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please. no matter what you do. stop everything. read this fic. top to bottom. bottom to top. please. please. tears are in my eyes rn. not only is it ridiculously hot and fluffy but it’s also just such a successful reflection of the neurodivergent experience :,(

never ever gonna stop loving dieter and pix

bright lights - part iv [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

chapter summary: Everyone has an opinion about you and Dieter these days. ratings/warnings: E [age gap (reader is 32, Dieter is 47), dual/alternating POV, boss/employee relationship, flirting, overt criticisms of Twitter stan behavior, overt fatphobia, insecurity of the new romantic relationship variety, Pix has a conversation with her mother that goes poorly, ableism, some overt fatphobia because the internet is a garbage land, a little angst, SMUT, oral sex f receiving, difficulty orgasming, face riding, coming untouched, dry-humping (i'm going through a phase i fear), they're both switches but Dieter is very submissive this chapter, semi-public fooling around, they are extremely horny for each other, Dieter goes to therapy, Dieter has commitment issues, they are both trying their best] wc: 6.4k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! Pretty sure life is conspiring against me lately, but I finally got this finished and I REALLY hope it's as fun to read as it was to write. I am asking y'all to bear with me (and Dieter--and Pix, too, tbh) and trust the process. that fear of commitment can be a bitch. all my love to @mothandpidgeon for giving me all the bonks I could ever ask for every time i start to doubt myself and for being a wonderful beta. i love you endlessly.

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The morning after is, in your experience, a delicate affair. Maybe if you were a different person, a chill girl with no need for answers to any of the questions swirling around the whirlpool of your mind, you could approach with a heavier hand.

But you are not a chill girl.

Maybe it’s lucky for you that Dieter Bravo is not a chill guy, either. His affection is not the usual type of cool, collected kiss on the forehead. There is no knowing smirk, no barely-there acknowledgment of what happened the night before. Instead, he clings to you like a needy sloth, pressing sloppy little kisses on every inch of bare skin he can find.

He’s even more beautiful right now, haloed by all this golden sunlight with cherry blossom pink cheeks and pupils blown so wide and dark you can barely make out the dark brown irises. His tongue massages the column of your throat, hungry and pleading, but his hand hovers politely at the hem of your shirt.

“What is it?”

“Can I see you?” He rubs the seams between his thumb and forefinger. You frown at him, your sleepy, over-literal brain too slow to work out his question.

“Can you not see me now?” You ask, only understanding what he’s meant just as the last word of your question leaves your mouth. He buries a smile into your collarbone, waiting for you to catch up. “Oh. You mean…yes. Yeah.”

“You sure?” He asks, sensing your hesitation.

“Well, just, um.”

Maybe there is some delicacy to this morning, after all. You try to phrase it in your brain, reordering sentences until you've been quiet too long. Dieter says nothing, though, just occupies himself by kissing all your fingers.

He likes you, doesn’t he?

Fuck it.

“It’s just that my tits are like…real tits. Like they’re not perky, they’re just big, thirty-two year old tits, so if you’re thinking—”

But he’s already hiked your shirt up, groaning as he cups the aforementioned big, thirty-two year old tits his hands and massages them. “Fuck yeah, they are.” He wastes no time latching onto your nipple and letting out a garbled fuck as he swirls his tongue around the hardening bud.

“Fuck, Dee,” you whine.

It’s embarrassing how desperate you are, how wet you’ve gotten already. You can feel him, too, though, hard and throbbing against your hip.

He unlatches, gazing at you with big puppy eyes to ask, “Can I eat your pussy?”

“Yeah, Dieter, please,” you breathe.

You’re definitely not the only desperate one. He’s crawled down between your legs to pull your panties off before you can even finish saying yeah.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. His fluffy hair sticks up over the curve of your belly as he positions your legs over his shoulders. He noses your thighs, kissing and nipping his way to your core as you squirm against him.

“Tease,” you murmur.

“Just wanna taste all of you,” he says, settling himself in front of your pussy. “Jesus Christ. You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“Better do something about that, Bravo,” you order. “Before I do it—”

You jump at the sudden contact, his tongue pressing firmly against your clit. No curious kitten licks—he gets right to work. Most of the men you’ve been with need a moment to orient themselves, but Dieter knows exactly where he’s going.

He listens well, too. All that talk about him being difficult to work with on set and here he is, taking direction perfectly.

“Firmer,” you sigh, and he presses the flat of his tongue against your clit as he moves his head in circles. “Like that, yes, fuck—”

Dieter lets out a soft little whine at your praise, bringing his hand down to his cock and squeezing. You gaze at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He likes it when you praise him.

A lot.

It shouldn’t surprise you, really; the man lives off praise. But this is different. You’ve seen him shrug off criticism of his performances, but it feels like it would ruin him if he failed to please you.

His fingers twitch against your thigh and your mouth waters at the thought of them inside of you. You really need something inside of you.

You clear your throat. “Dee—can I—your fingers—”

Eloquence is not your friend right now.

“You want my finger, baby?” He asks, not looking up, barely taking his mouth off your pussy.

“Yeah,” you whine. “Yes. Fuck, please.”

Despite spending the last six months staring at those thick, steady fingers, but that hasn’t prepared you at all for the way just one stretches you out as he sinks it into your cunt. He growls at the sob you let out, curling his finger up and caressing something that has you seeing stars.

“Dee—”

“I know, baby,” he coos. “Can you take a second?”

“Please, fuck, please,” you beg, all breathy and girlish.

He slides in a second finger and groans at the way you take it for him. It’s even more of a stretch, but he’s gentle with you, rubbing and massaging until you open up completely for him. It’s easier, you think, with all your arousal and his saliva and how relaxed he’s made you.

“Look at her,” he says, pulling back for a breath. He’s not talking to you. “She’s so wet.”

He says it like he hasn’t been drooling on your pussy for the last twenty minutes, like he’s shocked he’s made you feel this good.

