scruff on his cheek.
“No, though I should. You’re insane Dieter Bravo. We’ll sleep on it.” You lay back and scoot up to the head of the bed, closing your eyes.
“Did you want to finish your porn? Or make our own? It will be Moon Pie’s debut!”” Slinks up the bed and lays his head on your chest, kissing your collar bone.
“You’re a dumbass Dieter. I would tie you up but you’d like it too much. Go to sleep.” Placing your fingers in his hair to scratch his scalp makes him purr, wrapping a leg around one of yours.
“Keep scratching my head like that and we won’t be sleeping at all you cheeky Moon Pie. I’ll be under that gown soon.” His face found its way back to your neck, licking the teeth marks he made earlier. Letting out a soft groan, you pull on Dieter’s hair, so he pulls his head back. “Jokes on you, I enjoy my hair being pulled. Manipulate me more.” His grin is criminal, he should be arrested for that if anything.
It wasn’t even two hours before Dieter had your legs up around his waist. He’s temperamental and a horrible communicator but damn if he didn’t have you call him an Oscar winner while he rutted into you from behind giving you your third orgasm before one in the morning.
Trash Panda Pals 🦝: @katw474 @readingiskeepingmegoing @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @megamindsecretlair @pamasaur @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @sp00kymulderr @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @titlee78 @tinytinymenace @magpiepillsjunior @soft-girl-musings @morallyinept @rhoorl @wannab-urs @survivingandenduring @missladym1981 @yorksgirl @pedroshotwifey @heareball
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schnarfer · 3 days
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The One - A Dieter Bravo Drabble
Dieter Bravo x f!reader
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Rating: Just light angst today lads (gn)
Word count: 838 words  
Summary: If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?
Content: Bit of emotional torment, drink and drugs references, Dieter POV, happy ending? Always Fleabag coded.
AN: Thank you so much to the truly wonderful @beskarandblasters for creating the taylor swift drabble challenge! I chose Folklore (MY BELOVED) and got given Dieter & The 1, which when I was woken up at 2am by my three year old, I found I had a flurry of ideas for! I hope you enjoy this little drabble that may well have been a fever dream? I absolutely love writing for Dieter, the trash panda of my heart 🖤 you can read my other Dieter's on my fic masterlist
Huge thank you to my darling @pascalssbabyy for reading and encouraging me in my madness!
Please do check out the whole challenge masterlist here
Dividers by @saradika/ @saradika-graphics
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The One
Dieter Bravo knows he’s not the one.
He’s the best sex they’ve ever had, the most debauched twenty-four hours in Vegas, the absolute worst boyfriend, the ultimate Met Gala date, the ideal stoned art gallery companion… but never, he’s never, been The One.
Sometimes he’s been The One before The One, like with you.
He wakes up alone in his bed for once. With bleary eyes he checks his phone, sees the date and feels an unpleasant lurch in his stomach, a twist of memory right in the gut.
Fuck it, he needs a spliff and he needs to get out of this fucking house. It feels airless all of a sudden, this ridiculous glass palace he’s hidden himself away in. He keeps his grey sweats on, scratches at his belly and goes on the hunt for his supplies.
So much fucking glass everywhere, the sun hurts his eyes and he pulls on the nearest pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. They’re too small for his face - yours. Shit. He keeps them on, continues the search for his weed tin, knows he left it somewhere last night when he was aiming for oblivion.
It’s in the den. The one comfy spot in this awful place. The cats come and sit with him as he skins up; he has vague recollections of being so high last night he was certain he could hear Chairman Meow’s thoughts. Was sure the little black cat telepathically told him that if he wished hard enough, you’d come back to him. You’d realise all the things he’d never told you. He gives Chairman Meow a good scratch on the chin, lights the spliff.
Dieter knows he is unconventional, a colour outside the lines kind of guy; unpredictable career, minor drug problem, pathological fear of commitment? You know, the usual. He’d thought that you’d loved that about him. Until you hadn’t. Until you’d decided you needed a more paint by the numbers kind of relationship; started feeling the need to tick boxes that Dieter wasn’t even aware of.
Now he’s satisfied that he’s stoned enough, he rolls into his car and asks his driver Pete to take him to the movies. There’s a Richard Curtis marathon on, your favourite. Might as well torture himself a little at the matinée.
