#dieter bravo angst
Text
‘Cause After Midnight…
A/N: this idea came to be randomly yesterday morning and thus the brain rot began! Idk about y’all, but I would do ANYTHING for slumber party!Dieter 🤭 big thank you to @chronically-ghosted for sharing the brain rot cell with me this week! 🫡
~word count: 8.5k~ yeaaaah idk what happened!
Summary: a slumber party with your bestie Dieter Bravo, after midnight! What could possibly happen between the two of you?
Pairing | slumber party!dieter x best friend female!reader
Warnings: smut, fluff, a little sprinkle of angst, DUBIOUS CONSENT, mentions of alcohol and ouid smoking, infidelity (not by dieter) toxic relationship (Dieter’s ex) denial of feelings, secret pining, best friends to lovers?, pussy pronouns, domestic intimacy, mutual masturbation, masturbation with a shower head (iykyk), sexual tension, language, dirty talk, unprotected piv, aftercare, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is bug, +18 minors dni!
Being Dieter Bravo’s best friend since…well, forever, came with a long list of perks. Your favorite perk of all, you may ask? Getting to spend time with your best friend. Whether that was at his home, lounging side by side next to his inground pool, stumbling out of a DTLA nightclub, clammy hands entwined together as you head to the nearest street food cart ASAP (Dieter demands steak tacos when he’s wasted) or when you were his glittering gem on the red carpet, dodging the incessant questions from the red carpet wasps—I mean, interviewers asking you and Dieter if you were dating.
It was like clockwork, you and Dieter would look at one another, laugh and shake your heads in sync, “us, dating? No, you have it all wrong! We’re simply just two besties that do everything together, don’t get it twisted!” (So what if you and Dieter would sometimes get equally wasted in the club and drunkenly makeout…and sometimes, while making out, he would grope your ass beneath your dress—you were just friends! Best friends kiss like all the time…right?)
Of course, Hollywood didn’t buy it despite yours and Dieter’s repetitive denial, and the fact that Dieter was currently smitten with his girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend now. The tabloids spewed their cheap gossip, but your friendship with Dieter never soured.
You frequently slept over on the weekends he was home. It was your shared routine from Friday-Sunday (sometimes even Mondays), you and Dieter would get higher than two kites, cross off a few movies on your watch lists, paint together, and order takeout for every meal. Truthfully, it was fucking bliss.
This weekend, in particular, Dieter decided he wanted to have a whole ass slumber party. (Not nearly as extravagant as the princess diaries slumber party, or the Barbie movie) but Dieter knew how to throw a killer intimate slumber party. He invited all of his close, niche friends including you. He already had a whole array of different foods to munch on throughout the night so that no one would go hungry.
As always, Dieter was nearly glued to your side and if it were anyone else, or any other man for that matter, you would be annoyed, but when it came to Dieter, you shared your small bubble of space happily with him.
Everything was going swimmingly, until Dieter’s ex showed up uninvited. Dieter was in the whirlpool, wearing the tiniest swim trunks known to man. He had a beer in one hand while his other arm was resting along the outside of the hot tub. He was mid conversation, laughing about something one of his friends said before his eyes met yours when you appeared from the kitchen, a nervous look plastered on your face as you approached the hot tub.
“Hey, Dee?..” you crouched down along the edge of the hot tub.
“Yeah, bug?” He took a sip of his beer, brow cocking in curiosity. “What’s up? Why do ya look so worried?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Dee. Just uh—well, your ex just sorta showed up uninvited. She’s in the kitchen—”
“What the fuck do you mean she just sorta showed up?! What the fuck.” He groaned, dragging his wet hand across his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “I reckon she just invited herself in, too?”
Your nod confirmed his suspicions. “Unfortunately she did. I told her she wasn’t welcome, but she essentially told me to fuck off.” You stifled a laugh.
“Yeah, well, she’s never exactly been the type to respect boundaries.” He sighed and handed you his beer so that he could pull himself out of the hot tub. The swim trunks he was wearing quite literally left little to the imagination, and you swore that you caught a glimpse of his infamous package when he bent down and grabbed his towel to quickly dry off.
His hand gently brushed yours as he reached for his beer. “I’ll deal with her. Not gonna let it spoil my night.” He gruffed out and draped the towel around his shoulders. “Be back in a jiffy, bug.” He winked and headed towards the sliding doors leading to the kitchen.
When he didn’t return to the backyard in over 20 minutes, that’s when you made the executive decision to see if he was okay. When you neared the front door, you could hear the distinct tone of Dieter’s voice through the thin glass and you caught a glimpse of him throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“You can’t just fucking show up here uninvited! You’re not only trespassing, but you’re crossing a boundary! This is exactly why we broke up in the first place because you’re just so fucking clingy!” He yelled.
“Oh, I’M THE CLINGY ONE?!” She laughed, jabbing her perfectly manicured finger directly into his bare chest. “So, it has nothing to do with the fact that you spent more time with your best friend than with your girlfriend?! Don’t you think thats a bit fucking weird, Dieter?!”
“Oh, for fucks sakes! Here we go again! Don’t you dare go bring her into this when she’s done nothing wrong! So sorry that you felt like the attention I was giving you was inadequate! Guess that gave you just the right amount of ammo to cheat on me with MY fucking pilates instructor?! Dude, I can’t even look the guy in the face anymore without wanting to rip his dick off, balls and all!”
“YES, because you left me with no other choice, Dieter! He gave me more attention than you ever have!”
“Right, sure! So instead of oh—I don’t know, acting like a fucking normal person, you let your jealousy take front and center and cheat on me?! Why the fuck couldn’t you just be like hey, Dieter! I’m feeling under-appreciated in our relationship and I’d like to talk about it in a healthy, productive way because I love and respect you as a person! I would have never fucking cheated on you, don’t you get that?!”
“Okay—you’re right! I’m sorry that I wasn’t mature, and I’m sorry I cheated on you, Dieter. I’m so sorry! Can we please just—”
He laughed, throwing his head back with his hands carding through his damp curls in disbelief. “You have got to be shitting me! You just expect me to what—take you back after all of that?! Fuck you. I may be a stupid fucking actor, but I’m not that stupid. Please, can you just—leave? I don’t want to call the cops, but I will if I have to.”
“Dieter, come on! Baby, please. Let’s just talk—”
“I’m not your baby.” He muttered and turned on his heel and walked back towards the front door. He really just wanted to bury his face in his hands and scream, but he was determined to not let her ruin his night. So, when he opened the door, and found you on the other side, he let out a visible sigh of relief. “Well, that was a crapshoot. Did ya hear any of it, bug?” He closed the door softly and made sure to lock it for good measure.
“You okay, Dee? I heard the last bit of it…I’m sorry that you had to deal with that.”
“S’okay. It’s done now and I’m gonna try and not let it ruin the rest of the night. Thank you for checking in on me, bug. I appreciate it.”
“Of course, Dee. Everyone is still in the backyard. Wanna join them? Otherwise I was thinking maybe you and I can get high?”
He grinned at your suggestion, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorjamb, “say less.”
That’s how you found yourself in Dieter’s bedroom, sitting on the floor with his rolling tray in your lap while he was changing out of his too-tight swim trunks and into a pair of boxers that were…equally as tight. You loved the way that his little bit of tummy pudge hung over the side of the boxer's waistband. What you wouldn’t give to worship that tummy while he shoves his—You kept your eyes focused on plucking a few bud clusters and placing them in the grinder. His phone was charging next to yours on the nightstand. You had Spotify open on shuffle playing yours and Dieter’s favorite playlist. The song that was currently playing was After Midnight by Chappell Roan.
He plopped down beside you, gently grabbing the tray and placed it in his lap so that he could roll the actual joint. He used the front of his bed as a backrest as he opened up the grinder and carefully distributed the ground up herb into one of the papers.
“I seriously don’t know how your dick can breathe in those tight fucking shorts, Dee.” you said with a playful edge to your tone as you let your head rest in the crook of his neck. He leaned into you too, naturally.
“They are not that tight!” He scoffed and looked over at you with a playful grin on his lips. “My dick can breathe in these perfectly fine, bug.” he retorted.
“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”
Comfortable silence washed over the two of you while he finished rolling up the joint, looking over at you expectantly as he sparked the end of it, inhaling with his cheeks slightly hollowed, “should we have a full slumber party moment and paint our nails and do each other's makeup?” He asked softly, blowing the smoke upwards towards the ceiling and held the joint out to you between his pointer and middle finger.
“Shut up. I can’t believe you just brought that up because I was thinking the same exact thing!” You looked over at him In disbelief, reaching for the joint as your fingers briefly brushed against one another during the exchange. “I must have manifested this or something because I made sure to bring my nail polish this time!”
“Just start calling me Dieter the all knowing!” He chuckled, feeling the inhaled drug slowly send him into a relaxed state. He let his head comfortably rest against the back of the bed. “and I have my makeup that we can use! Think you can show me how to perfect the winged liner look? I’m shit at doing it on myself.” He huffed.
“I am not gonna start calling you Dieter that all knowing! There’s no way in hell I’m going to grant you all that power!” You nudged his shoulder gently with your own before you took a long drag from the joint, holding the smoke in your lungs before slowly exhaling it. “Of course I can help you with your eyeliner, Dee! Only if you let me pick out your nail color this time.”
“Okay, deal!” He was quick to respond with zero hesitation in his chipper tone.
So, after you each took a few more drags from the joint and your minds began to go hazy, Dieter lazily got up and walked into the en-suite to grab his bag of makeup from the bathroom cabinet. When he returned, you had grabbed your overnight bag and already had all of your nail products laid out.
“Damn, did ya bring your entire collection from home with ya?” He teased as he plopped down next to you. His movements were uncoordinated due to the drug coursing through his veins. He nearly fell into your lap, giggling and quietly apologizing as he sat back up. This was a normal occurrence for you and Dieter. Whenever the two of you would get high together, (which was frequent), you both became naturally affectionate and extremely touchy with one another. It was second nature, and something that neither you or Dieter ever thought about as being ‘weird’ and not the norm for most platonic friendships.
“Go big or go home, right Dee?” You had already picked out a pretty sparkly blue polish for his nails and set it off to the side.
“Absolutely, bug. Hey, can you do my makeup first, please?” He had his hands clasped in his lap, nervously twiddling his thumbs as if he was a child waiting to be reprimanded by his parents.
“Of course I can.” You said softly, and grabbed the makeup bag from his lap. “Hey, are you okay?…”
He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily and shook his head. “No, not really. I’m fucking pissed off about what happened down there with my ex.”
You nodded in understanding and stood up to grab one of his many pillows so that he would have something comfortable to lay against while you would do his makeup. “I gathered that.”
“That’s because you’re always reading the room, bug.” He chuckled, grabbing the pillow from you so that he could place it under his back. Once he was situated, he patted his thighs, beckoning you to come sit in his lap. (Doesn’t everyone straddle their best friend and do their makeup?)
“Am I?” You mused and wasted no time to straddle his hips, making yourself comfortable above him. He was looking up at you with that sparkle in his irises that only appeared around you. It was as if you were the reason why the sun shined, and the stars twinkled in the sky. You were too busy going through his bag of makeup to catch the look, and when your eyes did land upon his face, he looked like he was going through constricting emotions.
“Yeah, you’re really good at doing that, y’know?” He sighed, feeling his shoulders deflate and sink against the pillow.
“Do you want to talk about what happened, Dee?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, letting his hands gently rest around your hips, thumbs stroking the sliver of skin visible under your shorts in a soothing figure eight motion. “I mean, who the fuck just shows up to someone’s slumber party uninvited?”
“Well, she’s never really respected your boundaries, has she? Remember when you forgot to leave your phone in your dressing room at the Oscars, and when you were reading out the nominees and she called you, despite knowing that you were at the Oscars?” You grabbed his little bottle of toner and a couple cotton rounds, softly telling him to close his eyes.
He closed his eyes, flinching slightly when the cool mist of the toner kissed his skin. He relaxed further into the pillows when you gently patted the toner into his skin with the cotton round. “Yeah, that was a fucking disaster! I just remember going all red in the face and fearing that my career with the rest of the Hollywood assholes was over at that point.”
“I’m pretty sure she made that move out of spite, Dee. Y’know, because you didn’t ask her to be your plus one?”
He peeked one eye open to look up at you, “that’s because you’ve attended every single red carpet event with me, bug. It’s…tradition.” (Yeah, sure it is, Dieter. Just tradition.)
“I’m not justifying her behavior by any means, but I can understand why she was upset that you invited your best friend over your girlfriend to the Oscars.” You set the bottle of toner down and grabbed his usual moisturizer and squirted a few pumps onto your fingers and rubbed it into his skin.
“Yeah, I guess when you put it that way it does sound pretty fucked up huh? But I don’t think I deserved to be cheated on.” His lips curved into a downwards pout, brows furrowed intently.
“Oh, of course not, hun. Cheating is never justifiable.” You reassured him, reaching into the makeup bag and pulled out his primer, foundation and concealer. “Do you wanna do a full look or something on the more no makeup/makeup side?”
“So then why did she try to justify her reason for cheating on me? Not only that, she tried to sweet talk her way back in towards the end of the conversation. Oh, Dieter, I’m so sorry!” He scoffed, “she even pulled the baby card on me! I know I’m not the most emotionally intelligent individual 99% of the time, and I’ve struggled my whole life taking much of anything serious, but I still have a fucking heart despite what the tabloids gossip about.” He paused mid-venting, remembering what you had asked him, “surprise me, bug.”
“She pulled the baby card on you? What a fucking cunt move, honestly.” you shook your head. “Dieter, you have one of the biggest hearts in all of Hollywood, hun. You just don’t share it with everyone and that’s okay. Those tabloids are a load of crap. I told you before that you have to stop feeding into their agenda. It’s not worth it, Dieter.”
“Exactly! It was a cunt move. And if I didn’t realize my worth sooner, I probably would have fallen right back into a relationship with her again! You know what I’m starting to believe? Maybe…I just have to accept the fact that no one is ever gonna love me.”
You let out a sigh, reaching back into the makeup bag and pulled out one of his glitter shadows to apply on his eyelids. He let out a content hum when your fingers began to gently card through his damp curls while your other fingers began to gently pat the shimmery shadow onto his closed eyelids. “Dieter, don’t you fucking start that shit and claiming that no one is ever going to love you.”
“Well, it’s true! I can’t fucking hold a healthy relationship down to save my life! I’m the laughing stock of Hollywood, days away from fucking relapsing, and no one is gonna give a shit!”
“Dude, what are you talking about?” You fought the urge to laugh, not at him, of course, but at the situation at hand. “I love you, idiot. You are not the laughing stock of Hollywood, and you will not fucking relapse under my watch, Dieter.”
“Bug, I know you love me, and I love you too! But…that’s different. What I’m talking about is real, true love—ow!” He whimpered when you had accidentally poked his eye with your nail.
You weren’t even paying attention when he started rambling about true love and that the way he loved you was completely different…it stung and sent your heart straight through a shredder, and he had no idea!
“Shit, Dee! I’m so sorry—are you okay? My finger slipped.” Your palm came to rest around his scruffy jawline, leaning in close to make sure that you hadn’t accidentally poked his eye out with your fingernail. Your warm breath gently fanned his face as he blinked a few times to surpass the dull sting he felt on his cornea.
“I’m okay, bug. But damn, girl! Are you trying to poke my eye out or something?” He joked, trying to relieve the palpable tension growing between the two of you.
You were quick to change the subject, feeling slightly embarrassed that you allowed his words to affect you that much. You reached for the joint that was resting along the rolling tray and picked it up between your two fingers along with the lighter. “I’m going to take a couple more hits…you want any?” You asked while sparking the joint up, taking a deeper inhale this time to try and soothe your already scrambled brain.
He nodded, reaching his hand up to pluck the joint from between your lips after you were finished and placed it between his own and took a similarly deep drag. He looked so fucking pretty, laying there, joint hanging low between his lips, shimmering eyeshadow making his rich brown eyes stand out even more.
“Y’know…” he started, “if ya take a picture, it’ll last longer!” He mused, taking another long drag, blowing the smoke off to the side. When you didn’t immediately laugh at his weak attempt to ease the tension further, he frowned. “Hey, you okay? You’re never this quiet, bug. Even when you’re high.”
“I’m fine, Dieter.” You sighed, and went to slide off his lap, forgetting about doing his eyeliner when his hand resting around your hip tightened and you freezed under his touch.
“Hey, please don’t lie to me. Did I say something to upset you? I’m sorry if I did.” He was always so genuine in his apologies to you. He could claim to not know how to read the room, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Dee, I’m fine.” You reassured him. “I was just having a moment.”
“Well…stop that! It’s not allowed when we’re having a sleepover.” He really just couldn’t stand to see you upset. It tore him up inside and made him feel like he was always the root cause for your mood change.
“Fuck you.” You laughed, giving his cheek a light pat while your other hand ruffled through his hair. “Do you still want me to do your eyeliner?”
“Yes please.” He grinned. “Just promise to not poke my eye out again?”
“I promise, Dee.”
While you carefully began to apply the eyeliner to his eyelids with careful precision, he continued to ramble on underneath you, careful to not move too much because he really didn’t want to accidentally get poked in the eye. Once you were finished, you expected him to immediately want to check how he looked in the mirror, but instead, he switched positions with you, straddling your hips now so that he could do your makeup.
You didn’t protest, of course. You’d take any excuse to admire his handsome features up close while he was zoned in on his work, his muse being you. Whenever he was painting, his focus was intense and it was as if he had tuned out everything else around him. He acted all the same while he was gently applying a shimmer shadow to your eyelids.
The intimacy simmering between the two of you was becoming too much for you to handle. You could feel him through his too-tight boxers, the weight of his cock pressing right against your clothed center. Despite knowing Dieter for as long as you have, you never had seen his cock, only just the outline of it. However, you heard the stories from his past partners, flings, and even some colleagues. They were all shocked to hear that you yourself had not seen Dieter Bravo’s package.
The walls in his spacious bedroom felt like they were closing in on you from how flustered you were feeling. Surely there was sweat beginning to bead and perspire along the column of your throat and behind your neck. Perhaps there was even an evident sign of your arousal between your thighs. You hoped to god that he hadn’t caught on. But when his hips shifted forward, his tongue poking out between his lips while he carefully applied a swipe of eyeliner across your right eyelid, it was too much.
“Hey—Dee? I’m not feeling too hot. Think the weed is messing with me. I—I think I’m gonna shower and go to bed.” You stuttered out, trying to focus on the words coming out of your mouth and not the images of his thick cock—
He frowned, looking deflated when you said that you wanted to go to bed. “Oh—okay, bug. I understand. Do you wanna watch a movie or something? I’ll get you some food and water, okay? Maybe you’re just having a bad trip?” He was genuinely concerned, feeling slightly nervous that his trusted dealer had laced his stash with something, but he didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole just yet.
“No—I just…I want to shower and go to bed, Dieter. I’ll be fine. It probably is just a bad trip.” You reassured him and subtly tried to create any form of distance between the two of you to relieve the tension you were feeling.
The weed is only enhancing what I’m feeling right now. If he could see the thoughts going through my head right now—
“If you are having a bad trip, then I should stay with you, bug. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”
“Dieter.” You were on the edge of snapping and saying something you would inevitably regret, “I don’t want you to stay with me, okay? I just want to fucking shower and go to bed.”
Ouch.
He visibly recoiled, feeling like you had just stabbed him right in the gut and twisted the knife for good measure. Maybe I am the clingy one…
“Okay, okay. I understand. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.” He wanted to snap right back at you, but he didn’t have the heart in him to do so.
“Thank you.” You breathed out, and when he didn’t immediately uncage your thighs from under his hips, you took matters into your own hands and placed your palm flat against his chest, gently pushing him off of you so you could quickly stand up.
He felt his heart twist even further when you disappeared into the en-suite, slamming the door behind you. He wasn’t sure if it was done maliciously or on accident, it still fucking hurt.
Seconds later he hears the sink turn on and the sound of water splashing against your face. It felt wrong to leave you in this state, so even after he heard the shower turn on while he was cleaning up the strewn about makeup on the floor, he sat down against the door, his back leaning against it as he waited. For what? He really didn’t know the answer to that.
You knew that Dieter was concerned about your well being, and if he could have it his own way, he would be in the bathroom with you right now, sitting with his back facing you so that you would feel comfortable to shower. You also were aware that he was sitting against the bathroom door and your heart lurched at the thought. You felt the guilt swim and swirl around you. Snapping at your best friend was not on your bingo card for the night, but maybe this was a sign that you and Dieter needed to set some serious boundaries between one another. Maybe you were beginning to realize that the two of you were…too close.
“Can you just…let me know you’re okay in there?” You heard him ask through the door as the scalding hot water streamed down over your bare body.
“Dieter, I’m fine.” Your voice was muffled under the stream.
“Yeah, sure you are, but I’d be a terrible fucking friend if I just left you to deal with this bad trip on your own, bug.”
God dammit, Dieter. Why can’t you just be an asshole like a normal person?! Is what you really wanted to say.
“Okay…” you trailed off, “I’m going to be in here for a while.”
“That’s okay. You can use up all of my hot water. I don’t care.” He reassured you.
When you didn’t immediately respond he let out a sigh, resting his head back against the door, closing his eyes. He remembered that your phone was still playing music from where it sat on his nightstand next to his own, and the familiar tune of Pink Pony Club started playing. It was yours and Dieter’s favorite song off of Chappell’s album.
“I know you wanted me to stay, but I can't ignore the crazy visions of me in LA. And I heard that there's a special place, where boys and girls can all be queens every single day.”
Dieter Bravo could not fucking sing, but everytime that he did for you, it was the most endearing gesture ever.
“You fucking asshole.” You muttered under your breath, “I'm having wicked dreams of leaving Tennessee. Oh, Santa Monica, I swear it's calling me. Won't make my mama proud, It's gonna cause a scene. She sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream…”
“God, what have you done! You're a pink pony girl, and you dance at the club! Oh mama, I'm just having fun! On the stage in my heels, it’s where I belong down at the Pink Pony Club!” You and Dieter sung the chorus in unison, completely out of tune, but neither of you could give a fuck about that.
You could practically picture his dopey, weed-stained grin plastered on his handsome, scruffy face behind the door when you sang the chorus together. The mental image sent your heart surging out of your chest, and your pussy pulsing in tandem.
Fuck me.
You truly had just planned to take a hot, relaxing, mind clearing shower and then go straight to bed, but you were feeling bothered by the weed, and your blatantly obvious attraction towards your best friend. Not to mention, the little rasp in Dieter’s voice was not helping you out in this predicament, either. That’s when you noticed his attached shower head and the lightbulb went off in your weed-induced brain.
You reached for the attached shower head, gently removing it from where it was mounted against the shower wall. Before turning it on, however, you quickly got familiar with the numerous spray settings and chose the medium spray before slowly dragging the shower head between your legs and—oh, fucck.
The pressure was just right and was directly spraying a stream of water onto your exposed clit. You held back a moan, bringing the back of your hand to your mouth and bit down as you slowly sank to your ass along the shower wall, your thighs spread fully, eyes rolling back into your skull from the intense feeling. That’s when a moan slipped past and Dieter initially thought he was just hearing things, but then he heard it again…and his cock twitched to life beneath the tight confinements.
“There’s no way. I’m just high as shit right now and hearing things. Yeah, that’s the logical explanation!” He muttered to himself, scrubbing one hand down his face. But then he heard you distinctively moan, and his face suddenly felt hot to the touch. He pressed his ear against the door, raising his fist and gently knocked on the wood, “you uh—you okay in there?”
You were so close to hitting that big ‘o’ that you didn’t even hear Dieter’s low rasp through the door.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” You whimpered. “So fucking close, just a little more. Just a little more. C’mon, baby.”
Now that he could hear you more clearly, he knew exactly what was producing those little desperate sounds to slip past your pretty lips: his fucking shower head.
“Excuse me?? Are you getting yourself off with MY shower head, without me in there?!” It was a thought that he had meant to keep in his head, but now that it was out there, there was truly no going back.
You froze like a deer caught in headlights, immediately dropping the shower head from your loose grasp and it clattered to the shower floor just as the bathroom door burst open.
“Dieter—WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” You screeched, hair drenched, thighs spread and trembling.
He shut the door behind him, muttering under his breath as he approached, looking you right in the eyes, “more importantly, what are you doing?” He placed his hands on his hips. “Your little moans and whimpers made me rock fucking hard!” He gestured to the obvious tent in his boxers, his cock straining against the tight material. “Had I known it was gonna be that kind of sleepover, I would have joined you a heck of a lot sooner!”
Oh. My. God. This isn’t happening, is it?!
“Dieter, you can’t just fucking come in here when I’m masturbating! Dude—what the fuck!”
“Oh, heavens! Are we going back to the 1800’s or something? Just call it for what it is! You playing with your pussy, and using my shower head to get yourself off! By all means, please continue, but next time? I want a personal invite!”
You were appalled…and a little turned on? Okay, a lot turned on! In fact, your pussy was pulsing between your thighs, the edge of your interrupted orgasm was still simmering, waiting to fully bloom. To make matters worse, Dieter had crouched down outside of the shower, his brows furrowed when he noticed the setting you had set the shower head to. He tsked under his breath, shaking his head as he reached into the shower and picked up the shower head from where it had been dropped between your spread thighs.
“Dieter, what are you—”
“Hush and listen to the teacher, okay? For starters, you’re using it all wrong. You gotta build yourself up first, and then go full blast. Otherwise you’re just gonna overstimulate your poor little clit, and that just takes away from the experience.” He said in the most casual fashion, as if this wasn’t crossing a million different invisible boundaries all at once.
“Dieter, I don’t need your assistance on getting myself off, okay? Please just—”
“Bug, don’t make this weird, okay? We’re friends, and there’s nothing in the friends handbook that says that we can’t help one another get off! It’s totally not forbidden.” He retorted.
“I think you just made the whole friends handbook thing up. It totally doesn’t exist and we absolutely should not be doing this, Dieter! It’s wrong for a multitude of reasons!”
“The friends handbook totally exists! I’ll get you a copy, okay? I’m not going to touch you, unless you want me to. I’m just gonna use the shower head to show you the right way to get yourself off with it, and afterwards you will be thanking me!”
“I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this. I cannot fucking—”
“Best start believing it, baby! Now, spread your thighs for me a little more, okay?”
“Okay, I’m giving you my full consent, but if I start feeling weird, we’re stopping this whole thing, okay?” You looked him directly in the eyes as you spread your thighs further so he had a better view.
“Bug, if at any point you feel weird, uncomfortable, or want to stop, just tell me, okay? I’m not gonna pressure you to continue doing this if you don’t want to. I’m leaving the ball completely in your court, and my feelings won’t be hurt if you change your mind, okay? I promise.” His words were sincere, and it was hard to look away when he was staring at you with those big, brown, puppy dog eyes.
“Okay.” You nodded.
He leaned forward then, briefly getting caught under the stream when his lips brushed across your forehead, leaving you both feeling slightly stunned. He softly asked you if it was okay if he did touch you, to which you obliged, lower lip taken between your teeth when his hand that wasn’t holding the shower head slowly dipped between your thighs and his fingers spread your slick folds apart so he would have better access to your clit.
“I always knew that your pussy would be pretty, baby, but goddamn—she really is so fucking pretty.” He took a sharp inhale of breath, his cock twitching painfully in his boxers.
“Dieter Bravo, you’re going to be the death of me.” You breathed out, heat rising to your cheeks from the way he was gazing at the spot between your thighs, eyes glazed over the same way a dog looks at a delicious bone, or a plate of juicy, rare, steak.
“You’re already the death of me, bug.” He whispered, unable to help himself when his thumb gently brushed across your clit. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand but between you prettily spread out beneath him, and the weed still flowing through his system, he was fucked.
He changed the setting on the shower head without even having to look down at it. He was too focused on your face, particularly your eyes and how you both seemed to be drinking one another in, an invisible string tied between the two of you, reeling him in closer, and closer. You observe his face, and the way his eyeliner has now started to run and bleed under his eyes and down his cheeks from the water and steam. Your pussy clenches from the sight just as his thumb lightly presses against your clit, making slow, languid, figure eight motions.
He thinks he wants to kiss you—no, scratch that. He wants to kiss you, and you can tell by the way his eyes flicker from your face and down to your lips, and then back up again.
“Dieter…” you whisper, bringing your hand up to gently cradle his face in your palm, curling your pointer finger under his chin. “Do you want to kiss me?” Your warm breath fans his face as he slowly nods.
“Yeah, I do.” He rasped, slowly leaning in.
“So kiss me, you fool.”
And so he did, but instead of hesitating, and holding back, he dove right in, noses pressing into one another as he licked greedily into your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours while his hand holding the shower head angled it right against your exposed pussy and between his fingers where he was keeping you spread open.