A sudden dread pushes through your haze of pleasure and you glance back at the digital clock next to the bed. Twenty minutes?

This is not the best realization, especially now that there’s been a realization. Now you’re in your head. This happens sometimes—sometimes, no matter how good it feels, you just need more pressure than that sweet little tongue of his can provide.

Dieter doesn’t seem concerned, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed how much time has passed. You try to get out of your head; try not to worry about how easily he bruises even when it’s something silly.

Of course it would happen the first time he’s eating you out.

You could always fake it, but you don’t like lying to him. He’s always so open with you, it feels like more of a betrayal than a little lie.

“C’mon, baby,” he urges. “Wanna feel you come all over my tongue.”

Shit.

His tone isn’t even impatient. If anything, he’s just trying to be sexy, but now you’re in your head and you’re not getting out of it.

You stiffen as you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut, deciding to just go with the truth. “Sorry, I know it’s taking a while, it—sometimes that just happens, I guess, it feels really good, it’s okay if I don’t come.”

He stops and gazes up at you with those soft eyes, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal.

“It’s okay if it takes a while, baby. I’ll stay down here all day. What do you need from me?” He asks, pulling his fingers carefully from you and waiting for you to answer. “Faster, slower?”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck. They usually just stop.

“Um…it’s not really that. It’s usually, like, more pressure. Friction, I guess.”

He flashes a devilish little grin. “Mmm, okay. So you need something to rub up against, yeah? Like last night, huh? She just needs a little something more?”

“Jesus Christ, Dee,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how naked you are in more ways than. This is not usually something you discuss.

“C’mere,” he says, climbing up and laying back on the pillows. The fluffy robe has fallen open, and you can see his pretty skin shiny with perspiration. Your eyes wander down, biting your lip as your gaze lands on his cock.

You’ve never seen it before, not even by accident, despite being warned. You make a mental note to ask—why’d he stay so dressed in front of you all this time? For now, though, you’re busy staring at it.

It’s fucking pretty. Thick and long, his head bulging from his foreskin and leaking with arousal. You swallow harshly—you were in the middle of something, but now it’s all you can do not to sink down on it, even if it splits you in half.

“Nuh uh,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around the base. “You’re not near ready for that, sweetheart. Could barely take my fingers. Need more time.”

Your mouth rounds—you hadn’t even considered that he’d be worried about that. Guilt twinges in your gut—you’d assumed he’d be more selfish.

He’s smirking when you meet his eyes, your face hot with desire, and that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You’re still not entirely sure what he wants you to do, though.

“What…”

You trail off.

“Come sit on my face,” he says.

Oh.

There is no denying that you’ve gotten off to the thought of riding that nose. The fact that he’s offering it so freely just to get you off makes your head spin.

“Okay,” you murmur.

You straddle him first, pressing a kiss to his lips and sliding your hands through his hair. You haven’t gotten to touch him very much, and all you want is to feel him under your fingertips.

Dieter licks into your mouth, wrapping his arms around your waist with a little delighted noise. You can feel his cock, hard and pulsing underneath you, slick with both your arousal. You spend some time kissing him; feeling him. Everything is wet and sloppy and smooth, and you like the way his soft belly meets yours. He whimpers when you cradle his jaw in your hands and pull on his hair, and again when you scratch your nails down his chest, leaving long, pink marks on his pecs.

“Good noises?” You ask, just to make sure.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “Now if you don’t fuck my face right now, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He looks almost as excited as you feel when your thighs bracket his head.

“Baby,” he groans. “Please, sit on it, don’t make me beg.”

You kind of like making him beg, though.

“What if I want you to beg?”

“Then I’ll fucking do it.” His big, earnest eyes send a ripple of power through your chest.

“Then beg.”

“Please, Pix. Please put your pretty little pussy on my face,” he whines, sticking his tongue out of his mouth like he’s trying to taste you in the air. “Please, please, baby, please—”

You don’t have it in you to make him wait for long.

He makes an incoherent noise underneath you, sinking his fingers into your thighs to help you move back and forth. His tongue finds your hole quickly, fucking it as you find the perfect pressure for your clit on his nose.

“Oh,” you moan, grabbing the headboard to stabilize yourself. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck it’s—”

He growls, fingers digging harsh enough that there’ll be little marks on you, too.

Your release sneaks up on you, clamping your thighs around his head and clenching around his tongue as stars burst behind your eyelids. You can hear yourself crying out, but it doesn’t feel like it’s coming from you. Dieter stills, moaning underneath you and holding the small of your back, like he’s trying to keep you upright.

Collapsing backward, you giggle with endorphins. Dieter’s climbing over you in seconds, kissing you with all your arousal sliding against your lips. “Fuck, you are so sexy, holy fuck,” he mutters.

“Do you need to, um…?”

His cheeks turn pink at the question. “I kinda, uh. When you were on my face.”

“Like, you jerked—”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh, Dee, that’s so—”

“I know, I’m sorry, you’re just—”

“Fucking hot,” you finish, running your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You taste like pussy.”

“Mmhmm. I’d fucking live in there if you let me. Curl up in a little ball and just—”

“You’re so fucking weird,” you tease, and he grins. He balances himself on his forearm, his other hand wandering down your body until he finds your soaked core. Two fingers slide in with ease, pulling a gasp from you.

“You love it, though,” he murmurs, pumping slowly.

He looks you in the eye, and you let him.

On Tuesday morning, your mother calls. This is not surprising—the surprising part is that she’d waited this long.

“Did you see Twitter?” She asks. You haven’t, and anyone who knows you well knows not to inform you of anything like this unless you ask. Your mother, unfortunately, does not know you very well at all.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh.

“Like…the app? The whole thing? What are you talking about?”

“You’re on it,” she says, elaborating on absolutely nothing.

“Mom—”

“Just look at the link I sent!”