There’s a moment in the car when he thinks he sees you at the bus stop and his whole body freezes, a ghost that sucks his soul right out of him for a whole half second. He didn’t though. You weren’t ever at bus stops, least of all today.
He realises too late he didn’t put a shirt on under his teddybear coat, so he’s a bit sweaty and overexposed all at once. Today is not his day.
The popcorn is salty sweet delicious, the film is exquisite pain. About Time, your comfort film. You cry like a baby every watch and now Dieter does the same, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as father and son walk down the beach one last time.
Fuck’s sake he grumbles to himself, why did he think this would make anything better? Worse. He’s made it worse.
He wonders back to the waiting car, rubbing at his eyes and pulling at his scruffy beard, contemplating just how alone he feels. He had always been on his own before you, but you’d begun collecting people, a little found family for you both. They did things like host supper parties, or lazy Sunday’s watching movies together, there was a picnic once. A picnic! He thought you’d been happy. He can’t drink rosé any more, makes him feel sick to his stomach; a reminder of your shared joy, wine drunk with friends who loved you both. It now tastes acrid in his mouth, bitter, like regret.
He leans forward, gives Pete a big Cheshire Cat grin, “Pete can you…”
“Mr Bravo, you gave me ten grand in cash and told me if you ever asked me to drive you to her house again, I had to take you straight to rehab instead. Is that what we’re doing today?”
Dieter lets out a dramatic sigh.
“No Pete.” He slumps back on the seat. Torments himself for the rest of the journey if there was one thing he could have done differently. If he had, would today be a very different day? He digs at the sweetness, makes it hurt.
“Fuck! Pete! Am I hallucinating?”
You’re there. Sat on his front step.
A mess of tears and puffy cheeks, a veil that has been cast aside next to you and a bouquet of white roses still hanging in your hands. White silk dress stained with mascara.
Pete stops the car and Dieter practically backwards somersaults out the door, one croc flying off, a combination of falling and running to you, a jumble of panic and confusion. Aching concern; he can’t stand to see you hurting, wants nothing more than to bundle you up into his arms and make the pain he can practically feel radiating from you, go away.
“Angel?”
You drop the flowers, bury your head in his chest, the remnants of popcorn still stuck to it but you don’t care, breathe him in. Your Dieter.
He kisses at your hair, tightens his arms around you, “I don’t understand?”
“He wasn’t the one Dieter.” You wiggle out of his grip, lean up to him and give him the softest kiss, “You are.”
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Little tag list of some Dieter fans: @sp00kymulderr @chronically-ghosted @luxurychristmaspudding @katareyoudrilling @toomanytookas @wannab-urs @ghotifishreads @bitchesuntitled @covetyou @futuraa-free @freelancearsonist @fhatbhabie @magpiepillsjunior
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ezrasbirdie · 1 day
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wip wednesday
tagged by @gasolinerainbowpuddles @swiftispunk and @perotovar<3<3
between my uterus attacking me and my back lower back just deciding to give out (literally what is going onnnn) it's been a struggle to get anything at all written, but i've worked some on bright lights part 4 and a one shot i've called born hungry, which is kind of a sinister but soft post-outbreak dark joel that no one seems to be super interested in when i mention him on polls but i'm obsessed with him so i guess that one's for meeeee.
somewhat-smutty snippets and one instance of baby girl under the cut<3
from born hungry
Joel pulls a little chair up the foot of the bed, settling himself just between your legs. “Gimme your hand,” he says.  You don’t want to.  “Please,” he says. You swallow harshly, and thrust your hand in front of you. “Not gettin’ cut up by these claws.”  He produces a pair of slightly rusted nail clippers, and you breathe out, meaning to take the clippers from him, but he grabs your hand. You’ve never had anyone cut your nails before—not in your adult life, at least.  “Why?” You ask, but he doesn’t answer, just gently, carefully clips your nails, one by one, making sure no jagged ends or hangnails are left behind. When he’s finished he cups your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “God bless, you are pretty, baby girl,” he says.
from bright lights pt 4
“Can I see you?” Dieter asks. “I’m right here,” you point out. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that’s not what he means. He smiles gently regardless and kisses your neck. “Oh. I mean…yeah. Yes.” He’s already toying with the hem of your shirt, but he senses hesitation. “What’s wrong?” “Well, just, um.” How exactly do you word this delicately? You suppose you don’t have to. “My tits are like…real tits. Like they’re not lifted or perky, they’re just big thirty-two year old tits, so if you’re thinking—” Dieter isn’t even paying attention anymore. He’s hiked your shirt up already, groaning as he cups the aforementioned tits in his big hands and massages. “Fuck yeah they are,” he murmurs. He wastes no time drawing them into his mouth and sucking, groaning as he swirls his tongue around your nipples.
