#thanksgiving fanfiction

[illiana-mystery]

With the holidays coming up, I have decided to write some one-shots to celebrate the greatest time of the year! I will be writing three SFW ficlets and one NSFW ficlet within this collection of festive one-shots. 

This one I'm sharing with you first is one of the SFW fics, specifically for the Thanksgiving holiday. Read the summary below: 

It's Thanksgiving and Norman and Otto are spending it in Atlanta with the Salazar-Tate Family. Unfortunately for them, their girlfriends' abuela, Nana Augustine, is none too impressed with them dating her granddaughters and makes it well known. But they are determined to make the most of the holiday, enjoying every little new cultural tradition they learn about throughout the dinner. However, there is one problem that still plagues this holiday. That being Norman's vivid memory of Thanksgiving past.

Stay tuned for my next SFW ficlet where Jim Bussey is Santa at a local library event, reading to the kids and asking what they want for Christmas. This ficlet will also see the return of Heather Mattis, Jim's girlfriend in my fic, Memories of Autumn. 😁

Taglist: @dreamlikedesires, @iobsessoverfictionalmen​, @goodoldcharley, @ghnaim24​, @sparrowforstarsandsorrow​, and @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky​

[cosette141]

It's the Thought that Counts (Leverage Fanfic) | Thanksgiving Story

Fandom: Leverage Author: cosette141 Words: 1631

Summary: When Eliot gets hurt and can't cook Thanksgiving dinner, the team gives cooking a try. It's the thought that counts, right? Happy Thanksgiving!

AO3

a/n: takes place during OG Leverage season 3

(story under the cut!)

Everyone stood in Nate's kitchen, looking toward a prone Eliot on Nate's couch.

It was Thanksgiving Day.

The plan had been simple: finish up the job they were working on in the morning, then reconvene at Nate's apartment where Eliot would cook them Thanksgiving dinner, as he'd been doing the past two years.

But… as usual, things didn't quite go as planned.

The con was completed successfully, but not without a hiccup; Eliot had gotten into a fight with a very well-trained security guard, who ended up pushing Eliot down a flight of stairs.

The stairs ended up causing Eliot a concussion and dislocated shoulder, which was set back into place that morning and now resided in a sling over his chest.

Just a handful of minutes ago they got home and Eliot had passed out on the couch.

Looking away from the hitter, the rest of the team looked back at each other.

It was Parker who broke the silence. "We should make dinner."

Three shocked eyes turn to her. "Uh," said Hardison. "What?"

"We should make dinner," repeated Parker simply. "Eliot can't cook with one arm." A blink. "We should make dinner."

"Parker," began Nate.

"One of us has to know how to cook," said Parker with a scrunched nose.

All heads turn toward Sophie.

Her brows shot up. "Me?" When they only kept staring, she leveled them with an annoyed glare. "What? Just because I'm a woman, you think I know how to cook a meal like that?"

From their stares, yes they did.

"Well, I don't," she said firmly, crossing her arms. "I grew up with people who cooked for us, and grifted everyone else in my life into either cooking or buying me a meal. I don't cook."

Parker deflated a little.

"What about you?" asked Hardison to Nate. "You weren't really a stay-at-home dad," at the worddadNate shifted a little, and the three of them tried not to notice. Gently, Hardison tried, "Did you pick anything up from Maggie?"

Nate laughed a little. "Maggie? No. She wasn't much of a cook herself. I mean, I can make grilled cheese and French toast like no tomorrow.. those were Sam's favorites." His eyes clouded a little and the others fidgeted where they stood. Nate shook it away. "But, ah… no. You put a turkey in front of me, I don't know what I'd do with it."

"We could order a thanksgiving meal from a restaurant," said Hardison, reaching for his phone.

"No!" said Parker firmly. Hardison stopped. "Eliot says that's not Thanksgiving. He told me Thanksgiving is about showing your appreciation for people through food." She leveled a strong gaze with the hacker. "Not restaurants."

The four of them stood for a moment, letting the fact that Eliot Spencer appreciates them sink in until Hardison pulled out his phone. He typed a little on it and said, "Ya know what? It's fine. None of us can cook. But here…" He flipped around his phone to show a screen of a YouTube video titled: Thanksgiving Dinner For Dummies. He grinned. "And this is why this is the age of the geek, baby."

Eliot's head pounded.

At first, he thought it was the remnants of his concussion headache. He knew it wasn't a bad concussion, only minor, but this didn't feel like that kind of a headache. This felt like—

"Aw, crap, what'd I just do—"

Yup, that was it.

A Hardison headache.