“All right, all right.” With an apprehensive tap of your index finger, the link pops open to reveal a thumbnail zoomed into a mane of curls you’d recognize anywhere.

And oh, for God’s sake, it’s trending, too.

“What’s going on there?” Your mother demands, as though you’ve betrayed her somehow.

“My boss is helping me up—”

“Did you fall?”

“Mother,” you sigh. “I just bent down to pick up some broken glass. He helped. That’s all.”

“That’s not what everyone’s saying,” she presses.

“Who the hell is everyone? I’m telling you what happened.”

You go around in circles with her, and after a while she seems to believe you. For now. “Imagine if you were dating Dieter Bravo,” she chuckles.

“I could pull Dieter Bravo,” you argue. She laughs some more, and you try to ignore it, but something about talking to her always turns you into a petulant fifteen-year-old.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Well, nothing, dear. You’re just—well, you’re different, you know. It’s not a bad thing.”

“I know it’s not a bad thing.” But it feels like a bad thing right now. “Look, I gotta go. My boss who could never possibly be into me needs me to go fold his laundry. Love you.”

“Honey—”

Guilt creeps up on you the moment you end the call without letting her say goodbye. It’s just not fair. She can be as careless as she wants with her words and you’re the one who ends up feeling bad about it all. It’s so unfair that she’s never really gotten past the whole autistic daughter thing.

You wipe your eyes, refusing to get so upset over something so stupid. And anyway, she’s wrong. You absolutely can pull Dieter Bravo. He’s been all over you since Sunday, even after the nerve-wracking “What are we?” conversation you couldn’t help but initiate last night in the middle of The Truman Show.

“So…what, um, what is this?” You’d asked, just after Truman Burbank started falling, unscripted, for an extra. “Like, us?”

You’d barely gotten the words out and already you wished you could take them back. Why did you need to know that second? Why do you need to know everything, immediately, why can’t you ever just be cool?

You’d be a very different person then, you think.

Dieter had put his arm around you and set his chin on top of your head as a surge of hope spread through your chest. Your imagination had run wild—maybe he’d profess a love so big and beautiful he couldn’t stand to keep his mouth shut about it; that he’d been into you since the very second you walked into his life; that he wanted to be with you forever and ever.

“Well,” he’d sighed.

It hadn’t sounded like the start of any profession of love you’d ever heard.

“We should probably just…keep it casual for now. See where it goes. All this stuff going on, you know, might be a little much to start a whole thing in the middle of it.”

A little much.

You’d tried to quell the disappointed ache. No grand love profession for now, then. He’d tipped your chin to meet his gaze, and you’d rearrange your face into something passably placid.

“That okay?” He’d asked. You’d had to keep yourself from laughing, imagining his face if you’d said it wasn’t okay; that you didn’t want casual. That you wanted to be his.

But you knew well enough what “That okay?” meant. It was like when someone asked how you were doing—you weren’t ever supposed to actually tell them how you were doing.

You didn’t want to create problems for him now, either. He was stressed out enough.

“Totally,” you’d said.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it felt sticky and sour on your tongue.

But it’d been fine then, and fine after, and you’d both fallen asleep on his big couch, and you really should stop thinking about how nice it is to wake up with him wrapped around you.

You wonder what your mom would think about that.

The thing about wanting to know things is that curiosity will always get the better of you, dead cats be damned. What’s so special about this interaction between the two of you that it’s trending?

And so, during some interview for Vanity Fair’s Youtube channel (you think, at least, you don’t keep up quite as well as Christina on these long press days), you spend a few minutes in his luxurious, if rather small, changing room investigating just what’s so interesting about him helping you stand up.

The video is thirty seconds long, but you’re sure it was at least a few minutes. The camera pulls away from Dieter’s curls as he whips his head around like there’s been a commotion. And there has, of course, with you dropping to the ground to scrounge for pieces of broken glass that, somehow, hadn’t cut your fingers to shreds. It finally irks you that the man who bumped you so hard didn’t even turn to look.

Dieter moves quickly, kneeling with you in that outrageously expensive outfit, a literal knight in glittering armor, and tries to block you from the cameras. There’s only so much he could do from the side, you suppose.

It’s a ridiculously romantic shot, one of his hands clasped over yours, the other cradling your elbow as he lifts you from the ground. His eyes sweep over you, squeezing your shoulders when he’s certain you’re steady and talking softly before turning back to the line of interviewers. And you, for your part, actually look great in that black department store suit.

The moment looks so intimate, and despite having had this man between your legs, covered in your arousal, this is what makes your heart stutter and your cheeks burn. And it’s not just you projecting, either—the commenters are quick to confirm exactly what it looks like, for better or worse.

Who the fuck is that? Have we seen her before?

lol didn’t know he was into fat chicks

omg he’s into big girls??!!

he’s like in love with her

who IS that

She’s pretty, is she an actress?

Ugh he’ll fuck anything won’t he

“He’s not fucking you,” you mutter, happily recalling the way his tongue felt on your clit, the sharp hitch in his breath when you rubbed against his cock before climbing on his face.

There are an alarming number of comments expressing excitement about him liking fat chicks—which, like, sure, but do they have to say it like that?

Morbid curiosity finds you digging deeper. Just who are Dieter Bravo’s most devoted fans? What do they know about him? And more importantly, what do they think they know about him?

They’ve been busy, it seems, digging up blurry pictures of you leaving his house and carrying groceries and giggling as you accompany him to some fitting or another.

You give yourself a quick kudos for dressing as professionally as possible on your outings with him, despite his insistence that you be comfortable. He can wear all the dirty pajama pants and be as comfortable as he wants—that is not a luxury you can afford.

The speculation is endless—you’re his girlfriend, his cousin, his friend from college, his hair stylist, his personal chef, his secret wife. A part of you wants to participate and suggest the most ridiculous thing connection you can think of—salt lamp specialist comes to mind.

