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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

V ║ Confound

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

{ << Part 4: Contingent | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 6: Confute >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: You and Dieter keep things inside... in more ways than one.

Warnings: NO angst/fighting/jealousy/possessiveness (whaaaa), FLUFF (whaaaa), drinking, swearing, dirty talk, oral sex (m receiving), safe unprotected sex (be smart kids!), Dieter is softer than ever, yearning, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7.2k (!!!)

Note: This part is dedicated to the one and only Ash @mandoblowmybackout 😘 HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY MONTH! Thank you for cheering me on, sending me endless inspo and letting me scream at you in DMs about Javier and Din before always guiding me back to the light that is Dieter Bravo these past few weeks. You are the real MVP! More notes at the end.

This chapter picks up immediately after Part 4: Contingent.

He holds up a finger and reasons, 'What if I went to bed intending to fuck you the next morning? Not really breaking the rules if you asked me.'

You roll your eyes at his convoluted argument. 'Well, are you going to?'

The morning after

You didn't know that you snore.

But you know you're awake. A hangover is pounding audibly in your ears, and it's unmistakably snoring that you hear over the dull thud.

Your elbow hits something warm and solid as you turn on your back. The snoring breaks off for a second in a snort, then resumes its steady rhythm.

You groan in exasperation, your throat scratchy from slumber as you reach out and slap the expanse of the broad bare back next to you. 'For fuck's sake, Bravo, I said no sleeping over!'

Dieter jolts, grunting as he reaches out blindly to fend you off. He mumbles into the pillow, 'Fuck off.'

You try to sit up, but you're naked under the covers. Wrapping yourself in the sheets, you try to bodily shove him off the bed. 'I'm serious. Get the fuck out of here, Bravo!'

In a flurry of white linens, you find yourself knocked flat on your back, your wrists firmly in one of his big hands. He scowls at you, hair mussed, his voice deeper than you've ever heard it. 'Seriously sweetheart, I'm not a morning person, so cut it out.'

'You agreed to the rules,' you remind him. You try to move your hands but his hold on you is unforgiving.

Dieter shrugs. 'Whose fault is it really? Me, who fell asleep, or you, who fell asleep and failed to enforce your own rules?'

'You're such an asshole.'

He holds up a finger and reasons, 'What if I went to bed intending to fuck you the next morning? Not really breaking the rules if you asked me.'

You roll your eyes at his convoluted argument. 'Well, are you going to?'

A lazy grin tugs one side of his lips upwards. 'You'll just have to wait to find out,' he says with a yawn. 'I'm fucking starving. Can we order room service?'

'Which part of we're just fucking do you not understand, Bravo?' you grouse. 'I'm not having breakfast in bed with you.'

'It's my treat, you're welcome, sweetheart,' he replies and clambers over you to reach for the phone, literally crushing your protests as he calls front desk and proceeds to order what sounds like everything on the breakfast menu.

'I'm going to take a shower,' he announces when he's done, slamming the receiver back on the phone and pecking you on the lips.

You splutter at the casual show of affection. 'Shower usage was not part of the deal -'

With a huff, Dieter presses a firm kiss to your lips, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you capitulate. Drawing back leisurely, he grins at you. 'Relax, sweetheart, you don't have to say no to everything. All the fucking time.'

Clearly smug at having shut you up - for now - he saunters into the bathroom, still in his boxers that he didn't take off last night.

A very small part of your brain admits that you wish he did.

You dive back onto the bed, pulling the duvet over your face. Ugh. It's 7:30 in the goddamn morning. After making good on his promise of making it up to you with a very respectable hat trick of orgasms last night, your pussy is still very rudely raring to go since he insisted he was too strung out to fuck.

Dieter hasn't been in the shower for long when there's a knock on the door. Your tummy rumbles and you perk up at the prospect of coffee and bacon. Maybe room service isn't the worst idea, after all. You put on your robe and cross the messy floor to open the door.

It's the skinny pink suit that throws you first. You realise on second glance that the woman at the door has a few years on you - probably in her mid- to late-40s - primped to Hollywood perfection with white blonde hair, Botox and red lipstick. She radiates authority.

You're pretty confident that she isn't here with the room service.

She glances at you from head to toe in what seems like a cool assessment, before asking, 'I'm looking for Dieter Bravo. Is he here?'

'No,' you answer too quickly. At her arched eyebrow, you add sheepishly, '...Ma'am?'

Then of course, Dieter chooses this particular moment to start singing in the fucking shower. A very throaty and off-key rendition of Fleetwood Mac's Go Your Own Way bounces off the bathroom tiles.