“Oh fuck!” You whimpered into the kiss, keeping your one hand anchored around his jaw while the other came to rest at the back of his head, your fingers tangled through his drenched locks, tugging on them gently.
“Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, baby? Told ya so.” He snickered into your lips, kissing you deeper. “Lower water pressure builds you up slower, drawing your orgasm out to last longer, and it’ll feel 10x more intense.”
“Mhm.” You mumbled into his lips, scooting your hips closer to the stream of water, and to him.
“Greedy little pussy, huh? Can’t get enough, can ya?” He teased.
“Dieter…” you warned him, playfully biting down on his lower lip and tugging it out gently before releasing it.
“I know, I know.” He chuckled and reluctantly detached himself from the kiss, pecking your lips once before he sat back on his thighs to give himself any form of relief. “You wanna give yourself a whirl while I go take care of this er—in privacy?”
Your cheeks were puffed out, lips swollen with his kisses as you stared up at him dumbfounded. “Are you insane? Just get in here with me, Dieter. Right now.”
He blushed, turning bright red all the way to the tips of his ears. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly turning all bashful as if he wasn’t just talking about your greedy little pussy seconds ago. “Are you…sure? I really don’t mind! I can just go jerk off in my bed like a normal person—”
“Dieter.” Your tone sounded strained, “get in the fucking shower now. Take those ridiculously tight boxers off and get in here.”
Well, you certainly didn’t need to ask Dieter Bravo twice as he scrambled to peel his boxers down over his hips and thighs, tossing the damp fabric outside of the shower. His cock bobbed between his thighs, hard, heavy and the tip was swollen a painful red color. Poor guy.
He climbed over you, situating himself and his cute little tush right next to you with his shoulders gently brushing yours. He spit a glob of saliva into his palm and wrapped his fist around the veiny girth of his cock. “I’ll come fast, I promise. You won’t even have to do anything, okay? Just pretend I’m not here!” His tone was rushed as he squeezed the base of his cock, lolling his head to the side so he could look over at you. His eyeliner was completely smudged now and his lips were swollen with your kisses.
All you could do was nod dumbly, your eyes transfixed by his fist wrapped around his cock. It was as if you were seeing a unicorn for the first time! The unicorn being er—Dieter’s cock.
He looked at your face, and then down at his cock, and then back up at your face. “Hello?” He waved with his freehand, “why are you looking at my cock like that, huh? Are you the only person in the whole state of California who hasn’t seen my cock before?” He was in disbelief, his mouth falling open when he realized that you never had seen his cock.
"I totally thought you'd seen his dick. Practically everyone else has." You remember his ex cruelly teasing you about it one day.
You shook your head, eyes glazed over as you watched his fist slowly twist and pump around his length. “Nope. First time, and it’s like I’m looking at a unicorn!” You exclaimed playfully.
Dieter snorted at your enthusiasm, feeling his heart lurch from his chest, “well, it is sorta like seeing a unicorn for the first time…I suppose?” He chuckled, squeezing the base of his cock for some form of relief. He felt like now was the best time to address the obvious elephant in the room, silly Dieter. “So uh—well, this doesn’t mean anything, right? Because we’re just friends and good friends masturbate together. It's cool, this is super casual!”
Sure, bud. You keep telling yourself that.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes and clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, spreading your thighs further so you could continue your ministrations with the shower head. “Sure, Dieter. This means absolutely nothing. Just two besties jerking it off, side by side. Totally casual!”
He let out a huff as he pumped his fist faster, “Well, we wouldn’t be in this predicament if those noises you were making didn’t make my cock as hard as a slab of concrete!”
“Dieter, shut up, and get yourself off! Or so help me—”
“Yes ma'am!” He squeaked out.
In tandem you placed the shower head close to your clit once more while he fisted his cock, and when your moans started to intermingle and become one, that’s when your glazed over eyes met once more. He had his lip harshly taken between his teeth, his cock was twisting and pulsing beneath his fist. He leaned in close, lips just barely brushing your bare shoulder where he had dipped his head down to nuzzle you. His eyes flickered upwards towards your face, pupils darkening by the second, “I really want to fuck you right now, baby.” He rasped.
You met his gaze, thighs trembling and your eyes rolling slightly as your orgasm rippled through you, “yeah, you wanna fuck me, Dieter? How badly do you want to fuck me?”
“So fucking bad, baby. You’ve got no idea.” He mewled, “there’s that convenient bench right over there.” He gestured to the shower bench with a coy tilt of his chin, “you can sit right on my cock, if you’d like that…”
“Did you have that bench installed for convenience purposes or for your old man bad back?” You asked teasingly.
He narrowed his eyes at you, glaring playfully before he chuckled, “a bit of both. More-so on the convenience side of things. And, it’s newly installed so you and I would be the first to use it.” He winked coyly.
“Really? Well, your offer is most tempting, Bravo. I’d like to take you up on it and sit on your big fucking cock.”
“Now we’re talking.” He grinned, loosening his fist around his cock so he could offer you a hand and helped you up. Now you were both directly under the stream of water, hands roaming everywhere they could reach. You kissed deeply, giggling in unison when you grabbed his ass and he grabbed yours. He could happily live in this moment forever with you, even if it meant that his skin would inevitably prune and probably fall off.
You backed him up against the shower bench, climbing into his lap as he slowly lowered himself into a sitting position along the marble bench that could easily fit both of you.
You wrapped your own palm around the base of his cock for the first time as you slowly sank down around his girth till he was fully pressed inside of you, bottoming out with a low grunt against your lips. He let his arms loop firmly around your waist, pulling you in as close as he physically could so that your chests were pressed flushed together. He swore he saw heaven behind fluttered lashes when you started to slowly roll your hips into his, bouncing and grinding along his length.
If it wasn’t for his steadfast orgasm, he probably would have lasted longer before he was shooting thick ropes of his cum deep inside of you, but he was a man, after all. And while his cum leaked and dripped from your weeping little hole that was still stuffed full of his cock, he made sure that you got to come again, too. He pistoned his hips upwards at an unruly pace, loving the way that your nails clawed at his back and shoulders, leaving little red crescents in their wake. Maybe I’ll get those tattooed on me later. He briefly thought as you came undone around him, crying out his name.
You stayed seated on his cock for what felt like hours before he gently eased you off him, his cock now soft between his thighs and glistening in a thick, pearlescent ring of your combined releases.
You washed one another’s bodies under the lukewarm stream and he was the first to step out of the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist and when you emerged, he had a towel waiting for you. You kissed a few more times, gentle pecks of intimacy as you stood side by side in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth and doing your skincare.
“Soo, where are you sleeping tonight?” He suddenly asked with a mouthful of toothpaste. His deep pools of brown boring into yours.
You hadn’t really thought that far if you were being honest…and now with that fresh ‘I just got fucked good’ glow illuminating your features, and the remainder of your high still sizzling, you suddenly feeling nervous all over again.
“Um, well, where do you want me to sleep?”
“I asked you first.” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for your response.
“Okay, fair, how about on the count of three we say it together?”
“Deal.” He nods.
“Okay—one, two, three—” you counted off in unison.
“Your bed—my bed.”
You both looked relieved at your answers, letting out breaths you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank fucking god.” You both laughed.
He kissed you then, mouthful of toothpaste and all. You made a funny squeaking sound when he had unexpectedly kissed you, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a knowing grin. “I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear.” He mumbled into the kiss, pulling back slowly.
When you left the en-suite, you found Dieter already in bed, sitting up with the rolling tray resting in his lap. He had a fresh pair of boxers on, this pair was made of cotton and was far less constricting. He was rolling another joint to smoke before bed when he looked up, smiling softly at your lingering presence in the doorway, wearing nothing but his shirt.
“Well, don’t be shy, bug. Ain’t the first time you’ve slept in my bed.” He winked, patting the empty spot beside him on his massive king sized bed.
You took a deep breath, remembering that this was Dieter Bravo, your best friend and partner in crime. He would always be your best friend.
You made your way over to the empty side of the bed and pulled the covers back so you could climb underneath them.
He finished rolling the joint, grabbing his lighter from the nightstand to spark it up before he paused, looking over his shoulder at you. “Hey, we don’t have to like—do anything, okay?” He reassured you.
“But Dieter, I wanna do stuff with you. It’s just—in your bed it feels…” you trailed off, scratching at the outside of your arm absentmindedly.
He tucked the joint behind his ear and rolled over into his side so he was facing you, using his elbow to prop himself up, “I understand, baby. This is…new for me as well. We can smoke this joint and then make out a little? See where it goes?…”
You nodded, lips curving up into a soft smile that sent his heartbeat racing, “yeah, I’d like that.”
“Me too.” He grinned.
He sparked the joint up between you, taking a few hits before he passed it off to you. This went on a few more times before your bodies just naturally gravitated towards one another, and when the joint died out, he set it down on the tray on his nightstand before his lips found yours.
You kissed like this for hours, simply just enjoying one another’s company and soft touch when the sun began to rise over the Los Angeles landscape. Dieter was uncharacteristically quiet, even for being stoned.
Your fingers were gently dragging through the patches in his beard, playing with his scruff in between kisses. “I can hear you overthinking, Dee.”
“Are you a wizard?” He chuckled, “you can hear my thoughts? That’s crazy!”
“Shh.” You giggled. “I’m right here, baby. You don’t have to yell.”
“Sorry.” He whispered, scooting his body closer to yours. He would absolutely crawl inside of your skin and never leave, but well—-he might go to prison if he did that.
“I’m gonna say something that might sound stupid, but I gotta get it off my chest, okay?” He started, his glazed over eyes met yours as he pressed a few kisses to the underside of your fingertips.
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, so—well, this is just different for me because I don’t normally fuck my friends.”
You gave him a funny look at his admittance, unable to help yourself.
“I’m serious! I don’t fuck my friends—and well, I care about you a ton.Maybe even more than I care about myself? Anyway, I don’t want things to get weird between us tomorrow. Like if you wake up and regret everything that happened, I just want you to tell me, okay? My hopes is that maybe you felt the little spark that I did and if you did we can—”
“Dieter, I promise you I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and regret everything that happened tonight. No matter where this takes us, I’m always going to love you, and you’re always going to be my best friend.” Your words were sincere and directly from your heart and he knew you weren’t just saying shit just to say it.
“I think I just shat my heart out, that was so sweet.” He giggles, nuzzling his nose against yours. “In all seriousness, thank you. I was just afraid that this would ruin our friendship, and I would lose you forever.”
“Never, Dieter. You could never lose me.” You reassured him.
“Good, cause in the morning? I’m making waffles!”
Helen Mirren: Narrator for the Barbie Movie:
Dieter did not in fact make waffles the next morning. Instead, Dieter had his breakfast between your thighs, and then let you order whatever brunch you wanted on his black card
"You can be my sugar baby! I get to eat you out and you can order whatever you want on my card." He murmured between your thighs, mouthful of your pussy.
"That's not how that sort of thing really works, Dieter. But, yeah, okay."
Banners made by the lovely @saradika-graphics 💓
Follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications
#fic: ‘cause after midnight#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo#slumber party dieter#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo fluff#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo imagine#dieter bravo the bubble#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x female reader#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x reader#dieter x reader#the bubble#the bubble fanfiction#the bubble fic#pedro pascal characters#tw dubious consent
166 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
172 notes
·
View notes
Text
Psychomanteum / Chapter 16
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)
Chapter 16: Famous Last Words
Chapter Summary: Revelations.
Word Count: 7.7k+
Content / Warnings: alternating pov, suicidal thoughts and planning, intrusive thoughts, grief, swearing, alcohol use, uncertainty, parker, angst, paranormal/spooky elements, hunger, hangover, driving, psychomanteum, ethan, drug addiction, domestic abuse, journal
Notes: Chapter title from “Famous Last Words" by My Chemical Romance. Babe I told you we'd get one more MCR-titled chapter before this was over. Chapter 17 will be the last chapter, then an epilogue. Huge thanks to @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the best 🖤✨
[ Previous Chapter ] [ Series Masterlist ] [ Next Chapter ]
The sun feels like a spotlight as you trudge your way from the bedroom to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Nausea grips your sour, empty stomach. Your head throbs, pulse pounding in your ears.
The past few mornings, you’ve become well-acquainted with the wine hangover. It’s a love-hate relationship, you and wine. It numbs the overwhelming emotional pain, emptying your brain at night so that you can sleep. In return, it makes you so fucking sick the morning after, you think it might be plotting to kill you.
You carefully place a few logs in the fireplace and poke the glowing embers in the hearth back to life, then plop down on the couch, draping a blanket around your shoulders as you curl up with a notebook and pen.
You stare at the blank page, unsure what to tell it.
You could tell it that, same as yesterday and the day before, the aftereffects of drinking yourself to sleep have tainted your morning green. Not a cute green, either, like forest or emerald. Think Dieter’s bathrobe or pea soup. Think seasick.
You could tell it that the hangover causing every subtle noise to strike your temples like a ball-pein hammer only incentivizes you further. Nothing makes you want to die quite like a wine hangover.
You could tell it that, really, it doesn’t fucking matter that you’re hungover. If you weren’t miserable in this way, you’d be miserable in another.
You could ask it if this is what Ethan was feeling one year ago today. Sick and determined to end it all. Did he plan it out like you’ve been doing, or was it spur of the moment? When did he decide he would do it?
When did he decide to take you with him? Was it the ink? Had this been his plan all along?
All the things you never asked him in the psychomanteum seem so important now. Especially one: Why?
Sure, things were bad. Fucking awful, even. But there were still little moments here and there.
Like when the gas bill went neglected and they disconnected service. You couldn’t fall asleep because it was too cold, so he set up the only space heater on your side of the bed. He wrapped his arms around your shivering body and held you to his chest all night, keeping you warm. Or like when he was in the neighborhood of your favorite bakery and he stopped to pick up glazed donuts on his way home.
There were days when you couldn’t fucking stand to look at him. It hurt too much to see the physical toll of his addiction. How emaciated he had become, his boyish face all hollowed out and gaunt, dark bags drooping under his eyes.
But there were also days when he still opened the apartment door, calling out, “Louie, I’m home!” Like Ricky Ricardo in I Love Lucy. It was his favorite bit.
He’d jabber on about the customers, or the traffic, or the news. There were still days when he paid you compliments and kissed you like he meant it. When he brought home things he knew you’d like. Little presents here and there, nothing big, but enough to be reassured he was thinking about you.
A week before he died, he gifted you a journal.
He was supposed to pick up groceries, but got sidetracked in a bookstore and forgot the errand. When he came home holding a brown paper parcel wrapped in twine instead of plastic bags filled with food, you were furious.
“What’s that?” you asked, crossing your arms.
He tossed it on the counter as he shucked off his jacket, “It’s for you.”
“Is it edible?”
“Edible? No,” he scoffed, sliding it closer, “C’mon, open it up.”
You stared at him for a moment, at his Cheshire grin, jaw clenched and grinding. At his eyes all wide with intense excitement, the pupils blown-out and black. He vibrated with energy, his long limbs twitching in constant motion.
So fucking high.
Trying to avoid the violent downswing of his pendulum mood, you sighed and unwrapped the parcel, revealing an orange journal embossed with the phrase A New Chapter. The pages inside were buttery soft but thick, lined with delicate margins.
“A notebook?”
“A journal, yeah,” he sniffed and tugged at the tip of his nose, “I came by this rad looking bookstore and poked around a bit, thought you’d like it.”
You didn’t immediately react, so he kept talking.
“When I was out the other night, I was talking to a friend and she said journaling has helped her work through some of her feelings and all that, and… well, I know you used to journal all the time, I thought maybe it would help since you’ve been a little… out of sorts lately.”
You wanted to ask him who this friend was and why he didn’t call her by name. You wanted to ask him what else he bought with the grocery money. You wanted to ask him why he’d rather you spill your guts to a journal than to him.
Instead, you nodded, put on a smile, and said, “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful. I—I love it.”
The words felt dead in your mouth. Foul and rotten. He returned your fake smile with his own, then excused himself to his office.
You remember thinking the whole thing was a farce. A sham. A two-person act where you both pretended not to smell the decay between you.
The journal he gave you went to your bedside drawer. It remained untouched for months before you rediscovered it while spring cleaning.
At first, you didn’t recognize it. Then a gut-wrenching nostalgia took hold. A New Chapter. It felt more like a relic from a past life than a journal for the future.
Weeks went by before you wrote inside.
It felt blasphemous at first, marking the perfect blank pages with your script. Like you were shattering an artifact. But it helped to offload some of your rumination onto paper. It became a central coping mechanism for you.
There are passages going back at least six months, maybe more. Before you and Dieter ever even spent time alone in a room together. When he was just a goofy, handsome guy who lived on the other side of the country. Your long-distance friend that maybe sometimes gave you butterflies every time you talked to him. Even then, his name made frequent appearances on those pages.
The journal contains all your innermost thoughts, the long-winded rambling narrations of your waxing and waning between cynicism and optimism, the whole disgusting freak show inside your head laid out on the counter for anyone to rifle through.
And I forgot it on his kitchen counter like an idiot.
When you picture Dieter flipping through the journal, reading your school-girl crush ramblings and earnest thoughts about him, your face gets hot with embarrassment.
If you’re being honest with yourself, though, maybe it’s better he has it. Maybe one day he’ll look through it and read your crazy thoughts and know you’ll love him until you’re dust and then even after. In the next life, and the next, until the sea of love runs dry and humanity goes bust. Maybe he’ll read through it and know that you were struggling by no fault of his own.
With a sharp inhale, you put your pencil to paper and write: I miss my journal. I miss my Dee.
Then you toss the notebook aside and go to make some breakfast.
—
The first thing Dieter does when he wakes is grab his phone off the nightstand.
One eye squinting open, he plugs your name into a search engine and scrolls through the results. Nothing new, just tabloids recycling old information and speculating. Fucking vultures.
A boulder settles on his chest, cold and massive, squeezing the air from his lungs.
He should be used to this sort of feeling, considering how often he’s felt it the past few days.
Every lead they had came up a dead end. You put up an impenetrable wall around yourself, so the most he can do is scour the internet for signs of you and live in the disappointment that follows each search.
He drops his phone and looks over at the empty spot beside him.
In an alternate universe, maybe one where your apartment wasn’t raided or you didn’t run away, the two of you are probably right here in bed, all intertwined under the covers, murmuring sweet affirmations to each other. Or maybe you’re seated next to one another in some unsuspecting diner, ordering greasy breakfast foods and sipping watered-down coffee. Or maybe he’s leaning on the kitchen island, watching you throw together some kind of sweet treat that the two of you would share throughout the day.
Or maybe there is no alternate universe. Maybe this was the way this was always going to be.
While you were still here, he made plans for Christmas. They weren’t big plans or anything. Nothing too showy, just some stuff to bring you comfort on the anniversary of your husband’s passing. Figured he could make you breakfast, then the two of you could take a bath. He got you a robe, pajamas, and some slippers so you’d be at the height of comfort for a trashy reality show marathon. Smoking pot, ordering takeout, that kind of thing. Low key.
It would’ve been nice. Definitely would’ve beat his long-standing Christmas tradition of going on a bender.
Dieter sighs, reaching across the bed to pull your pillow into an embrace. He buries his face in it and inhales your lingering scent. His eyes clench shut as he tries to picture what you’re doing, where you are, how you’re feeling, but he gets nothing.
Intuition tells him he’s running out of time.
He knows you’re still out there as sure as he knows there’s a pulse beneath his skin. But if you’ve held out this far, you’ll do it today or tomorrow. You’re a romantic like that.
He prays that’s enough time for a miracle.
—
You crouch down at the river’s edge and dig your fingers into the cold, damp sand, clamping down around a gray speckled rock. It comes loose with a firm tug, leaving an indent behind. Turning it over in your hand, you admire its weight and size.
A keeper.
You toss it in your backpack along with the other rocks and zip the bag shut. Hands numb and filthy, you heave the backpack onto your shoulders and jump up and down a little, nodding in approval at the considerable effort it takes to do so.
That should do just fine.
The backpack stays on the beach while you walk back to the cabin. Once inside, you thaw your hands with hot, soapy water, then eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of the fireplace, staring at the flickering flames as you chew. Your mind is white noise. A static-screened TV. An engine seized.
After cleaning the minimal mess from lunch, you consult your to-do list, cross off Gather the means of your destruction, and move to the next item: Build the psychomanteum.
—
“I printed all the information we’ve found and put it in here,” Darlene flips open the cover of a black binder and leafs through the color-coded, tabbed off sections, “Inside, I have call logs, typed out my notes from all my interviews, made a timeline of her last known movements, and basically everything we know so far. Table of contents at the front.”
She heaves the binder closed and straightens its bottom edge perfectly parallel to the edge of the dining room table, then takes a sideways step to the manila envelope beside it.
“I printed out some pictures and wrote a detailed description of her in the event that you decide to file the missing persons report. All of that information is in the manila envelope here,” she taps the envelope and looks up at Dieter, “Why did you fly to New York the day your girlfriend went missing?”
“To bribe an elected official.”
She blinks, “Try again.”
“I thought she went home.”
“And why did you go to the opera?”
“Parker and I were following up on a lead. Someone texted me and said they thought they saw her—”
“Who texted you?”
“Uhhhh…”
“Do you have a copy of the text message?”
“I, um—”
“Exactly. Too vague, and traceable. Try again.”
“Parker told me to.”
“Bitch, what the fuck?” Parker swats him.
“Ow,” Dieter hisses, rubbing the fresh welt, “No, uhhh… I went to New York to look for her because she lives there. She always told me about wanting to go to the Met to catch a show, so we went to see if we could spot her.”
“She went missing and you wanted to look for her at the Metropolitan Opera House?”
“It was a long shot, yeah,” he sighs and scratches his chin, “Waste of time, we ended up leaving at intermission.”
“That’s… not bad,” Darlene gives him an impressed nod, then looks down at her folder and straightens it in line with the binder, “Probably enough to keep you from getting arrested, at least. What about you, Parker?”
“I helped him look for her in New York, even though I knew it was a dumb idea and told him so to his face.“
“Do you think he was up to anything, covering up his tracks?”
“No,” Parker scoffs, “Poor boy was worried sick the whole time. He wouldn’t stop beating himself up for going on that goddamn wild goose chase.”
“Good,” Darlene smiles, crossing her arms, and tilts her head at Dieter, “Are you sure it’s ok if I go?”
“Oh, yeah, go,” he waves his hand dismissively, “You’ve done more than enough, really. Thank you for everything.”
“Well… don’t thank me yet,” she mutters, taking another side step to the second manila envelope. She picks it up and holds it with both hands, pausing for a moment before passing it across the table to him. ‘
He takes it and frowns at her, “What’s this?”
“It’s her journal.”
His breathing stops. All the moisture in his mouth evaporates, tongue sticking Velcro to the roof when he opens his mouth to ask a thousand questions. Darlene speaks before he can utter a syllable.
“You gave it to me. Unintentionally, I think, but I jotted down some notes from that first morning when I was calling around.”
Dieter opens the envelope and pulls out the orange, spiral-bound notebook. A New Chapter. He traces the phrase.
“I didn’t realize what it was until last night when I was double-checking I copied the notes down right. I flipped to the front, and…”
As if under a spell, he opens the cover, eyes falling on the first line.
I am the haunted house
He closes it and stares at the cover, then across the table at Darlene, “How much did you read?”
“I went through the last few entries,” she tells him, “Skimmed them to see if she mentioned anything helpful. She didn’t, but you might want to take a closer look at them. Maybe something will jump out at you.”
Dieter glances at Parker. They exchange a look that says neither of them will make a fuss about the invasion of your privacy. Given the circumstances, it’s understandable.
“I worked backwards and marked where I left off with a tab. You should read it.”
He nods and clears his throat, then says, “Yeah, I, umm… I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
—
The Friedman family cabin had limited options when it came to putting together the psychomanteum.
It calls for a dark and preferably small enclosed space, a challenge in itself. The common rooms are open concept, with the obvious exception of the bathroom. Both of the bedrooms on the first floor and the loft upstairs have dressers in lieu of closets. Thinking about setting up in the dirt-floor wine cellar, alongside its long-term creepy-crawly residents, made you queasy.
This left you with one practical option: the cedar linen closet.
After transferring the neat stacks of towels, bedding, and pillows from the shelves, you take out the shelves themselves. You find some dark quilts to line the walls with and, through an arduous process of trial and error, accomplish a mirror-angle combination that creates the desired effect.
Throughout this process, you try to concentrate on what you would say to him, telling yourself that this time you wouldn’t spin out and lose your nerve. This time you would ask the questions that haunt your every waking breath.
Your mind keeps wandering to Dieter, though.
You think about his experiences in the psychomanteum.
About James and the river and the scars left on Dieter’s young heart. You think about the ghost that haunts him, his monster, and how it might whisper similarities in his ear. How it might coax him into the darkness forever.
The thought strikes you hard and heavy, square in the chest.
All the air leaves your body and your hands go numb. You crumple up into a ball on the closet floor and weep. Pained, warbled sobs shake your body. The noises that come out of you sound foreign and animalistic.
You cry for him, and for you, and for all the things that could have been. You cry and cry until you can't cry anymore.
It feels cleansing. Therapeutic. Like a purge to overly-ripe, buzzing nerves.
In the messy afterglow of this release, you stare up at the ceiling and wish Dieter would come barging through the door.
If he found you here, all curled up on the closet floor of your in-laws cabin, he would probably let out a big sigh of relief, then lay down beside you. He would pull you into an embrace and squeeze you tight and make you take a blood oath to never leave him again.
For the first time since you set out on this literal suicide mission, you really consider not following through with it.
Something dark flickers out the corner of your eye. When you hear the faint whisper of a noise, your breath halts.
You fine-tune your ears, focusing on each minute sound that crops up. Wind rustling the trees outside. Your heart pumping blood. The deafening silence in between.
Then you hear it.
A coarse, abrasive noise like fingernails on sheetrock. Scratching.
It sneaks.
Your pulse jumps, muscles going tense with fear. You pinch your eyes shut. Try to stay still and quiet, but each shaky breath sounds louder than the last.
Another scratch, slow and dry, from inside the closet this time.
“Leave me alone,” you whisper, “Please.”
—
I am the haunted house
Full of ghosts
Myself and others��
Living in the past
I cannot escape
Neither can they
Dieter stares at the page, re-reading that first passage in your journal at least ten times before shaking his head and closing the cover.
This feels fucked up and invasive. It doesn’t sit right in his body, all hard corners stretching out his stomach. He should hurl the journal into the canyon, but something stops him from doing so.
His leg starts bouncing, jaw gnashing back and forth with indecision. He leans forward in the patio chair and flips the journal open a few pages.
I think I like him and I don’t know how to feel about that. I feel like it’s too soon and I’m not ready, but at the same time, I am drawn to him. Almost every time we talk on the phone it turns into a three-hour long conversation and even then I wish I could keep talking to him. He makes me laugh. He’s sweet and odd and insanely fucking hot. He seems to party a lot, which makes me unjustifiably nervous. The other night when I was talking to him, he mentioned another woman and I felt fucking jealous?? I’ve literally met the man twice. What the fuck am I doing. I am actually insane. I think it would be a real problem if we did anything beyond flirting, I would probably need to be committed.
Warmth and affection flood his veins.
You must have written this sometime between the party at Katie’s and the first time he traveled to New York to see you. Probably last spring when the two of you began to contact each other more and more.
He remembers how tedious it was at first.
Getting to know each other was a delicate dance both of you performed without acknowledgment. A text here and there, sporadic communication at best. He didn’t want you to think he was too eager. In fact, he didn’t want to be eager at all.
Past friendships left him jaded and waiting for the other shoe to drop. On top of that, he was going through a divorce and pretty dedicated to a full-time coke habit.
He dreaded the day you would reveal yourself as a snake. But you never did.
As the text messages grew more frequent and reliable, he couldn’t deny the temptation to let his feelings blossom instead of nipping them in the bud. Soon the messages accompanied weekly phone calls and video chats, until it became an almost daily ritual to hear your voice.
He wasn’t sure what to think or feel about you, he just knew that he always found himself wondering about you. What you were doing, who you were with. Like you, he felt a tinge of jealousy on the rare occasion you would drop another man’s name.
It’s comforting to know you felt the same way. Weary, but intrigued. Resistant to the pull of attraction, yet not entirely immune.
The glass patio door slides open, then shut.
Dieter looks over his shoulder and nods in greeting to Parker, who plops down in the patio chair next to him. With him, he carries a navy blue gift bag emblazoned with a shiny gold logo that reads Bizarre Bazaar.
“You boys have fun shopping?”
Parker holds the bag out to Dieter, letting the ribbon handle dangle from his slender fingers, “It’s for you. Merry Christmas.”
“Oh fuck off, really?”
“It was Lincoln’s idea,” he shakes the bag, “Take it!”
Rolling his eyes, Dieter sets your journal aside and takes the gift.