The hacker's voice floated in, along with the clatter of something to a counter. More sounds mixed in, actually—an electric mixer itself—crinkling bags and boxes, beeps and creaks of un-oiled hinges, and the cross of chatter—no, make that bickering—between Hardison and Sophie.

But as bad as the voices were for his headache, it was nothing compared to the smell.

Something was burning. Actually, several things, by how pungent it was. There was the distinct smell of burning plastic in there as well, among burning of meat, potatoes—a horrible burning smell—and cranberries.

Eliot finally wrenched open his eyes, finding himself staring at the back of Nate's couch.

His eyes stung a little and he coughed, both from the waft of smoke coming from the kitchen and the distinct cutting-onions thing going on in the air.

Not able to take any of it any longer, he levered himself up on the arm he could move and propped himself up on it, looking over the back of the couch.

Eliot Spencer has seen many terrifying, horrendous things in his life.

But nothing was quite as bad as the scene before him.

Nate's kitchen was a mess.

Pots and pans littered every counter, some overturned, and for whatever reason, one's contents were lightly on fire.

The stove was covered with pans and the oven was open, and both Sophie and Hardison were leaning over it. A thin trail of gray smoke trailed into their faces and they were arguing about something.

Parker was stirring something in a pot with the mixer, so close to the metal of it that it made a loud clanging sound that made Eliot wince for both his ears and for the safety of Nate's nonstick pan, especially when Parker looked toward Hardison and Sophie and said, "I think the mashed potatoes are done! They're finally blue."

And over at his dining room table, Nate was sitting in a chair, a drink in one hand and using the other to rub at his temples.

Eliot blinked.

"What the hell is goin' on?" demanded Eliot, loud enough to be heard over the mixer and Hardison and Sophie's bickering.

The noise silenced and each head looked over toward him.

Parker was the only one whose face lit up. "Eliot!" She put down the pan and skipped over to him. "We're making Thanksgiving dinner!"

Eliot blinked.

He slowly took in the mess of Nate's kitchen, and could pull out faint scents (minus the scorching) of traditional thanksgiving dishes. Even Nate's dining room table was all set up with five plates, napkins and silverware. The oven door closed and Eliot looked back over to see Hardison and Sophie handling a very-black turkey on a cookie sheet.

Two sheepish grins, one amused grin, and one bright and proud grin were shot his way.

Eliot worked to find his voice. "You guys…cooked?"

"Well," said Hardison, as he and Sophie put the "turkey" down on the counter. "With your arm all messed up it woulda been really hard for you to cook for us this year. And you were really tired and we didn't wanna wake you…"

Parker smiled wide. "And you deserve it!"

Not in any of the years since he's left home has someone cooked him a meal. Well, outside of the sludge they served in the prisons and dungeons from his darker days. Even on dates,hewas the one who cooked, and those relationships never lasted long to begin with. But Thanksgiving dinner? Meeting the team had been the first time he's ever cooked one, using the old recipes he learned from watching his mama as a kid.

After meeting the team, he'd cooked for them because they needed someone to feed them something better than the crap they ate. And he'd been heartbroken to hear that Parker had never celebrated Thanksgiving, Hardison and Sophie hadn't since they'd left home as kids, and that Nate hadn't since his son died.

So when he got hurt, he was more upset about not being able to cook than any of the physical pain. But this was something that happened once a year, and it was one of the only traditions he really cared about.

Seeing the four of them, surrounded by—what would probably be a very inedible—dinner, that they made forhim… was something that really warmed his heart.

It may have simply been the onions or the smoke still lingering in the air, but Eliot felt his eyes burn the smallest bit with tears.

"Dinner's almost ready!" said Parker brightly. "I made your favorite dessert too!" She picked up a dish that looked like a pile of tan goo. It took all of Eliot's self-control not to react badly.

"Uh," he swallowed. "What...what is it?"

Parker looked at him weird. "Duh! It's apple pie." As Eliot tried to hide the shock from his face, she looked back down at the… "pie."

"Oh!" she said, laughing. "It'll probably look more like a pie after it's done boiling."

He was thankful she turned her back then because he wasn't quite sure he could hide the utter horror from his face.

Though, Nate caught it, and Eliot watched his lips twitch into an amused grin.

"How the hell…"

Eliot looked over to see Hardison stabbing a knife into the center of the turkey, and it getting stuck. He tried yanking it out.

"Hardison!" yelled Eliot. "What the hell are you doing?"

Hardison looked up. "What? I'm carving the turkey."

"That's not—" Eliot shut his eyes. He got himself off the couch, making his way over to Hardison. "Who taught you how to hold a knife? What are you—give me that!"

"No, man—you only have one arm! I got it!"

"My one arm is more capable of doing this than both of yours now give me the knife!"