The lady gives you a look that says busted.

You sigh in defeat and open the door wider. 'Come in, please.'

You wince when she casts her eyes on the disarray. The air is stagnant with alcohol and sex. You snatch up clothes from the floor, both yours and his, and shove them into a pile in a chair.

'Sorry,' you mumble in embarrassment.

She gives you an understanding smile. 'Trust me, darling, I've seen far worse where Dieter's involved.'

Rubbing your elbow awkwardly, you ask, 'So, you are...?'

'Rebecca,' she replies, extending her manicured hand to you. 'Dieter's agent.'

Her handshake is unsurprisingly firm. 'Oh, I thought Bernado was his agent.'

Rebecca smiles, which warms her blue eyes. 'I’m the big guns they bring out when Dieter gets in trouble. And you are?'

The sound of water tapers off and there's a slide of the shower door.

You clear your throat. 'Um... I'm the intimacy coordinator on the movie. And uh, this isn't what it looks like.'

Before Rebecca has a chance to reply, Dieter yells from the bathroom. 'Is the food here yet, sweetheart? I really need to eat first if you want to fuck. Preferably pancakes. Need some fast-acting glucose.'

You sigh in resignation, face in hand. Rebecca bites her lip, clearly amused by now.

Steam billows dramatically out of the bathroom when the door swings open, and Dieter emerges with a towel around his waist, his damp hair slicked back.

He doesn't look at all surprised to see his agent. If you have to wager a guess, she's clearly the only one who is able to keep any kind of a leash on him.

He ambles over to give her a kiss on the cheek. 'How did you find me, Becks?'

Rebecca tuts. 'Your phone's dead, and your poor driver was waiting outside all night. I'm here to deliver the message that the studio's booked you an STD test at 9am and then a sex therapy session at 10am. It's all part of the deal.'

Dieter groans, flopping onto his back on the mattress, arm flung over his eyes dramatically. 'What, so they think I'm some kind of fucking sexual deviant now?'

'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time,' chides Rebecca with a pat on his towel-covered thigh. 'I'll send a car at 8:30am, don't be late.' Turning to leave, she smiles at you. 'I'm sure I'll see you around, darling.'

The door closes, and you breathe heavily through your nose. 'Well, that was mortifying,' you deadpan, hands on hips.

Dieter props himself up on his elbows and wriggles his eyebrows at you. 'Wanna fuck?'

You glare at him, but it's half-hearted as you're distracted by the fact that you really like his hair pushed back like this. His face is all angular cheekbones and jawline this way. You have to consciously try to put up a fight.

You point at the door his agent just walked through. 'Bravo, that was the second rule broken before breakfast.'

Sitting up, he reaches for you and unties your robe, peeling it back to uncover your bare skin underneath. Pressing a wet kiss between your breasts, he stares up at you with dark eyes, his big hands finding your bare behind and squeezing. 'Come on sweetheart, it's no fun being a goody two shoes.'

Your pulse ticks up, and your head lolls back when he kisses up your neck, thick fingers finding your already wet folds. You let him tug you onto your knees on the bed to hover above his sitting form, pushing your robes off completely.

Beyond feigning any kind of pretence now, you tug off his towel to reveal his already hard cock. Rocking your hips, you rub against the ridge of him and tease, 'I thought you needed pancakes first.'

A deep rumble echoes in his chest, and he thrusts upwards to slide against you, hot lips suckling your tits one after the other. He murmurs against your skin, almost petulantly, 'Want your pussy now.'

You yelp in surprise when he wrestles you onto your back without warning. A whimper escapes you as his thumb finds your clit. You warn him, 'Don't think you can just fuck your way out of sticky situations, Bravo.'

He chuckles and pins you down with his broad frame, and he has the same answer for you as he did last night. 'We'll see about that, sweetheart.'

Neither of you hear room service arrive.

Week 5

It's Tuesday evening and you'd rather be catching up on Succession in bed with a glass of wine, but when one of the assistant directors of photography invited you to his impromptu birthday dinner, you couldn't say no and your plans for a quiet night in were dashed.

At least Pete is here. The pair of you are sat at the end of the table in case a quick escape is necessary, since neither of you really hang out with this particular group, and you suspect you were only invited to make up the numbers.

Wine is running low and the dessert menus are being handed around when your phone, sat on the table in front of you, buzzes with an incoming call.

DIERDRE CALLING

You press the decline button and continue pretending to listen to the conversation, when your phone buzzes again. This time, you turn off the vibration and let it ring out.