“You really didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know.”
He pushes aside tissue paper and pulls a black frame from the bag. A shadow box. Suspended inside the glass is a moth with an impressive wingspan. Its creamy white wings have dark stripes that zigzag close together to create an almost disorienting effect, making his vision blur into abstract.
“Thysania Agrippina,” Parker tells him, “The White Witch moth, or ghost moth. They’re the biggest moths, typically found in forests of Central and South America. Back in ye olden days, when explorers encountered them, they would try to shoot them like they did with birds and bats, but the moths would evade the attacks, making the explorers think they were witches. Really, their body is just incredibly small in comparison to their wings.”
Dieter nods, unable to tear his eyes away from the specimen.
“People see moths as a symbol of transformation and rebirth. White witch moths are especially considered good luck.”
“I need all the luck I can get,” he mutters and looks at Parker, “It's beautiful, thank you.”
Parker gives him a half-hearted smile, glancing at your journal, “Did you find anything?”
With a sigh, Dieter carefully slides the taxidermy moth back into the gift bag, then picks up your journal and flips through it.
“Not really. I haven’t gone through much, though. Here are Darlene’s notes,” he opens to a page with her sparse, neat script, and flips backwards through the pages, passing a few blanks before finding your last entry, “This is from the day before. I don’t know.”
Parker frowns, “Can I see it?”
Shrugging, Dieter hands it to him.
He watches as Parker studies the blank pages, tilting and turning the journal against the light of the overhead sun. When Parker jumps to his feet, Dieter’s stomach flips.
“What?”
“I think I see something.”
“Something like what?”
“I need a pencil.”
Dieter leaps into action, leading the way inside to a cup of writing utensils on the kitchen counter. He finds a lead pencil and hands it to Parker, who starts lightly shading over a small section of paper. Contrast carves out negative space from idents in the page.
A phone number.
“Holy shit,” Dieter breathes, stunned for a moment before pulling out his phone and dialing the number.
—
The bottle lets out a glug-glug-glug as you pour plum wine into your glass. You tilt your head, watching with dead eyes as the golden elixir fills your cup to the brim, then you set the empty bottle aside and take a sip.
Not bad. Tart well-balanced with sweet. The taste doesn’t matter as much to you as the alcohol content, but it helps.
Staring at the blank page, you remember what Dieter said when you tried and failed to reach Ethan through the psychomanteum. That you were too closed-off. You click your pen a few times, then bring the tip to paper.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
Ethan locked himself in his room after pouring the ink I gave him on the living room floor. I could hear him in there, pacing back and forth and talking to himself. A squeaky floorboard tracked his movements like a metronome.
Even though he was in his own little world, I muffled my sobs in my pillow so he couldn’t hear me. Before falling asleep, I remember feeling hopeless. I loved and hated him at the same time. It was over, I couldn’t do it anymore. That fact scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
It didn’t seem real when I woke up.
He took me by the hair and pulled me out of bed. My legs didn’t work. I kept collapsing and tripping all over the place, which made him even more angry. Each time I faltered, he yanked me up to my feet by the hair. He called me a bitch. A rat. A spineless fucking worm.
Before taking me out in the hallway, he showed me a pocket knife and told me if I screamed he would slit my throat. I believed him.
You pause here, considering whether or not to drink more wine. For a while, you watch the low flames in the fireplace dance around on ashy, glowing logs. You rise to your feet and approach it, pulling open the hearth to carefully stack more firewood atop the hungry beast. It thanks you with a crackle and a burst of heat and light, the newborn fire blazing your face and hands.
Returning to your seat, you cross your legs under the coffee table and re-read what you’ve written. The memories hold space in your chest.
This deep, dull ache starts at your sternum and spreads across your body. Instinctively, you reach for the wine, but pause before your fingertips touch the glass.
It seems important that you experience the pain, not anesthetize it.
You pick up the pen and keep going.
He led me down to the parking garage and threw me in the passenger seat. When I tried to buckle my seatbelt, he threatened me again, told me to leave it. He took off, driving like a fucking maniac. Swerving around traffic, running red lights, going the wrong way down one way streets. It was snowing and the roads were slick. Every time we lost traction, he howled with laughter as he righted his course.
I remember being fucking terrified and thinking this couldn’t be happening, it wasn’t real, it was a nightmare. I don’t remember everything I said to him. I just remember screaming and crying, begging him to let me out. He ignored me. I tried to snap him out of it by punching him in the face as hard as I could. This got his attention.
The car skidded to a stop. He looked at me. His eyes were black and vacant and unrecognizable. I knew then that Ethan wasn’t coming back. It was me and his monster. I asked him to let me out. He said no. He said we had to do this together. I told him I fucking hated him and reached for the door handle to get out.
He grabbed my throat and hit me hard, his fist landing on my left eye. I saw stars, then everything went black.
When I came to, the engine was roaring. Red traffic lights zoomed by overhead. He was looking through the windshield with a blank, emotionless stare, picking up speed fast. It became very clear what he was going to do. Still dazed, I tried to put on my seatbelt, but before I could click it into place, I heard a horrible metallic crunching noise from everywhere. Everything went black again.
Hot tears burn trails down your cheeks. You drop the pen down and bury your face in your hands, releasing a guttural sob from your chest like some kind of rabid animal. It splits you in two, claws tearing at your rib cage and carving you out.
This is what it feels like to be an aluminum can. Drained of utility, crushed for scrap metal.
This is what it feels like to be a jack-o-lantern. Gutted, empty, rotting.
This is what it feels like to have your heart broken for the first and last time.
Eventually, you manage to catch your breath. Then you rise to your feet and start towards the psychomanteum.
__
Headlights cut through the pitch black night onto the highway ahead.
“In two miles, take Exit 31 to merge onto CA-41 North towards Yosemite.”
Dieter glances at his phone mounted to the dash. It estimates his arrival time as 10:53, putting him 36 minutes and 23 miles out. He punches the gas, watching the speedometer jump from 76-mph to 90.
If he’s gonna shave off more time, it’ll be here, not in the foothills. Pretty soon the roads will get narrow and curvy. Not to mention, they might be slick as it gets colder with elevation, and he’d like to make it to you alive, thankyouverymuch.
His nerves buzz at the thought, tangling in a mess of anticipation and worry and guilt.
He should have figured it out sooner. This should have been a first day call. It would’ve been if he wasn’t so fucking blind. He handed your journal to Darlene, not realizing it had the answer the whole goddamn time.
Nobody answered at first. He held his breath as the line trilled. It rang long enough for him to wonder if he died and went to hell and was doomed to exist in the moment for eternity.
Then the voicemail picked up.
“You’ve reached the voicemail for Sarah Friedman. Sorry I missed you, leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”
BEEP
“Hi, Sarah. My name is Dieter Bravo. I’m calling about my, uhh… Louella Friedman. I found your phone number in her notebook, and she’s been missing for a few days. I’m—I’m worried about her. She left a note, and, umm… yeah. I don’t know. I’m hoping you have information on her whereabouts. Please call me back. Thanks.”
He hung up and looked between Parker and Lincoln, “Sarah Friedman?”
Parker’s eyes went wide, “That’s Ethan’s mom—oh my god—” He gasped, jumping up and down, “Their fucking cabin, Dieter! Fresno—mountains, forest, holy shit—”
“Oh my god!” Dieter started jumping up and down too, only getting two hops in before bolting for the door, “I GO NOW!”
“Wait—shoes! Your wallet! And keys!” Lincoln called to him, making him circle back into the house and grab the items off the sideboard and shove his feet into a pair of crocs.
“And a charger, do you want an overnight bag? What about Lua’s things—her phone—”
His phone buzzed in his hand. Sarah returning his call.
“You have thirty fucking seconds,” he told Lincoln before answering, “This is Dieter.”
“Hi, Dieter. This is Sarah calling you back.”
“Yeah, thank you so much—Is she, Lua, is she ok?”
When she didn’t immediately respond yes, his stomach plummeted.
“I actually, I don’t know,” Sarah sighed, “I’m glad you called, because I wasn’t sure—”
“What do you mean?”
He started snapping his fingers at Lincoln, who was stumbling down the hall towards him, shoving things into a backpack.
“She’s been staying at our cabin and I haven’t been able to reach her.”
“I have her phone, she left it here. At my house.”
“No, on the landline. I’ve talked to her the past few days, but when I tried earlier the call wouldn’t go through.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing the backpack from Lincoln, “Send me the address, I’m going.”
It took him about two and a half hours to drive the some-odd 200 miles to where he is now. The most excruciating drive of his life, just him and Siri and his anxious thoughts.
“Take the exit.”
He flips on the blinker and glances in the rearview mirror, then over his shoulder before merging.
“Hang on a little bit longer, baby.”
—
Your head swims as you relax into the nest of pillows and blankets on the floor. Behind you, the electric lantern casts a dim glow, reflecting off the frame of the mirror. The mirror shows you a black abyss. You stare into it, letting your vision blur abstract.
Then you wait.
After some time, a strange feeling comes over you. A shifting, surreal sensation like you’re changing gears and reaching a higher plane of existence. Invisible tendrils slither out from beneath your skin and branch out before you, stretching into the abyss. You feel connected to it. Tapped into something larger than yourself.
“Ethan, I need to talk to you.”
Something clicks into place, like a tether coupling you to him. His presence lingers near yours somewhere within the abyss, but you gather the notion that he wants you to come closer, and lean into the strange sensation.
Static energy pulses around you on all sides as you move forward through the darkness. Light years ahead of you, a star twinkles. A single pinprick of brightness in the inky black.
You follow the beacon, gliding through the space with surprising speed.
The light grows from a pinprick to a beam, from a beam to a dinner plate, from a dinner plate to a beach ball, stretching wider and brighter with each passing moment.
You come to a halt when you realize that it’s not just a far-off daydream, but a tangible object.
An orb, roughly the same size as you, glowing with pure white light.
It emits familiar ambient noises, flickering brighter with each sound wave. Muffled car horns. Stomping from the upstairs neighbors. Ethan’s low, quiet humming in the tune of “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers.
The orb seems to possess a gravitational pull. You find yourself drifting closer. When you reach out to touch it, your fingertips brush against something warm and inviting.
In the blink of an eye, you appear somewhere else entirely.
It takes a moment to reorient yourself to these new surroundings. Your focus flickers to the steeple of your drawn-back emerald curtains, giving you a peep show of the electric blue sky. Afternoon sun pours in through the window, spilling across the bedspread.
The foreground of your vision clears to a crisp image. Ethan’s bare chest, rising and falling with breath. Beneath your ear, the steady thump-thump of his heart beats true and steady. His fingertips gently rake against your skin in lazy, comforting circles.
You tilt your head to look at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are clear and present like you haven’t seen in ages. He looks healthy. Full of life. Reaching up to trace the curve of his lips, you whisper, “Is this heaven? Did I die?”
He huffs a little chuckle, “No.”
You grin at the sight of his smile, eyes flicking all over his face, “Then what is it?”
“It’s what you needed,” he shrugs, “What you came here for.” When you arch a suspicious brow, he smirks, “What?”
“I came here to yell at you.”
“Then yell at me.”
He stares at you, his brown eyes both sincere and mischievous. Your teeth catch your bottom lip and you glance out the window.
“C’man, Lou. Look at me.”
You do, and he shifts around a little, rolling on his side to face you, “Hit me with the truth, baby. I can take it.”
“If I ask you something, will you lie?”
“I’ve got nothing to gain from lying to you.”
You search his face for signs of falsehood, but find none.
“Were there other women?”
“Do you really wanna know?”
You nod.
He licks his lips, glancing down, then back to you, “Yeah, there were a few.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
It shocks you a little, his honesty. And soothes you. You forgot it could be like this with him. No games, no bullshit.
“Were they serious? Did you love them?”
“No,” he scoffs, waving his hand dismissively, “They were… distractions.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek and nod, dropping your gaze.
“If you’re waiting for excuses, I don’t have any. It was wrong and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it. Any of it. The cheating, the lies, the… the way I hurt you—”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You did kill me. Slowly. Inside and out.” Your vision swims with tears, but you look up to meet his eyes anyway, “You broke me. You were supposed to love me and you broke me, Ethan. I don’t know if I can even love right anymore, I’m so fucked up.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looks at you with such naked anguish that you believe he means the apology with his whole heart. It still hurts.
“Please say something else.”
“What do you want me to say, Lou?”
A hard knot of emotion works its way up your throat, making your face crumble and your eyes sting with tears.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. Then, as if it’s an answer, you tell him, “I’m… I’m scared.”
“What’re you so scared of?”
“What if we’re just cursed to keep living this over and over? Loving and losing?”
You picture your dad. Ethan. James. Anika.
You picture Dieter. You picture one hundred ways he could break you beyond recognition. One hundred ways you could do the same to him.
It all seems so fragile.
“Lou, look at me,” he tilts your chin up to meet his eyes, “You will never know what the future holds. That doesn’t mean it can’t be good. That doesn’t mean you should hide from it.”
“Is it worth it?”
“Don’t you think?”
You picture the ghost trail of your ink-stained hand clasping Dieter’s and feeling his soul from the inside out. The phone calls. Hours and hours—weeks, really—listening to his voice over one electronic device or another. Him sitting next to you, eating Chinese food and watching shitty tv. His laugh, those dimples. The night at the Plaza. Big brown tootsie pop eyes. Snow angels. The ocean—the sea of love.
He smirks, flicking his eyes around your face, “You love him, huh?”
“I do,” you nod, a knot of guilt tugging at your stomach, “I love him so much. I just… what if he hurts me like you did? What if I hurt him? I—I don’t think I can be put back together if I break again.”
“Tell me something. And be honest with me, I’ll know if you’re lying, ok? If you could go back and do something different, forever changing the course of your life up to this moment… would you?”
You think about it, long and hard. You consider the different paths your life could have taken.
If your dad never developed cancer, you might’ve felt secure enough to stay in Ohio. Maybe you would have attended culinary classes in a local community college instead of running away to New York. You never would have met Parker. You never would have moved to the city. You never would have had the opportunities to establish your culinary skills the way you did. You never would have met Ethan.
If Ethan would have stayed clean, the two of you might have existed in happily-ever-after until your dying day… but you never would have met Dieter.
Dieter.
Your chest aches with love, tears welling up in your eyes. Loving him feels perfect and magical and right. Otherworldly. It feels like forever.
Every passing moment since you met him has felt like you are exactly where you need to be.
Even the bad times, like the first time you tried the psychomanteum and he lost it. You learned so much about him. He revealed some of the most tender spots in his heart. You started to trust him.
Or when you found out he slept with Katie and it felt like your world came crashing down. You learned that, even when you pushed him away, he would fight tooth and nail for you.
Intrusions from the tabloids and your mother, the interview, dinner with Lilly and Jay. All of these instances forced you both to reconcile with parts of yourselves you thought were thoroughly unloveable and come out the other side somehow more intact than you were before.
You realize that even now, with the threat of prison and the destruction of Dieter’s career lingering in your periphery, with you tucked away in the psychomanteum in the middle of nowhere, hiding from everything… it’s where you need to be. And despite the impossible odds, you believe that your love for each other will come out the other side.
You shake your head.
“No. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Ethan nods, brushing his fingertips along your cheek, “So, you tell me. Is it worth the risk?”
—
When Dieter spots the mailbox labeled FRIEDMAN, his heart jumps up and gets lodged in his throat.
"The destination is on your right. Arrived."
He slows and turns the wheel, steering the car down the gravel driveway. Outside, the night is impossibly black. The only thing he can see in the high beams are tall pine trees on either side of the path and an occasional flicker of reflective eyes in the forest.
“Could it be any fucking creepier out here, Jesus Christ—”
Thunk
One of the tires hits a pothole, making him grimace. The car jostles back and forth in protest, then rights its path.
Goddamnit, not now.
If he breaks down out here he might spontaneously combust. Any other time, just not now, he's so fucking close. Steering around another deep gash in the path, Dieter grits his teeth and squints into the darkness.
A light in the distance makes him sit up straighter and lean forward.
It has to be a porch light, that has to be it.
Anxious energy pounds thick through his veins. He can’t clear his head enough to glean anything about your current state. Horrible images flash through his mind, torturing him.
The trees open up into a clearing.
As soon as his headlights graze the cabin, he throws the car into park and jumps from the vehicle, screaming your name as he runs up the steps onto the patio.
He pounds on the door, peeking in through the window, “Lua, it’s me.”
His voice is garbled and frantic.
Inside, he sees a fireplace glowing with warm light. He twists the doorknob and pushes it open, “LOUELLA?”
Dead silence.
White hot panic spikes his blood.
He runs numb, trembling hands through his hair and calls your name again, starting through the house.
There are signs of life. The crackling fireplace. Towels and blankets stacked on the kitchen counter. Your open suitcase in one of the downstairs bedrooms.
On the coffee table in the living room, he finds a full glass of wine and a notebook. He picks it up and starts reading, throat letting out an involuntary dry whimper as he tries again and again to read the words, but they blur and don’t make sense.
The sound of the front door opening makes him spin around.
—
Your exhale fogs in the cool night air as you pull a rock from the backpack and chuck it towards the sound of flowing water.
Ker-plunk!
Squinting into the darkness, you make out ripples on the river’s surface and smile.
The next one is heavier.
You have to grab it with two hands and heave it over your shoulder to send it launching it into the air, crashing through the water with a loud splash.
Delight shivers up your spine.
You tuck your hands in your jacket pockets and look up at the stars. With the expanse of the universe stretching across the atmosphere, you should feel small and hopeless. But you don’t. Instead, a deep sense of optimism and wonder steals your breath.
Somehow it feels like every other time you’ve crawled out of the shit, but different. Like you’re the same person you were, although not at all. Like the good parts stayed intact, but the fear sloughed off at your feet.
You feel weightless. Hopeful. Infinite.
It doesn’t matter that you don’t have transportation, or food, or anything. It doesn’t matter that your return to society might result in your arrest. All that matters is you find Dieter and face this with him.
For the first time in a long time, you have faith that everything will be ok.
The sound of an approaching car draws your attention. A beam of light scans through the night sky, then you hear a car door.
“LOUELLA!”
You gasp, voice cracking as you whisper, “Dieter?”
Your heart skitters in your chest and your feet spring into action, trudging up the riverbed as fast as they can. Chest heaving, vision blurring, you climb up the hill and make a mad dash towards the cabin.
When you reach the door and twist the doorknob, you can’t feel the cold metal on your hands. You shove it open and step into the house, every cell in your body buzzing with shock and awe and fear and excitement when you lay your eyes upon him.
“Dee?”
[ Next Chapter ]
#psychomanteum#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x ofc#dieter bravo x female reader#x reader#dieter bravo x oc#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo fanfic#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#dieter bravo the bubble#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fic
112 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey, Cee!💗Congrats on your amazing milestone!👏I’m rather new to the family, still making my way through your master list and I enjoy it a lot😊 For the sleepover I’d like to request a micro drabble if you’d be so kind - Roommates Au with Dieter Bravo 🙌 What a nightmare!😅
Hi lovely! I'm so glad you're here and I hope you're having a good time with my Pedro boys 😘 So this one ran away from me, I'm very sorry if this wasn't what you were hoping for, but I've been itching to write for a younger Dieter, and this is what came out.
Dieter Bravo x Roommates AU
Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 1000ish words (sorry) | warnings: mature themes but not explicit, mentions of drug use, angst, hopeful ending
You're not sure how you ended up sharing an apartment with Dieter Bravo.
Honestly, calling this dumpster fire of a studio above a laundromat/dealer's den an apartment is a kindness it does not deserve.
You tried in the beginning. You painted the walls a soothing buttercup that has long peeled off in patches. You fixed the table with the crooked leg so it doesn't wobble when you eat discounted sandwiches on it. You even bought potted plants, dotting trellises of green throughout the small space to give it some semblance of life (that quickly expired from lack of daylight).
But then one day, your college boyfriend, your supposed ride-or-die, left for an audition and never came back.
The next morning, Dieter Bravo showed up on your doorstep, a beat-up weekender bag at his feet. He looked bored even then, wearing an unaffected nonchalance like he does his favourite green robe. 'Some dude I met an an audition yesterday said there's a cheap room for rent?'
Except there's not really a room. There's a bed in the corner with a privacy curtain around it like a fucking hospital ward, and there's a fold-out couch on the other side of the tiny space.
Dieter lets you take the bed.
You don't bother getting to know your new roommate, too wrapped up in the cotton wool of your heartbreak and a blind determination to make it. Honestly, you'd struggle to pick him out from a lineup.
All you know is that he's messy, but he consciously contains that mess to his side of the studio. It's like there's a glass wall holding back his dirty clothes and mismatched shoes from spilling into the shared kitchen. He's also bad at clearing out the fridge, always forgetting the discounted Cheddar he seems to have a fondness for, but always leaves rotting at the back of the dairy shelf.
He doesn't complain when you throw his shit out though, and you don't mind cleaning up after him.
You're ships in the night, each pulling as many shifts as possible in between auditions to stay alive in this money-guzzling, soul-crushing city.
By the time you come home well after midnight, the only sign that another person lives with you is the occasional Chinese takeout he leaves out on the (still wobbly) table if the buffet place he works at gives him leftovers.
In your rush to leave for your first shift one morning, you accidentally make too much coffee, which you leave on the counter for when he returns from his graveyard stint. A few more accidents later, you start making enough for two out of habit.
The first time you actually share space in the studio is maybe five months into your not-quite-cohabitation. It's been a tough day - two rejections after third-round auditions, and a drunk customer spilled Jack and Coke onto your favourite white top, which will definitely leave a stain.
You let yourself into the studio quietly, not bothering with the lights. Stripping down to your underwear, you're about to head into the bathroom when you hear it.
Just above the thumping bass of the illicit nightclub across the street, and the whirr of the industrial-sized washing machines under your feet, is the unmistakable squeak squeak squeak of old springs in the fold-out couch.
You freeze. Someone else is in the apartment with you.
A breathy, distinctly female moan reaches your ear, but a vicious blare of a car horn promptly drowns it out.
Holy fuck. Dieter is fucking some girl not ten steps across the studio, with nothing but the flimsy curtain around your bed separating you.
Suddenly hyperaware, you hear everything. The heavy, loaded slap of skin on skin. Shallow breaths muted in the curve of a neck. The low timbre of his voice, whispers of words that you can't make out - but you know that it's filthy by the way the fold-out creaks under the motion of quickening thrusts, and the desperate cry from the woman, quickly muffled.
You know exactly the moment he cums - there's a sudden stillness, a suspension of time, like everything is on tiptoes - and then three long, drawn-out thumps of the couch hitting the wall.
Then all goes quiet.
You can barely open your eyes the next morning when you trudge to the bathroom in just a threadbare sleep shirt and underwear. The door opens without you noticing, and you walk nose first into a broad, wet chest.
You open your mouth to apologise, but no words come out as you tip your chin upwards.
Dieter Bravo has brown eyes, hooded by deep set lids. He will change a lot in the years to come, as fame and drugs take hold - but one thing that does not is the way your breath hitches when he looks at you. Really looks at you.
His curls are long and unruly when dry, but wet and slicked back, the contours of his profile are more pronounced, and your eyes slide down the strong bridge of his nose and linger on the plush lips under a moustache that seems almost fastidiously tidy compared to the rest of him. It's the one constant when everything else in his life is anything but.
Dieter Bravo will be many things to you over the next fifteen years. Lover, boyfriend, ex, stranger, co-star, friend, friend with benefits, fiancé, ex, fiancé once again -
But he was your roommate first. And that morning, in the doorway to the tiny shower, your tits inadvertently pressed up against his bare chest, the wet towel wrapped around his narrow hips brushing your bare thighs, he smiles at you for the first time.
And when things get difficult down the line, because by god, do they get difficult - you hold on to that smile.
You hold onto him. Sometimes you have to, literally, wrapping your whole body around his through withdrawal shakes, and you whisper in his ear to remind him of how far you've both come from that dumpster fire of a studio above the laundromat/dealer's den -
Which you're kind enough to call an apartment.
#fuckyeah2222sleepover#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo fic#roommates AU#dieter bravo angst
409 notes
·
View notes
Text
pairing: dieter bravo x gn!reader (no use of y/n, no reader descriptions)
rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI
wordcount: 600
summary: you (kind of) write dieter a letter.
warnings/tags: ANGST, mention of drugs and alcohol. i think that's all but please lmk if i forgot anything!
a/n: this is for @beskarandblasters phoebe bridgers/boygenius drabble challenge! and who would have guessed that not only is it the first thing i've written in almost 6 months, but that 600 words still took me far too long to complete. beta’d by the best bro in the entire world @bastardmandennis but she’s perfect so all mistakes are my own. comment and reblogs are appreciated if you enjoy!
You watch, tongue between your teeth, as Dieter’s chest shallowly rises and falls from his crumpled place on the couch.
Sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, matted green robe tied loosely around his middle.
The color of stomach bile, of envy, of resentment.
Crushed cans and empty liquor bottles litter the room like confetti — a party you’re no longer invited to, a celebration you’ve all but been cast out of. The light of the moon, too-full and too-round, bounces off the shimmering glass, casting brilliant beams of light across the angles of Dieter’s sleeping face.
I love you, I don’t know why.
A seedling planted at the base of your spine the moment you first pressed your lips to his, the growth nurtured by passing joints back and forth under the liminal space between late night and early morning, ‘I’m sorry’s murmured into the damp skin at the nape of your neck.
Watering the sprouts of something that feels too much like exhaustion, until they stretch to a length that feels too much like suffocating.
It was always going to end this way.
Dieter — too charming, too personable, too manic, too much. Held hostage to his own impulses, all he knew how to do was put his teeth to your throat and take. Consume.
He stirs under the light of the moon, hands searching for something, anything, to ground him, the raucous shouts and clinking glasses of the party gone, now. The infinite emptiness of the room swallowing him whole, now.
In another universe, you might have stayed to grasp his hand, to whisper i’m still here against his trembling fingertips.
Are you still here?
In another universe, he might have never taken you back to his trailer to pick you apart at the seams in the first place, to make you blush and squirm and whimper under the searing muscle of his tongue.
The possibilities filter past your eyes, a View-Master slide of every wouldbecouldbeshouldbe superimposed over the Dieter in this universe. The Dieter who wrapped the same tongue around the black hole of selfish, teeth scraping each letter into the tender flesh of your palm.
Just another wannabe ingenue, chewed up and spit out by the fame machine, with nothing to show but a blossoming cocaine addiction and too much credit card debt.
And what choice did either of you have, really, when you saw him on a pedestal and he saw you as an equal. A matching desperation to be seen, to be taken seriously in an industry that you didn’t take seriously.
I know you, I know you, I know you on the back of every breath of sticky smoke exhaled over the twinkling view of the city from the rooftop. I know you, I know you, I know you.
It was always going to end this way.
His unruly brown waves are matted to his forehead, sweat-damp skin glistening like you’re looking at him through the lens of a kaleidoscope.
You wonder how bad the hangover will be, how much his hands will shake as he rolls the first joint of the day, how long it will take him to notice.
It can’t even be called a letter, really. A scrap of paper, what might have been a receipt at one point in time. Faded, sticky, oil-stained, now. Folded in half and tossed to rest on his chest, still rising and falling rhythmically.
The loopy scrawl of your handwriting, weariness evident in every stroke that connects those four words.
You don’t know me.
It was always going to end this way.
56 notes
·
View notes
Text
Non-Disclosure Agreement
dieter bravo x publicist!reader
something unprofessional keeps them professional.
warnings | 18+ smut and nothing but(t), pegging, a little angst bc i like being sad lmao
a/n | another installment for the Peg that Middle Aged Man Campaign! In case you missed it, @beskarandblasters @wannab-urs @iamasaddie and @jksprincess10 have alllll posted delicious Pascalian pegging fics that you should go check out :) and there's still more to come, my darlings!
................................
They need this. Pressure released. Life forgotten. Whoever they are outside of this, dissolved at the door. They need this, and both of them are more than willing to provide it for the other.
It keeps him in line, just a touch more compliant, docile. And it keeps her from firing him, if not killing him, when he manages to whip up a new PR disaster for her to swoop in and fix.
“You just gonna stare at it, or are you gonna get it ready for me?” His eyes are wide, dark brown blown out in lust as he looks up at her from where he’s sitting on the edge of her bed, hair in wild waves in only the way his could be. She had tried many times to get Dieter Bravo into an actual salon chair, but he’s always been too stubborn, too contrarian, and too goddamn paranoid to let anyone but her near “the goods.” But she doesn’t mind it right now, raking her fingers back through it, giving a sharp tug that makes him hiss.
“You know I don’t like to be kept waiting, baby. Are you gonna be good? Or am I gonna have to send you home right now with your dick still hard?” Neck arched from the grip she has in his hair, lips parted, and brow furrowed, it’s how she likes him best.