“Whatcha doin’?” Dieter bursts through the dressing room door, prompting you to snap the laptop shut, looking at him with much wider eyes than necessary.

“Nothing,” you say, straightening up.

He crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, unconvinced. “You watching porn?”

You laugh. “Here? No.”

“Then what is it? Tell me,” Dieter whines, closing the door. He drags the ‘e’ out and flops onto the little loveseat, settling his head in your lap. “I needed a break and came to see you.”

“Fine,” you sigh, handing him the laptop. Sometimes it’s impossible to say no to him. “It looks like your fans have figured some things out.”

You watch him for a reaction as he balances it on his little belly and squints. “Where are your glasses?”

He waves you off.

As he reads through the comments, you chew your nails as quietly as you can. Is it weird that you’d gone looking? Would he be upset that you did?

He’s too quiet.

Your imagination starts running wild again. Maybe he’s considering their points. Maybe you’re really not good enough for him, you need to go back to just being his assistant. Actually, you’re fired, and he’ll just pay to break your contract.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as he sits up.

“They’re so mean to you,” he says, and you meet his gaze. It catches you off guard how softly it comes out, how round his eyes are.

“I mean, yeah,” you say. “Of course they are. Is this the first time you’ve read internet comments before?”

“No,” he says defensively. “I just don’t like how they’re talking about you. Like, fuck them, you know? They’re supposed to be my fans? Maybe I need to get some real security. I don’t like them fuckin’ poking around, looking for more pictures of you and shit.”

You can’t help the slow smile creeping across your face.

“What?” He asks, but he starts smiling, too.

“You’re protecting me,” you tease, rising from the couch and poking him in the chest.

“So what if I am?” He gesticulates wildly, your MacBook bouncing up and down as he flails his arms.

“You like me,” you accuse.

“Yeah, and?” He sets the MacBook down and closes the gap of space between the two of you. “That a problem?”

You swallow as he gets closer, his cologne giving you a headrush. He brings his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“Hm?” He asks. You shake your head, suddenly lacking any teasing words at all. He turns your head to the side and nuzzles you. “You think I’d let anything happen to you?”

“No,” you whisper, your stomach doing flips as he presses a wet kiss to your cheek and trailing his lips down to your neck.

“You know I think you’re so fucking sexy, right? Wearing these little low cut shirts all the time?”

“Shit, Dee,” you gasp, giggling as his hand slips under your shirt and resting on your belly.

“Bossing me around,” he breathes. You let out a soft moan when he cups your breast, squeezing lightly.

“This is so inappropriate—”

“I’ll stop if you want me to stop,” he grins, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You can feel his smile on your cheek.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you sigh, eyes darting to the locked door.

“Oh, fuck yeah, baby, is that what you need right now? You need a little distraction? You want me to make you come?”

Your work phone rings, of course. At the same time, there’s a heavy knock at the door. “Mr. Bravo, we need you back in two minutes!”

You take a deep breath—it’s for sure the stylist trying to work out a time for tomorrow. He whines as you grasp his wrist and gently pull his hand from under your shirt.

“Goddammit,” he grunts. “Let me finger you while you’re on the phone.”

There is an absolutely ludicrous moment where you consider this, but you eventually shake your head and come to your senses. “Go finish up,” you order. He relents, but not before he gives you one of those sloppy, desperate little kisses he’s so fond of.

You are in far, far too deep.

Life might be overwhelming right now, but he can’t put therapy on hold, unfortunately.

Dieter started coming to Kristopher (“With a K,” he’d emphasized at their first meeting) a few months before Anika finally had enough. Kristopher’s office was sparsely decorated with just a few plants and couches and soft lighting. He usually did house calls, but ever since you’d started living in the guesthouse, Dieter came here instead. He doesn’t know why—you know he’s in therapy. You pay Kristopher out of Dieter’s account like every other bill he has. He just doesn’t want you to see him like this.

He hasn’t unpacked that with Kristopher yet.

Dieter pokes at the salt lamp on the side table while he waits for Kristopher. You would have some horribly un-fun fact about why it doesn’t do anything. He makes a mental note to ask.

Kristopher, he thinks, will either be very proud of him or very disappointed. He wipes his sweaty palms on his gray linen pants as the door opens.

“Good afternoon, Dieter,” Kristopher says brightly.

Kristopher is forty-two and married to a man named Derek. He wears silver wired-rimmed glasses and tight khaki pants, teetering on the line between professional and elder millennial hipster with his Chuck Taylors and the top two buttons of his dark green shirt undone.

He is also a frequent star of Dieter’s fantasies, talking him through some trauma or another while Dieter slowly jerks off. Dieter doesn’t know what that means, and it’s not really something he wants to examine. He should find a therapist he doesn’t want to jerk off to, but Kristopher is the only one he’s found who isn’t openly impressed by his star status. Like you, now that he thinks of it.

There must be something there, but he doesn’t want to talk about that, either.

Dieter looks away as Kristopher bends over to set something on his desk. “Hey,” Dieter says.

“How are we?”

Kristopher uses “we” when he means “you” or “I”. It makes Dieter itch. “Good,” he says. Kristopher sits and crosses his legs, peering at Dieter like he’s assessing him extra hard today.

“Even after Sunday?” Kristopher asks, and Dieter huffs a laugh.

“Even after Sunday,” he says.

“You were worried about that,” Kristopher points out. “About being upset. What changed?”

Kristopher has his opinions on Dieter’s “fascination” with you. If you knew how often he brings you up in therapy.

“I…had some support,” Dieter says, acting cagey. He doesn’t want Kristopher to tell him this is a bad idea.

The other man doesn’t say anything. Instead, he scribbles something in a notebook and lets Dieter stew in his discomfort. He does this, and it always works.

Fuck.

“My assistant. Or temporary assistant. She’s my assistant’s assistant,” he explains unnecessarily. Kristopher says your name, his lips quirked upward. Dieter nods, feeling like he’s about to get chewed out.