Then a barrage of eggplant and water splash emojis appears on your screen and your nostrils flare in annoyance. Pete peers at your phone with an eyebrow up.

'Who’s Dierdre?' he asks.

You sigh. 'My great aunt. Let me just make sure it's not a medical emergency.'

You excuse yourself from the table and call the number back.

He picks up on the first ring. 'Finally, sweetheart.'

You pinch the bridge of your nose. 'What do you want?'

'Need an excuse to get out of that dinner?'

You frown and your eyes dart suspiciously around you, confused. 'Are you stalking me?'

He scoffs. 'As if. Overheard the costumes girls talking about how you'll be at this boring last-minute birthday dinner tonight. I'll give you an out if you ask nicely.'

'I don't need you to do anything of the sort. I could get out of it if I wanted to.'

You can practically hear him rolling his eyes on the other side of the line. 'Please, sweetheart. You're a terrible liar.'

'No, I'm not,' you argue hotly.

'Just tell them I have an urgent issue with tomorrow's script and I need your help.'

You cross your arms. 'You just told me I'm a terrible liar, only to ask me to lie the next second?'

'It's a white lie, you can do it,' he says with a grunt.

You suddenly hear the unmistakable sound of skin sliding on skin on his end. 'What the fuck are you doing?'

'Warming up. If you don't get here in ten minutes, I’ll finish without you.'

Heat prickles under your skin. Unbidden, your imagination conjures up the image of him sprawled lazily in bed in his green robe, his ratty pajamas bottoms tugged down just enough for him to touch himself, while he talks to you on the phone. You ignore the urge to rub your thighs together, and instead, call his bluff. ‘Yeah, right. Now who’s a terrible liar?’

You try not to stutter when you haltingly make your excuses to the birthday boy, blaming your early exit on Dieter and something vague about the script, as he told you to. You hate that he's not wrong - you really are a sorry liar.

Pete gives you a knowing wink and elbows you in the ribs when you return to your seat to grab your coat. 'Have fun watering great aunt Dierdre's eggplants, babe.'

Week 6

Dieter Bravo is a fickle man.

When one is rich and famous with nothing to prove, especially so with an Oscar on the bookshelf, one can afford to be.

Dieter’s been around the block and then some. He's been engaged no less than four times, twice to the same woman. Countless girlfriends. He's never been with anyone who doesn’t want anyone else to know. If anything, the opposite has always been true.

He's never had a problem with women wanting their five minutes of fame - he only keeps them around for just that long anyway. He's also not the kind of guy who needs to be pressed to be affectionate. There are thousands of pap shots of him with his girlfriends of the moment, hand in hand, hand on waist, kissing and nuzzling. He enjoys intimacy and he's not afraid to be seen doing so.

Then you come along with your ground rules. This secrecy - the not being allowed to give anything away - is unexpectedly titillating.

It’s been two weeks since Sundance and he actually has put in an effort to be good. Knowing his tendencies for PDA, he really watches himself. His fingers twitch from restraint when you're near, and he deliberately looks away when you pass each other in the corridors.

You, on the other hand, seem to have it down pat.

In fact, you’re so unflappable that he sometimes sends you random filth to try throw you off. Mainly lowbrow shit with lots of eggplant and cat emojis. He'd watch you from across the room as the screen lights up your face. You would roll your eyes and when you find his, you would give him a stern look with a touch of contempt before carrying on with whatever you were doing.

Never in a million years would he have thought that you'd be the one to fuck up and nearly give it all away.

It's Thursday and the crew is on set, filming an intimate scene in bed. Dieter is braced above Brooke, both naked other than the nude underwear they're wearing. It's probably the most tender love scene in the whole script, and the relative tameness is coming off as a bit flat on camera compared with the more bombastic choreography filmed so far.

You're talking to Tobias and the director of photography, hovering and gesturing over the director's monitor.

Dieter eyes the uncharacteristically tight top you're wearing, cut low with buttons running down the front. He intercepted your laundry run last night by showing up at your door without notice, knocking the basket of dirty clothes from your hands and practically tackling you into bed, where he kept you all night.

You grumbled at him this morning for your lack of clean work clothes while he lounged in bed with an iced coffee from the mini bar, watching you dig deep into your suitcase for something wearable, with this particular blouse being the least revealing and crumpled of the lot.

His mind wanders as he schemes to thwart your laundry plans again tonight. He jumps when Brooke elbows him in the shoulder.

She gives him the side eye. 'What's up with you? You're so distracted today.'

Dieter pfffts in protest, maybe a bit exaggeratedly. 'No, I'm not. Just bored waiting around for the intimacy coordinator to come up with something for the scene.'