“Someone’s extra mean tonight. What? Is your husband fucking an intern again?” His eyes glint, lips just crooked in a smile, but she’s quick to wipe it away when she guides her strap into his mouth.
“That’s nice, isn’t it, brat? Give your mouth something better to do than run itself. That’s it, get it nice and wet for me, baby.” He lets out a low moan around her silicone dick, bobbing his head in an obscene rhythm, heat licking up her spine at the sight.
They have it down to a science by now. He knows what it means when she calls him late at night, that it never has anything to do with a new script she has for him, and everything to do with expecting him at her front door in fifteen minutes, ready to be her human chew toy. And it’s always a rushed drag to tug clothes off and stumble into her bedroom. He’s learned not to ask her to come to his, she’d never go near his coked-out drug cave of a mansion.
“Look so good like this, Dieter. Always look so good when I get you to shut the fuck up for me.” Her biting words coax another groan out of him, the muffled sound getting cut off when she leans down to wrap her hand around his cock, squeezing him at the base before flicking her wrist up, thumb swiping over his leaking slit.
“How do you want it, baby? Should I take you from behind tonight?” He pops off her strap with a lewd smack, eyes dazed and droopy as he jerkily shakes his head.
“Wanna watch you do it tonight. Wanna see your tits bounce, please.”
“Well you know how much I like it when you say please. Lay back for me, pretty boy.” With that, he scrambles back onto the bed, legs splayed out, cock flushed and hard, resting on the sweet swell of his belly. And though she calls him it to tease, she has to admit, he really is a very pretty man. She kneels between his legs on the bed, landing a smack to the top of his thigh, eliciting a shaky huff from him.
“Don’t be difficult, baby. You know this isn’t how I want you. Knees bent, feet flat, want you spread for me, there you go.” She can practically see his cock twitch at her words as he shifts into the position she demands, eyes glued to her as she rubs lube up and down her strap.
“What do you say if you don’t like something and want me to stop?”
“EGOT.”
“Good boy, gonna get you ready for me now.”
“Is that–”
“Yeah, paraben free, picked it up at Erewhon just like you requested, you spoiled brat. You gonna say thank you like a good boy?” She holds the bottle of ridiculously expensive, all natural lube aloft in her hand, flashing a smile his way as she waves it side to side. It’s his new thing, he read somewhere that parabens cause cancer and interfere with theta brainwaves, whatever the fuck that means, though it had caused problems for her last week when he refused to let her come anywhere near him with the lube she’s been quite literally using on him for months.
“Really, you should be thanking me, ok? Parabens affect us all.” That earns him another, sharper, smack to his thigh, forcing a grunt from his chest as she does.
“Fine, fine, thank you, boss. Now will you please do that thing with your fingers?” Warming a dollop of lube up between her hands, she curls over him, letting her lips barely drag along the underside of his cock, tongue flickering out over his tip before she takes him into the heat of her mouth, only a few quick passes to get him moaning before she glides a slicked-up palm down his throbbing length.
“You think you deserve my fingers, Dieter? Really? After you showed up coked-out to that audition last week and I had to clean up your mess again?” She just barely lets her nails graze the leaking head of his cock, making him whimper under her ministrations.
“I– fuck, I’m sorry, ok? Won’t do it again, I swear, just– please, boss, need it bad.” She hums low in her throat, tilting her head at him as she gives his cock another squeeze, his moan cracking in his chest.
“Hmm, I’ll give you what you want. But there’s gonna be some conditions, ok?” She has to stifle a laugh at how rapidly he nods his head.
“If I’m gonna give you what you want, take care of you like you want, you’re gonna have to promise me that from now on, every audition I get you, you’re gonna show up sober, twenty minutes early, lines practiced, and not wearing yesterday’s clothes, you got that?” She emphasizes each point with a pass of her palm over his balls, a light squeeze that sends his eyes rolling back in his head as he frantically nods along to her words.
“Repeat it back to me, Dieter. What’re you gonna do from now on?” She keeps working his cock in her hand, his reply coming out stilted and whiny.
“Sober, e-early, fuck– lines, clean f-fucking clothes, I got it, I promise, please.” She shushes his cry with a pinch to the swell of his belly, finally giving him what he wants and slipping her fingers down to that tight ring of muscle, a slow press that sends him preening at her touch.
“Aw, there it is, feels good, baby? You like my fingers fucking you? You want another one?” He lets out a breathy uh-huh that she’s happy to comply with, slipping another finger in with her first one and finding a slow pump, her other hand lazily stroking his cock, setting his thighs into a weak tremor.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna come like this– wanna get fucked, want you to fuck me.”
“I am fucking you, superstar. Gotta use your words if there’s something else you want.” He lets out a petulant groan at her crackling words, throwing his head back in the pillows as she continues to work him over.
“Want your cock, now, please.” Well, at least he tried to use his manners. He lets out a hiss when she pulls her hands away from him to smear lube over her strap, her eyes set, steeled, on his as she leans over him, one hand planted in the sheets next to his face and the other pressing her fake dick forward, slow and smooth like she knows he wants it.
“So good for me, Dieter. Just relax, baby, I always take good care of you, don’t I?” His eyes roll back when she presses all the way in, her hips stilling between the frame of his shaking thighs. But she doesn’t wait long before arcing her hips back, finding a heady rhythm to fuck him to. It’s perfect power, feeling the way his eyes drag over her body, the sway of her breasts with each thrust, the swirl of her hips when she grinds against that spot that makes him groan, his hands fisted in his hair, having long learned not to touch while she’s working.
“You do– shit, always take good care of me– so fucking good, boss– feels fucking amazing.”
He always comes so fast like this, and she can tell he’s already getting there now, his chest flushed pink, moans turning long and ragged. And when she drags her hand down the length of his cock, dipping down to cup his balls, it’s enough to send him right over the edge, his come smearing over his heaving belly.
“That’s it, superstar. You’re too easy, I swear. Just gotta keep you good and fucked out and you’ll do whatever I want, huh, is that it?” Her teeth nip at the arc of his neck, the hilt of his jaw, lips barely hovering over his as he comes down from his high, though she’s quick to jerk her face away when he tries to lean up for a kiss, giggling at the frustrated crease that settles between his brows.
“I have something else for you to kiss, baby.” With that, she pulls out of him, shushing his whimpers as she shimmies out of her harness.
“Aw, do you need to take a break, superstar? Can’t handle it tonight?” It’s the exact thing she needs to say to snap him out of his orgasmic stupor, his head whipping up from the pillows, eyes wide and hands grabbing for her hips.
“Not a fucking chance, boss. I– you– just fucking– c’mere.” Not without a laugh at his impatient grumbling, she crawls up his body until her thighs are framing his face, scruff tickling the softness of her skin. As with most things, he doesn’t mind his manners, hooking his arms around her thighs and pulling her down hard onto his mouth, the flat of his tongue swiping through her cunt before she can even brace herself. It’s desperate, and almost too sloppy, the way he fucks his tongue into her before dragging her pooling slick up to her clit, his groans sending a shiver through her spine. His fingers press hard into the swell of her ass, holding her steady enough that her hands are free to hold her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers, her head falling back at the added sensation. His tongue is everywhere, finally settling into a heady rhythm of fucking into her as she grinds down on the perfect crook of his nose. She’s not the kind of woman to hold back either, dragging her hips over the heat of his mouth, gasping into the stillness of the room, the sound mingling with his muffled grunts and the slick slide of his smacking lips.
A yelp looses from her chest when he brings his hand down hard to the curve of her ass and he giggles, a gruff hum into her cunt, the fucking tool. But she’s too close to that tight pull of pleasure snapping to reprimand him now, instead settling her hand in his hair and tugging harshly as she comes with a long whine, her hips spasming in his hold as he laps at her pulsing cunt. Eventually, she has to shove him back by his forehead to get him to stop mouthing at her dripping cunt, tenderly swinging one thigh over him to plop down on the mattress in a heaving slump.
“Same time next week?” Still catching her breath, she waves her hand dismissively at his smug question.
“Just shut up and come shower with me.”
Her husband had insisted on a shower the size of her first studio apartment, all clear glass and black marble, what her friends lovingly call the “douchebag shower.” But she doesn’t mind it now, sharing it with Dieter, who always hogs her fancy shampoo, smelling like her for days after.
“You’ve got an audition on Wednesday, two o’clock, I’ll send you the script in the morning.” He hums at that, dipping his head back under the water.
“What’s the vibe?”
“Limited series for HBO. Some kind of mystery-thriller-beach-read screenplay. Main character role alongside Nicole Kidman.” He tilts his head back down at that, eyebrows quirking at her. She just smiles.
“You can tell me I’m good once you’ve got the part. And remember our little deal, Bravo. I’m not gonna let you fuck all my hard work up with a few lines of cocaine.” His grin goes a little crooked as he nods, holding out her shampoo for her.
“You wanna do it for me, baby?” He does, slipping behind her and running his sudsed-up fingers through her hair, just a touch rough, how he knows she likes it.
She gives him a pair of her husband’s boxers, knowing that he won’t even notice they’re gone, and they slip back into bed, limbs warm and sated after a fuck and a shower. It’s the strangest part of this whole arrangement, the way they always end up, tangled around each other in her bed. She only had to ask for him to do it once, and now he does it without her having to say a thing, tucking his arms under her waist and settling into her with his cheek pressed into her sternum, the weight of him pressing her down into the mattress, her mind running slow and easy from his warmth. They need this, and they give it to each other without having to say a thing.
“I want you out of here–”
“Before eight o’clock. Yeah, boss, I got it.”
..................................
@swiftispunk come get your juice lol
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo fluff#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal angst#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal#dieter bravo fic
288 notes
·
View notes
Text
Plastic Hearts, Chapter Eight: Angels Like You
pairing: dieter bravo x actress!ofc (Violet)
rating: E (18+ only, angst, talks of addiction/recovery, oral (fem rec), unprotected piv, these two are so (maybe unhealthily) lovestruck, more angst but this time parental)
wc: 6.3k
series masterlist
December 22nd — Los Angeles, CA
Though Los Angeles never really got all that chilly in the winter, the city felt colder than it had in years as Violet drove down Sunset Boulevard with the top of her all-black BMW down, the wind whipping through her hair.
Dieter had been in and out of the city for the past month working on the pre-production for his upcoming project, leaving her alone as she began to start her Oscar campaign for her lackluster movie. Even on the rare occasion that he was in town for an entire night, he seemed to be pulling further away from her with every passing day, but she couldn’t blame him, especially after the incident at the club and his discovery that she was using.
Violet spent most of her free nights driving all over the city. This ritual had become sort of holy and precious to her. She needed the roof to be down, the heater and music to be on high, and most important of all, Dieter’s thick, brown coat bundling her up. She couldn’t explain why, but this was the closest she ever came to replicating the feeling of being with Dieter; the thrill of the icy wind hitting her face, the music so loud all of her thoughts were silenced, the warmth of his scent enveloping her making her feel safer than she’d felt in her entire life.
It was nearing two in the morning when Violet’s BMW rolled back into her driveway, the music and the heater going silent in an instant. She sat there in the quiet evening air for a moment, steel-faced as she stared ahead at her shiny new mansion, but internally there was no feeling of success or fulfillment to be found.
After forcing herself inside, Violet kicked off her shoes and slugged into the kitchen to make herself something to eat, a once, or twice if she was in a particularly good mood, a day task lately. She had only just opened the fridge when she was interrupted by an urgent thought—where the fuck is my phone?—the ache in her stomach momentarily dismissed as she patted herself down before running off on a hunt.
Finding it upstairs on her bed, she was shocked to find three missed calls from Dieter, especially since she’d only heard from him once in the last week. She immediately dialed his number, putting the phone on speaker as she headed back downstairs into the kitchen.
“Hey,” Dieter’s voice crackled through her speaker, bringing a smile to her face even with his almost indifferent tone. “Called a few times.”
“I’m sorry, I was driving,” she said, setting the phone down on the island. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just missed you,” he said, sincerity mixing with something unknown turning his tone sadder than she would’ve hoped. “Been so busy, all these meetings and shit. Sorry if it feels like…I don’t know. Like I’m not here.”
“S’alright,” she managed, a lump forming in her throat at the constant tension between them. “We are good though…right?”
“Yeah, I mean—“ he sighed. She could imagine the way his hand anxiously was rubbing at his jaw. “Shit’s…been a little weird lately. But we’re—you and I are still—I still love you.”
“Still?” she repeated, scoffing under her breath. “How fortunate am I that you still love me.”
“Violet,” he sighed. “Do you really want to go there?”
“Honestly, yeah,” she snapped, abandoning all hope for a meal tonight as she walked over to the island and stared at her screen as though she were glaring at him face to face.
“It’s hard for me to be around you when I know that you’re still fucking using. That’s all. Yes, I still love you. I still love you even though it’s fucking hard and dangerous and a slippery fucking slope for me,” he said, a sharpness in his voice that she had yet to hear from him in the six months of knowing him.
“I’m not using,” she countered weakly, not even believing her own lie.
“Vi, pretending like you don’t have a problem doesn’t mean you don’t still have a problem,” he softened his voice. “I just want you to get help, but you’re not. You keep saying you’ll quit cold turkey and it doesn’t fucking work. Trust me.”
“Is that what I have to do to see you?” she asked, her voice breaking a bit as tears flooded over her waterline.
“You can’t make this about me,” he sighed.
“I have to. I don’t want to stop, but you want me to,” she said. “And I want you more than anything. Especially lately.”
The line went silent for a few beats, prompting Violet to carry on with her tearful plea.
“I want to see you, to go to bed with you, to touch you. It’s been a month since I got to spend more than a day with you, do you know that?”
“Trust me, it hasn’t been fucking easy for me either,” he exhaled. “But I need to set boundaries and shit. And a big boundary is that if you’re using or if there’s shit at the house, I can’t be there. I can’t be with you, and I can’t be there.”
“Then I’m done using,” she said decidedly, as if recovery was as simple as making a declaration.
“Baby,” he sighed for the thousandth time in five minutes. “Find a rehab, or some sort of accountability program—“
“Christmas is literally in three days,” she chuckled. “After the holidays, I will.”
“Okay,” he managed after a beat, still not sounding his usual self.
“Okay, so…can I come see you for Christmas?” she said, biting her lip nervously.
“Yeah, you know, as long as you respect this line I’m trying to draw,” he said.
“Of course I will.”
“Just to warn you, my awful parents decided they wanted to have an awful Christmas Eve together at their place, so…keep in mind you’ll have to deal with their passive aggressive bullshit.”
“That’s fine, I can be passive aggressive right back,” she said, smiling down at her screen as if nothing ever happened. Her knack for forgiveness was a trait she both deeply admired and utterly hated about herself. “I can’t wait to see you, D. Really. I’m gonna…gonna get my shit together. I’m just…I’m taking this loss of a movie really hard.”
“I know, baby,” he offered softly. “You’re doing your best to cope, I know that. I just—there’s better ways. I know it doesn’t feel like anything matches that high, but—“
“You do,” she cut in. “Being with you beats it.”
Dieter was quiet for a beat. “Fuck, I’ve really missed you.”
Violet smiled softly and nodded. “I’m gonna find a flight for tomorrow.”
“Alright, baby,” he hummed. “I’m sorry—for the way I’ve gone about all this shit. I should’ve said something instead of just pulling away. Wasn’t cool.”
“S’alright,” she said. “We’re good now.”
“Yeah. We’re good,” he agreed. “Call me before you head out?”
“You gonna pick up?” she teased, earning a chuckle.
“Yes,” he snarked and Violet laughed, the sound fading into a more comfortable silence than she was used to as of late. Dieter must have felt the shift back to normalcy as well, his voice soft as he spoke again. “You know I love you more than anything, Violet.”
“I know,” she hummed, her smile tender as she stared at his contact picture on her screen. “I love you, D,” she mused. “M’gonna go get ready for bed.”
“Okay,” he rasped. “Have a good night, V. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night night.”
Dieter’s month had been long and grueling, constantly flying back and forth between New York and LA, New York and London, London and Germany, all to meet studio executives without an ounce of creativity in their bones and kiss ass until they were sure his role in the movie could suit their monetary desires. On top of all of this, he felt like he was working a full time job trying to figure out his situation with Violet after the big blowout at the club. Everytime he sought outside advice, he heard the same shit.
It’s not safe for your sobriety to be with someone who’s using, his therapist said. This shit is toxic, Andrea said. If it comes out that Violet’s on coke, they’re all going to blame you, his publicist said.
But of course it was cut and dry for them.
They didn’t love her. They didn’t know her. They weren’t him, didn’t feel the way he did about life, didn’t know what it was like to meet someone who just fucking gets it.
It wasn’t as simple as saying goodbye and moving on, but he couldn’t be with her the way he used to be anymore—as long as she was using, that is.
He needed to put distance between them for a while while he figured out what to do about loving her the way he did and fearing it’s total control over him at the same time.
Tonight, after a particularly difficult day spent at the office punctuated by a once a year call from his mother, he couldn’t keep himself distanced any longer. He needed to hear her voice, and more importantly, he needed to finally lay out his terms for their relationship.
After the call ended, he still only felt partly relieved. There was this selfish child deep within him that was clinging onto the thought of seeing her again that couldn’t be tamed. That desperate, love starved boy had no care in the world about what could happen if she started using around him again—he was just glad she was there. The other, more mature part of him resembled more of the man who he saw in the mirror. This man had been let down by love every time he’s felt it. This man knew that sometimes you just fucking lose in the end. This man had, through multiple relapses and years of falling on and off the wagon, finally gotten sober, finally had his career back to where he wanted it, and this man knew that all it would take is one slip up for it all to go to shit.
He hoped she was being sincere about getting clean, but as the old saying goes, hope is a dangerous thing to have.
It hadn’t snowed the entire month, but as if the city was just waiting for Violet to come home, New York was covered in a soft blanket of white ice as soon as she touched ground. Dieter couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence as he stood in front of a large glass window in the airport, watching as Violet’s plane hit the tarmac.
By the time she came walking towards him with a wide, smitten grin hidden beneath her thick wool scarf, Dieter had managed to forget all about his concerns regarding the state of their relationship.
“Excuse me? Can I get a picture? I’m a big fan,” she teased, sliding her arms around his waist as he pulled her in for the tightest hug of her life, swaying her side to side with his face buried in her scarf.
“Missed you, Apollo,” he mumbled, squeezing her tighter before letting her go just enough to look at her, his hands lifting to frame her face. “A shit ton.”
“I missed you, Bravo,” she said, her eyes tracing the curve of his bottom lip. Dieter took her cue and leaned down, his fingers holding her chin as he kissed her soft and slow until it started to get too heated for Violet’s comfort given their current location. “Maybe we shouldn’t make out in an airport?”
“Bathroom?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Violet laughed and swatted his hip before shaking her head and pulling herself away from him.
“Lame,” he teased, shooting her a smirk as he grabbed her suitcase with one hand and Violet’s hand with the other, lifting it to his lips to kiss it as they headed through the dull terminal.
“Where’ve you been staying?” she asked in the backseat of the towncar Dieter ordered to pick them up.
She could hardly keep herself composed, every atom of her being singing now that she was back where she belonged. She sat in the middle seat, Dieter holding her hand on top of her lap. The proximity of his fingers to where she’d been craving them, where she knew they’d excel at making her feel better than anyone before him ever had, was turning her thoughts feral, and so, she went searching for a distraction.
“I’m renting a place in the West Village,” he said, letting go of her hand to rest his across her thigh, his fingertips nestling between her legs. “It’s nice. Has a studio, so I’ve been painting again.”
“Yeah?” she asked, airy but focused as she watched his hand flex with every stroke of his thumb over her dotted black nylon tights. “Paint anything for me?”
Dieter smiled, his eyes fixed on his hand as well.
“S’probably all for you,” he managed, drawing her eyes to meet his. “Fucking missed you, V.”
“Come here,” she said, her hand fitting to mold against his cheek as she pulled him down to kiss her, neither of them caring about the driver seeing. “Don’t wanna be apart anymore. This sucks.”
“I know,” he sighed, resting his forehead against her shoulder. “It’s not working for me, either.”
“I’ll…” She stopped herself, glancing at the back of the driver’s head. “I’ll do better. About everything. I just want you.”
“I can help,” he offered, keeping his voice hushed as he lifted his head to look at her. “We can figure it out.”
“Yeah?” she smiled, her brows lacing together as if she was about to cry. Dieter poked his bottom lip out at the sight and nodded.
“It’s you and I, kid.”
“God, I missed New York,” Violet mused as she and Dieter walked back to his apartment after having dinner at Dieter’s favorite sushi spot, the city looking extra magical from the snow and festive lights on every building. She was bundled up like a true Californian, Dieter’s arm hugged close to her chest.
“You should move here,” he said, pulling her eyes to the side of his face as he continued looking ahead. “You seem happier here. You have friends. We could…we could move in together. If you did.”
“What about my place in LA?” she asked, letting go of his arm to hold his hand instead as they stopped at a crosswalk to wait for traffic to pass.
“Keep it,” he shrugged, reaching to fix her beanie so that it covered her ears better.
“Really?” she asked, biting her lip. Dieter shook his head at the effect such a small action had on him, his lips lowering to meet hers for a small, necessary-for-his-survival kiss.
“After I finish filming,” he mumbled against her lips. Violet tensed at the mention of his impending absence turning her mood sour.
“Let’s talk about something else,” she said, gently pushing him away as the light for the crosswalk changed, signaling the all-clear.
They walked together in silence for a moment, neither one of them knowing how to continue to avoid the looming fact that their relationship only seemed to fare well when they were together, and soon they wouldn’t be.
“Your parents,” Violet started, breaking the silence. “What’s that gonna be like?”
“Dull as fuck,” Dieter chuckled and shook his head. “My mom is going to pretend to be the most elegant human being you’ve ever met, and my dad’s probably going to use complimenting you as a way to insult me.”
“I don’t think your dad’s going to compliment me after what happened at SNL,” Violet said.
“Forgot about that,” Dieter smirked. “Feels like such a long time ago.”
“We weren’t even together then,” she smiled at him. “Two idiots.”
“I’m still an idiot,” he said, leading them up the steps of his apartment and unlocking the door. “Treated you like shit lately.”
“D,” she frowned as they peeled off their layers in the entryway. “You needed distance, it wasn’t shitty.”
“The way I did it was,” he argued. “And I’m going to disappear again next month for filming—“
“I don’t want to think about that, Dieter,” she sighed, heading down the hall to the living room, finding her place on the sofa while he walked into the adjoining kitchen.
“We should talk about it,” he replied over the hiss of a bottle of sparkling water being opened. “I’m gone three months—“
“Shhh,” she groaned, laying facedown on the couch dramatically.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not still here,” Dieter teased, making his way around the island to walk over to her, crawling on top of her.
“You’re heavy,” she croaked from beneath him.
“I have to leave,” he said, kissing her ear. “But I want you to come with me.”
“Okay, get up. I’ll talk,” she sighed, waiting for his weight to leave her before sitting up and facing him. “You want me to come with you to…?”
“Germany for a month, London for the other two,” he said, lifting his water to his lips.
“I have award season,” she said. “I’ll have to fly back and forth from Germany and LA.”
“So do I,” he countered. “To be with you when you win.”
Violet rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Shut up.”
“At least come to Germany,” he begged, using those eyes of his on her.
“I suppose I can do Germany,” she said, smiling at him as she crawled onto his lap, her arms draping over his shoulders. “It’s going to be freezing and miserable, isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s gonna be shit,” he mumbled, his hands sliding her sweater up and off her frame, leaving her in a lacy black bra, a black skirt, and black tights. His eyes darted rapidly from her thighs to her chest to her face and back down again, unable to choose a favorite sight. “But you’re going to make it bearable.”
“Andrea’s gonna be pissed you’re bringing me,” Violet whispered as Dieter slipped her bra straps off her shoulders, his face burying in her cleavage while his hands kneaded at her ass under her skirt.
“She can fuck off,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her back to unclasp her bra. “Look at you, baby.”
“I’ve been neglected,” she smiled, combing her fingers through his dark curls as he cupped the weight of her breasts with both hands, his lips pressing wet kisses on every inch of skin he could find.
“Yeah? I’m a fucking idiot,” he mumbled, swiping his tongue over one of her stiff peaks, earning a roll of her hips. Dieter moaned at the taste of her, one hand cupping her breast while the other slid down her spine to guide her hips against his cock strained beneath black denim.
“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his sweater. Dieter quickly obeyed, shucking the cashmere off his body while Violet lowered herself to the floor, her hands working the button of his jeans open.
“I got this, you work on taking that skirt off,” he ordered, peeling his jeans off.
“And the tights?”
“Leave them on,” he said, licking his lips as he sat back against the couch. His legs were spread, his fist slowly stroking his cock as he watched her slide her black mini-skirt off with lust drunken eyes, leaving her in only a pair of black tights and a black thong underneath. “Fuck me. Look at you.”
Violet smiled adoringly as she walked to stand between his open knees, Dieter’s hands finding her hips. He leaned in, pressing soft kisses to her stomach while his hands slid around to squeeze her ass before ripping her tights right down the middle.
“These are expensive,” she scolded through a giggle, allowing him to spin her around so that her ass was facing him.
“This fucking ass,” he groaned, almost pained by his desire for the woman in front of him. “Wanna take a bite out of it.”
“Yeah?” she taunted, turning to look back at him from over her shoulder, a finger between her teeth. “Go on, then.”
Dieter smiled and shook his head. “Bend over, baby.”
Violet did as he asked, bending over and holding onto the coffee table for stability as she spread her legs a little wider for him, Dieter’s moan confirming that she’d done a good job at following directions.
“Pretty fucking pussy,” he cooed, moving her thong to the side and swiping a thumb through the mess of arousal coating her lower lips. “You want my tongue, baby?”
“Mmhm,” she purred, arching her back for him. Dieter groaned as he palmed the round globes of her ass with both hands, bringing his teeth to the soft flesh to give her a lovebite.
“I could write a sonnet about your ass,” he mumbled, leaving wet kisses on both cheeks as he stripped her thong off and tossed it across the room, leaving her in only a pair of ripped tights. “Shall I compare this ass to a summer’s day?”
“Shut up,” she giggled, standing upright and turning around to face him. Dieter’s hands found her waist, his eyes round as they peered up at her. She carded her fingers through his hair before tugging on it, earning a soft moan. Tracing her finger across his bottom lip, she smirked at the look of sheer obedience coming from this beautiful man she’d somehow stumbled into love with against all reason or odds. “I wanna sit on this pretty face of yours, Bravo.”
“Fuck, okay, baby,” Dieter groaned, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and squeezing it to fight off the ache of arousal turning him into pudding at her feet. “Can I—can we turn the fireplace on first?”
“Why?” she laughed.
“I don’t know, I’ve always wanted to fuck in front of a fireplace,” he shrugged.
“And you, Dieter Bravo, a retired, semi-professional whore, haven’t done that yet?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she leaned down to ghost her lips over his, her hands cupping his cheeks.
“Not…here,” he shrugged. “And certainly not with you.”
“Who was it?” Violet asked with an amused smile. “Someone famous?”
“Probably, hard to remember when I’ve got your tits in my face,” he said, his eyes fixed on her chest before finally making their way back up to meet hers. “Anyways, is that a yes to the fireplace?”
“Sure,” she laughed, stepping aside to let him get up and walk over to the built in hearth. Dieter stood there, butt-naked, his dick half-hard, scratching his chin as he stared at the modern fireplace. “Do you even know how to—“
“Please, I’ve won an Oscar, I think I can figure out how to light a fire,” Dieter snarked, though he remained visibly clueless.
“I think there’s a switch on the side, baby.”
“Right. I knew that,” Dieter pressed the switch and lit the fire, earning a sarcastic round of applause from Violet as she stood watching him.
“You’re very pretty, you know?” she asked, meeting him in front of the fire. She cupped his cheeks again and smiled at him as his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her naked body close to his.
“Did you know who I was before we met?” Dieter asked, sliding his hands lower to rest just above her ass.
“You’ve been an A-list celebrity for the last twenty years,” she smirked. “Of course I knew who you were.”
“Were you into me?” he smiled, leaning in to press featherlight kisses against her collarbone.
“Not really,” she sighed, feeling drunk from his touch. “Thought you were a douche.”
“Good judge of character,” he whispered just below her ear before taking her earlobe between his teeth.
“What about me?” she asked breathlessly, melting into him as he started to lower them down onto the faux fur rug beneath them until she was flat on her back and he was hovering on top of her. “Did you think I was pretty?”
“I thought you were very pretty,” he replied, a soft, lazy grin on his face. “And I thought you looked like a prude.”
“Little did you know, I’m the opposite,” she quipped.
“Mmhm,” he nodded. “A prude wouldn’t climb on top of my face and ride it like you’re about to.”
“Nope,” she grinned, pushing his shoulders to gesture for him to trade positions with her.