I just think they're both neat idk
tagging: @haylzcyon @mothandpidgeon @joelscruff @joeloverture @atticrissfinch @undercoverpena @iamskyereads
sorry if you've already been tagged!!<3
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morallyinept · 2 days
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FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST 💐
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💐 A collection of Pedro Boy stories featuring flowers. Smut -🌶 Soft - ☁️
Helianthus - Ezra 🌶
Azalea - Lucien Flores 🌶
Rockford & Roses - Tim Rockford ☁️
Sweet Pea - Joel Miller
Poppy - Frankie Morales
Heliotrope - Jack Daniels
Daisy Chain - Dieter Bravo
Hibiscus - Dave York
Pink Velvet - Marcus Pike
My Tiger Lily - Pero Tovar
💐Extras:
Pedro Boys & Flowers
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MAIN MASTERLIST
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littlemisspascal · 1 day
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New Writers added to The Pedro Library 🐼
Work's been keeping me in a hectic rush this week 😒
New Works Added ✨
Many fics aren’t appearing in the tags when searching. If I miss yours, please let me know 💗 Or add me to your taglist cuz I love being tagged 😊
As always, if you would like me to remove your work from the rec list, please let know and I’ll remove them asap 😊
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@beskarandblasters Din Punish Me, Officer Djarin + Enchanted to Meet You + Immortal by Design/ Joel I Want It, I Got It
@quicksilvermad Din I Don’t Mind Bleeding
@absurdthirst @storiesofthefandomlovers Marcus P Better Late Than Never / Din Unexpectedly Mated
@burntheedges Marcus P Only For You
@morallyinept Javi G Door Number Three / Joel Adoration / Javier Pump
@trulybetty Frankie What Have I Done
@grogusmum Frankie November: Mourning Moon
@farawayfromwanting Frankie Panic
@atticrissfinch Joel Pigtails
@criticallyacclaimedstranger Joel All The Fear and The Fire of The End of The World
@ozarkthedog Joel Knuckles Deep + Breath by Breath
@psychedelic-ink Joel Thirst For Beauty
@milla-frenchy Joel 7 AM
@wardenparker @absurdthirst Tim “Wait! Please don’t leave!” 
@undercoverpena Javier Going to Make You Sweat
@ghostofaboy Javier Reconnaissance
@max--phillips Max The File Room 
@janaispunk Dave Constellations in His Eyes 
@thosewickedlovelies Dieter Conversation Pit
@nerdieforpedro Lucien What I Want From You
@insomniamamma Ezra Threefold
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wannab-urs · 19 hours
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The King Has Lost His Crown
Pairing: ex!Dieter Bravo x gn!Reader
Summary: Dieter shows up on your doorstep
Tags: dieter being a pathetic loser, drug mention, angst WC: 703
A/N: This is my entry for @freelancearsonist's ABBA Drabble Challenge. I could have gone smutty with this, but I went angsty instead. I may still write the smut version later idk.
Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi
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You sit down on your couch with a glass of wine, settling in for a nice evening of watching mindless TV. Your phone starts buzzing – Dieter Bravo is calling you. You’ve removed his contact, but you couldn’t ever bring yourself to block the number you know by heart. You hit the red Fuck You button and toss your phone to the side. 
Throughout an entire episode of some shitty reality show, your phone lights up with texts. You finally pick it up to read them:
Please answer the phone
Its Dieter 
I miss u
Can u call me pls?
Baby
Baby
Baby
Baby ]:
Just as you’re about to tell him to fuck off, your doorbell rings. You check the ring camera and see that he’s standing on your fucking porch. You hope LA suddenly has a cold snap and he freezes to death out there. Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. But he could stand to lose a toe or two. 