Right on cue, you turn around from the directors' huddle, clapping your hands to get the actors' attention.

'Alright folks, I think we cracked it,' you say excitedly, voice raised so they can hear you from across the set. 'Dieter, we need more elevation from you so we can let more light in on Brooke. We also need a bit more movement, so I was thinking, why don't you try that thing you did with your hips last night, and we'll see how it looks on camera.'

The hush that falls over the set lands delicately like first snow.

Dieter's had a lot of things thrown at him over his two and a half decades in the business - including a literal cat once while on Late Night. Very little fazes him.

Still, it's taking an enormous amount of willpower to keep his jaw locked so his fucking tongue doesn't roll out.

The look on your face would've been funny if he didn't think you having a heart attack was a real possibility in this moment.

So he comes to your rescue.

Dieter chuckles, cutting through the quiet, just a tad too loudly. 'You mean the hip thing that I did in the sex tape from 2011 that I showed you last night?'

It's not great. Improv has never been his forte, and you've put him on the spot.

But it works. The veil of silence lifts as the crew laughs good-naturedly, and you seem to unfreeze as what just happened obviously hits you. Being the trooper that you are, you bite your lip and you try your best to laugh with everyone else, and carry on.

Dieter grins to himself.

You're fucking adorable.

Week 7

The problem with having an agent who is practically family is that it's impossible for him to get out of anything.

Dieter tried throwing a tantrum. He tried begging. He tried to fire her.

Rebecca had laughed like he said something hilarious, handed him his suit for the evening, and told him to get ready for the limo at 7pm. She had the audacity to wink at him and pat him on the cheek. 'Enjoy, darling.'

So here he is on the red carpet of Samantha's Secret, with the starlet in the titular role on his arm. His sunglasses are on per usual, and he’s trying not to scowl too obviously at the cameras.

You'd been genuinely amused when he told you his plans for this particular Saturday night. You'd laughed loudly, 'The studio is basically pimping you out.'

It's part of what he calls his penance package for his fuck-up at Sundance. This C-list film (to be kind) is the pet project of the actress in the lead, one of the bigshot studio executives' daughter. She wanted Dieter to be her date for the evening - what baby wants, baby gets.

The worst part of all this? The whole cast and crew of Resurgence have also been invited to witness his humiliation. And you've been driving him to distraction from the moment you arrived some fifteen minutes ago.

Not that you're trying to. In fact, it's precisely because you are not trying. You haven't even looked in his direction since he spotted you. You're hard to miss tonight though, in a black sequin dress with long sleeves that hits just above your knees. You're hanging out with the makeup and hair girls, champagne in hand, obviously having a far better time than he is.

As his date for the evening steers him into the cinema proper, his chief makeup artist on the film yells his name and waves vigorously. 'Dieter! Come take a selfie with us, dude!'

Relieved for the diversion, he all but shakes off his date and strolls over to your group, tipping his sunglasses down his nose and grinning broadly. 'It would be my pleasure, ladies.'

While the girls fuss with their multiple cameras and argue about filters, Dieter discreetly makes his way to the back of the group to stand directly behind you.

'Hello, sweetheart,' he whispers into your ear. 'I like this dress on you.'

'Thanks. And your date is super cute,' you reply sarcastically, nodding towards the redhead who's rolling her eyes at him and tapping her foot impatiently.

'Play nice, sweetheart,' Dieter tuts, pausing to smile with teeth as the camera flashes. While your friends are distracted checking the selfies, he sneaks a hand into the space between you to casually squeeze your ass, and smirks at your outraged hiss. He counts it as win that you don't bat away his hand. He placates you, 'After all, you know who I'm going home with tonight.'

'We’ll see about that, Bravo,' you throw the now oft-used refrain over your shoulder, a challenge in your eyes, before being pulled away by your friends in between shouts of thanks Dieter!

The screening is in a fancy cinema with plush velvet sofas and mahogany side tables.

You know Dieter is sitting a couple of rows behind you. You saw him on his way in from the corner of your eye, with the starlet of the hour - a seriously dubious honour - on his arm.

The movie is, as expected, terrible. Not even terrible in a funny way, just plain terrible. But is it worth sitting through a two-hour long bad film when the champagne keeps magically topping itself up, as do the canapes and popcorn?

Hell yeah it is. Cheapest Saturday night out ever.

During a particularly dull lull in the film, you whisper to the girls that you're taking a bathroom break. You look straight ahead of you as you go up the stairs, but you feel his eyes on you anyway.