Once Dieter was on his back, Violet assumed her position over his face and grinned down at him between her thighs, his eager eyes and plump lips glowing in the orange light of the fire.
“Come on, baby,” he goaded her on, squeezing her thighs to pull her down to his impatient tongue. “Let me taste this pretty pussy.”
“Dirty mouth,” she purred, seating herself on his tongue and rocking her hips, one hand gripping his curls.
At the feeling of his tongue against her, wet and soft and warm, she felt herself crumble just a little bit, softening into the rarest form of herself—a person she saved just for Dieter. “Fuck, D.”
He hummed and gripped her thighs, seemingly unable to get close enough to her. She responded to his neediness with a long, choked whine and her eyes on his, her face wrecked with pleasure that looked more like pain.
“Your mouth is so—“ She shuddered at a spark of pleasure brought on by his lips surrounding her swollen bud, sucking it into his mouth. “Jesus, D. Fuck. Baby, keep doing that.”
One of Dieter’s hands left the top of her thighs to palm a handful of her ass, guiding her as she rolled her hips against his mouth, taking from him in a way that made it feel like she was giving him something instead. It was addicting, the sight of her chasing her pleasure so unabashedly, one hand tangled in his hair and the other kneading the weight of her breast.
“I’m so close,” she gasped, her movements getting sharper and more desperate. “Fuck, I’m—fuck.”
“That’s it,” his praise was a suffocated rasp against her as she came, both of her hands planting onto the floor above his head as she rode out the waves of her climax. Dieter’s hands slid up her spine and back down, over and over again until she relaxed and sat back to look down at him with a satisfied grin. “So fucking hot, baby.”
“Look who’s talking,” she purred, sliding down his body to sit her still sensitive cunt over his cock, her hand lightly gripping his chin as she bent down to give him a deep, greedy kiss. “You should win an award for what this mouth is capable of.”
“Yeah?” he smiled, sliding his hands down her back to rest on her hips, urging her to rock forward against the throbbing underside of his cocl as it laid sandwiched between her cunt and his stomach. “What about my dick?”
“Your mouth gets ‘Best Supporting’,” she said, lifting her hips and reaching back to line him up with her cunt. Dieter’s jaw dropped, his eyes falling between their bodies to watch as she slowly took him down to the base. “But this dick…” She hummed, the satisfying burn of his size bringing a smile to her face. “This dick is the main event.”
“Fuck me,” he groaned, sitting upright and wrapping his arms around her waist, his face buried in her neck. “You make me so fucking hard, V.”
“Yeah?” she moaned into his ear, biting on the lobe just to feel him shiver.
“Fucking own me,” he rasped, biting her shoulder. “My fucking girl.”
It was Violet’s turn to crumble for him, the possessiveness in his voice stoking the flame of arousal that was already burning brightly in her belly.
“Want you to fuck me,” she whined, placing both hands in his face to guide his gaze up to meet hers. “Want you to bend me over.”
“Yeah?” he groaned, squeezing the globes of her ass so hard she hoped it would leave a mark for her to remember this by. “Want it soft, baby?”
Violet shook her head.
“No, you want it rough, don’t you?” he hummed at her choked sob, her walls pulsing at the sound of his voice.
“Please,” she begged, breathless and desperate.
“Okay, baby,” he cooed, stroking over her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Go on, bend over for me.”
Violet’s legs shook as she scrambled off of him and onto her knees, her face buried in the rug, facing the fire as it crackled.
Dieter could’ve cum from the sight before him, Violet’s back arched, the light from the flames casting an orange glow in some places, a dark shadow in others. She was still wearing her tights, sheer black contrasting against her olive toned flesh, the pink of her exposed center. Spitting into his hand and stroking it over the fat tip of his length, he found the strength to stave off his orgasm in favor of giving her another. She deserved it.
She deserved everything in his mind.
“Gonna fuck you full of me,” he rasped as he slid back into her, his eyes glued to the side of her face as she turned her head, her hands clawing at the fur beneath her. “Shit, baby. You look—fuck, it’s unreal.”
“D, please,” she cried, her voice choppy from the harsh snap of his hips into hers, her body absorbing the shock like a pro. “Wanna cum so bad.”
“Need anything, baby?” he asked, his breathing ragged and sharp. “Need me to touch you?”
She nodded her head quickly.
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” she breathed, her eyes flickering shut as he honed in on a devastating spot inside of her.
“Here?” Dieter asked, reaching around her body to rub perfect circles against her clit.
“Fuck,” she cried, long and drawn out.
“What about here?” he growled, licking the pad of his thumb on his free hand before resting it over her ass, pressing into the muscle gently.
“Dieter, shit—“ she gasped, warmth trickling up her spine and down her thighs at the feeling of him all around her, taking all she had to give him greedily. “I’m coming. Fuck, I’m—fuck.”
“Good fucking girl,” he grunted, snapping his hips to punctuate each word. “You want me to fill you up?”
“Please,” she cried. “Want it all.”
“Shit—“ Dieter’s eyes lowered to where they were connected, watching as his cock pulsed with every spurt of his cum painting her walls, his brows furrowed and lips parted in awe. “Fuck, I’m still coming, baby.”
Violet hummed, fucking herself against him just to hear him whimper, his hands landing on her hips.
“Don’t get me going again,” he said. “I’ll pull a muscle.”
Violet laughed, slowly pulling away until he slipped out of her. Dieter hissed at the loss of warmth, instantly moving to lay next to her, the fire making up for the snow outside that chilled his apartment.
“I’m fucking dreading tomorrow,” Dieter sighed, nuzzling his head against Violet’s chest as she scratched at his scalp.
“Your parents?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, kissing over her pounding heartbeat. “I might not be able to take it and just fucking leave.”
“I wouldn’t blame you,” she said, her voice softening with exhaustion. “We can leave whenever. You don’t owe them anything just because they birthed you.”
“They don’t see it that way,” he mumbled.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, pushing him to lay back so that she could lay on his chest instead.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, almost asleep. “Love you. Shit tons.”
“Mm,” she smiled. “Shit tons.”
“Alright, if they start to act like dicks, we’re leaving,” Dieter said, his finger hovering over the doorbell of his parent’s place in Dumbo, a gray-brick building with a navy blue door.
“Sounds like a plan,” Violet smiled, lifting her hand to his back to rub comforting circles on it. “C’mon, you got this.”
Dieter chuckled and let out a deep sigh before pressing the doorbell, his hands tapping on his legs anxiously.
When his mother, Marianne, opened the door, she almost looked like a normal person to her son and not the villain he was used to facing only in memory. Her once-black hair had turned a sophisticated gray, her old Hollywood waves reminiscent of her glory days in the sixties and seventies—the woman Dieter studied in film since she was never around to study in person.
“Dieter,” Marianne beamed, placing her hand delicately over the pearls on her neck. “Look at you. And your friend! Violet, is it?”
“Yes,” Violet nodded, offering Marianne a more polite smile than Dieter was used to seeing. “We briefly met when Dieter hosted SNL.”
“I don’t remember you hosting,” Marianne chuckled, turning to her son.
“Checks out,” Dieter replied dryly. “Can we come inside?”
“Yes, come in,” Marianne moved aside to let Violet and Dieter inside her very blue home, the walls, ceilings, and floor all a different, complimentary shade. “Your father is in the living room, Dieter.”
“Okay,” Dieter managed.
“Violet, you can come help me set the table,” Marianne said, waving for Violet to follow her as she disappeared down the hall into the dining room. Violet turned to give Dieter a pleading look as she forced herself onward.
“I can help, too,” Dieter said, joining the two of them.
“Oh, please,” Marianne rolled her eyes. “Go say hello to your father.”
“In a minute,” Dieter returned, reaching for the pile of silverware to start sealing it out.
“Dieter. Now.”
Dieter scoffed at her attempt at authority. She never had any reason to perfect it.
“You’re impossible,” she spat.
“Alright, I think we’re gonna go,” Dieter said, dropping the silverware in his hands.
“What?”
“We tried. I tried to tolerate you, but, really, it’s hard,” Dieter said, turning to Violet. “Let’s go?”
“Sure,” Violet said, giving him a soft nod and following him as he led them out of the room and into the hall.
“Dieter, where are you going?” Dieter’s father, Ed, walked into the foyer and narrowed his eyes at his son as Dieter slipped his boots and jacket back on while Violet followed suit. “It’s Christmas Eve. You’re supposed to be with family.”
“I am,” Dieter said, reaching for Violet’s hand to lead her outside into the icy Brooklyn air. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t deal—“
“You don’t have to apologize,” she cooed, wrapping her arm around his waist as they started back in the direction of the subway. Dieter pulled her in close, kissing the top of her head.
“I love you,” he muttered, squeezing her into him. “Thank you for being here.”
“Thank you for letting me,” she smiled, kissing the tiny, heart-shaped bald spot on his jaw. “So…Chinese for dinner?”
“Fuck, yes,” he nearly moaned.
It was relatively busy at the small, family-run Chinese place Dieter chose, his claims of the best soup dumplings in the city sounding too enticing to pass up.
Now, Dieter and Violet sat in a booth in the corner of the restaurant, cuddled up without a care for the table of young tourists who were clearly snapping pictures of the two of them.
“So, Germany,” Dieter started, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “They’ve got me in a hotel, but I was thinking we could maybe rent a place. Have more space and not feel like we’re in a prison the entire time.”
“Where in Germany are you filming?” Violet asked, sipping her diet coke through a straw.
“Munich,” he replied, stealing a dumpling from her plate. “I was there once for a press thing. It’s pretty, I think you’ll like it.”
“Well, if I don’t, Italy’s right there,” she smiled. “I can just run off to Venice whenever you piss me off.”
“Great, then I’ll come chase after you and we’ll add Italy to the list of countries we’ve fucked in,” he smiled back, waving his fork at her until she laughed. Proud of himself, Dieter leaned over and stole a kiss, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. “Do you want your gift now or later?”
“You weren’t supposed to get me a gift,” she frowned. “I didn’t get you one.”
“I don’t need shit,” he shook his head.
“You could do with a new robe,” she snarked, taking another sip of her drink while Dieter gave her an unimpressed look. “Fine. I’ll take my gift now, please.”
“Okay, so it’s not…it’s not physically with me because it’s back at my place,” Dieter said, reaching for his phone again to search for something on it. “You remember when we went to the museum—a million fucking years ago?”
Violet laughed and nodded. “Well, I remembered you liked Monet a lot, but I couldn’t just fucking buy a Monet, so instead…” Dieter faced his phone screen towards her, showing her a very close attempt at Monet’s Water Lillies.
“D, did you paint this?” she beamed, zooming in on the picture to study the details.
“Yeah,” he bit his lip as he watched her. “It’s not…perfect. But—“
“But it is,” she turned to him with a touched smile. “It’s you.”
Dieter looked shy as Violet turned back to the picture.
“I can’t believe I’m the owner of an original Bravo painting,” Violet grinned, leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder as she passed his phone back to him. “Thank you, D. I love it and I love you.”
Dieter kissed her forehead and smiled. “Love it enough to try the sex-swing that I ordered as a backup gift?”
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fluff#pedro pascal smut#dieter bravo fluff#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo x oc#plastic hearts
56 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've Shattered Now
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader
Summary: Continuation of A Ghost of You (but can be read separately). Dieter dies and you have to learn to live without him. Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: Strictly 18+ | MDNI | Drug abuse, mild violence, yelling, Dieter is not alive, mentions of intentional overdose, grief, so much angst. Dieter and Reader's ages aren't mentioned at all, so dealer's choice on that.
a/n: This was a hard fic for me to write, emotionally, but the words themselves came easy. I'm pulling from a lot of real life shit here. Please enjoy this little piece of my soul. And thank you to @beskarandblasters and @mishasminion360 for encouraging me and reading it over for me.
Series Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi
I’ve Shattered Now
The hardwood floor is biting into your hip bones, your knees, your elbows. A sharp, pulsing in your lower back is sending waves of pain down your left leg. The space between your shoulder blades feels as though you have a knife buried to the hilt there. Your head is fuzzy, face swollen with tears and snot and ears full of a never-ending dull buzz. Your face is buried in a tattered green bathrobe that smells like weed, lavender incense, and Dieter.
It still smells like Dieter. Oh god. Dieter.
You scrunch the robe in your hands, pulling it impossibly closer to your face, and inhale deeply. Maybe if you breathe it in hard enough his scent will bury itself inside your skin, inside your bloodstream. Maybe it can live in you forever. Maybe he can live in you forever.
Dieter. Dieter. Dieter. DIETER--”AGGGH”
A horrible, mangled scream rips itself from your throat. You slam your fists into the ground and kick your legs, flailing, yelling, begging.
“Diiiiieter! Fu-fuck…Dieter!” you scream into the stale air of your apartment. Come back D. Come back….
You force your aching body to its knees, spluttering on your own snot. Half blind with tears, you draw a shaky breath and crawl across your living room floor to kneel beside your couch. You lay your head down on the worn green cushion and nuzzle your cheek into the last place that Dieter had been when he was alive.
First Day of My Life
It’s a Wednesday, the first time you see Dieter Bravo. You don’t usually go out on Wednesdays, but this didn’t really count as going out. Your friend… kind of… Nissa was having a party to celebrate getting fired from her job. Considering your history with holding down jobs and your tenuous relationship with your current stint as a barista, you felt it fitting to make an appearance.
Your usual scene — music wafting through the air from a record player carried by soft curls of pot smoke, friends giggling and leaning into each other on couches and floor cushions — this was not. You felt the bass pounding in your chest, vibrating your teeth, before you even reached the door. Inside the apartment, you were greeted with strobe lights… fucking strobe lights… flashing through a thick haze of smoke. There had to be 50 people in this tiny ass apartment. You consider turning around and going the fuck home because, seriously, fuck this shit, but before you can leave someone grabs your wrist.
A man with wild, curly hair and a patchy beard. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s 11 at night and his broad shoulders are draped in a very threadbare t-shirt.
“Can you help me with something?” he yells over the music. You give him a very confused look. What could you possibly help him with? Why the fuck is he asking you? He doesn’t wait for you to answer before asking “Would you like to have sex with me?”
That is… not what you were expecting. It’s not wildly out of pocket considering you’ve apparently decided to attend a rave on a Wednesday night, but it’s certainly not what you thought you’d hear two seconds after walking inside. You lean close so he can hear you and shout “Maybe later? I’m not even high.”
He nods sharply and pulls you by the wrist he’s still grasping firmly toward a doorway across the room. You follow him, bewildered, for a few steps before wrenching your wrist out of his grasp and shouting, “What are you doing? I said no!”
“You said ‘Maybe later,’ technically. Follow me.” He pulls a baggie from his pocket and waggles it back and forth.
Understanding dawns on your face and you follow him. You step through the doorway with him and find yourself in the bathroom. He drops a pill on the countertop as you push the door closed. In the light of the bathroom you can see that he’s devastatingly gorgeous in a disheveled kind of way. His hair is curly and standing up in every direction. Your eyes travel down his body. He’s wearing pajamas, but his chest and shoulders are broad and look strong. You look back at his face.
“Molly,” he says simply, peering at you over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown out completely from whatever he’s already taken. There’s a ring of warm brown surrounding the giant pupils and his eyes have a downturned shape… Goddamn this man has actual puppy dog eyes.
You nod and grab the pill, popping it into your mouth and swallowing it dry. “Thanks,” you say in response. “Do you always start conversations that way? Asking to fuck?”
“Pretty much.”
“And does that work for you?”
“Sometimes,” he gives you a pointed look over his sunglasses. You roll your eyes at the insinuation it had worked on you.
“Just because I took your drugs doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you.”
“Okay.” He says simply before moving to open the door. You follow him back into the party, taking note of the way your fingers are starting to tingle.
Some amount of time later— you’ve lost track— your body is pressed against his at the center of the dance floor. Your whole body is thrumming with the music, vibrating with an undercurrent of electricity. The strobe lights illuminate everything in bright flashes.
Your hands in his hair, tongues tangled together, chests heaving in time with each other.
His forehead pressed to yours and his hands on your cheeks as you roll your bodies together in time to the music.
Your hands laced together above your heads, your back pressed to his chest, your ass grinding into his hips.
He brings his hands to your waist and turns you to face him. You move to kiss him but suddenly he’s holding a joint in the tiny space between your faces. His head flicks in the direction of the bathroom and you’re once again following him to the small room.
Once inside, you close the door and sink to the floor, leaning your back against the bathtub and stretching your feet out toward the vanity. The man you’ve been dancing with all night perches on the countertop. He doesn’t look fully real right now, sitting above you, the wall light glowing an orangey yellow behind him.
“You’re pretty.” you breathe up at him.
He chuckles and lights the joint. After 2 deep inhales, he passes the joint down to you. “Dieter,” he says.
You tell him your name between hits, then pass it back to him. You scoot forward on the bathroom floor and lay your head on his calf. He’s wearing sweatpants, you note. Weirdo. There’s an inexplicable feeling settling in your chest as you kneel at his feet.
“Dieter,” you whisper. “Why does it feel like I’ve known you my whole life?” It’s the molly talking, you’re sure. You’ve barely said anything to each other. But it also felt kind of true.
“Maybe you have.”
It’s Over Now, I’m Cold, Alone
The ceiling of your apartment is spinning, warping closer and farther away from your face. You are… so fucking high. Is this how D felt? Did he feel like the whole world was threatening to collapse on top of him? You hope he felt like he was floating instead. You hope the voices in his head were finally quiet. You hope he wasn’t scared.
You take a deep, shaky breath in and hold it for as long as you can. You cough as you breathe out, choking on a sob.
“Dieter. D. Dieter. Are you there?” He's always here. He’s never not been here with you. “Di-” you sob again, unable to force the words out of your mouth. A few ragged breaths.
“D… I can’t. I can’t do this without you. Come back. Please.” You think you’re praying. You haven’t prayed since you were a child. You hope Dieter hears you.
You throw your hand out in the direction of the coffee table. Your fingers skim over the surface until they connect with a bottle. You dump the contents into your palm and swallow another pill, hoping it will finally be enough.
You pull Dieter’s robe tighter around your shoulders, curling into a ball on the couch, and drifting off into a restless sleep.
Paranoid Delusions, They Haunt You
Dieter refused to use wireless earbuds. He wouldn’t put his fingerprint or face into the system, insisting on using a passcode, but he had a phone he used mainly for texting his dealer. He swore up and down that bluetooth fucked with his brainwaves. That putting his biometric information into the phone would lead them right to him.
Two months after you moved in with him, he tossed his phone out, insisting it was tapped. He hadn’t made too much of a fuss over you keeping yours until now. Now your iPhone was shattered, a blade piercing through it and pinning it to the wall in the kitchen.
You felt… defeated. You’d spent a lot of money on that thing. You needed it to talk to your friends, who you didn’t see often anymore. You needed it to text your boss and to get your schedule for work.
Admittedly, you threw a fit. Was it childish? Could you be mad at him when he didn’t know what was real anymore?
It felt justified. He had destroyed your property. It was likely you’d be fired if you didn’t show up for work in the morning or at least tell your boss you’d be skipping your shift.
But as angry as you were, you knew Dieter needed you. So you took care of him. You always took care of him. This broken man was rocking back and forth on the floor of your shared kitchen, crying and muttering and convinced for all the world that you were going to be taken from him.
So you wrapped him in your arms and you promised him you’d stay. You helped him shower for the first time in days. You held him in your arms in the bed you shared and you kissed his forehead and whispered reassurances to him all night.
You’d always been together, really, and you were never going to be apart again.
Everyone I Know Goes Away, In The End
His funeral is today. You’re sitting in the park near your apartment, the place you and D used to sit for hours. You’ve read countless novels under this tree, his head in your lap as he sketched the people walking by. You’ve fed him french fries like Dionysus eating grapes, licked the salt off his lips.
You’ve wrapped him in your arms, whispering reassurances in his ear that no one was watching him. No one was going to take him from you. Run your hands through those gorgeous unruly curls and peppered his face with kisses. You’ve read to him. He’d hated Wuthering Heights and he’d loved The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and he’d asked if you ever read happy books.
You’ve dropped acid and stared up at the sky, finding shapes in the clouds and meaning in the rustling of the leaves. Smoked joint after joint and talked about the stars and where we go when we die and what the point of being alive is and if there’s a god.
You walk to the coffee shop down the street where you had your first real date. You had agreed to meet him here two days after the rave at Nissa’s house.
You hadn’t remembered giving him your phone number, but you had remembered a godlike figure passing you a joint on the bathroom floor. You had remembered his soft lips pressed behind the shell of your ear as he fucked you against Nissa’s sink, your legs wrapped around his hips, your hands clutching his hair like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. You had remembered the way he whispered that your souls were intertwined from the start of the universe and it had culminated in you, here, now. Bodies folded together. Breath mingling in a smoke-hazy bathroom.
You slide into your booth. The one you’d sat in for hours, telling him your tragic backstory. A mother who loved herself more than you. A father who loved drugs more than being alive. He had told you his own story. How he’d been in and out of state care facilities, trying to silence the voices he never really stopped hearing. How he tried to drown them out with weed and pills and coke and whiskey. How they were quieter with you, but they never really went away. You barely knew him, really, but you’d spilled some of your darkest secrets to each other mere minutes into your first real conversation.
You knew then you’d never get the imprint of his heart off of yours. You’d never existed before him and you’d never exist again without him.
You sat there, in the booth you so frequently shared with him, and you stared at the place he should have been. Dieter Bravo did not belong six feet under the ground. He belonged here. With you.
I Will Let You Down
You unlock your apartment door and take a step inside. The scene that greets you is, truly, more than you can fucking handle today.
The couch, usually seated directly across from the entryway, is flipped upside down. The cushions are scattered across the floor. Your coffee table is leaned against the window. There are papers scattered across the floor, drawings of strangers and landscapes and you litter every surface. A canvas depicting what you’ve called Dieter Devouring his Son has a gash in it. There’s a hole in the wall by the entryway to the kitchen.
In the center of the chaos is Dieter. He’s sitting on the floor with his back to you. He doesn’t have a shirt on and his feet are bare. He’s muttering to himself, hands tearing at his hair, and rocking slowly back and forth. He doesn’t react at all to you coming in. Your heart leaps into your throat. This is bad. This is bad. You’ve never seen him quite this gone.
“Dieter?” He keeps rocking at the same steady space, his muttering growing slightly louder. You walk up behind him and reach out, hoping to soothe him with a hand on his back.
He jumps away from your touch and yells, “Get the FUCK away from me!” You stagger backward, shocked. Breaking down isn’t new, in your experience with Dieter. But yelling at you is.
“Dieter it’s just me, baby,” you speak just above a whisper, trying to calm him.
“Get away! Get away. Get away. from. me,” his eyes are wild. Unfocused. He’s not really seeing you, you realize.
“Dieter. Go to bed. I really don’t have the energy for this right now.” You’d had such a long day at work and now your lover had destroyed your apartment and was acting as if you were out to get him too, joining the rest of the world in the conspiracy to end Dieter Bravo.
“Fuck you. Get out! Get away from me! Get out Get out Get out Get out.” He stands up and crosses his arms in front of himself, as if to ward you off.
You move to grab his arms, wanting to pin them to his sides and shush him. He shoves you, hard, in the chest and you fall to the floor. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch me!” He bellows at you.
You look up at him from the floor, tears welling up and pouring down your face. He’s been out of it before, but he’s never hurt you. You scramble off the floor and dart out the door, slamming it behind you, but you don’t make it far. You can’t leave him like this. Not really. So you resolve to sit with your back against the door to your apartment all night.
A few hours later, you’re curled in a ball on the hallway floor, shivering and sore from being on hard concrete for so long, when the door opens. You rush to your feet and back away from the man in the doorway.
Dieter looks at you with his giant brown puppy dog eyes, face streaked with tears, hair damp from sweat and hanging in his face. His hands are clenching and unclenching over and over as he slowly reaches out to you. “I’m so sorry…” He chokes out, his voice creaking.
You press your back against the wall, as far away as you can reasonably get without running away completely. “You pushed me, D. And you- you screamed at me. You can’t yell at me, you know that, Dieter, you know that.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, baby, you have to believe me… I-” he cuts himself off and looks down at the floor, folding his arms up by his head and tugging on his own hair. “I couldn’t tell. I thought it was real. I thought…”
You move toward him, slowly, like you’re approaching a potentially rabid animal. You reach out your hand and he flinches, “Shhh, D. It’s okay. It’s me. I’m here.” You reach both hands up and wrap them around his wrists, stopping his assault on his scalp. You press his hands into your chest and lay your palms over the top of his curled and twitching fingers, rubbing back and forth slowly in an attempt to calm him.
“Didn’t know it was you… not really,” he mumbles in the direction of the floor. You press a kiss to his sweaty forehead.
“I know, baby. Let’s go inside.”
Wishin' I Were Gone
There was a short period of time last year that Dieter was on meds. Like real ones. Anti-psychotics. For the few months he took those pills, Dieter held down a job and cooked you dinner sometimes and cleaned up after himself. He showered regularly. You discovered that his paintings could be beautiful in a beautiful way and not in a scary way.
He’d painted you and him, a sort of abstract smudging of oil paint creating the image of his body wrapped around yours. Your hands, arms, legs, completely entangled. The sunlight from your bedroom windows filtering down on your naked bodies and making you glow. The painting sits in the window sill, now. You’re staring at it from your spot on the couch.
Your back is to the doorway of your bedroom. The room you haven’t entered since he died. The room with a dresser haphazardly stuffed with ratty t-shirts and sweatpants. The room where he stacked baubles and trinkets and rocks and gemstones on every surface. The room with the big bed you’d spent countless hours in with him, kissing and touching and taking and giving. You were usually so wrapped up in him in that bed that the outside world didn’t exist to you. You faded from reality there, with him. Joining him on some plane of existence where you were both safe. You want to go there again.
You push yourself off the couch and stagger into the bedroom.
A ray of sunlight is streaming through the window, falling directly on the unmade bed. You collapse into the center and wrap the blanket around you. It doesn’t smell like Dieter. You close your eyes and feel the sun warming your face. You feel yourself sinking deeper into the mattress. Your face is going numb, now. Your lips have lost feeling and it’s hard to open your eyes. You feel like you’re under a weighted blanket. Like you’re underwater and the waves are crashing above your head and you’re just watching. See you on the other side. You drag in one last shaky breath and succumb to the crushing heaviness surrounding you.
I Miss My Lover
Dieter fucking Bravo was the love of your life. You never believed in soulmates, never believed someone could be made for you, souls two jagged pieces waiting to find each other and be made whole. And maybe you still don’t. Maybe you weren’t right for each other.
Maybe Dieter was never meant to be here on this earth. Maybe he burned a little too hot and a little too bright to exist any longer than he had.
Maybe for all your trying to save him, you only succeeded in destroying yourself.
But, fuck! He wrote you poetry and painted you beautiful pictures and kissed you with his mouth full of french fries. He wrapped you in his arms and sang Etta James in your ear while you made Hamburger Helper. He kissed and held and loved every single part of you, even the jagged edges.
Dieter Bravo’s soul was intertwined with yours. You think it still is. You think it always will be.
You’ll never be able to see the night sky again without remembering his lips on your neck and his hands on your waist and his voice in your ear telling you that you are more breathtaking than anything in the galaxy.
You’ll never sit outside and read a novel on a warm spring day without hearing charcoal scratching the surface of a sketchbook.
Every time you bring a joint to your lips, you are in that bathroom at Nissa’s house, looking up at his hooked nose and dark brown eyes and pouty lips and thinking he can’t be real.
There are some things, people, we come into contact with and they never stop touching you again. The imprint of them is forever pressed into your skin like little fingertip shaped bruises.
Dieter Bravo grabbed your wrist one night, a few years ago, and he’s never let go since.
---
Series Masterlist
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x you#pedro pascal fics#pedro fics#pedro pascal x reader#dieter bravo fics#dieter bravo angst#angst#dieter bravo x female reader#the bubble fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction
100 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader
Summary: Ok, so this is part of a bigger story I had in mind (for my own pleasure 😅). Dieter and the reader are in a kind of established relationship, admitting feelings for the first time, amidst a complicated situation which is not mentioned at this point. And then the bodies do the talking.
Word count: 2.4k
Warnings: 18+ mdni, SMUT, a little angst, insecurities, unprotected piv, let me know what am I missing.
A/N: I had no purpose whatsoever to write a fanfic.. BUT. I woke up at 3 in the morning and I just grabbed my phone and started typing. I just needed to get it out. I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know where this blog is going! English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistakes, any feedback is most welcome! If anyone takes the time to read this, thank you and I hope I’ll keep you a good company as all of you do!
Two hearts, one body.
“Where is that shy girl I fell in love with, in Italy?”, he laughs out at some spicy comment you made.