"No!"

Nate watched from his seat at the table. A normal man might worry at watching the two boys wrestle over a rather large knife, but he wasn't a normal man. And this wasn't a normal family.

But it was a family.

His family.

And for that, even as he later had to actually eat the questionable dinner his family made…

He couldn't have been more thankful to have them.

[endlessthxxghts]

Thankful

no outbreak!Joel Miller x afab!reader || W/C: ≈1.8k

Summary: You're trying to prep for Thanksgiving dinner when Joel asks if he can pull you away for a minute.

Warnings: Implied established relationship. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Oral sex (f recieving). Edging (briefly). Squirting. Desperate!Joel. Pleasure Dom!Joel. An extremely thankful, pussy drunk Joel...✨Mirrors✨! Cumming untouched (Joel's a bed humping mess, what can I say?). Pictures are for aesthetic purposes; no physical description of reader.

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! Here's a little Thanksgiving drabble with a domesticated, pre-outbreak Joel for y'all. I left it kinda open, so you can view him as a boyfriend or husband, entirely up to you, but y'all do live together! Anyhow, if you are celebrating Thanksgiving, please be sure to acknowledge the land that belonged to the Indigenous people first. I say this because we can enjoy Thanksgiving and the general themes it stands for while decolonizing the white-washed version. All my love! Hope you enjoy Joel being a thankful, horny menace.👹

MASTERLIST

“Happy Thanksgivin’, baby,” Joel says, sliding up behind you, his big arms around your waist caging you between him and the kitchen counter. He places a kiss on your neck. 

You smile in his embrace, loving the warmth radiating from his body. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, handsome.” 

“Do you have a minute to step away?” He asks, voice low. 

“Depends, baby,” you say, knowing you might know where this is headed. “Gotta finish prepping the sweet potato, so I can throw it in the oven. I can step away then?”

“This is for dinner later tonight at your parents, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Why?” You turn your head up to peer at him. He already has a big fat smirk on his face. 

“We have so much time, baby,” he kisses you once more. “I just need you for a minute.”

“Joel,” you say sternly, though you feel your knees already buckling.

His hands are at your waist, guiding you to the kitchen sink and guiding you to wash your hands. As soon as you’re done, he’s twisting you in his hold, so your body is flushed with his. Your neck angled back to look him in the eyes. Within seconds, his hands are on either side of your face, lips smashing into yours, tongue immediately darting out to tangle with yours. His hips push harder against you, and you can feel his hard length against your lower belly. 

Too lost at his sudden horniness, you don’t realize his hands leave your face and make their way to your thighs. He pulls away from you momentarily, letting out a breathless up as he taps the outside of your thigh. You lift your legs up to wrap around his waist. 

He’s walking you to your shared bedroom, lips still on yours. As he reaches the threshold of the room, he tells you to close your eyes. 

“Why?”

“Darlin’, just do it,” he says, amusement in his tone at your hard-headedness. One of his favorite things about you.

A small fine leaves your lips, and soon he’s throwing you on your bed, your body doing a little bounce at the fluffiness of your mattress. You squeal at being airborne, loving how he always manhandles you so perfectly. 

Your eyes are still closed even though you’re dying to open them, and you start to feel Joel unzip your jeans, kissing every inch of your now-exposed lower belly. Once your bottoms are completely off, he settles himself between your legs, putting your thighs up onto his broad shoulders, keeping you completely open to him. 

“Open, baby,” he says, kissing the insides of your thighs.

You peer through your lashes slowly, but then your nervousness fades. Nothing looks different. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Until you look at Joel’s hand wrapped around your thigh. His one finger is pointing up to the ceiling. You look up. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You look up and see your reflection staring back down at you. A complete view of Joel’s body between your legs, his broad back on display with his cute ass you love so much. Your jaw is on the floor. 

“You like?” you hear him ask, a bit nervous. 

“When?” you ask, still a bit shocked (and crazily aroused) at your room’s new feature. 

“You were so busy in the kitchen all day,” he responds, “‘N I remembered our conversation a month ago, and I’ve been wantin’ to do it since, but never had the chance.”

You look back down to his own eyes. “I bought everythin’ for it after the conversation, too,” he adds. “Thought I’d make myself useful today in the way I know best.”

You think back to that conversation. 

“Baby,” you yell from the couch.

“Hm?” he grumbles from his place in the kitchen.

“How would you feel,” you pause for a second, easing your own nerves about your request. Sure, Joel is just as freaky as you are, but it’s a natural human reaction to be unsure about new things. “About putting mirrors in our room?”

He’s in the living room within seconds. 

“Mirrors?”

“Yes.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Mirrors where?”