It's quiet outside, and no one is around when you exit the bathroom. Dieter is waiting for you at a doorway shielded by heavy velvet curtains, and you let him drag you impatiently into the dark space by your waist.

Once the curtains swish shut, the thick fabric brushing your bare back, you yank him in by the lapels of his smart suit and press a hard kiss to his lips, drawing a sound of surprise from him.

'Are there cameras in here?' you ask, pulling back. Dieter walks you further into the cloakroom, palming your ass, past racks of thick coats until he finds an unoccupied wall to push you up against.

'No, I checked,' he replies into the hollow of your neck and grabs your thigh, hooking it around his waist and grinds. He chokes on an inhale. ‘I’m so fucking hard for you, sweetheart.’

You bite your lip to stop yourself from groaning at the sweet pressure against your clit. You tease, ‘Why don’t you ask your little girlfriend to give you a handy in the dark while you watch her dreadful acting? Sounds like some weird kink you'd be into.’

His chuckle breaks off unsteadily as you reach down to run a finger along the outline of his already straining erection. ‘Shit, I like it when you’re jealous.’

You huff. ‘I wish I was. I would love to actually feel something during this awful movie.’

‘Please let me fuck you, baby. Can’t sit through another hour of the fucking film with you just there two rows away,’ begs Dieter as he rocks into your hand, his fingers finding their way underneath your dress now.

You grab his wandering hands and shake your head sternly. ‘Can’t. I borrowed this dress from the movie. Can’t get anything on it.’

Dieter whines into your ear, his breath hot on your skin. ‘I’ll pay for it. Please sweetheart, I’m gonna come in my fucking pants.’

‘Shhhh,’ you press your index finger to his lips, his desperation turning you on more than you care to admit. Dieter sucks on your digit, the cavern of his mouth molten hot. Grabbing him by his tie, you spin him round so he’s the one leaning on the wall, and you hold his gaze while your other hand finds his belt buckle.

His pupils are blown as you extract your finger from between his lips with a pop. The heels make it tricky, but you manage to get down on your knees as gracefully as you could, undoing his belt and unzipping his fly as you go.

You’ve been sleeping together for a good three weeks now, and you haven’t had the chance to do this just yet. He always beats you to it, burying his face between your thighs more often than not as soon as he gets you in his room - or your room, or on a couple of occasions, Supplies Closet 306 - and always thrusting into you while your cunt is still clenching from orgasm, as if he just can't hold back.

Releasing his hard cock from his boxers, you wrap your palm around him and stroke him firmly, smiling when he gasps. You tell him, ‘You'll have be quick about this, or people will notice we’re gone, ok?’

He nods wordlessly, his whole forehead wrinkling as if in great pain. He tucks his chin in to watch you close your lips over the tip of his cock, and his jaw goes slack as you let his length sink into your wet mouth.

Dieter groans low into the darkness, fingers weaving into your hair and his rings catching on stray strands as you go as far down as you can, filling your mouth so completely full with his thick cock.

It’s been a while since you’ve done this, the hinge of your jaw already aches from the pressure and you savour the sensation. He must have showered just before, the sweetness of soap clings to your tongue as you forego any teasing and instead, work up a brisk rhythm. One of your hands is braced on his strong thigh, flexing underneath your fingers as he twitches and jerks, and your other is fisting what you can’t fit into your mouth.

Dieter is mumbling incoherently above you, broken words between panting breaths seeping into your consciousness - fuck, sweetheart - that’s it - so fucking good - look at me, look at me while you take my cock -

When you do, he looks so far gone that you moan around him and a violent shudder rattles his entire body. He thrusts forward without warning, which makes you choke and spit floods your mouth.

‘Sweetheart, you’re gonna make me come,’ he blurts out, his head rolling back and hitting the wall with a loud thump.

You can’t quite tell if it’s a warning or a plea. So you open your mouth just a bit wider, and tears sting the corner of your eyes as he begins to fuck your mouth - shallowly, experimentally at first. Then deeper, harder, until you're whimpering around him.

You’re absolutely certain that no man has ever fucked your throat as deep as he is right now, and your cunt clenches on nothing when he loses it, his hold on your hair now bordering on painful, his body pulled completely taut.

This time, it’s definitely a warning as he chokes, the rhythm of his hips wavering. ‘I’m gonna come in your mouth if you don’t stop, sweetheart.’

You try to smile around him, but you can’t, his cock is so fucking big that there is no room for manoeuvre. So instead, you reach down and firmly cup his heavy sac. His hips jerk, the tip of his head nearly hitting the back of your throat, and with a broken growl, his cum fills your mouth with each erratic thrust. You swallow thickly - once, twice - before he stills and crumples against the wall.