He was sitting on the couch of his living room, with you straddling his thighs. You’re both freezing in place, but he quickly recovers like he’s at peace with what he just confessed out of nowhere, while you, on the other hand, are panicking inside.
“You- you can take it back if you want, it’s ok..”. you mutter shyly, not daring to look at him directly.
“No, I’m good.”, he says calmly.
“You are?”, you reply, widening your eyes.
“Mmhmm”. A warm smile spreads to his face, reaching the wrinkles around his eyes.
At that point it feels hypocritical to not admit it, too.
“Ok, that’s good..” Ok, just say it.
“I’m- I’m in love with you, too..” you respond with great effort. Why is this so hard? Why you act this way, feeling so much but choosing to say so little?
But you know why.
“I know, baby..”, he’s still smiling with such warmth in his eyes, almost like he’s talking to a shy child.
“You do?”, you still look and sound so surprised.
“Yeah!”, he laughs calmly.
“How do you know?”. You know deep down that your face is your sentiment map, you can’t hide shit, but you want to hear him say it.
He closes his eyes and he’s taking a deep breath like he’s trying to choose his words to better explain it to you.
“Do you remember what you said to me that night on that car hood back in Italy?” He’s looking at you, expectantly.
“About you, you mean?” He is nodding, waiting for your answer.
Your mind traces back to that conversation, under that summer night sky, when you tried to describe him, describe what you saw in his face every time you looked at him, with the words almost failing you. You didn’t know him long at the time, but you could feel his vibe. You could always sense someone through his eyes. Sometimes you couldn’t exactly put it in words but you had that feeling.
“About you, being ‘pure flowing sentiment’?”, you reply.
Even then you weren’t sure if he’d understand what you meant, english not being your native language and not knowing exactly how to express it. But he did understood. More than you thought.
“Yes, baby. That’s how I know. It takes one to know one, you know.”
He seems to contemplate whether to reveal more or not. But he does.
“You ‘re revealing yourself to me every time we fuck.” He looks at you, serious now. You swallow, hard. Fuck, he knows. He always knew. He sees right through you.
“And considering the amount of time we spend fucking, you can only imagine the secrets you’ve spilled to me, so far.” He smiles mischievously.
“Will you stop with the word fuck, already?” You laugh nervously.
“Why love, am I making you uncomfortable? Or wet?”
He slowly lifts his back off the back of the couch and almost glues his body to yours. Not breaking eye contact, he’s sliding his hand in your panties, looking for evidence to support his case. You slap his hand away, giving him a cunning look.
“Or maybe I’m just having fun.”, you shoot back with a smirk, in an attempt to get the upper hand.
“Yeah, because that’s who you are.”, he suckles.
“Oh, blaming a girl for enjoying herself now, are we?!”, you try to release some of the tension.
“No, no!”, Dieter laughs nervously. Of all people, he would be the last to judge a person by his sexual habits. “You know I’m insatiable honey, BUT” he says with intense conviction, “that’s not your cup of tea, my little introvert, pretending to be an extrovert! You express yourself through sex, love. It’s an intimate act for you, even when you let me do all those filthy things I want to do to you.” He gently bites your earlobe and captures it between his lips and tongue. Fuck. You swear he’s already fucking you in his mind.
You feel his sparse beard prickling your cheek, his hot breath on your skin. And now your panties are ruined. He moves back to look at you and continues.
You are confessing everything to me baby.” His eyes look wild now, there is a familiar darkness in them.
And he goes on. Like he didn’t just dismantled you. He’s got to make you whole again, piece by fuckin’ piece.
“This is how you communicate anything is too hard to put into words. Through physical connection; how much you care, how frustrated or how happy you feel. Every time we fuck, I see you. I feel you. I know you.” His thumb is on your bottom lip now, caressing it softly.
FUCK.
“Fuck- fuck, it’s- it’s too much Dee, it’s too much, I mean; I can barely breathe sometimes, I can’t even begin to describe it; every time I- I see you, or hear your voice, or when I notice all those little details on your body, or at your behavior, or the way you move.. fuck, even the way you fucking breath, I mean; get a grip, woman and it just overwhelms me, I just-, I can’t-..” you’re spiraling now, not knowing if you should stop, or keep going, if you even made any sense.
“I know baby, I know.. When it comes to you, words are failing me, love. And I think- I hope, they’re failing you too.” He’s cradling your face, he’s so sentimental, so honest, all the barriers between you are crumbling down.
“They are, they fuckin’ are.”, you say desperately, holding his cheeks between your hands, your brows frowning deeply.
And there it was.
It was so natural, so organic, you just needed to be skin on skin. Nothing else mattered at that point. No words left to be spoken.
You were both pretty sure they hadn’t been invented yet, anyway.
Both your clothes flew off you in rushed, jerky movements, like time was of the essence.
And it was.
He wraps his arms around your back and he tightens you to his chest as if he wants to make you one with him. Two hearts in one body.
He kisses you so deeply, goosebumps are spreading across your whole body. His mouth is exploring every part of yours, sucking on your tongue, bitting your bottom lip, kissing the pain away afterwards.
Your pussy is dripping and it clenches so hard you think you’ll come right there and then. His hands moves and grabs your head, tangling and squeezing his fingers through your hair.
He is desperate like you are, to give. To give everything he has. To make you understand.
He’s roaming his hands to your back caressing you as he devours your mouth. The moment is so intense, the feel of his hands on you, his fingers so soft and gentle, his cock warm and stiff pressing against your folds, the way he is panting trying to not break the kiss for air, the deep moans and his pleading face, his scent.. his fucking scent.
And you snap.
Your orgasm comes out of nowhere, your cunt clenching hard around nothing, almost painfully. You let out an inaudible cry in his mouth while your whole body is trembling, your come running on the insides of your thighs and onto his lap, pooling at the base of his cock.
He freezes in place and cradles your face with both his hands, his eyes wide and fixed on yours.
“Baby..?” His voice filled with lust.
You look down in embarrassment.
He tries again, softer this time. “Love, did you just come?”
“I’m- I’m so sorry, I- I don’t know what happened, it came out of nowh-“
“Don’t- don’t you ever apologize to me. Fuck, baby, you’re killing me here. I literally haven’t even touched you yet and you’re giving me everything?”
“You’re- you’re not annoyed?”
“Why on earth would I be annoyed?”, he looks puzzled.
“Because I ruined the moment?” Stupid insecurity.
“Baby; this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”, he whispers, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses on your neck while saying it.
A deep shade of red splashes through your cheeks as you lean back your head to grant him better access and you smile shyly, biting your bottom lip.
He keeps going down to your chest kissing you, licking you and then he takes your nipple in his hot mouth. He flickers his tongue and then he is biting your sensitive bud and releases it with a sucking motion, while his other hand tweaks your neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
You want to scream at the sensation and you are grinding your clit on his cock to get any kind of friction. His cock is twitching and pre-come is running through his slit. You feel his warm liquid joining your juices and your mouth waters. You want to taste him, to fuck him with your mouth, to choke on his length, anything to extinguish this unbearable feeling of lust.
“Darling, I need you to sit on me or I’m gonna lose it”, he whispers, touching your lips with his, his mustache tickling your kiss-swollen skin, sending a new wave of desire at your lower body. He is suffering, too.
Resting your forehead on his, you lift your hips above him, he’s lining his glistening head through your folds and you sink slowly onto his aching cock, bottoming out, both of you moaning at the feel of stretch.
“Jesus Christ, always so tight- so tight for me, you’re squeezing me so good..” his lips on your neck under your jawline, his nose pressing against it.
You barely have a second to adjust to his thickness and he sets a relentless pace, desperate to fill every inch of you.
You don’t care, this is your favorite part. The moment he splits you open without any preparation, a painful reminder that he’s ruined you for any other man. “Yes, baby, wreck me please, wreck me; don’t hold back.”, you’re whimpering in his mouth.
He doesn’t even let you move, his left hand wrapped around your waist while his right is holding your hip with a bruising grip pinned down, to thrust into you as deep and hard as he can.
Oh, and he can.
You are full to the brim, his pounding is so fast that you can’t really feel him pulling back before every thrust. Just a constant fill and a sweet ache as he’s hitting your deepest spot, making your legs weak. You are moaning loudly, unable to control yourself. You grab his shoulder and the back of his neck to keep yourself steady.
"Do you see what you’re doing to me? Do you feel how hard you’re making me?" He is slowing down so you can feel every ridge and every vein of his massive length and he whispers in your ear, the right side of his nose pressing on your temple.
"..with your soaked cunt and your pretty little sounds, you’re driving me crazy.." He is pulling out, oh-so-slowly and he slams in you all the way in. And then he does it again and again and again..
"Fuck, Dieter-" is all you manage to respond through your haze. You are so close, waves of pleasure pass through you and you just don’t want any of it to end. “Pl- please move baby, please..”
“I am moving baby, tell me what do you need?”
You are lost for words, unable to answer.
“Do you need more baby, is that it?” For fuck’s sake, YES! If only you remembered how to speak..
“Yesyesyes” you breath out. He’s smiling with pleasure and he starts fucking the air out of your lungs again.
He aims to please.
“I can feel you tightening around me baby, that’s it, come for me.”
You are so, so, close, a warmth spreading throughout your body, making you feel dizzy. You are right there, all you need is just. A little. Push.
He’s close too, but he wants to feel your release, your tight walls flattering and gripping him in first, before he let go. He moves his hand from your hip to your clit, rubbing it with his thumb in quick circles and nudges your jaw with his nose to make you look at him.
“Just let it go my love, I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here with you. Let go.”
You feel all his muscles tensing from the effort, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, but he doesn’t stop until you reach your high.
His panting as he’s slamming deep inside your heated core, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass, his eyes never leaving yours and the meaning of his words is what it takes for you to come undone. You let go.
You’re coming so hard, your body is shaking uncontrollably, you’re gasping for air as you try not to break eye contact. You don’t wanna miss a bit of him.
“There you go.. That’s my good girl, doing so good for me, taking me so well.”
You lay your forehead on his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.
“That’s it, breath sweetheart, breathe.” He’s praising you, guiding you through your aftershocks, as you come down from your high.
“Fill me up baby, I need you to fill me up, please.. Give me everything and I will take it. I’ll take it all.” you almost cry out.
He’s pounding into you once, twice, three times and then he’s spilling inside you, with a guttural groan deep from his chest, emptying himself, his hips never stopping, fucking his spend as deep in your core as he can, like he’s trying to keep it there.
“Fuck, woman, you’re gonna be the death of me..” he whispers as he comes down from his high..
You chuckle lightly and you place kisses all over his sweaty face, savoring the saltiness of his skin.
You stay in each other’s arms until your breathing returns to normal. Then, he leans against the couch while holding you to his chest, his cock still burried inside you.
You close your eyes as you listen to his heartbeat and you think about what was said with your words and your bodies. You know it’s all real and that’s what hurts the most. The inevitability of what will come next. You want to let yourself feel the peace and happiness of the moment, but you know that soon it will all come crashing down.
And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
5 days to go.
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal imagine#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fandom#fanfic#fanfiction#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo fic
93 notes
·
View notes
Text
new = 💫 | angst/hurt = 🖤 | smut = 🌶 | fluff/comfort = 🌸
One-Shots
Taste you (x f!reader) • 3.3k • AO3 • 🌶
Dieter enjoys eating (you) in bed.
save your tears (x f!reader) • 4.6k • AO3 • 🖤🌶
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?
Series
It's always been you (x f!reader) • 3.3k • AO3 • 🖤
After a year of dating Dieter Bravo, you are forced to face reality. All good things must come to an end, right?
Are you happy now? (x f!reader) • 3k • AO3 • 🖤🌶
You unknowingly cockblock Dieter at a party before he watches you having sex. It's a whole thing.
#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo#pedro pascal characters#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo fanfic#the bubble#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo masterlist
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
Psychomanteum / Chapter 15
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)
Chapter 15: The Widow
Chapter Summary: Contemplation.
Word Count: 7.6k+
Content / Warnings: alternating pov, suicidal thoughts and planning, intrusive thoughts, grief, swearing, alcohol use, uncertainty, parker, lotta yearning and self-reflection, angst, paranormal/spooky elements, food
Notes: Chapter title from “The Widow" by The Mars Volta. This is the peak of angst in this story, I promise. Pleaaaaaase be mindful of the trigger warnings above. Big big thanks to @frannyzooey for proofreading 🖤✨ OK THANKS FOR READING YALL LOVE U SORRY IF ITS A BUMMER.
[ Previous Chapter ] [ Series Masterlist ] [ Next Chapter ]
As far back as you can remember, you hated the dark.
The uncertainty of what it contained would keep you up for hours in your childhood bedroom.
Your mind ran rampant, imagining all kinds of insidious creatures lurking in the shadows. Beneath your bed, in the corners, behind your closet door, outside your window. Watching, waiting for you to fall asleep.
At some point you started sleeping with the lights on. Your parents got you a nightlight in an attempt to curtail this behavior, but it wasn’t enough. There were still shadows. You were still cloaked in darkness with the monsters. All this did was begin a new ritual, where you waited until they went to bed before turning on the lights.
One night, after you heard your parents’ bedroom door click shut, you scurried over to the light switch and flipped it up. The overhead light came to life, flooding the room in safety. Relief.
By the time you crawled back into bed, your dad opened the door and peeked into the room. He looked between you and the overhead light, sighing, “Louella, we talked about this.”
“Don’t turn the light off.”
“Why not?”
Even then it felt silly. The answer stuck to the inside of your throat, hot and buzzing. Instead of letting it out, you burrowed beneath the covers and curled up into yourself.
The floorboards creaked as your dad made his way across the room. He sat on the edge of your mattress and rubbed your back, comforting you.
“Sweet pea,” he cooed, peeling back your Lion King comforter to expose your face, “It’s not good for you to sleep with the lights on all the time.”
At this, you pouted at your blanket, fiddling with the frayed edges.
“The dark is scary, isn’t it?”
You nodded.
“What’s so scary about it?”
You shrugged.
He hummed in acknowledgment, then glanced around the room, “I’ll let you in on a secret. Most everyone is afraid of the dark at some point or another. You know why?”
Another shrug.
“In the light, we have certainty. We can look over in that corner and see with our own eyes there’s no boogeyman there. It’s just a corner. Done deal. The dark… that’s trickier, isn’t it?”
You nodded, trying to decide whether or not to tell him about the monsters you believed would manifest in the black abyss and swallow you whole.
“You’re safe here, though. I promise. It’s just you in here. There’s nothing hiding in the dark. The corner is just a corner. All that’s under your bed is dust. In your closet, it’s just clothes.”
“Can you check?”
He chuckled, but granted your request, lowering himself to the ground to peek under your bed, telling you, “Nothing under here,” then climbed to his feet and strode over to your closet, pulling the door wide open so you could see the proof yourself.
“All clear,” he said as he closed it and returned to your bedside, “Does that help?”
You nodded, casting your gaze down to your lap. A lingering feeling of dread still sat heavy in your stomach. His gaze stayed trained on you, obviously unconvinced.
Eventually you asked, “But what if we just don’t see it now? What if it sneaks?”
Your voice felt tiny, meek.
His shoulders deflated with a sigh. He scooted closer and petted your hair, holding eye contact when he countered, “Your brain is trickier than the dark ever will be. It makes you see things that aren’t there. Unless you believe it’s safe, you’ll never be able to rest.”
He was right, you suppose.
Rest only really found you when you trusted the lights’ promise that nothing would hurt you when it vanished. Even when the light broke its promise. Even when your dad went to the ER and returned in a box.
You tried to believe that your family would live on without him. That he would still somehow keep you safe.
But he didn’t.
Neither did your mother.
Your mother cut the power and made you fend for yourself.
You learned that the only way to ensure nothing would hurt you was to make sure the room was vacant before deadbolting the door. To lock the windows and draw the blinds. You sharpened your teeth into fangs. You developed night vision and grew claws, and you hid so well you thought nothing could find you.
Sure, it was dark.
But the abyss had only one occupant, you knew that as fact.
Sure, your skin ached to feel the sunlight.
But you were safe.
You’re not sure when it happened, but sooner or later, you swore you could see shapes shifting in the pitch black. When you laid in bed at night, you could hear something in the walls. The faint, dry scratch of nails on plaster.
It sneaks.
The thing became clearer over time. Bloated, purpled skin. Limbs that popped and groaned when it crept around just beyond your reach. It carried the stench of rot, putrid and sulphuric.
Deep down in your guts, you understood the horrible truth.
It was you.
A part of you, anyway. Something that lived and died inside you, stillborn into the darkness just to haunt you.
Then there was Ethan.
Brash and charming, he took a sledgehammer to your walls and yanked you from your hiding place. Sunshine poured into the dark, dank room, soaking you in brightness.
At first you were terrified.
It overwhelmed your senses.
Your eyes, having long forgotten how to operate in the light, burned in reaction. You clamped them closed for fear of going blind. It felt so warm you thought you might melt. Ethan’s honeyed words seemed like loudspeakers compared to the quiet echo of your breathing. To the faint, hoarse whisper of your monster.
It took some time to acclimate to this long-forgotten brightness. But once you did, it felt incredible. You couldn’t believe you hid from it for so long.
Together, you understood that with light, comes shadows. He had a monster who crept after nightfall, too. Sometimes you’d wake to the soft caress of its nails on your cheek, to his sour, putrid breath gurgling in your ear, “I will be the death of you,” like a promise.
You came to trust its keeper, though. You believed it wouldn’t tear you apart, like yours wouldn’t Ethan.
That is the promise of love, after all, isn’t it?
To cherish one’s light so much that you’ll endure their dark? To love even the most haunted, grotesque parts of someone? Even their monsters? Even their ghosts?
To trust that you can rest your weary bones in the dark without it destroying you?
You believed this for so long. Bright years filled with joy and laughter and love, where you felt alive and trusted him. In those years, you forgot a very important fact:
It sneaks.
The fireplace lets out a sharp POP, drawing your attention away from the pitch black window.
A smoldering log at the bottom of the hearth collapses. The fire shifts, birthing fresh flames that breathe hot against your cheeks.
You pull the quilt snug around your supine body and huddle deeper into the couch, into the warmth of your body heat.
When you called your mother-in-law yesterday and explained what was happening, that you needed a place to stay for a few days while you figure out what to do, she graciously granted your request to use their cabin out in the Sierra Nevada foothills, but warned you the place was winterized and had no central heating.
“I don’t know what condition it’s in, nobody’s been out there since August. There’s quite a bit of firewood by the fireplace and out by the woodshed, use as much as you need. Electricity is on, but no internet and cell service is shoddy. You’ll need to get the water going, too—you know, why don’t you give me or Adam a call once you’re out there, we can walk you through it.”
“Is there a landline? I don’t have my phone.”
“Sure is.”
“Ok, I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Stop and get some groceries in town, too, there’s that grocery store—”
“Yeah, I remember,” you interrupted, eyes darting to the departures board, “I have to go, my bus is gonna be here soon. Thank you so much, Sarah.”
You could feel it coming within one second of the quiet hesitation that followed.
“Lou, I just want to make sure…”
Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
“Are you ok, honey?”
Fuck.
Your face crumbled. Emotion clogged your throat. Tingles worked up your chest, behind your eyes, and you squeezed them shut to suffocate the tears.
“Yeah,” you managed to tell her, your voice wavering with bullshit, “I just, um… I just need a few days. To get myself together, you know.”
“Alright. Well, will you call me when you get there?”
“Yep,” you sniffled, “Talk to you then, bye.”
Before she could respond, you returned the receiver to its cradle, ending the call, then took a moment to gather yourself before picking your toppled-over suitcase up off the ground and finding your bus.
The ride to Fresno was long. You spent most of it staring out the window, not really looking at anything in particular, just lost in your noisy head.
At the Fresno Bus Station, you talked to three different cab drivers before finding one who agreed to bring you all the way out here.
He made a few attempts at small talk, asking how your day was going and if you were on vacation and so on, but quickly picked up on your not-so-chatty vibes and let the cab go quiet.
As he drove on, palm trees were replaced by threadbare ash trees, soon joined by evergreens. The hills became steeper. Swathes of rock broke through the earth’s soft surface, more and more with each mile.
You asked him to stop in the town closest to your in-laws’ cabin. He kept the meter running while you bought a meager supply of groceries, figuring you only needed a few days worth, if that.
Then the yellow taxi cab then drove deep into the forest, turning off on a low-maintenance dirt road that made the car jostle and rumble.
When you came around a curve, and the mailbox labeled FRIEDMAN came into view, you instructed him to drop you off there.
“Are you sure? I can take you down the driveway, no problem,” he insisted.
You could have explained that the gravel driveway was in poor condition and you didn’t want him to break down or something. Imagine that. Drive a girl to the middle of a goddamn forest and wind up getting stuck out there. What a fucking nightmare. For both of you, really.
“I’m sure,” you said, flashing him a weak smile as you handed him the remaining money from your wallet, “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he looked down at the bundle of cash, but he took it, giving you a nod of thanks.
“Just, um…” you bit the inside of your cheek and shrugged, looping plastic grocery bags around your wrists, “If anyone comes around asking if you saw me, could you maybe… maybe you could say no?”
“Yes ma’am,” he nodded again, studying you for a moment before turning to open his door, “Let me get your bag for you.”
He pulled your shitty suitcase from the trunk and handed it to you. Before returning to the driver’s seat to begin his voyage home, he paused for a few seconds, then looked at you.
“Excuse me for asking, ma’am, but are you… well, are you… safe? Do you need me to contact anyone?”
“No.”
The word came out sharp and final. It felt harsh leaving your lips, so you added, “I mean, you don’t need to contact anyone. I am, uhhh… cool as a cucumber. Safe… as a lock. Thanks, though.”
You tried your hardest to give him a reassuring smile. He didn’t look like he bought it, but got in his taxi and left.
From here, you followed the driveway into a tunnel carved out from the trees.
The air was crisp and clear and everything seemed quiet except for the sound of you huffing and puffing down the path, leaves crunching under your feet, plastic bags rustling, your suitcase flopping around behind you like a defiant animal on a leash, fighting against each step.
Fucking exhausting.
About halfway, you spotted a flat boulder peeking out from the earth a few strides into the forest. You dropped your suitcase, shaking the plastic bags from your wrists, and blundered through the trees towards it. Your rubber legs ached with relief when you sat down criss-cross applesauce on the cool stone. Catching your breath, you leaned back and tilted your face up towards the canopy. A breeze rattled through the pines and ashes and cooled your cheeks.
You spent some time here, stretched out on the boulder, admiring the contrast of the dark, rheumatic branches stretched out towards the powder-blue sky. When your labored breathing calmed, the quiet sounds of the forest started to come into focus. Leaves rustling. Birds warbling. The whistle of wind.
It felt nice.
Peaceful.
Eventually, you heaved yourself to your feet and resumed your journey. You walked and walked, legs and wrists and arms aching, body and mind sapped of energy, until the tree line opened up into a clearing.
The cabin came into view, and a bone-deep sense of nostalgia struck you.
You remembered the first time Ethan brought you here, the summer after you started dating. Everything seemed to pulse with life. The trees, glowing green with leaves. The roaring river in the background. Ethan. The future, in general.
What’s the word for the kind of nostalgia that guts you? The kind that feels like a 30-pound weight in your stomach? The kind that shreds your heart to pieces in your chest?
That’s exactly what you felt when you saw the cabin.
It looked cold. Dead.
The inside felt no different. Everything was dark. Cool, still air bit your cheeks. Canvas was draped over all the furniture. It smelled of dust and damp and better times.
You dropped your belongings to the entryway floor, collapsing in a heap among them, then cried your eyes dry.
Once you gathered yourself, you found the phone to call Sarah.
She walked you through the ins-and-outs of making the cabin habitable. How to turn the water back on and get the fireplace going. Gave you permission to use whatever you want or need… which, so far, is just some firewood, a quilt from the cedar linen closet, and this couch.
You blink your bleary eyes a few times, before looking back to the window. The world outside has lightened. Frosted trees stand out in the rich, Neptunian veil of morning, every branch appearing lacy and crystalline, important and beautiful.
Have I slept? Or did I sit here all night, staring into the abyss?
“Fuck it,” you sigh to yourself as you sit upright, “Might as well make some coffee.”
Ding
The elevator doors slide open.
Dieter follows Parker onto the fifth floor hallway of your apartment building.
As he walks down the familiar hallway like he has so many times before, a guttural, foreboding feeling builds in his veins.
The sensation is unbelievably heavy, but hollow. Knight’s armor. A church bell. The barrel of a gun.
It reminds Dieter of the first time he came here, when he sensed Ethan’s presence on the other side of that door.
“Hopefully the landlord didn’t change the locks,” Parker says as he flips through his keychain, isolating one labeled LOU. The key slides in without protest. Parker pushes the door open and enters the apartment, Dieter hot on his heels.
When Parker flips the light on, the state of your apartment makes Dieter’s stomach drop.
Ransacked is the first word that comes to mind.
Every drawer and cupboard in your kitchen sits ajar, their contents disorganized or spread across the countertop. The couch and chair cushions are all discombobulated. Dirt tracks dried into the white carpet trace the heavy flow of boots that moved in and out of the apartment. It looks like every surface of the place has been perverted.
Dieter crouches down to set an overturned cubby upright, shoving a pile of your hats and scarves and gloves back into their rightful place, muttering, “Fucking pigs.”
A leopard print pattern catches his eye, and he plucks out a scarf, draping it around his neck before returning the container to its home.
“Pigs is right,” Parker snorts, slamming closed cupboards and drawers, “This place is a fuckin’ stye. I’m glad she’s not here to see this.”
Dieter rubs the soft fabric between his fingers and brings it to his nose, inhaling your scent. A freshly-baked smell that prods his tender heart. He stands and starts towards the kitchen, but freezes when he notices the door to Ethan’s room is open. His eyes flick from Parker, totally preoccupied with reassembling the kitchen, then back to the doorway.
Curiosity gnaws at his insides.
He approaches it, trying to act casual despite his pounding heart. At the threshold, he pauses to peak inside, not entirely surprised to see the room exactly as he pictured it.
Well, mostly, anyway.
No file cabinet or deep freezer, but open spaces where he thought they’d be. Taken as evidence, probably. Empty file folders are strewn across the desk. But the navy blue walls, the hardwood floor, the mirrors… all there.
That horrible, palpable emptiness, like loss on loss on loss… that’s there, too.
He glances over his shoulder at Parker, still distracted, then looks back into the room. When he steps through the doorway, a rush of adrenaline spikes his pulse.
Why are you here?
Dieter cautiously wanders over to the desk and starts picking up the empty file folders, halting when he finds a sketchpad beneath one.
He flips through the book of abstract black-ink illustrations. Some of them scribbles, some exquisite, some in-between. All of them saturated with emotion. Hopelessness. Guilt. Anger. Grief. Frustration. Every time he turns a page, a new sensation strikes him. Shame. Resentment. Suspicion. A whole dictionary of dark emotions.
Scattered throughout, though, he finds a few that feel… not lighter, per se, but different. They feature negative space and soft curves. Clean lines and chaos. Love.
They’re you.
Of course they’re you, love. Of course you were his light in the darkness. A brightness carved out of soot and rot.
A fond smile creeps across his lips.
For reasons he can’t quite explain, Dieter looks to one of the mirrors and asks, “Can I take this with me? To give to her?”
Yeah, sure.
“Thanks,” he nods and tucks the book into his coat pocket, glancing over his shoulder before quietly inquiring, “Any chance you know where she is?”
Not here.
“Yeah, no shit,” Dieter thinks. He jumps a little when he hears the response crystal clear in his head.
Well then why the fuck’re you here? You’re wasting time.
“Me? What about you? Didn’t you move on from this place?”
After this, Ethan goes quiet.
Dieter shrugs and looks away from the mirror to study the framed photos on the wall. Photos of Ethan with, who Dieter assumes are, his kids. None of them recent. The vast majority of the pictures feature you.
You and Ethan kissing on your wedding day. The two of you posing somewhere with mountains in the background, drinking on a beach, dancing at a party. Each one depicts big, genuine smiles. The adoration you had for each other is evident.
As the successor to your heart, maybe he should feel a twinge of jealousy, but he doesn’t. He actually finds it sweet. It fills him with warmth to know you spent a long while being well-loved.
The wall of photos displays relics from Ethan’s youth, too.
Graduation photos, family vacations, a bar mitzvah. Dieter picks up on something. A distinct before and after. He stops on a picture of Ethan as a child, hugging a younger boy—his brother, Benji—by a lake, and it starts to come together. Although he can’t quite pinpoint the defining line, it splits him in two and fractures into shards.
An icy cold rush overtakes his body, like the word gave out from under him and he’s suddenly submerged in freezing water. He can’t breathe. He can’t scream. Feral, panicked energy pulses through his veins. His concrete limbs can’t move, paralyzed as he sinks, deeper, deeper, deeper…
Dieter returns to himself with a jolt, gasping for air.