“Well?” Kristopher prompts. He’s not getting out of this.

The damn breaks, and Dieter spills everything.

“It was really…great,” he finishes with a sigh.

Kristopher finishes scribbling and sets his notebook down. “So you’ve already had that ‘What are we’ conversation?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she brought it up. She’s…direct,” he says, smiling.

“And is that a positive thing for you, do you think?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Kristopher picks up the notebook and rifles through it, flipping back a dozen or so pages. “‘She’s a little mean sometimes’,” he quotes. “You said that in July. So is she mean or direct?”

“Direct,” Dieter asserts. “I just didn’t know her well enough.”

“Why do you think you took her directness as her being mean at first?” He asks. Dieter leans back and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. They’re about to get into something, he can feel it, and he doesn’t know if he has the strength.

“Probably because no one talks to me the way she does. Like they want to, not because they’re being paid to. I know she is, technically, but I don’t…she’s different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“What about Anika?” He asks softly. “She was direct.”

Dieter shrugs. “And I made her life hell.”

“But you won’t do that this time?”

Sometimes Dieter wants to get up in the middle of these sessions and leave. No, he won’t do that this time. He’ll be better this time. He is better this time.

“It’s not…it’s not the same,” Dieter insists.

“It doesn’t sound very casual to me, Dieter,” Kristopher says. “You told her that, right? To keep it casual for now?”

“Well, yeah,” Dieter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured…I figured she’d tell me if there was a problem with that.”

“Because she’s direct,” he says. Dieter hates it when he does this, too. Kristopher is the opposite of direct, leading him around like a dog on a leash and not in a fun way. He has no idea what conclusion he’s supposed to be getting to here and it’s starting to infuriate him.

“You just have to come out and say it, man.”

Kristopher leans back and folds his hands over his flat stomach, squinting at the clock above Dieter’s head. “All right, well. In the interest of time. You don’t talk about this person in a casual way. You never have, not in any of the six months she’s been in your life. You mention her more than you do your family. You came in here three months ago distraught that you’d hurt her feelings. You didn’t get that upset when your wife left you. Not once. So I guess what I’m asking is, is casual the word you wanted to use? And does that mean the same thing to both of you?”

Dieter blinks a few times, trying to come up with any words at all. He swallows harshly. “I…guess it’s not the word I’d use.”

Kristopher’s alarm goes off—time’s up.

He walks Dieter to the door and squeezes his shoulder. “People don’t always tell us exactly what they want when they think they’ll lose something if they do. I just don’t want you to miss out on something that might be good for you.”

It’s late when he gets back. All the lights are off except for the dim glow of your little house in the backyard. He bites his lip, wondering if you’d be too mad at him for disturbing you.

Would you think it’s a hook up? That he’s just using you?

Are you okay with this whole thing?

Kristopher’s words stick in his head—does casual mean the same thing to you?

It’s so late. He just wants to see you.

It’s unseasonably warm, even for Los Angeles. This might explain why he finds you in a lounge chair, looking up at the clear sky.

“Hey, Dee.” You don’t look away from the sky.

“What if I was a murderer?” He asks.

“Then I’d be dead, I guess. How was your evening?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. “What’d you do?”

“Me and Ada had dinner together and watched When Harry Met Sally. She said she was missing Carrie Fisher. They were good friends. Can you imagine?”

“I worked with Carrie,” Dieter says.

“Of course you did,” you laugh. “C’mere.” You open your arms and he climbs between your legs. He likes when you hold him like this-there’s safety here he hasn’t felt with anyone in years.

“Did you get more Skittles?” He asks and you hum an affirmative, looking at the sky.

“Did you know that Skittles have titanium dioxide on the coating to keep them shiny?”

“They have what?”

“Titanium dioxide. It’s banned in Europe even though there’s not really a link to any risk, but isn’t that weird? And some of it just doesn’t break down in your body.”

Dieter looks at you, bumping your nose with his. “Why do you know that?”

You grin at him. “Don’t know, actually. Just do.”

Dieter kisses your forehead. “What else is in that big brain?”

“Memorizing facts doesn’t make you smart,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Kinda does,” he says. “What about salt lamps?”

“What about them?”

“What’s their deal?” He noses your neck and settles there, waiting for you to tell him everything you know.

“Nothing. They’re just pretty. But they don’t do anything.”

“No asbestos?”

“I dunno. I’m no salt lamp expert. I just know it’s garbage.”

He presses his lips to yours—innocently, at first, he swears, he’d just missed you. But you make this noise—this soft little moan—and his cock springs to attention. He slides his tongue across the seam of your lips, but you’re already opening your mouth.

You lift your hips and press into him, and it’s over. No more innocent little kiss now. He slots his knee between your legs and presses his thigh to your cunt, precome already leaking from him.

There’s something forbidden about this, the two of you rubbing against each other like breathless, desperate teenagers.

“Dee,” you breathe. “You’re so hard already.”

“Doesn’t take a lot with you, sweetheart. Make me fuckin’ crazy,” he grunts, rutting against you. The fabric of his pants gives a pleasant friction he’d forgotten about. “Fuck. You wanna—fuck—you wanna go fool around? Let me eat your pussy? Oh, fuck, please let me eat your pussy.”

“Um, I might’ve just finished touching myself,” you giggle. You seem a little shy about it. “I didn’t know you when you’d be back.”

“Fuck me,” he breathes, grinding against your leg. “I’ll make you come again, c’mon.”

“No,” you say sharply. “I want you to come.”

He shudders at your request. “Jesus Christ, baby. Tell me what you thought about when you were touching yourself. Please.”

Dieter buries his face into your neck, desperate to breathe you in. He runs his teeth over the column of your throat—he wants to mark you, to sink his incisors into your skin and watch tiny bruises bloom.

He thinks you’d like it rough.