His grip in your hair finally lets up, and reaching down for your hands, he pulls you up on shaky knees, his lips crashing onto your swollen ones, a moan caught deep in his throat.

Then he pulls back and sighs, soft eyes on you while he wipes the glossy spit off your bottom lip. ‘Thank you.’

'And that’s how it’s done,' you reply a bit too smugly. The thinly veiled dig at the Sundance incidence doesn't go over his head.

He pulls up his trousers and gives you a lopsided grin, before pulling you in for another kiss, his rough palms splayed on your lower back. 'There's that smart fucking mouth.'

Hands on his chest, you try to push him off, but he doesn't let you, easily overpowering you. Instead, he traces the outline of your jaw with his nose until his breathing evens out.

You protest, ‘We have to get back, we've been gone too long. You're lucky if your date hasn't sent out a search party.'

Ignoring you, Dieter pulls out a key card from his back pocket. 'Come back to mine tonight.'

'I can’t. We’re going partying after this, it'll be too late to do anything,' you argue.

He shrugs carelessly. 'I don't give a fuck. Come after the party.'

You don't give him an answer. Instead, you tease, 'But are you sure you haven’t been pimped out for the whole night?'

With a grumble, he delivers a sharp slap to your backside that makes you squeak indignantly, and he presses the card into your palm before pushing you towards the exit. 'Off you go, sweetheart. I'll wait up for you.'

It's past 3am. You really shouldn't. You don't even have a spare change of clothes or makeup remover wipes. There’s nothing but a very embarrassing walk of shame and a hangover awaiting you a few hours down the line.

But somehow, you still key in his hotel address when you call your Uber.

And somehow, you're in the hotel elevator going all the way up to the penthouse.

You've been to his room enough to know your way around in the relative darkness. It's easily five times as big as yours, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city lights, now veiled by sheer curtains drawn closed.

The only source of light in the room is the bedside lamp on the nightstand, messy as usual, covered with his rings, reading glasses, scripts and a tall glass of water. One thing you've learned about him these past weeks is that he’s a stickler for hydrating, if not anything else.

Dieter is sleeping on his stomach, elbows bent and both hands buried underneath his pillow. His bare back rises and falls with his breathing, and he's snoring gently.

He's usually a heavy sleeper, but tonight, he wakes up when you crawl in on the other side of the king-sized bed.

'What time is it?' he yawns and pulls back the duvet for you to shuffle into the cocoon.

'Almost four,' you answer, settling onto your back, and you sigh when your head sinks into the plush pillows. They are so much more comfortable than the ones in your room. You might actually steal a couple for yourself.

Dieter shifts so he's on his side to wrap one arm around your waist, nuzzling the underside of your neck as he breathes out through his nose. 'Did you have fun with the girls?'

'Who said there were any girls there?'

A giggle escapes you when he bites out a grunt at your insolence and pulls you tight against him, his breath fanning your ear. Neither of you makes any excuses about fucking the next morning - you don't remember when you stopped, or who stopped first, to be honest.

Dieter reaches behind him to switch off the lamp. He presses a kiss to where your jawbone meets your ear and worms one arm under you, so that you can snuggle right up against him, resting your cheek on his chest.

Your eyes take a while to adjust to the darkness. You blink until you see the outline of his arm, slung over you. You stare at the black triangle tattoo near the crease of his elbow for a while as your mind buzzes with something that has been weighing on you. Something which, after too many glasses of free champagne followed by overpriced cocktails, can no longer be put off.

You find yourself whispering into the stillness. 'My ex proposed to me at Sundance, four years ago. Then he broke up with me a year later. Also at Sundance.'

You're probably half-hoping he's asleep, so that you can get it off your chest without him ever knowing it. You don't owe him an explanation, and he never asked. You hear silence as he holds his breath.

The arm under you curls you closer into him, and he asks, lips brushing your temple and beard tickling your ear. 'Want me to ruin his career? Or break his legs?'

You close your eyes and smile. 'I think he's already done the career ruining on his own.'

He waits a beat, then clarifies, 'So… just break his legs then?'

Your whole body shakes with laughter, and you feel him grin against the side of your neck, his arms anchoring you to his warmth as you fall into a deep sleep.

Dieter’s used to you waking up on the furthest opposite side of the bed. Your sleeping habits seem to imitate your constant need keep him at arm’s length in real life.

Which is why he’s confused that you’re spooning him, your arms tied loosely around his middle, a semi-dried patch of drool on his shoulder.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves being the little spoon. Especially with your soft, naked tits pressed up against his back. His cock twitches when you shift in your sleep, your nipples drawing patterns on his skin.