He rings the doorbell again – starts just continuously pressing the button until the sound drives you so crazy you have to open the door. And he’s standing there looking like an abandoned puppy in his brown fuzzy coat and a pair of basketball shorts that are too long. You used to find his disheveled appearance endearing, but now it just adds to how pathetic he seems. 
“You have 10 seconds to explain where you found the audacity to show up at my house, Bravo.”
He winces at your icy tone, brow furrowing over those pretty brown eyes. He tugs a few strands of his hair, making it stick up even more.
“Baby, just let me in and I’ll explain everything.”
“No. Explain here.”
Dieter sighs, world weary, long and drawn out. You go to close the door on him, but he shoves a croc covered foot into the crack before you can get it closed. 
“Wait!”
You open the door enough to see him, but not enough to let him push his way inside the house. 
“What happened with your new girl, Dieter?” 
“She wasn’t you.”
For a second you almost believe him. Almost. But liars never change. 
“Don’t give me that bullshit. What actually happened?”
“What do you think happened?” He mutters, rolling his eyes. 
“I think you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants, as usual, and she got fed up.” 
“Yeah? Well. Maybe you’re right,” his tone shifts to something like shame, his face turning red. “Are you gonna let me in?”
“Oh absolutely not. You really think you can show up here after getting dumped for cheating on the girl you cheated on me with? Do you think I’m stupid?” 
“No,” his brow furrows even deeper. “Of course not. I just thought–”
“It must be so hard for you. All the drugs and pretty people you could ever desire and all you ever do is fuck it up. You’re a disaster. A fucking disgrace. I bet your mamá is real fuckin proud of you. Get out of my face, Dieter. Get off my porch. Go fuck someone else’s life up.”
You slam the door in his face and start crying immediately. The tears come faster than you can wipe them from your face, leaving tracks down your cheeks. 
You loved him, you really did. Maybe you still do. But you can’t put yourself through that bullshit again.  
–-
Dieter slumps down on the doorstep, not quite ready to accept defeat. He thinks you’ll come out soon, offer him a cup of tea and a snack, maybe cuddle with him on the couch. 
His life is a mess, but the one good thing he’s ever had was you. He lost you and it was completely his fault. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get over you. He needs to win you back, prove he can be a good person, a good partner. 
He leans back against the door, prepping for an uncomfortable night – sober and stuck outside. He falls asleep eventually and wakes with the sunrise. You never came out to get him. Didn’t even offer him a blanket. You are well and truly done with him, and he only has himself to blame.
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amyleepascal · 2 days
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Today is World Theatere Day
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sp00kymulderr · 2 days
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A masterlist of creations made for The Dieter Bravo Brainrot Club Discord server
Our server is open to all (18+), and is a fun community with regular events and a varied chat. Come join us, and join in our next server challenge!
March 2024 Creative Challenge
Trope: only one bed/forced proximity.
Prompt: “You’re going to get us arrested” “Oh I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs”
Purple Haze by @schnarfer
Scandal by @wannab-urs
The Howler Monkey by @covetyou
House Arrest by @rulexofxnines
A Poor Plan to Confess by @nerdieforpedro
Stay sexy and don’t get murdered by @chronically-ghosted
More to be added throughout the week!
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huntingingoodwill · 22 hours
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taste (d.b.)
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masterlist
pairing: dieter bravo x personal shopper! reader
desc: you give dieter some much needed cooking lessons. he’s a terrible student.
a/n: written as a stand-alone but! if u wanna read the first personal shopper! reader story it’s right here
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“Tell me again,” you sighed, whipping your tinted shades off your face as you hugged the bag of groceries closer to your chest, “how did you manage to convince me to do this?” 
Dieter sauntered over, a triumphant glint in his eye as he peered at you over the edge of his sunglasses. 
“My irresistible charm,” he grinned, taking the bag from your hands. “Or… maybe the fact that you’re on my payroll? But I like to think it’s the former. You’re even starting to dress like me.” He smirked, gesturing at the sunglasses you had cinched between your fingers. 
Ever since admitting he didn’t know how to cook, Dieter had been trying to convince you to come over and give him a cooking lesson whenever his personal chef had a day off:  a thinly veiled attempt to relentlessly flirt with you over dinner. Yes, it was out of your job scope as his personal shopper, but you gave in rather easily - there was something amusing about him, something almost…cute. Not that you’d admit that to him, of course.