“Thought about you being a good boy for me,” you whisper into his ear, tugging on his hair and sending goosebumps down his spine. “Thought about you putting your big fucking cock inside of me and letting me ride you until I’m screaming—”

Sweat gathers on his brow, his hips moving faster at the tremor in your voice, like you’re so drunk on power and lust it’s hard to keep your own hips from grinding into his. “Holy fuck,” he groans.

“Thought about you doing exactly what I say. About pulling this pretty hair.” You tug again, harder this time, your fingers twisted into his curls and bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. “Thought about sucking that pretty dick, letting you come all over my face.”

He can’t speak, he can barely breathe; he wants it so, so bad.

“You’re a good boy, you know. Doing what I tell you, humping my leg outside all desperate.”

“I’d do more—I’d do whatever you want. I’d get naked, I don��t care.”

“Hmmm,” you tease. “Maybe next time. This still feel good?”

His pants, drenched with precome, press firmly against your bare leg. He wants to feel your skin, but he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” he croaks, because it still feels good. But you see right through him.

“You sure? You don’t want anything? Good boys don’t lie.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I want—can I feel you? Can I fuck your thigh this time?”

“Ohh,” you coo. “That’s my sweet boy, asking for what he wants. Take it out.”

He wastes no time pulling his cock out.

“Let me see,” you request. He sits back on his knees and holds it at the base, the bulbous tip red and throbbing and drooling precome. It takes all his strength not to stroke himself. “Oh, baby, look at you. Come on, honey, finish.”

Dieter falls forward, groaning when his cock meets your soft warm thigh. He hides his face in your neck again, whimpering and wishing he could feel you, too.

He asks, because you’d told him to.

“Can I touch your pussy? Please, sweetheart?”

You don’t say a word as you take his hand and slide it under your sleep shorts. You’re not wearing panties and you’re fucking soaked. You keen as he sinks his fingers into you, your heat clenching around him.

It’s over so much sooner than he wants it to be.

He tries to warn you about his sudden release, but you don’t seem to mind the surprise, cooing softly as he bucks against you. “My good boy, oh, fuck—that’s it, come on, baby, you’re so—fucking—good—”

He lays there for only a moment, sticky spend cooling between his belly and yours, because he has work to do. He can still feel you clenching around him, and he thinks he could do it. You deserve it. He hasn’t even caught his breath when he presses his palm against your clit, fingers seeking curling up and finding something that makes your eyes roll back.

“C’mon, baby,” he groans. “You come for me now. I got you now, honey, don’t worry about a thing. I know you can, know you want to, you’re so fucking tight—”

“Dee,” you moan, pressing into his palm, and goddammit, he’s never gonna get tired of that.

“That’s my girl. Just let it happen.”

Your mouth falls open, quiet as you spasm around his fingers. He’s never seen anything so beautiful. He wants to paint you like this, the furrow of your brow, your slack jaw, the glow of the pool lights bouncing from your skin.

He’ll take to you bed with him, curl himself around you, and tomorrow he’ll talk to you. He’ll tell you everything.

He won’t fuck this up—he won’t, he won’t, he won’t.

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dividers/support banner by @saradika-graphics

#screaming #breaking shit #🫀 vetty’s recs

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joeloverture · 11 days

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talia is my everything and these bracelets are incredible 💙🧡 captures the vibes so well

making bracelets based on your friends fics >>>>

@joeloverture

#🫀 vetty’s musings #talia tag #fic: snowbound #hook ‘em fic

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joeloverture · 11 days

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btw i am working on coach!joel 2 but have been working on other stuff at the same time, so you might see a few different fics pop up before you see pt 2 <3

#🫀 vetty’s musings #for some reason hook ‘em is putting me through it #so hard to write and for what

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joeloverture · 11 days

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comeuppance | qz!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog

pairing: qz!joel miller x f!reader summary: [post outbreak] when your recklessness causes an arms deal to go south, joel makes sure you regret it. warnings: (18+ mdni) qz!joel, age gap (late 20s/early 50s), written with hbo!joel in mind but with game!joel lore, guns, mentioned executions, misogynistic names outside (and in!) a sexual context, canon-typical violence as in murder (joel kills a soldier 'on-screen'), reader is a little shit but joel is worse, darkish & dubcon, spanking as a punishment, gunplay, attempted boot humping, degradation, humiliation, one kick to the cunt, mean!joel, orgasm denial [no use of y/n] word count: 2.7k a/n: this is my (admittedly late) submission for @iamasaddie's writing challenge 2.0! my prompt was 'you can't hide forever'. the genre was technically dark but joel himself isn't scarily dark here. thank you so much to aly for, once again, bringing this fandom together with her challenges. it's a steep task but she does a great job every time! and even more thanks to @joelsdagger and @lovesickonmybed for helping me brainstorm! (i have half of a brain without my wonderfully creative friends).

It only takes one deal gone south to fuck everything up.

You know the compass is already ticking that way the moment you and Joel, your longtime smuggling partner, enter the abandoned warehouse. Much like everything else in the Boston QZ, it’s falling apart. The corrugated metal walls are pitted with rust, and old blood is caked all over the floors. In another life, it might’ve been a slaughterhouse, but there’s no real way of knowing. It’s been long enough that any signage has deteriorated. The building’s state of decay, however, isn’t what messes things up.

It’s the singular man that walks in from the opposite side of the atrium.

FEDRA’s favorite executioner. Slitted eyes far apart, thinned out lips, and graying black hair. Rarely seen away from the gallows, only recognizable to you from all of the nightmares you’ve had of his face being the last you see.

If it were drugs, you’d think nothing of it. FEDRA soldiers buy quietly from you all of the time – but they have no need for guns that they don’t already have.

Joel steps forward, merchandise in the duffel bag over his shoulder, none the wiser. A knot ties itself in the base of your throat. You’re too busy trying to figure out what to do, what to do, what to do that you barely even realize that the soldier has a gun aimed right between your eyes until you’re looking right down the barrel.