He takes a step back and slumps over, pressing his palms into his knees as he pants, “What the fuck, man? What the fuck?”
You need to find her before it’s too late.
Red bubbles up his chest.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he sits up, jaw clenched, fists balled, and steps into the through-line of the mirrors. They reflect off one another to form a long, curved tunnel that stretches out on either side of him. Dieter looks from one mirror, to the other, seeing his image captured within each infinite layer.
“Fuck you, man,” he seethes, shaking his head, “You fucking did this, you know that? Fucking piece of shit. I’m fucking trying, ok?”
The last sentence comes out hoarse and thick. Heat works up his throat and his vision blurs with tears.
“Whoa—hey, Dieter,” Parker runs into the room, all wide-eyed and searching Dieter’s face, “What’s wrong?”
A sob heaves his shoulders. He hangs his head, shaking it from side-to-side, “I’m trying, Parker.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, pulling Dieter into a hug, reassuring him, “We’re gonna find her.”
“What if we don’t?”
“We will. Keep that faith, papi. We will.”
Dieter buries his face in Parker’s bony shoulder, releasing the pent-up worry and guilt festering infectious in his chest for the past day. Parker pets his hair and rocks him back and forth, letting out a few of his own sniffles alongside Dieter’s.
When their crying starts to peter out, Parker gives him one more squeeze and pulls back, asking, “You wanna get out of here? This place is a fucking mess, and we gotta catch that flight soon anyway.“
“Can I look in her room first?”
Parker’s eyebrows knit together over bloodshot eyes, and he nods, patting his friend on the shoulder before stepping aside.
Dieter approaches your bedroom cautiously. Paranoid thoughts circulate in his brain, all those what-ifs and delusions of tragedy. What if he finds you here, cold and lifeless? What if you’re dead somewhere while he pokes around your apartment, looking for clues? Is he doing enough? Could he do more?
But when the door groans on its hinges as he pushes it open, and he sets foot inside your bedroom, the impending doom percolating in his veins drains from him almost instantly. Many of your things have been rifled through, like the rest of your apartment, but the place holds an air of serenity.
It feels warm and safe.
It feels like you.
Flipping the light on, he closes the door behind him, then walks over to your bed and crawls under the covers, burying himself beneath them.
The sheets still carry a faint whiff of sex and sleep from before the two of you embarked for LA. His lungs expand with a deep, wide breath. Eyes drifting closed, he thinks of you. How you’re feeling. Where you are. What you’re doing.
He picks up the bite of a chilled breeze. The steady babble of a river. Warm hands. Burnt tongue. Coffee, bitter and black.
The signal drops.
Not much, but enough for him to know you’re not in immediate danger, which brings him some solace.
Still under the blankets, he pulls out his phone and dials your number. It rings and rings until your voicemail picks up.
“Hey, this is Louella, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back, thanks.”
“Hey doll, it’s me. I’m at your apartment. It’s a fucking mess. Parker and I stopped by before going back to LA. He’s coming with me to help… well, to help find you. Anyway. I’m in your bed. It still smells like us. It was hard for me to fall asleep last night without you. Waking up without you is… it’s hell. I don’t know. I miss you, Lua. It’s been one fucking day and I miss you more than I’ve ever missed anyone in my life. I love you. I’ll call you when I get back.”
Despite your lack of sleep, you managed to make this morning a productive one.
You removed the slip-cases from the furniture and dusted, then forced yourself to eat a halfway decent breakfast of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. After washing the dishes, you soaked in the tub for a while, staring up at the wood-paneled bathroom ceiling as you contemplated what to do with yourself, both in the short-term context and the long-term.
While drying off, you noticed the bright, mid-day sun shining down into the valley, making everything glow golden. It looked inviting.
You dug through your suitcase, sifting through the clothing you packed with a warmer climate in mind. Shorts. Dresses. Bikinis. The best you could do was a sweater and some pajama bottoms.
Down by the riverbank, you found this creaky wooden porch swing and settled on which to sit and ponder.
You smooth the tip of your finger along the dewy lip of the mug, breaking up a curl of steam with each lazy revolution around its circumference.
Today is the shortest day of the year.
The winter solstice.
Every once in a while, wind rolls down off the snowy tips of the Sierra Nevadas and meets the warmth of the California sun. The creaky wooden bench sits square in the middle of these contradictory weather conditions. Hot and cold. Dry and damp. Constantly churning, waxing and waning from one state to another.
A crisp gust of wind from upriver cuts through the sun-baked pocket of air where you’re seated. You huddle into your jacket and bring the steaming mug to your lips, hissing when the black coffee scorches your tongue.
The thought of Dieter shoots through you like a bullet.
You picture him beneath the covers of your bed, fully clothed in his furry winter jacket, wearing your scarf, eyes clenched shut, wishing you would come out of hiding because it’s safe now.
It rattles you.
An infinite number of memories and worries and hopes and what-ifs flood your mushy, sleep deprived brain. They all muddle together in an incomprehensible cluster fuck that sets your blood ablaze and makes your ears ring. Your body contracts, squeezing a sob from deep within your chest.
Fuck.
Every single ounce of you aches to see him. To smell him. To feel his arms wrapped around you and hear his voice murmuring honeyed affirmations in your ear, telling you he loves you and understands why you had to leave.
You pray he understands that you didn’t want to. Of fucking course you didn’t want to. You had to. For his sake and for yours.
During the FaceTime call with Parker, when you first saw the cops outside your building, then David Alterman, you could only see two paths forward: Dieter would choose you or his career.
Would he have chosen you? Maybe, but it would have been foolish.
He would have to support you through whatever punishment the state of New York has queued up against you—prison, probably—on top of dealing with the fallout. The public backlash, the halt of money flow, not to mention the loss of his career, which means more to him than public opinion or money. In his own words, acting is his fucking purpose in life.
And for what? An incarcerated girlfriend? Even if you put the issue of your pending criminal charges aside, you still wouldn’t be worth that loss.
It would be gradual, but eventually he would feel it.
It sneaks.
He would come to resent you, and you wouldn’t be able to fault him one bit.
Would he have chosen his career? Maybe, but it would ruin you both.
If he chose to break off your relationship in order to salvage his career, you would have to hear him say it. You would have to know, with certainty, that you take second place in his heart. Maybe this is a selfish notion, this desire to be his number one priority. If he didn’t choose his wife over his career, why the fuck would he choose you?
Not only that, but if he chose this path, he would have to shoulder the hardship of two broken hearts. You know he loves you. You do. Ending your relationship would devastate him. He would be plagued with guilt and shame and regret, all the same as if he chose you to begin with.
It seemed cruel to force him to make this impossible choice. No matter what he did, it would be wrong, and he would carry the burden.
This is when you saw the third path branch out before you.
The one where you could sneak out before the sun rises, dragging your monster by its tether behind you. Where you could lock yourself away in a boarded-up room and wait for her to take you. You, not him.
You would rather absorb the blame, from him and everyone else, a million times over than curse him with the responsibility of this dissolution.
This is a mercy kill.
An act of love.
It may not seem like it to anyone else, but really, it is.
This thought brings you some solace.
Another gust of wind blows shivers down your spine. You bring the mug to your lips to test the coffee’s temperature, finding it tepid, but drink it anyway.
Dieter wasn’t sure what to expect when he came home.
Worst case scenario, he imagined cops waiting to arrest him for bribing an elected official or tell him you turned up dead. Best case, he imagined opening the door to find you there. Problem solved. Happily ever after. He would kiss you breathless and never let you doubt your station in his life again.
What was most likely, though—and what he found—was something in the wide gray area between his paranoia and hopeless romanticism.
Lincoln was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through TikTok on his phone, while Darlene sat at the dining room table, typing away on her laptop.
Although he tried to keep an open mind the whole way here, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. Here he was, exhaustion burning his bones to dust, expecting some kind of a celebration, only to find out this was a checkpoint, not a finish line.
Lincoln and Darlene both perk up at the sound of the door opening. They both rise from their respective places to greet Dieter and Parker.
“Hey, welcome back!” Lincoln calls as he grabs Dieter’s suitcase, “How was your flight?”
“Fine,” he grunts, then nods to Parker, “This is Parker. Parker, this is my PA Lincoln and my publicist Darlene.”
“Former publicist,” Darlene corrects, shaking Parker’s hand, “Nice to meet you.”
Parker gives her a polite smile and a nod to her and Lincoln and tells them, “Thanks for your help.”
“Want me to take your suitcase?” Lincoln asks Parker, dark blonde eye brows raised in expectation.
“I’ve got it, love,” Parker waves him off with a dismissive hand, then turns to Dieter, “Where do you want me?”
Before he can answer, Lincoln cuts in, “Here, I’ll show you to the open guest room.”
A small smirk tugs at the corner of Parker’s mouth. He shrugs, “Lead the way, pretty boy.”
Even in the dim illumination of the waning daylight, Dieter sees Lincoln’s cheeks flush pink. He grins and starts off down the hall. Before following, Parker looks at Dieter, raising a mischievous brow as he glances between him and Lincoln, mouthing, “Cute.”
“Any updates?” Dieter asks Darlene as he slides off his crocs and starts towards the kitchen.
“Well,” she sighs, crossing her arms, tilting her head to one side, “There has been progress.”
The way she says it sounds like the beginning of bad news. He pauses his search for food and frowns at her. Static rises in his throat.
“And?”
She walks to the dining room table to grab her notebook, flipping back a few pages as she approaches the kitchen island and leans against it.
“So, I was able to trace her steps to a transit station in Fresno. I went up there yesterday and talked to security. Found out she took a cab from there, but the cab company won’t disclose where they dropped her. The driver reported that she seemed… off. Said she seemed scared and was very secretive, like she was in danger or something. He thought maybe she was running from a domestic abuse situation, and requested that the company not disclose her location.”
Dieter gapes at this, unable to formulate words. She continues.
“She talked a few other cab drivers before this one, so I talked to them. They told me she didn’t give them an address, just said it was about sixty miles away, up in the foothills. But that’s… that’s all I was able to get. The trail runs cold there.”
“Can’t we throw some cash at the cabbie who drove her? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay it, I don’t care—”
“I tried,” she shook her head, throwing her hands up at her sides, “I told them to name their price, they said it wasn’t about money, it was about safety.”
Heat spikes his blood, overwhelming him with nervous energy that sets him into motion, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his neck, clenching his jaw.
“What the fuck do we do now?”
“Do you know if she has any family or friends in that area? Maybe she mentioned something in passing—”
“No, of course she didn’t,” he scoffs.
Darlene doesn’t say anything. Her hazel eyes follow him from side-to-side.
“I know her family is from Ohio, her friends are from New York. Anything else is a fucking mystery to me,” he shakes his head and stops pacing to holler, “PARKER, get in here!”
A few seconds later, he hears footfalls in the hallway, then Parker rounds the corner, blinking at him, “I know you didn’t just call for me like a fuckin’ dog.”
“Does Lua know anyone out by Fresno? In the mountains?” Darlene asks him.
Parker frowns as he thinks about this, shaking his head, “I don’t think so.”
“Distant relatives, old friends,” Darlene glances at Dieter, “Exes, anything like that?”
Dieter glares at her, nostrils flaring, to which she defends, “We have to cast a wide net, I’m just asking.”
Parker shakes his head again, “No.
“What about Ethan’s family?”
His face stays fixed in a searching expression. No glint of recognition.
Dieter’s shoulders slump.
Parker looks at him, brows knit together with concern, and adds, “But honestly, I’m so fucking exhausted, I might not be remembering right now.”
They sit there for a moment, dull and disenchanted, until Darlene sighs, “Well, should we order some takeout?”
By late afternoon, the sun starts to sink down into the ragged black tree line of the far away mountains.
Rays of light catch the atmosphere just right, casting a shimmering golden hue onto the cabin. One of these beautiful glowing beams streams through the window and manages to hit you square in the eyeballs.
Grimacing, you flip your book belly-down onto the end table and push yourself up into a sitting position. A yawn expands your lungs. You stretch your arms above your head, then let them fall limp at your sides.
Charred logs glow inside the fireplace. No flames. You rise to your feet and trudge over to it, swinging the grate open to slide a few more logs on the fire. They sizzle and pop as they catch heat and light ablaze.
You look around the cozy, rustic living room, glancing at the clock on the wall, then out the window.
Earlier today, while poking around the cabin for something interesting to take your mind off… Well, everything, you stumbled upon a small stash of homemade wine. A glass–maybe a bottle–sounds nice right now. Maybe you could make some food, too. Probably should.
You pad across the dark lacquered floorboards to the cellar door, and push it open. Wrinkling your nose at the mildew scent, you flip the lightswitch on and tip-toe down the stairs, then across the room to the wine rack. One-by-one, you pull out the corked green glass bottles and take note of their year. A few are labeled Plum 2017. Two Strawberry 2018s. Half a dozen Red 2018s.
One of the bottles reads White 2017. A fond smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You slip the bottle under your arm before jogging up the stairs to the main level, where you sift through Sarah’s record collection. A Frank Sinatra album catches your eye, so you put it on, then pour a glass of wine and survey your limited options for supper.
A part of you wants to say fuck it, skip the meal. Just let your empty stomach soak up the wine. Let the tiny tendrils of alcohol branch out into your bloodstream and work its numbing magic. Maybe it’ll dim the acute pain simmering beneath your sternum.
Then you spot the lemon on the counter, sitting beside a bulb of garlic and a blue mesh bag of onions.
There’s pasta and olive oil in the cabinet. Parmesan in the fridge. You could make something nice with that. Maybe watch the sunset.
I could do it tonight.
No.
Why not?
You picture Dieter the first time you saw him. Shifty and slightly arrogant, all blown-out pupils and twitches. Basically a red flag wearing a human suit. You thought he was handsome, though. And his booming laughter brought a real smile to your face for the first time in weeks.
It felt familiar.
It felt like sunshine kissing your skin after a long bout of darkness.
Shaking the picture from your head, you start rummaging through the cupboards for a pot and saucepan. You fill the pot with water, toss in some salt.
When you pull the chef’s knife from the butcher block, you pause to examine the blade in the golden hour light.
I could slice my pulse open.
No.
Why not?
You picture Dieter the second time you met him. Kaleidoscope skin and chartreuse aura. Acid stripped away the cocaine ego to expose his bare bones. And they were beautiful.
Something happened that night. A tethering. A melding. Some ethereal otherworldly connection that intertwined your souls.
Even though he was essentially a stranger, you couldn’t shake the sense that he had always been and always would be a part of you.
Swallowing around the emotion welling up in your throat, you shake your head. Too messy.
The thought of your own blood makes you queasy. If some has to find you like that?
Fuck.
Your stomach twists into nausea.
You set down the knife and find a cutting board, then resume your dinner preparation, singing along to the music, concentrating on the mechanical motion of the blade tearing through the onion, meeting resistance with each aromatic layer.
The goddamn knife is dull anyway.
After mincing the garlic, you nudge your little piles of chopped-up produce into the gleaming pool of melted butter in the saucepan. Steam rises with a gentle sizzle, moisture meeting fat.
Inside the pot, tiny ripe bubbles line the underwater walls, waiting to burst.
Turn up the heat.
Stir the saucepan.
Sip your wine.
You tap your fingers on the countertop, following the beat of the brass band, and quietly sing along with Ol’ Blue Eyes, “No one would care, no one would cry. If I should live, if I should live or die. What now, my love? Now there is nothing. Only my last, my last goodbye.”
You picture Dieter at the beach, holding your hand as the two of you waded through the tide. The best day of your life.
You picture him in his boxers, watering his plants. You picture his warm brown eyes flicking between you and a sketchpad. Him taking the first bite of a gooey brownie and groaning with delight. Laying behind you in the bathtub, arms wrapped around your waist underwater, planting a soft kiss on your cheek bone. Waking up in the morning, his wild dark curls all bent the shape of his pillow indent, a wistful, sleepy smirk on his lips. Laughing. Smiling. Telling you he loves you. Meaning it.
A deep ache of shame spreads across your chest. Your stomach churns. Tears burn behind your eyes, then spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks.
How fucking stupid are you to think the darkness wouldn’t come and swallow everything whole, Dieter included?
What, because you’re in love, the two of you should be spared?
Has that ever stopped her before?
I should fucking know better.
A far-off, high frequency noise starts in your ear and it cuts audio for a second. Everything around you seems far away. Not real. You feel spectral, like you’re dreaming or a ghost or in a tv show or something.
Entirely fiction.
Sniffling, you wipe your damp with the sleeve of your sweater.
You grab the wine glass off the counter and swallow its contents, then refill it, splashing a little vino into the saucepan before setting the bottle aside.
A roar swells as the ingredients get to know each other. You take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, pungent scent, then notice steam billowing off the water in your pot. The still surface has erupted into a consistent boil. You throw about half of a pound of fettuccine into the pot. More than enough, but who the fuck makes only one serving of pasta?
While the fettuccine cooks, you pour some cream into the saucepan, then whisk and whisk and whisk, pausing periodically to stir the pasta. Once the sauce thickens, you whisk in pre-grated parmesan a pinch at a time. You fish a strand of fettuccine out of the boiling water and confirm its al dente status, then transfer a few spoonfuls of pasta water into the sauce before pouring the pot over a colander in the sink.
It calms you, this process. The step-by-step. Seeing the fruits of your labor unfold in real time. Each checkbox marked calms your ragged nerves more than the last.
Before you know it, you’re curled up in an adirondack chair on the deck, quilt draped over your shoulders, twisting fettuccine around your fork as you watch the sun sink down into the mountains, turning the sky into this beautiful vivid watercolor. It’s fucking gorgeous, you’ll give it that.
Am I really going to go through with this?
That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? To end this? To ascend into that glowing iridescent tunnel? To cross the threshold and finally return to the sea of love?
It’s funny, you think, how your whole life you were afraid of dying because you didn’t know what came after.
But after seeing it, you know you had it completely backwards.
Death is a piece of cake. You weren’t scared once when it happened. It’s like the light turned on in your room and you knew there was nothing hiding in wait. Nothing sneaking.
Life, though?
Life is scrambling through the darkness of uncertainty, trying to find a beacon. When you make contact with them, you cling to flames, hoping they’ll burn forever to keep you safe and warm. They won’t. They always burn out.
By the time you finish your pasta, the wine has fully assimilated into your bloodstream, drowning all the excess noise in your head. You polish off the bottle while watching the sun sink down into the Sierra Nevadas. Dusk absorbs the light. The atmosphere shifts from midnight blue to inky black, enveloping you in darkness. It doesn’t even bother you.
Head swimming with wine, you lay out on the cold deck and stare up at the nighttime sky, littered with dazzling pinprick stars.
They remind you of all the times you stargazed with your father, and the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars Ethan hung on the ceiling of the first bedroom you shared with him.
They remind you of how incredibly vast the darkness is.
How the hopeful glimmer of a star can appear so bright and so close, but really be lightyears away, in another galaxy, another life.
Maybe the next one.
[ Next Chapter ]
#psychomanteum#dieter bravo#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x ofc#dieter bravo angst#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal characters
106 notes
·
View notes
Text
pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader (no use of y/n)
rating: mature, mdni 18+
word count: 1.8k
summary: Dieter had grown accustomed to your unwavering forgiveness, even when it seemed as though the world was on your shoulders. But, what happens when you decide to take a step back? Or, Dieter Bravo experiences a wide realization of the consequences of his own actions, to the point where redemption seems utterly elusive.
warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied drug use, alcohol use, unhealthy relationship dynamics, angst again, too much angst, implied recovery period from substances.
A/N: this is part one out of a three part series! please do let me know if you enjoy it as this is my first fic after years (and years) of being hiatused on this account. love ya all xx
His fingers gently pulled at the once-soft sheets under his fingers, a soft hum leaving his parted lips as he looked out past the haze of his dark room, lit only by a cheap candle he had picked up at an old antique store. Probably, that hunk of wax was nearly one hundred years old, but he had decided that keeping his nice, musky-smelling ones was more important to him.
The rain outside the window hit the glass in gentle and rough rounds. The sky couldn't make up its mind on whether it wanted to drizzle or downpour, but it didn't make much of a difference to Dieter; he wasn't planning on going outside either way.
Truthfully, he couldn't really remember the last time he had gone outside or left the house unless opening the door to collect his food deliveries counted as a 'breath of fresh air.' He knew it didn't, yet he considered most things these days to be a win.
Grunting, he looked down at his phone. "Monday, October 2nd" rang out on the screen in bright letters, making him squint as he stared down at his phone. No new notifications. Yeah, he hadn't truly expected there to be. He hadn't realized, whether or not that's because he had a goal of staying coked out most days, that your name was the one that always hung around his phone.
Whether it was stupid videos of cute animals or random texts asking him about where he was, what he was doing, or if he was enjoying filming. He hadn't really noticed how much he had longed for another compilation of kittens falling over to music that wasn't appropriate given the context of the video, but he knew that his own demise fell at his own hands, and that regardless of what he wanted or thought, there was little opportunity for him to make right his wrongs.
The shitty bottle of cider popped off his lips with a loud 'pop.' Dieter smacked his lips together as he looked at the label from under his brow bone, staring at the little label and trying to decipher where he had bought the alcohol.
He was coming up empty-minded, unsure if it was one you had gotten and shoved to the back of his drink fridge, or if he had just gotten gifted the wrong thing from his Instacart driver; the latter seemed more probable. You never were a big beer drinker, and Dieter had his many vices, with beer not even close to the top of that list.
Tossing the bottle onto his already too full end table, he pressed his lips together and moved forward, fuzzy-socked clothed feet hitting the ground, well nearly. "Fuck," he hissed, having stepped on the corner of the top of a beer bottle. The jagged edges crushed into the flesh of his foot as he got up, kicking the metal piece away from him.
Things were miserable; that much he could admit. Not even the promise of a smooth high made his body light up with excitement anymore. He didn't get the same draft from going out and getting messed up with his actor buddies, all of whom he knew didn't like him all that much. But he had always said, "Being around people makes you look more approachable, even if you hate their guts."
Looking down to his phone once more, he shuffled out of his room and kicked at the random clothes that littered his floors, not caring too much about the pigsty he had lived in for the last few weeks. He realized in the haze that you had been tasked with cleaning these messes for him in the past.
If you hadn't done what you had around the house, he would have been living in disrepair, unless he had purchased a cleaning service. But that was neither here nor there. The walk to his kitchen was long, mainly because Dieter refused to turn on the lights. He only used his phone to light the way, and even then, he couldn't be bothered to turn the brightness higher than the 50% it had been on all day. He mumbled something to himself about his eyes being adjusted to the dark, as though anyone was listening to him.
Dieter 1:02 am: I’m sorry.
"Fucking-," he nearly shouted, his hand gripping his phone as he looked at the messages he had sent over the last two weeks. All of them said the same thing: "I'm sorry," but this one was different. All of the other ones went through, their blue text box taunting him as he stared at the screen, the last one sent green.
You had blocked him, finally. He assumed that it was time, considering how badly everything had ended, but he still hadn't really expected you to do it. You never had in the past, even when his words had venom dripping from them, a coke-induced anger, sharp daggers sent your way, just to see you squirm, just to see you cry, to see you beg him to stay in his life because at the end of the day; he loved to feel wanted, to feel needed, and he knew no other way than to make you suffer in order to prove to him that you cared. This time, he had gone too far.
The cost of hubris didn't fall on deaf ears when it came to Dieter, even when it was clear that he wasn't thinking about anyone else but himself. Concerns voiced to him were brushed off with a furrowed brow and a dismissive wave of his hand. It usually ended with some brief statement that he "would work on it" or he "would talk to you about it when he wasn't so messed up," but there was only so many times that excuse would work on anyone, and you had gone past your limit.
It had been an incredibly monotonous day that poured over into the evening. You and Dieter had both decided that staying in made more sense. Neither you nor him had the willpower to go out and avoid fans, prying eyes, or the tension that lingered between you. Or at least you couldn't. Dieter was another story, an enigma that found comfort in the silence you both shared. He held a clear "if you don't say, I won't ask" mentality, and it had kept things relaxed, mellow, and undisturbed, at least on his side.
You wouldn't be able to forget the moment when things had tipped over the edge. There wasn't a big fight, there wasn't a eureka moment that rolled upon you. Yet, the tea glass, for lack of a better metaphor, had broken months ago, and the shards that you consumed with every sip began to make swallowing and breathing difficult. Choking on your own blood silently, while Dieter lay next to you, none the wiser.
His arm had been wrapped around you, your head lazily placed upon his chest. The shirt he had been wearing was wrinkled and creased, a result of his refusal to hang up his folded clothes. He smelled like brandy, a bit of mint, and whatever fragrance was laced into his hair gel. His fingers played with a loose thread on your jumper, one of his old favorites that he had gifted to you after your second date, insisting that it "looked better on you than it ever looked on me."
"I don't think this is working anymore," the words were nearly silent, tasted bitter on your tongue as you continued to lay on his chest. His breathing halted, and his fingers stopped their soothing moves on your arm as he took in your words. He had heard you, and he felt the deep ache in his stomach, as though you had dug your fingers into his chest, pressing past the delicate fibers of the muscles between his ribs, ripping out every last bit of him, despite not moving from your spot.
The Dieter that you had originally met was a spitfire, never taking much seriously, not having any plans for his future outside of what drugs he was going to take at his next party or what country he was going to go to next to star in another forgettable movie. Now, things had gotten better, but the desire to fix this broken man had begun to lose its luster once the honeymoon period had worn off, and all that was left was both of you, not moving, yet gripping each other's wrists as though you two would melt if someone walked away.
You had prided yourself on your strength, and Dieter had too. Despite his shortcomings, he hadn't expected you to leave. He would have bet every last dollar that you wouldn't have left him, that you couldn't because you had promised to stay by his side and love him like he hadn't been loved before. He had always been insecure about his place in the world, despite putting up a bravado and an air of being untouchable. Still, you had instilled in him that he wasn't more broken and less deserving of love, and he had believed that your love would fix him, forgetting that it wasn't only his cup that needed to be filled, but yours as well.
You had devoted your time to making him happy, and he did his best to do the same for you, for a while. Until he got used to you being around, until he got too numb to all that you did for him. It hadn't been intentional, but when filming got hard, when he felt overwhelmed, when the drugs didn't fill his chest like they used to, he blanked out and took and took from you, never thinking about how eventually your cup would run dry while his overflowed.
He said nothing that night. He didn't beg you to stay, he didn't make false promises that he would change, as he had so many times before. No, he knew that all he could do was hold you close, inhaling your scent, and asking if you could stay for the night.
You agreed.
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo x oc#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fluff#pedro pascal angst#pedro pascal fanfiction#the bubble
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wardrobe Masterlist
Prequels
Dress
Measurements
Alterations
Cutting
Unstitched
Resew
Pinned
then Wardrobe
Patchwork
Post Bubble
Museum Date
Honesty
Aging Disgracefully
Everything
Shards
F*ck Up
Wise Men Say
The House Became a Home
One shots
That’s Tomorrow’s Problem (set around Measurements/Alterations.)
Insecure (set around Pinned/Wardrobe.)
69 Dudes! (set around Patchwork)
Elvis (set within the events of F*ck Up.)
Mr&Mrs Bravo (set within The House Became a Home.)
New Year's Eve Drabbles
#bolivjenta masterlist#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo fluff#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo angst#pedro pascal character fanfiction
78 notes
·
View notes
Text
why are you here
dieter bravo x reader
You and your ex show up at the same event. When you meet in the bathroom to talk, it turns into more. Inspired by the song why are you here by Machine Gun Kelly. (The song is way angstier than this fic, but the concept is there.)
This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Dieter Bravo of The Bubble. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.
Content Includes (but is not limited to):
Reader has hair
Angst (they were a couple, now they’re not)
Swearing
Mentions of drinking and edibles
Mentions of sobriety/partial sobriety
Reader has an unnamed male date
Dieter is slightly jealous
Pet names
Semi-public sex
Body worship (I wrote Dieter as a tits man, it just sort of happened)
marking/biting/hickeys
Oral, female receiving
P in V sex, unprotected (this is a bad decision, don’t do this)
Mirror sex
Hair pulling
Creampie
Optimistic ending (I can’t end angst with angst, I’m sorry!)
I don’t know much about addiction/recovery but I’m fairly certain that starting/rekindling relationships is advised against during the beginning stages of the process. But this is fic, and people are individuals. Make good choices.
Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.
“You’re really here with him?”
“You’re supposed to be in Cancún.”
Your words tangle together in the empty bathroom, bitter words clashing with the chic marble tile and gold fixtures of the venue. In the dim light from the vanities, you could see Dieter’s chest heaving. For a split second, you thought you detected a hint of hurt in his eyes, but he quickly covered with a dry laugh and a hand run through the curls that had been precisely styled to look messy and carefree. You hated how good he looked.