“I don’t wear sunglasses indoors,” you pulled the shades off his face and tossed them aside, where they clattered onto his dining table.
His eyes narrowed, squinting into the soft lighting of his house. 
“When did it get so bright in here?” 
You rolled your eyes, sauntering past him into the kitchen.
“How does someone who doesn’t know how to cook have an amazing kitchen like this?” you sighed.
You marvelled at his kitchen, all high ceilings and marble counters, with countless appliances populating the shelves. 
“A couple of shitty Netflix originals and the cost is covered," he sighed, reliving the cringey scenes in his mind. The tortured look in his eye flickered away, replaced with a smile. “So, you ready for our second date?” 
“It’s not really a date. I’m just teaching you how to cook. Out of pity.” 
“So, you pity me.” he smirked, as if that was a win, “That means you care.” 
“It means I knew you’d starve without your chef.” 
“Which means,” he smiled, pointing a finger at you, “you care.” 
You ignored him, pointedly dumping out the contents of the grocery bag onto the counter, holding up a large yellow onion. 
“This,” you said, brandishing it, “is an onion.” 
You sounded the syllables out, voice sarcastically cresting through each letter.
Dieter put on an expression of mock shock. “No. Way.” 
“Way. And you’re gonna cut it,” you said, tossing him the onion, which he narrowly managed to avoid dropping. “Think you can handle that?” 
“I can try,” he said, with an air of confidence you were not fully convinced of. 
You had decided to do something simple, as you knew Dieter’s cooking skills were lacking. Your fingers skimmed the countertop, taking inventory of what you had brought. Pasta, jarred sauce, tomatoes, garlic, onion, basil-
“I can’t try.” Dieter’s voice warbled unsteadily. 
You turned to be met by the sight of a tearful Dieter, his eyes red (well, redder than usual, and for different reasons), and glazed with tears. He held the knife in his hand, the bite of the onion’s stench wafting up from where it lay, half chopped, on the counter.
“Feeling a bit emotional?” you laughed, tossing the onions into a pan with oil and placing it over the stove.
“I’m an actor. I’m in touch with my feelings,” his voice cracked. 
You stifled a laugh, tearing off a square of paper towel from the roll. You closed the space between you two, dabbing the tears off his cheeks. Catching his eye, you suddenly became aware of your closeness, your heart thrumming. Swallowing thickly, you broke eye contact and focused on wicking away his tears, trying to calm your heartbeat. You did not date clients.
“Is this getting kinda… romantic, right now?” Dieter said, unable to hide his grin. 
Of course, even as you tried to push away the tension, he’d pick up on it instantly. 
You rolled your eyes. “You’re crying while holding a knife. And you smell like onions.” 
The corner of his lips pulled up in a lopsided smile. “Better than how most of my dates go.” 
You snorted, tossing the paper towel aside. “You really meant it when you said you couldn’t cook, huh?” 
“I can’t even boil water.” 
You threw your head back in a laugh. “Well, that’s certainly a good place to start.”
You grabbed a pot, filling it with water and placing it atop the burner. 
“Here’s how you boil water. You ready?” 
“Yes,” he said, determination lighting up his eyes as he rolled up his sleeves.
“I don’t think you are, it’s a huge undertaking,” you said, feigning complete earnestness as you pressed your lips into a solemn line. 
“I’ve been training my whole life for this. I’m ready,” he played along, eyebrows knitting together as he focused his eyes on the pot. 
“Give me your hand.” 
“I’ll warn you. It’s shaking,” he said, making his hand tremble dramatically. 
“I’m nervous too,” you said, barely able to conceal your smile. “You ready?” 
You put your hand over his, the skin of the back of his palm warm against the cold metal of his rings. You led it toward the stove knob. Holding your hand over his, you guided him to turn the knob, fire sprouting from the stove beneath the pot. 
“Wait a little while, and you’ve boiled water,” you smiled. 
“Does that mean you’ll take your hand off mine? I hope not,” he sighed, watching bubbles ping against the pot as the water began to simmer. 
“I’ll have to do it eventually.” 
“Then do it,” he challenged.