Your hand jerks to your holster, drawing your pistol in one swipe.

“Drop your fucking gun!” he barks in your direction. It clatters out of your hands. “Don’t you dare fucking move.” Your hands fly up as you take a step back, nearly stumbling into a nearby crate. “Joel Miller and his bitch,” the man sneers. “What a lucky find. You two have quite the bounty on your heads.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Joel says, face completely blank.

“Easy for you to say,” the guard says with a nagging smirk. “Your little cunt here already did. Pretty fucking dumb not to check who you’re selling your merchandise to, huh?”

Joel tenses, ultimately huffing through his nose. “Can we get this over with?”

“I’ll make it easy, Miller. Come with me alive so I get paid, or come with me dead so I still get paid.”

Joel’s fingers twitch behind his back, and after almost three years of working with him, it’s impossible not to pick up on the subtext. Keep him busy. His hand is already reaching for the revolver in his back pocket.

“Turn the other way. I can make this worth your time,” you say. “But you’re lucky if those sons of bitches you work for even offer you half the reward they’ve posted for us. Dragging the bodies from Area 5 to the closest checkpoint… you’d have your work cut out for you.”

“Yeah fucking right,” he spits. “You two have been running around free for too damn long. Causing too much trouble. Not anymo–”

The man’s mouth freezes around the words by the time the bullet soars throat the canvas fabric of Joel’s duffel bag and through the man’s jugular. The soldier’s hands claw for his throat while he gargles on the blood as he begins the descent to the ground. New blood, still pumping directionless from the split artery, joins the old.

Much like him, where he’s slumping against the ground, chest moving until the very end, your hands clutch at your own throat. “We need to go,” you say, knowing the rest of FEDRA will come looking for the firefight at any second now. Joel doesn’t move. “Joel!” You reach out to tug his sleeve, but he doesn’t react. “Jesus– move!”

Joel turns to face you, gun still hanging from his hand. His fingers flex around the grip. “What the hell were you thinkin’, little girl?” You can hear his breathing, amplified from how close he is to you. His once inexpressive face is now red, lips curled, skin tight like a crushed soda can.

“I– what?”

“Not vettin’ your buyers. First fuckin’ thing I told you all them years ago, wasn’t it? Gotta check so you don’t sell shit to the wrong guy, yeah?” He stalks closer to you – you stumble back.

Not vetting the now dead executioner, whose blood is currently creeping up to the soles of your boots. Your mistake, yes, a potentially catastrophic one that you’ll definitely never make again after this, but he’d been on your ass about finding buyers and after an entire day of burning bodies, the last thing you wanted to do was go asking around about the ‘John’ in search of guns that you’d talked to over the radio tower.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?”

Joel finally jerks his sleeve away from your grip. Your hand falls slack by your side, burning from his fire stoker touch. “And you oughta count your fuckin’ blessings for that. Dumbfuck of a girl, gonna get me killed,” he spits. Spittle flies across your neck.

You flinch – and not because you’re scared. You’ve never seen him like this before. You hear noise in the distance, the moving of FEDRA trucks, no doubt. “Joel! We can do this later – we need to fucking go–”

“Then you better start running,” he says gruffly.

You don’t need to be told twice.

You sprint out of the atrium, cursing as your bloodied soles carve tracks behind you. A stack of crates blocks the door, which you vault over and shimmy your way through the broken glass panel. The hallway ahead of you is dark, and you have no idea where the fuck you’re going, only that you can’t stop. Each impact of your foot on the ground is like being struck by lightning, carbonating the racing blood pumping through your body. More glass crunches behind you, and a shock of terror pierces you when you hear Joel’s snarls filling the corridor.

There’s a metal cart in your way, which you send whirling in Joel’s direction. He grunts, presumably hitting him in the stomach before it goes clattering on the ground. You make the most of the diversion, hurtling forward and lurching through a cracked door.

Dead fucking end.

An office, by the looks of it. Desks all over the place, leftover tasks still pinned on cork boards from outbreak day, chairs on their sides. You hear Joel huffing and puffing behind you, and fear forks through you. You fall to your hands and knees, crawling underneath the labyrinth of desks and tucking yourself against a wall, carpet-burned hand to your mouth to muffle your breathing. Your chest avalanches with every single breath.

“You ain’t off the hook,” Joel says, voice getting closer with every word. You can hear the thump of his boots against the carpet. See the spread of his shadow roaming across the wall. You squint through the seam of two desks. He's looking over his shoulder when you haul yourself across the room to the next closest desk.

You look around for anything that might get you out of this long enough to slip back out of the door. If you can make it back to the apartment, maybe he can cool off on his own walk back. You reach up for a stapler and take a brief second to peek over a filing cabinet before flinging it against the wall. It snaps open, spilling decades old staples all over the floor.

“Only a clicker’s fallin’ for that,” he tuts at you. His boots land on the floor again, one, two, three steps closer to you. You wince, balling your hands into fists.

All you can hear is the thrashing of your own heart. You scooch away from the desk – maybe if you throw something small at him, like a pack of sticky notes, it’ll be enough to abduct his attention long enough for you to slip by–

“You can’t hide forever,” Joel goddamn coos at you. You see him bending at the waist, scoping out the undersides of desks, seeking you out–

You crawl out from under the desk and book it to the door.

Stupid. Fucking. Idea.

Joel hauls you back by the belt loop, laughing as you cry out. You try squirming away, kicking at him, but his other arm wraps around your torso. It hits you then that you have no idea what he might do to you. You’ve trusted him with your life before, but what would he do when you risked his? You’d always been too scared to find out. He spins you, slamming you over the desk. You cry out as your chest meets the wood. His hand drags your wrists together, pinning them at the small of your back.

“Let me – the fuck– go!” you yell at him, trying to bend your elbow at the right angle to nail him in the chest.