The room is awash with late-morning sun. He brings your hand up and presses a kiss to your knuckles. ‘Morning, sweetheart.’

You grumble sleepily, burying your face into his shoulder. ‘Oh god, I can't open my eyes. The mascara's stuck them together.’

Dieter rolls over and catches a glimpse of black smudges on your eyes when you're too slow to hide behind your hands. He grins, ‘For what it's worth, I think you look sexy.’

‘Shut up,’ you whine and bury your face into the pillow. ‘I look like a panda.’

He chuckles and jokes. ‘I can work with that. I’ll just have to fuck you from behind then.’

He doesn’t expect you to moan at that. It goes straight to his cock.

Pressing a half-kiss to your shoulder, his voice drops an octave when he asks, ‘I didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart. Did you want something?’

You still refuse to look at him, if anything, you burrow deeper into the pillow, but your needy whimper is unmistakable. Dieter unwraps you slowly, finding you completely naked under the duvet.

You thrum with tension when he runs a calloused hand down the dip of your back, and he climbs over you, holding his weight while he laves your neck with his tongue.

His hands squeeze your ass cheeks together as he slides his erection between the plump flesh. He croons in your ear, ‘You want me to bend you over and pound that pussy from behind?’

You make a choking noise and roll your hips backwards against him. ‘Fuck, yes please.’

'Since you asked so nicely,' he hums and nudges your thighs slightly apart to ease a finger into you. His chest reverberates with a deep sound at what he finds. ‘So wet already, sweetheart.’

You writhe shamelessly under him while he fingers you, the slick sounds of your pussy stretching around his one thick finger, and then two, getting you wetter each time he pumps into you right up to the knuckle.

He takes his sweet time, nipping and licking every part of you he can reach until you gripe at him. ‘Dieter.’

You gasp when he smacks you on your ass, and his cock lurches at the slippery gush around his fingers. He purrs by your ear, ‘Be a good girl and get a condom from the top drawer for me.'

You don’t move for a long moment. So long that he hesitates and is about to pull back, before he hears your tentative question. ‘Did you - did you pass that STD test?’

He only realises he’s stopped moving when you moan and move against him, searching for friction.

Dieter swallows, but his answer still comes out in a mangled stutter. ‘Yeah - yeah I did, sweetheart.’

You look back at him over your shoulder, all smeared eyeliner and mascara, biting your plump bottom lip. ‘I've been tested too if you want to - you know.’

Before his brain can catch up, he’s already flipped you on your back, his hands tight around your wrists. He rasps against your lips. ‘If I want to - what?’

You worry your bottom lip prettily. He's getting fucking light headed with you looking up at him like this. ‘We don't have to use a condom. I’m on the pill too - ’

You’ve barely gotten your last word out before Dieter lunges at you with a bruising kiss, draping his whole body atop yours until you feel his cock nudge against your cunt.

‘Don’t hold it against me if I don’t last,’ he moans into your collar bone, biting down sharply as he pushes your right thigh up and back against the bed, opening you up for him.

Impatiently, you reach down to wrap your hand around him and guide his head right against your sopping entrance. ‘I don't care. Just fuck me, Bravo.’

The scrape of your back against the mattress burns as Dieter sheathes himself inside you in one hard thrust, shoving you up the bed. The burn in your cunt is something else - the stretch is perfect and he feels completely different - fucking amazing - with nothing in between.

He looks down at you with stormy eyes, brows knitted tightly together, braced on his elbows on either side of your head as you watch him, your lips parted in a silent O.

‘Goddamn, you feel - ’ he breaks off in a feral growl when you lift your hips to slide him in just a bit deeper. ‘ - Fuck!’

And that’s all it takes to break Dieter Bravo.

He doesn’t hear your throaty cries as he fucks deep into you, or the wet slap of skin on skin as your bodies collide. There's no finesse to his movements, only a sloppy, raw heat building between you two.

He’s never been a multi-tasker. It’s one of the reasons he’s a great actor - when he’s in the moment, he’s in it. And right now, the one thing he can focus on is the incredible wet grip of your cunt on his naked cock. He’s struggling to do anything other fucking you. One stroke at a time.

His body is playing catch up with his mind. His eyes fixate on your lips, but it takes him two beats before he leans in to smear a messy kiss on you. He catches sight of your tits, but he only reaches out to grab one clumsily after watching them bounce back and forth for what seems like long minutes.

Then he props himself up higher and drops his gaze to watch your cunt stretch and swallow his cock. It’s completely covered in your slick when he pulls out almost all the way, before shoving it back inside you so hard that he actually hears you shriek this time.