It was the first time you’d really seen him since the breakup. Of course, you’d seen him nearly everywhere–on the cover of a magazine in the rack at the drugstore, a thirty-second story on the news, ads for his newest project plastered on every billboard in southern California. But seeing him here, the way you used to have him, real and warm and so much more than Dieter Bravo the famous actor, it twisted your gut.
“I wouldn’t have come if I knew you’d be here,” you said quietly, leaning in the corner created by the wall and the vanity, eyes still trained on the broad expanse of his back.
“Why? Is it that appalling to be in the same room as me?”
The venom in his voice stings, but it soothes the part of you that’s wanted to pick up your phone and call him for weeks now. Despite your initial panic when you saw his familiar shit-eating grin from across the room–one that quickly disappeared when he saw you standing there–you knew you needed this. You needed to build an immunity to him, to become inoculated to his pull.
“No, Dee. We just agreed to give each other space. And I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
“Well, you’re right. I don’t want to see you.”
It’s silent for a moment until you sigh.
“I’ll go.”
“No, I-I want to get out of here anyway.”
“Dieter, you’re the actor, I’m just a writer. Trust me, they’d rather have you here than me.”
He mumbles something under his breath, an old habit of his that’s always driven you insane. With a little too much irritation, you ask him to speak up.
“I said I’d rather have you than any of this shit!” he growls.
A few months ago if he’d taken that tone with you, you’d be on your knees immediately. For all your problems the two of you were always really good at one thing. But he doesn’t get to have you and push you away at the same time.
“What the fuck, Dee? You just said you don’t want to see me.”
His fingers twitch by his side, and you realize for the first time that he’s sober. Well, sober for Dieter–you’d seen him down a few whiskeys and there was no doubt he’d popped an edible or two before coming, he always did before a big social event.
“I…I didn’t want to see you because I hate seeing you alone. Happy. Without me. And I know that’s fucked up. God, and now you’re with fucking-”
The words tumble out way too fast, “I’m not with him.”
Anyone else would have missed the way Dieter’s eyes darkened or the tic of his jaw, but you caught it all. And it went straight to your core. His eyebrows knit together as he tried to understand what you were saying.
“I, um, he asked me to come with him tonight as his date, but I don’t…it’s not like that. I haven’t really…since….” your confession trailed off awkwardly and suddenly it hit you just how stupid your situation was. Standing in the bathroom of a LA club, telling your ex that he’s the last person you’ve been with.
“Sounds like you’ve missed me,” he smirks, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Dieter could be such an ass sometimes.
“Shut up.”
His voice is saccharine sweet, “Oh, it’s okay baby. I missed you too.” He closes the short distance between the two of you, standing so close you can smell his expensive cologne and a hint of the product in his hair. Your thighs clench at the memories it brings.
One of his ring-clad hands tentatively rests on your hip, his thumb tracing intoxicating patterns on your hip through the fabric of your dress. The other comes to rest on the wall near your head, leaving you caged in by his surprisingly strong frame.
“Do you wanna feel how much I missed you, pretty girl?” he leans in to purr before nipping at your ear. Swallowing thickly you manage a nod. Dieter chuckles at your demeanor, and you watch mesmerized as his hand on your hip moves to delicately encircle your wrist, pulling it gently towards the now-obvious tent in his pants. You were surprised by the sounds that escaped the both of you as your fingers found the outline of his hard cock and squeezed.
“Lock the door,” you pull away to unzip the back of your dress, and when Dieter turns back around you find yourself extremely grateful you hadn’t worn a bra. He’s practically salivating and a moment later he’s on you, all lips and teeth and tongue worshipping the skin of your breasts. You’re driven back into the wall and your fingers tangle in the root of his hair as he marks your chest with evidence of his praise.
It’s not long before you’re urging him lower, allowing his thick fingers to slip under your dress and push it down past your hips where it falls discarded on the bathroom floor. Your panties follow soon after and then you’re stepping out of both just as Dieter traces your seam with the pads of his fingers, making you whine for more.
“You’re so wet,” he says offhandedly, as if commenting on the weather or asking a coworker about the score of a game the night before. “Tell me, who is this for?”
“You, Dee,” you sigh contentedly as one of his fingers begins to draw lazy circles around your clit, “It’s all for you. Always for you.”
Back pain and knee problems be damned, Dieter missed your pussy. He dove in like a man starved, forcing your legs apart with his shoulders. When your knees started to give he simply tossed one of your legs over his shoulder, not ready to be denied his favorite treat.
“Shit, Dieter,” you gasp, hips grinding into his face, chasing a quickly approaching high. You’d forgotten how good he was at this. How much he loved it.
You cum hard when he slips two fingers inside you without warning, the sudden intrusion stretching you more than it would have months ago when you were being treated to this nearly daily. The slight pain mixes with the pleasure and you can’t help but cry out as your orgasm works its way through your body, your hand breaking away from Dieter’s shoulder so you can bite down on the flesh of your fist. The muffled bass from the other side of the wall only serves to remind you exactly where you are.
“Missed you, missed this,” he sighs tiredly, placing a kiss to your thigh when you finally tug him away from your sensitive clit, his cheek resting on your leg as he looks up at you with a kind of exhaustion you’d come accustomed to seeing in the mirror lately.
“I need you, Dieter,” you unhook your leg from his shoulder and slide down the wall so you can finally pull him in for a kiss–the first one since he’d thrown his stuff in a bag that July night and stormed out after one too many fights about schedules and work and bad habits.
The taste of you is heavy on his tongue, but that was never uncommon with Dieter. One of his hands runs through your hair and you would be embarrassed of the noise you make if it were with anyone but him. He knows you inside and out, better than any before him and you know you’ll miss this when it all falls apart again.
“We don’t have to do this,” he finally breaks away, gasping for breath and searching your face for an answer.
“Please fuck me, Dee,” you whine, and that’s all it takes before he’s pulling you up to stand again and spinning you quickly to face the mirror over the sink.
You watch, captivated, as he undoes the buckle of his belt and makes quick work of his button and zipper. He’s going commando, another not-so-surprise that makes you giggle.
He’s careful with you. Not in the way his fingers dig into your hip or the way you’re pressed hard against the cold vanity, but he’s gentle as he pushes in–bottoming out in one slow stroke that has your eyes rolling back in your head.
Dieter is still and when you look at him in the mirror, you see him standing behind you with his eyes closed, breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he groans, “You’re so fucking tight. Not gonna last…”
“Dieter, just shut up and fuck me,” you pant, forehead dropping to the cold marble as you clench around him.
“Oh no, pretty girl. I wanna see you,” Dieter’s hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling until your eyes are meeting his in the dim light and you nearly come again as he pulls out slowly before filling you again with a snap of his hips.
Your mouth falls open at the feral look on his face. His eyes are fixed on the place where the two of you are joined but you can’t tear your eyes away from him. The sun-kissed skin of his chest glistens with sweat and the thought crosses your mind that it’s been far too long since you’ve left your mark on his neck. You’ve missed the little sounds he makes when you’re teasing him, making him beg to fuck you.
“Missed you, Dee,” you pant, a tired smirk painting your face.
“Yeah?”
Dieter’s close, you can tell by the stutter of his hips and the furrow of his brow.
“Gonna cum for me Dieter?”
His eyes meet yours in the mirror and he nods pitifully, a desperate whine leaving his lips as he races towards his finish. “Where do you want me?” he chokes out.
“Inside, Dee. I wanna feel it all.”
Your words push him over the edge. His face twists in ecstasy and you can feel his cock twitch inside you. The hand on your hip slides down to rub hard circles on your clit, not stopping until you cum as he finishes inside you. He finally releases his hold on you and lets you slump back into the countertop.
Dieter tries to lighten the mood. “You don’t know how happy I am that you’re not with that prick,” he laughs halfheartedly as he pulls out of you. He can’t stop himself from crouching down and watching his spend leak out of you, fingers tracking through your combined releases making you shudder. The next thing you hear is a slurping sound and you’d kill to see him right now.
But he’s considerate and he knows you’re already close to overstimulation, so Dieter wets one of the fancy hand towels and uses it to wipe the mess between your still-boneless legs. When he’s finished he tosses it in the bin and retrieves your clothing for you.
“You ready to get out of here?” Dieter breaks the silence once you’re both semi-dressed, and what you have to say next crushes your spirit. You finish zipping up your dress and turn to face him.
“This doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
He spins around, nearly falling over as he tries to tuck his shirt back into his slacks. “I meant what I said, I-”
“So did I,” you stop him with a hand on his chest, fingers smoothing the wrinkled fabric and toying with one of the buttons he’d left undone. “It doesn’t mean that we’re going to be good together. I miss you, and I want to work this out with you. But we can’t just fuck every time we have a disagreement.”
“I know.”
You smile softly up at him, basking in the warm glow of his rare vulnerability. “ Do you still want to get out of here? That diner over on Imperial is open 24 hours and you love their chicken wrap.”
For just a moment you’re terrified he’ll say no, and your heart catches in your chest.
“Sounds great. But I think I’ll have my dessert back at your place,” he licks his lips and eyes you up and down suggestively.
“Dieter!” you groan, unable to hide your smirk as he squeezes your ass one last time before the two of you prepare to face the public once more.
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo angst#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x reader smut#dieter bravo x reader angst#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo fanfic#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo oneshot#dieter bravo x female reader#the bubble#pedro pascal character#dieter is a mess but he's trying
104 notes
·
View notes
Text
Plastic Hearts, Six: Kiss Me, Bad Karma
pairing: dieter bravo x actress!ofc (Violet Apollo)
rating: E (18+ only, feral!dieter, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected piv, talks of alcohol/drug consumption, talks of sobriety)
wc: 4k
series masterlist | dieter masterlist
Dieter stirred awake after the sun had risen and began to peer in through the curtains. Tugging what he thought was Violet close to his chest, he frowned at the object's lack of warmth and curved. He peeled one eye open to find he’d been spooning a pillow, his stare full of disgust for this vile object who’d taken the place of his lover.
Sitting up, Dieter rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms before his ears honed in on a whirring sound coming from across the silent home.
“Vi?” he croaked, deep and raspy and nowhere near fully awake.
“In the gym!” she called back, causing a furrow between Dieter’s brows. He didn’t realize he even had a gym.
Dieter found his robe and slippers before slugging out of the master bedroom and into the house in search of this “gym”, finding it behind a door he always assumed was a closet.
Violet was on the treadmill, her face, neck, and chest covered with sweat as she ran, drawing Dieter’s eyes to the bounce of her breasts.
“Eyes up here,” she ordered with a smirk.
“Are you seriously working out right now? It’s like seven in the morning.”
“It’s eleven, babe,” she corrected with another smile. “Besides, I have a strict routine set for me by my trainer that I need to follow—“
“No, what you need to do is let me fuck you,” he interrupted. “That’ll burn enough calories.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she rolled her eyes and grinned, slowing the treadmill to a stop. She dabbed her face and chest with a towel as she stepped off the machine and walked right up to Dieter, watching him eye her down like a hungry animal. “I’m sweaty.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” His hands were on her, holding her tight to his frame as he leaned in to lick a stripe up her neck, drunk on her taste. “Fuck, baby. Taste so fucking good.”
“D,” she moaned, her hands fumbling with the tie on his robe before undoing it. He groaned against her pulse as she wrapped her fist around his cock, pumping him up and down while he sucked a mark on her neck.
“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling her to follow him as he took a seat on the padded leather bench. As she stood in front of him, he hooked a finger in her leggings and tugged on the waistband. “Take these off.”
“In a minute,” she whispered, sinking to the floor in front of him. Dieter groaned as she kissed her way up his thighs, her tongue following the trail that led to his cock. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“Shit,” he sighed, his head rolling back as she gripped his cock and began to stroke it while taking his balls into her mouth one at a time. “Fuck, V.”
“That feel good, baby?” she asked innocently, her eyes wide as he lifted his head back up to look down at her with an earnest nod and pleasured scowl. “You want more of my mouth?”
“P-please,” he begged, voice as tense and desperate as his now weeping cock as Violet’s fist stroked up and down slowly, her thumb swiping over the mess to help glide her palm against him. “Please, baby, please.”
“Good boy,” Dieter groaned, his cock pulsing in her hand at the praise. Violet grinned as she leaned in and wrapped her lips around his fat tip, her tongue flicking at his arousal that beaded over it. Dieter was a mess now, moaning and begging for more of her as she bobbed on him, taking him deep into her throat until she was gagging. He laid back against the bench, the plushness of his stomach on full display for her, and she couldn’t deny herself the chance to rub her palm over it’s smoothness. Dieter found her spit-soaked hand and clasped it with his as she took him down her throat again, glucking and sputtering until he slid in with ease.
“You’re gonna make me fucking cum, baby,” he whined, squeezing her hand as her mouth worked his cock in tandem with her fist until that tension building in his spine finally snapped, his cum painting her throat as she took him in deep and kept him there. “Shit, shit, shit—fuck!”
She hummed as she swallowed him down, her eyes locking with his as he sat up and cupped both of her cheeks to pull her off of him before immediately crashing his mouth against hers, not caring how sloppy her face was from her job well done.
“Lay back,” he ordered, watching her as she laid back on the floor before following her. He tugged her leggings off and spread her thighs, marveling at the sight of her bare pussy in the bright light of daytime, her body spread out on the floor of his home gym. “You’re so fucking sexy, baby.”
“Please,” she begged as he placed kisses all over her stomach, worshiping it’s soft give beneath his lips. “I didn’t—“
“Didn’t what?” He looked up at her from between her thighs with a smirk. “Didn’t make me beg? I seem to remember differently.”
“Fuck,” she panted, knowing that look in his eyes. “You’re gonna—“
“Uh-huh,” he nodded, placing a kiss against her clit. “Gonna make you beg, baby.”
Dieter’s hands were firm as they gripped the plushness of her thighs, keeping them spread wide open as he placed open mouthed kisses all over except for where she craved him most, working her up to the point of panting.
“D,” she whined, lifting her hips up to reach his mouth as he stared down at her weeping cunt like he was in the presence of the Holy Grail.
“Such a pretty fucking pussy,” he mumbled, leaning down to give her a kitten lick against her seam, Violet’s strangled cry bringing a grin to his face as he pulled away just as she started to grind against his tongue. “Mm, I don’t know if you want it bad enough yet, baby. I haven’t heard any begging.”
“D, please,” she cried, sliding her hand down her body to her clit to alleviate some of the tension building only to be swatted away by Dieter.
“Baby, you can do better than that.”
“Please, please, please, baby,” she started, sitting up on her elbows to look at him. “Please eat my pussy, D. Please, it feels so good when you—oh, fuck.”
Dieter’s tongue splayed flat over her seam, gathering as much of her slick on his tongue as he licked up to her clit. He tensed the tip of his tongue as he swiped circles over her swollen and throbbing clit, slow and deliberate, before sucking it into his mouth with a pulse. Her hand came to thread through his mess of curls, holding him against her as she looked down at him with a pleasured scowl, her mouth wide open in a breathless cry.
“Dieter, fuck, baby,” she moaned, feeling that string in her belly grow taut as he kept up this routine of licking and flicking and sucking on her until her thighs began to shake and clamp shut around his face. “I’m gonna cum, D. I’m—oh, fuck, I’m gonna come!”
“Dieter!” Andrea’s voice sounded from the living room of his London home, making Violet nearly sob as her orgasm was so fucking close.
“Shh,” he whispered, smoothing over her thigh before pressing a finger into her weeping cunt as he continued with his tongue.
“But she—��
“Could be the Queen herself and I’d still make her wait until you came,” he replied, husky and deep. Violet silenced her moans as Dieter built that tension up again with the help of his finger curling against that devastating spot inside of her in time with his tongue stroking over the swell of her clit. “Come on, baby. Cum for me. I wanna taste it—“
“Fuck,” she gasped, her body seizing and shaking as her release finally came with a silent cry. Dieter nodded at her as he pulled away, his finger still stroking her walls as he watched her lay there on the gym floor, high on him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he muttered as he kissed his way up her stomach until he was hovering over her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her fingers lifting to comb his hair back.
“You’re beautiful,” she replied, so full of truth and sincerity he almost believed it. Breathing out a chuckle, he leaned down and kissed her lips in a sweet peck before standing up with a grunt. He helped her to her feet and handed her her leggings, watching as she squeezed them on over her hips and ass, the jiggle of her soft skin making it hard for him to want to go out there and attend to business. Throwing on his robe and tying it, he walked over to the mirrors lining the home-gym wall and checked himself for any obvious signs of having just buried his face in America’s Sweetheart’s cunt.
“Dieter, where are you?” Andrea called again and this time Violet answered.
“We’re coming!” she called back and Dieter smirked at her choice in words as he turned around to face her, earning an eye roll. “I meant literally.”
“Mmhm,” he grinned, pulling her close for a deeper kiss than before. “Let’s see how fast I can get rid of her.”
While Dieter was in his meeting with Andrea to go over his flight schedule for the next month, Violet took a much needed shower and got ready for the day. She tried to fight the urge to present as her best self, knowing that Dieter would likely wear just his robe all day, but she couldn’t shake the insecurity she felt looking at her bare face and un-styled hair in the mirror.
“You need a fucking therapist,” she scolded herself as she began straightening her hair.
“Don’t we all?” Dieter appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. Violet smiled, setting her straightener down before turning around to face him, her hands combing through his wild and unruly waves.
“You need a haircut. Getting shaggy,” she smirked as she gave his hair a tug, earning a soft moan. “Can I cut it?”
“Are you gonna fuck it up?” he asked, sliding his hands down to squeeze her ass through her jeans.
“No,” she replied, scratching his scalp. “You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you with my life, Apollo,” he replied with a content smile, as though he’d given it thought beyond this moment. “You can cut it for me tonight. I have to go with Andrea to some meetings for the Scorsese project. Might be gone a while, you should go out and savor the London drizzle before we leave.”
“When are you leaving?” she asked, her hands leaving his hair to smooth over the terry cloth of his robe. “I had a flight set for LA in two days because I have a photo shoot and a talk show thing.”
“I have to be in New York in two days for a couple days of press shit, but I’ll be home right after.”
Violet nodded, trying to be content with the way their schedules were almost lining up when really she would’ve preferred to simply not be without him at all. Violet knew better than to get too attached to his presence. She was well aware of how hard it was to maintain relationships in this industry, and knowing that Dieter had two projects coming up that would inevitably keep him away and busy, she had to learn to be okay with the distance.
Dieter must have sensed her slipping away into her thoughts, his lips pressing against hers acting as a sort of grounding. The warmth of his palm cradled her cheek to keep her in the kiss, to keep her out of her head, and she hummed at the heat he radiated, feeling so warm against her cold skin that she thought (and hoped) it would brand her. It wasn’t until he allowed her to turn around and resume her hair styling that she realized the only mark he left on her was an invisible one, one that only they could see and one that only she could feel. She decided she liked it that way better.
“God, I cannot wait to be back in LA,” Lucy shivered, pulling her coat tight as she walked through the city with Violet. “You know it’s 70 degrees there tomorrow? I checked on my weather app. 70 degrees. And here? 40. And fucking raining.”
“I used to want to move here,” Violet added, shaking her head as she buried her face in her chunky scarf. “Fuck that.”
“So,” Lucy sang, nudging her in the side with her elbow. “We gonna talk about you and Dieter?”
“If you want.” Though she played cavalier about it, she couldn’t help the grin that grew on her face at the mere memory of last night and this morning.
Dieter was above and beyond what she thought and hoped he’d be in bed. After the night in the hotel with his cock shoved down the model’s throat, she assumed he was more of a taker in bed, but it couldn’t be further from the reality. If anything, Dieter liked being told what to do more than anything, though that wasn’t to say he never did some bossing around of his own—he took plenty, he just gave it back tenfold.
“So…what happened?” Lucy asked, pulling Violet from the racy scenes replaying in her mind.
“We talked about the night in the hotel and then one thing led to another and…”
“And?” Lucy urged her with an impatient grin.
“And then I had the best sex of my fuckin’ life, Luce,” Violet whispered enthusiastically. “Like I think I’m gonna have a stroke kind of orgasms, babe.”
“Good for Dieter,” she nodded, impressed. “And especially good for you.”
Violet stayed grinning as they rounded the corner to the restaurant they were headed to, thinking to herself, “this is good for me”.
“You guys gonna be an official thing now, or what?” she continued her questioning as they arrived at the restaurant, paparazzi somehow already there and waiting. Violet gave the cameras a polite wave as she walked past them, but it seemed to be the wrong move as they began to start hurling questions at her.
“Is it true you’re joining the MCU?” No.
“Is that a baby bump you’re hiding behind your coat?” God, no.
“How are you feeling with all the bad reviews coming out about your movie?” N—wait, what?
“What the fuck is he talking about, Luce?” Violet whispered to her assistant as the host of the restaurant quickly guided them in and to their private table near the back.
“I don’t know,” she replied, high pitched and frantic as she reached through her bag for her phone. Pulling it out, her screen lit up with a long list of notifications from the google alerts she had set up for Violet’s name. “Fuck. Fuck. Hold on.”
“I’ll give you a moment,” the host carefully stepped out of their tense bubble as Violet sat staring expectantly at her assistant who was speed reading through critics reviews.
“Well, the good news is that your performance is being called the savior of the movie,” she offered with a bit of hope in her voice. “There’s not a single bad review on you, Vi.”
“But the movie is shit.” It was spoken as a fact because that’s what it was. She knew it during the premiere—though she mistakenly and harshly threw her own performance into the mix as well—and now everyone else seemed to agree. “Well, there goes my fucking Oscar. Fuck, man! This was supposed to—fuck.”
“Violet, you can still get nominated.” Lucy attempted to console her, reaching over to squeeze her forearm as it rested on the table.
“But I can’t win. You can’t star in a shit fucking movie and win Best Actress. They wouldn’t let that happen—they shouldn’t let that happen.” Violet sighed, reaching into her phone, the need to talk to Dieter too strong to beat.
V: hey. reviews are in. movie is shit.
In the few minutes it took for Dieter to send a reply, Violet doomscrolled on her phone until she was sick of hearing her name pop up on her For You page, reviews of what was supposed to be her first big film reduced to TikTok gossip and Instagram headlines.
D: fuck, V.
D: from what i saw last night and the article i’m reading now, you’re not the issue. you know that right?
Violet frowned with a mixture of deep affection and crushing insecurity as she typed her reply that she could muster that was honest.
V: i don’t know.
Feeling the pounding in her chest start to cloud her ears, Violet let out a shaky sigh, only half-listening as Lucy continued on trying to cheer her up, her words nothing more than a drowned out mumble in the distance. Grabbing her phone, she began typing again.
V: my brain won’t shut off. feel like i’m gonna have a panic attack. wish you were here.
D: i’m out of my meeting. where are you?
She gave him the address to the restaurant and felt the tightness in her chest melt just the slightest bit at the knowledge that he would be here soon. In the meantime, Violet tried to distract herself from the entire subject by continuing on talking about the sex she and Dieter had in the gym this morning.
“While you were sweaty?” Lucy asked, half appalled, half impressed.
“Went to town,” she confirmed proudly. “Like he hadn’t eaten for weeks.”
“What a man.” Lucy shook her head in awe and took a sip of her water.
“Talking about me?” Dieter’s voice sounded, instantly illuminating the room, or at least Violet’s perception of it.
She watched him as he walked up to the table as though he was some precious, holy thing. Something born to ease her journey through this life. A beacon of light and hope in a dark world and an even darker industry. She knew the demons that lurked in his head told him otherwise, the cruel monsters taking the form of his parents, constantly making him feel inadequate and insignificant. Violet decided in that moment to do everything in her power to show him just how wrong those voices were. He was more than enough. He was more than significant.
“Hey,” he greeted her, kissing her cheek as he pulled up a seat and sat as close to her as he possibly could without sitting in her lap. He disregarded Lucy, though she took no offense to it. Swiping his knuckle over the apple of Violet’s cheek, he pouted his bottom lip out, the sadness that only he could somehow see in her eyes stabbing him in the chest with empathy.
“I’m not okay,” she whispered in his ear. Dieter nodded and rubbed her back. “I wanted it to be good so badly.”
“I know,” he sighed, his hand never stopping against her back, melting the tension as best as he could in public. “Everybody has that one film that they wanted to work so bad, but…sometimes it’s not our fault. There’s hundreds of other people responsible for a movie, you know? It could be the lighting department or sound or editing or the production team or whatever. Just know that the failure isn’t on you. Everyone—“
“D,” she sighed, letting her head fall into her hands as she propped her elbows up on the table. “None of that makes it better.”
“I know it doesn’t,” he whispered. “But it’s the truth.”
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Bravo?” the waiter appeared and Dieter quickly shook his head, dismissing him.
“I canceled my other meetings today. Let’s go take your mind off things, huh?” he whispered into Violet’s ear. “Have a few drinks, smoke a few blunts, have a couple orgasms—“
“Okay,” she agreed with a giggle, lifting her head to face him. She rested her hand on his face and gave him an adoring stare before realizing that Lucy was still at the table. She turned to her assistant with a deep inhale and forced a smile onto her face, as though she hadn’t just listened in on their private conversation. “Alright, I’m gonna go with D. Just put the bill on my—“
“No,” Dieter objected, reaching into the back pocket of his sage green trousers to tug out his wallet. He dropped two hundred dollar bills on the table, even though their meal couldn’t have totaled more than one hundred, and whistled for the waiter. “Luce, you’re welcome to join us if you want. Fair warning, me and Vi are gonna be fucking like rabbits.”
“You know what, I think I’m okay,” she chuckled. “But you two have fun. Responsible fun, if you can.”
“If by responsible you mean no cocaine, sure,” Dieter replied, standing up and helping Violet slide her coat and scarf on.
“Come on,” Violet laughed, looping her arm with his as she led them out of the restaurant.
Dieter shielded her from the now doubled swarm of paparazzi, his arm wrapping around her to tuck her into his side as they hurried down the sidewalk to where Dieter’s SUV was parked.
“Isn’t it ironic that we used to call these fuckers so that we were seen together and now all I want in the world is for them to leave us alone?” he mumbled into her ear as they walked.
“We created a monster, would be cruel of us not to feed it.”
As the pair laid tangled in the aftermath of their party for two, their bodies curled together on the floor of his living room, the fireplace raging in front of them acting as the only source of light in his home, everything momentarily felt right in the world.
Dieter was not a rich, accomplished man who’d never loved or been loved so truly as he was now. He was simply a man being loved. A man worth loving and holding and understanding.
Violet had transformed as well, no longer carrying the burden of being a beautiful young woman in Hollywood, no longer carrying the shame of what she had to do to get there. She was simply a woman being loved. A woman worth loving and understanding.
Together, they found peace. Together they found what they’d been looking for their entire lives. Inside these walls, however expensive they were, they could put aside the masks and personas, the privilege and pretension, and simply be people instead of idols.
“Tell me there’s more to life than winning awards,” she whispered, drawing hearts on his chest while a Sam Cooke record played crackled on the vintage Victrola.
“There’s more to life than winning awards,” he replied, just as soft as the skin his fingertips traced over on her ribs.
“Now tell me the truth,” she ordered, smoothing her palm over the swell of his stomach.
“For people like us, our art is our everything. We’re always gonna be chasing after validation. Even if there’s more to life.”
Violet nodded against his shoulder, a tear falling from her eyes and onto his heated skin.
“I wanted it so badly.”
“Keep wanting it,” he urged, squeezing her tighter to his body. “Keep wanting it until you get it, and then want it even more.”
“I’m sorry I broke your sobriety,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his peck. “I shouldn’t have—“
“Shh,” he silenced her apologies with a kiss to her forehead. “You’re the only person in the world who makes me feel human. Do you understand how much that means to me? I’d get drunk with you any day, Violet. Only you.”
“Tell me one more thing,” she commanded, moving to straddle his thighs, her hands raking up and down his chest as she smiled down at him.
“Anything,” he replied, reaching to cup her face in his hands as though she was a jewel.
“Tell me you love me again.” Dieter grinned, pulling her down until her lips were ghosting over his.
“I—“ A peck. “Love—“ Another. “You.”
He kissed her face until they were both grinning.
“God, I love you.”
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal fluff#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo#dieter bravo series#dieter bravo x oc#dieter bravo fluff#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo bubble#dieter bravo angst#plastic hearts
155 notes
·
View notes
Text
A list of all my favourite DIETER BRAVO Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.
Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤
⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 1
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 2
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 3
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 4
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 5
Dieter Bravo Fic Recs - Part 6
Will be added to as I find more...
Jett's Pedro Character Favourite Fic Recs
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo the bubble#dieter bravo x you#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x gn!reader#dieter bravo x m!reader#dieter bravo smut#dieter bravo fluff#dieter bravo angst#diter bravo fic#the bubble#the bubble fanfic#jett's fic recs#fic recs
15 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