“No,” you said, keeping your hand firm over his, trying to convince yourself that you didn’t actually like the feeling of his skin against your palm. 
“Why not?” 
“Because you told me to,” you smiled, your thumb ghosting his knuckles, fingers nearly slotting into the spaces in between his. 
“I’m your boss. I’m supposed to tell you to do things,” he chuckled. 
“This is after hours. You don’t know how to cook, I’m teaching you how. If anything, I’m your boss now.” 
“Hot,” he smirked. 
“Ew,” you laughed, not feeling an iota of disgust. 
“It is getting kinda hot in here.”
“Because of me?” You smirked, taking a note from his cheesy lines. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. 
“Yes. But also physically. Maybe because the onions are burning.” 
“Fuck.” 
You turned toward the stove, the charred remains of the onions sticking to the bottom of the pan in a sticky, black blob.
“I think I’m rubbing off on you,” Dieter sighed, throwing an arm over your shoulder. You allowed yourself to lean into his side, relishing the warmth that emanated from him as you both looked despairingly upon the blackened pan. “You don’t even know how to cook now.”
“Who needs to know how to cook?” You sighed in defeat. “There's always delivery."
Thirty minutes later, the two of you were sitting at his dining table, a greasy pizza box sitting before you. 
“Are you sure this pizza is organic?” He said, shovelling a slice into his mouth. 
“‘Course not,” you sighed, picking up a slice, “But do you really care?”
“Ugh,” he said, taking another bite, “No.” 
You laughed, gazing at that little crinkle at the edge of his eye as his brown irises glowed in the flickering candlelight. 
“The candle is a nice touch,” your voice was dreamy as you gestured at the candle he lit on the dining table, the room bathed in its warm light. Maybe you did date clients. “It’s almost-” 
“-Romantic?” He grinned.  
“Hazardous,” you smirked, trying not to make any rash decisions, no matter how much you wanted to kiss him, “Try not to set anything on fire.”
“No promises,” he said, that glint in his eyes bright, even in the low light of the candlelit room. “It’s kinda bright in here, huh?” He chuckled, reaching for his sunglasses and sliding them on. 
You chuckled as he looked at you expectantly. Alright, you’d give in. 
“A little,” you smiled, putting your own sunglasses on, matching him. 
His lips formed a huge smile as he put his arm around you, the weight around your shoulders pleasant. He opened his mouth, about to make another cheesy remark when you cut him off.
“Let’s be clear,” you said, wagging a finger in his face, “I am not starting to dress like you. I haven’t fully given up yet,” you teased, gesturing at his outfit, a sweatpants and ratty hoodie combination. “I’m taking you clothes shopping next. That’s within my job scope, at least.” 
“It’ll be our third date,” he smiled, pulling you closer. 
“Shut up,” you smiled. 
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freelancearsonist · 2 days
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✨ wip wednesday ✨
this is just going to be a weekly occurrence at this point i guess 😂 it's very helpful to know what you guys want and have a goal so pls vote for your favorite!! and as always send me an ask if you have questions about any of them, i love talking about my wips <3
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*grits my teeth* i will finish this dieter brainrot server challenge BEFORE friday or i will just die instead
big wet sloppy dog kisses to those who tagged me: @wannab-urs @gasolinerainbowpuddles @fettuccin-e @perotovar
here's a preview to make you all make me motivated
Three hard pushes and the door remains firmly shut. What the fuck? Your fingers skim the seams, looking for a latch or a handle, something. “You can yell at me once we get back inside.” He shudders and wraps his arms around his chest. “I’m freezing my nips off in here.”  “I’m trying, Dieter, but it won’t open –,” you push harder, using even more force than you did to open it on the other side. “It’s stuck.”  “Move, I’ll do it –,” “Fuck you, Dieter, I got it.” “We’d be outta here by now if you did.” “Just help me–,” “Ugh – fine –  on the count of three – one –,” “Two –,” “Three!”  Nothing. He slumps to the floor, his bare feet sprawled out in front of him.  “For this much grunting and sweat,” he pants, “we should definitely be fucking.”