As if propelled into action, he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb, eyes sliding up to your face. Your hair is stuck to beads of sweat on your forehead and neck, eyes glazed over, and he knows that in this moment, your body is completely his.

‘I’m gonna come,’ you pant, sheets twisting under your fingers as you desperately try to hold on to something as you spiral. ‘Dieter, I’m gonna come - ’

He pushes into you harder as your cunt begins to clench and squeeze around him. He bares his teeth and literally digs his heels in. ‘Yeah, sweetheart? Go on then, come around my cock. Show me how good I make you feel, baby.’

You thrash under him - there is no other way to describe it - and with a wail you break apart under him, your pussy squelching around him in a stranglehold as he continues to drive into you.

‘So fucking beautiful,’ he snarls. He doesn't know where to look - the curve of your neck as you tilt your head back to gasp for breath, or the glaze of your cum running down your thighs, or the expanse of your soft, heated skin in between. ‘This pussy is all for me. Isn’t it?’

You nod frantically at his demand and he exhales raggedly, pushing himself up to sit back on his haunches. Hands on your upper thighs, he holds you obscenely wide to watch his thick cock disappear between the lips of your cunt. Slowly, almost carefully, before he picks up the pace again until he has you arching your back and keening at the depth that he’s hitting. He groans and his eyes clench shut, hips stuttering as he reaches the end of his tether.

He looks up at you, jaw hanging open and asks, ‘Where do you want me, sweetheart?’

‘Inside,’ you plead, with no hesitation. ‘Fill me up, please.’

‘I’ll fucking fill you up. I'll fuck your tight little pussy full of my cum,’ he rants and pins your knees all the way back to your shoulders, driving your hips forward so he can plough into you. ‘Take all of it, take all of me -’

You feel him before you hear him. His cock seems to swell impossibly inside you before he roars, head thrown back and the vein in his neck throbbing as he fills your cunt with thrust after thrust of hot cum, his rings biting into the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs as he empties himself into you.

Bonelessly, he falls onto you, his weight crushing you to the mattress. He buries his face in your chest, almost wheezing as he struggles to catch his breath. You feel his softening cock slide out of you, cum leaking messily down your inner thighs, making you shudder. You don't mind though, and you absent-mindedly run your fingers through his thick curls.

Dieter slowly comes back to himself. He sluggishly nuzzles your tits, tasting the salt in between them. Rubbing his sweaty forehead against your neck, he feels the sticky peel of flesh as he moves off of you, only to pull you flush against him, back to his front, sweat sealing your skin together while he presses kisses to your shoulder as the high passes, and a deep calm settles into his bones.

His confession is whispered against your ear. ‘I haven't done that in years.’

You tangle your fingers in his and hold his hand against your stomach, relishing in the solid weight of him around your ravaged body. You don't hesitate when you reply, ‘Me neither.’

Dieter lets your two-worded, almost offhand admittance wash over him, and his chest swells with possessive pride. For the first time since this started three weeks ago - seven since that day in Supplies Closet 306 - you lower your hackles just long enough for him to take a peek in, twice. After a night of hard drinking and sleep deprivation, but still.

He'll take it. He'll take whatever you deign to throw at his feet.

Chin on your shoulder, he watches your thumb draw circles on his knuckles, your me neither ringing in his ears. He can't help but wonder if your moronic ex-fiancé was the last man to have been granted the privilege, and he holds you just a bit tighter.

Your pliant weight goes slack in his arms as you nod off. He gets comfortable behind you - he doesn't need to be anywhere today and he can do with a bit more shuteye, especially with you around.

He's pressing a closed-mouth kiss to your temple, his eyes tracing the contours of your face under heavy lids, when the realisation rudely sets in.

He's in so much fucking trouble.

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 6: Confute >> }

Note: So... this chapter turned out far fluffier than I ever intended any part of this series to be when I first started Consent. Probably the fluffiest anything I've ever written... and I kinda... liked it?? 🤷🏻‍♀️ Please be gentle with me, I'm feeling vulnerable after this little break away from writing - I really hope this part didn't disappoint. Reblogs and comments would be very appreciated as always!

As much as I hate admitting it - we are nearing the end of the series, or at least, this particular series in this universe 🥺 I have a rough outline drafted, but I will be taking my time and make sure Consent gets the conclusion it deserves!

Thank you my wonderful readers for sticking with me throughout this break, and for patiently enduring my many random Dieter posts over the past weeks. I'm so happy to be back in my writing headspace with Dieter 😘

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