He tightens his grip so much that you can barely move an inch. “Made your fuckin’ bed, gotta lie in it, sweetheart,” he tuts, shaking his head at you. His hand grazes over your ass, and you stiffen as he looms over you. He is just a man. Your mind spins to the worst-case scenario. No, no, no, no–

“How about an… old-fashioned corporal punishment to set ya straight?” Within the next second, he’s yanking your jeans down your thighs.

Oh. Oh fuck.

“Joel–” you exhale, breath shuddery. “Knock it off–”

“No panties? I was gonna be nice and spank ya over them…” Joel frowns at you. “Poor baby. ‘S gonna sting real bad.”

You snap at him, “What, you want me to go to the local QZ Victoria’s Secret?”

Joel swats, hard, across your asscheek.

You’ve seen how intense Joel’s brute strength can be. You’ve just never been on the receiving end of it. A cry pushes out of your throat, and you hunch over the desk as you struggle helplessly against Joel. Tears spring at your eyes.

Mercifully, Joel runs his calloused palm over the smarting skin. “Shh, shh, shh, shh. ‘S okay, Jus’ gotta teach ya a lesson. Make sure it sticks.” He strokes the nape of your neck as you whimper into the desk.

You tense up in preparation for the second hit, but, if anything, it just makes the impact worse. It prickles your other cheek, leaving your knees shaky. And God help you, your clit twitches. Twitches. Your thighs are already heating up, and you can’t help but squirm in a good way underneath Joel. A single tear slips over your waterline, and you have to tilt your head into the shoulder of your shirt to wipe it off. You don’t want him to see you weak – not that weak.

The next spank makes him grunt from how hard he swings his palm into your backside. “Joel!” you shout, pain nearly splitting you in two. Your feet raise off of the ground as you prop yourself up on the desk, kicking uselessly at his shins. All he does is chuckle at you.

Horror sinks like a cinderblock in your stomach when you realize that your hole, leaking slick, is practically fucking winking at him. You thank the darkness. It’s about the only good thing about this place.

“You don’t like that?” he mock-pouts at you. It’s enough to make you throb. The opposite, you’d say if you could.

A series of spanks follows, but at least these are lighter, and in rapid succession. Still, you jerk with each impact, squirming so that your fingers dance in his grip. “Stupid little girl. Thought you could sell our shit to a FEDRA bitch and get off scot-free? Really thought you could get away from me, huh?”

You try clamming up, desperately attempting to close your legs together. You squeeze your thighs together, relieved at the pressure – and then you hear a resounding click behind you.

You still.

Joel’s gun, still fucking hot from the bullet it’d fired right into the executioner’s throat, traces up the small of your back… all the way to your throat. “Could put one right here,” Joel whispers, more to himself than you. “Show ya what happens to girls that don’t follow orders.” He jams it into your skin, and you hiss at the pain, at the bruise it’s sure to leave. And in spite of it all, you fucking gush. God, you’re fucked up.

He wouldn’t kill you – he needs you more than you need him. But common sense isn’t enough to prevent the thrill, the arousal smiting your body from head to toe.

“I’ll reconsider if ya give it a kiss.” He nudges the barrel carefully against your lips and you stop breathing for a second, maybe two. “Go on. Give it some lovin’. Suck it like a cock. I know you’re good at it. Hear all the guys you bring over.”

You whimper at the thought of Joel listening to you getting your hook ups off – at the thought of him fisting his own cock while he listens. Obediently, you part your lips, slowly, ever so slowly, taking the gun down your throat. It fills your mouth up in such a strange way – all hard edges. It’d be freezing cold if not for the fact that it’s a weapon of death, a scythe in its own way. One press of the trigger, and you’d be just like the guard. You suck even harder at it, eyes rolling back in your skull. Your thighs twitch, stripes of slick running down your thighs.

Joel reaches between your legs, grabbing at the meat of your inner thigh to spread you open. Instead, he gets a handful of the arousal that’s been pooling between your legs since he first bent you over the desk.

You freeze, pausing your ministrations on the pistol. He himself freezes before he drags his hips over your folds. His finger pads hover over your swollen clit before he properly rubs you once, and then twice. Your hips cant into the closest thing – his hand.

Joel makes a disgusted noise and swats your leaking pussy before shoving you forward and stepping back. You’re panting, properly fucked out even though he’d barely touched you. Cross-eyed, tongue hanging out, face hot. He looks you up and down, brows furrowing with revulsion. “Horny fuckin’ bitch. Creamin’ all over me. That long since you got action that a spankin’ and a gun in your mouth is all it takes to get you riled up? Pathetic.” He shoves the gun back in his pocket, still shining with your saliva.

He wipes your wetness all over your leg, grabs the back of your collar, and drags you to the floor in one foul swoop. You fall on your hands and knees again, ass still stinging from his treatment, lightheaded from how needy you are. Even his brutal treatment makes you whimper.

You reach for his calf, pulling yourself up to brace your dripping cunt against his boot. You rut against it, not even fully cognizant of your movements as you roll your hips, praying that he lets you have this if nothing else. Your orgasm, wetting his boot thoroughly. Your scent, clinging to him on the walk back to the apartment. You buck into the boot, moaning as the toe bumps against your clit. It might be enough, if you could just do it one more time–

Joel tears his shoe out from underneath you, face pinched with aversion. “No!” you cry, still grabbing for his calf. You fall onto your back, legs spread and panting. Your ass needles from his spanking. The ceiling tiles spin above you.

The same toe you’d been humping kicks into your cunt, and you yelp, curling in on yourself. Another tear slides down your burning cheek as you reach down to cup your sore pussy. Even that pressure feels like touching a live wire.

Joel looks down at his shining boot and makes a disgusted noise. “Does humiliatin’ yourself always get ya dicked down?”

He turns around, already walking away from you without a care in the world. The gun grip pokes out of his pocket, taunting you.

“Pull your goddamn pants up and get a move on. Curfew’s soon.”

#good morning reblog

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joeloverture · 12 days