reader and dieter get stuck in a secret passageway in the old apartment building they live in and there are emotions felt, words are said, actions are taken -- truly unmatched in the history of fanfic
kicking the ball off to @iamskyereads @kedsandtubesocks @survivingandenduring @tightjeansjavi @morallyinept @5oh5
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nerdieforpedro · 2 days
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WIP Wednesday
A special day of the week this is! 😆
No worries I actually have like… 👀 three WIPs on display this week?! Nerdie is…concentrating. 🥹
The first one is from my series “The Lake Between Us” chapter six (chapter five will be out Sunday 😆 on my birthday) I also wrote two interludes because 👀 Reasons - I’m trying to structure all the stuff into chapters 7 & 8 because we’re going to end on 8. I like even numbers. 🤭
Another two months of dinners brought the two of them closer together, learning about each other. Studying their bodies and sounds. There were times they parted, back across the lake, but oftentimes the nightly partners remained intertwined among limbs and sheets. Still having a drink before bed but not nearly as many. They were dulling each other's edges, making it easier to slip into their dreams.
There were occasions when they laid awake, wordless as the radiance of the moonlight draped both of their forms; they did wonder if they were awake or asleep. It felt like such a pleasant notion to have someone who understands by your side.
WIP two: There are two things that @wannab-urs has gotten me into, both involve our trash panda Dieter and both are challenges - I think? One at least is. 🤔 The WIP below is from Gin’s ask challenge from the Hozier song “Fare Well.”
Side note: I meant for the beginning of this to be much more serious. It was not. But we’ll get there. Maybe 🫨 Like I’m working toward something, maybe some crawling if I can fit it in. Because… Gin and I agree on it. We touched and agreed on it. 😌
He’s been more careful about it, not something he’s been concerned about prior to his new leaf. In doing so, acts he’d normally attempt weight more heavily on his mind and keep little Dee from swelling when needed. Bravo knows the rumor that might be going around but it’s not true! Since his mind is clearer, he actually thinks about who he’s having sex with more and little D isn’t always on board. You know, one of those words his therapist mentioned – cognitive dissonance except it’s happening with his partner in pleasure little D. Big D when he’s feeling in the mood.
March Prompts will finish Sunday! 😆 I’m happy and sad, I’ve gotten used to writing one daily, now what am I gonna do? 😑
I am still working on my two Din series. I’m trying to be fluffy. Din deserves fluff from me every so often. 🤭
NPT: @trulybetty @undercoverpena @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @alltheglitterandtheroar @megamindsecretlair @morallyinept @fhatbhabie @rhoorl @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @pedroshotwifey @atinylittlepain @yourcoolauntie @604to647 @secretelephanttattoo @goodwithcheese @joels-darlin @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot @magpiepills @kteague @maggiemayhemnj @inept-the-magnificent @gwendibleywrites @alltheotps
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schnarfer · 2 days
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(Help me choose) WIP Wednesday
Thank you so much @wannab-urs @janaispunk and @alwaysmicado for the tags!
Ok, so I’ve promised myself little writing break because I worked out the other day I’ve been back writing fiction (after a casual twenty-year break) for four months & in the time, I’ve written over 70,000 words and my brain needs a rest or it’s going to explode.
Having said that apparently, I’m a fic addict because I have a few rolling around my brain, so rather than a previews of WIPs, perhaps you could help me decide which one to start first (after a little rest).
Options are:
1. A follow up to my Joel fic Illicit Affairs - working title is This is my trying and would explore what happens with Joel and reader after he leaves his wife.
2. A 3 part mini series of dark, angsty Dieter with make-up artist reader, exploring the two we met in The One
3. Sexy shower with Javi P Drabble (that’s it, that the idea, thanks @sp00kymulderr)
Let me know what you reckon!
Np for wip Wednesday: @pascalssbabyy @katareyoudrilling @luxurychristmaspudding @sp00kymulderr @mothandpidgeon @freelancearsonist @ghotifishreads @magpiepillsjunior @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @ozarkthedog
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perotovar · 4 months
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#i feel like this outfit isn't talked about nearly enough
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morallyinept · 2 days
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Doing WIP Wednesday a little different today, because I'm a rule breaker! 😝🤘🏻
Below are some banners I've made for some WIPs I currently have on the go. If you'd like to know more about any of them, send me an ASK. 🖤
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Tagging anyone who wants to share their WIPs in whatever format they like! 🖤
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