You look at him for a minute. “...above the bed.” 

His eyes flash something dark. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Okay?” you ask, shocked at his quick agreement.

“Okay.” You swear you see the one side of his mouth flip up in a smirk as he walks back to the kitchen. 

You reach your hand down to caress his cheekbone, wanting nothing more than to kiss him but waiting because you know what he’s about to do. “I fucking love it,” you tell him. 

“Good,” he says. His eyes look back down to your glistening cunt. He’s about to taste you when you speak up again. 

“Wait.”

He looks back up to you. 

“Take your shirt off. Wanna see you,” you say with a smirk as you point back up to the mirror above you. 

He sits back up on his haunches, a smirk identical to yours spread across his face. He unbuttons his flannel slowly as he maintains eye contact with you. What a tease, you think. Two could play that game. 

As soon as his chest is in view, you let out a little exaggerated moan, “Oh, fuck, baby.”

Your hand that was resting besides you moves to your chest. Slowly, you drag your fingers down your sternum, down your belly. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

His eyes are watching your hand like a hawk. He speeds up his unbuttoning process, but only by a millisecond, trying to keep his act and not fall under your siren spell. 

Your fingers reach the top of your mound, coursing through the patch of hair down there. You shift your hips for added effect. As he gets to his last two buttons, the two pads of your fingers make their way to your clit, circling soft and slow, pulling the softest but neediest of moans from you. “Fuck, baby,” you drag out, pained. You bring your fingers lower, dipping into your wetness. You pump in and out of yourself for a few moments, letting him hear how wet you are. “See what you do to me, baby?”

“Fuck,” he growls out, the brown of his eyes completely gone. His act is done for as he rips off his flannel, the last button flying somewhere with a soft clack landing. He’s back between your legs at an instant, his hand grabbing at your wrist and bringing it up to his mouth, sucking at the slick on your fingers. His quickness mixed with his roughness sends you in a frenzy, a lewd gasp leaving your mouth at his actions. 

He releases your hand and his one hand situates itself at the top of your ass, angling your hips more forward, putting your cunt directly in line with his mouth. His other arm situates itself over your belly. 

He licks a wet stripe through your seam using the flat of his tongue, and you swear you saw Heaven flash through his eyes. “God, ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he says. 

He places an open-mouthed kiss to your clit, pulling off of you with suction. Your hips try to chase him for more, but the hold he has on you has you going nowhere. “This right here is what I’m fuckin’ thankful for,” he whispers at your pussy before he completely dives like a man starved. Like it’s his Thanksgiving meal. 

His actions are focused on your sobbing entrance right now, his tongue lapping up your juices and entering your fluttering hole every chance he gets. The deeper he fucks his tongue into you, the more his thick, hooked nose nudges at your clit, providing the perfect amount of pleasure that sends you screaming. 

“Fuck, Joel-!” you yell out. “Please, don’t stop, just like that, baby, please!” Your back tries to arch as much as it can with his heavy arm weighing you down. He opens up his eyes, looking up to check on you. A smile forms as he licks at you: your head thrown back in pleasure, eyes tightly shut. He keeps his exact pace and pressure, pulling you to the very edge just like you so sweetly asked for. Then, he’s pulling off of you. 

Your eyes shoot open, immediately searching for Joel’s. You’re thrashing against his hold. “Baby, no, please,” you whine in frustration. “I was so close, please.”

He points back up to the mirror. “Don’t let my efforts go to waste, baby,” he says with a condescending inflection. “You said you wanted to watch me. So, watch. Or I’ll stop.”

You whimper at his words, nodding your head frantically, babbling to appease him. “Yes, baby, yes, I promise. I’ll keep my eyes open. Promise. Please, baby, please,” you beg.

Your words leave your tongue as his returns to the place you need him most. He angles your hips just slightly higher, giving him the perfect position to put all of his wet muscle into your pussy as his nose perfectly hits your already sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hands fly to his curls at the contact, your eyes threatening to roll back in pleasure. 

You use all your strength to bring your eyes up to the mirror, and the sight of his back muscles flexing and twitching with every movement he makes has the fire in your core burning brighter. The next thing you notice is what sends you over the edge. His hips are rutting into the mattress, easing his hardness as though he’s a dog in heat. The thought of his desperation for you — his primal crave for you — that ends you. 

You’re nearly ripping his hair out of his scalp as your eyes clamp shut, a stream of moans and gasps for air fill the room as you soak his entire face with your slick. At your finish, he’s moaning into you, and you can feel his body begin to vibrate. You open your eyes as best as you can, and you can see his hips are still rocking, weak and shaky. 

Fuck. 

He came. 

He looks up from your pussy, the bottom half of his face soaked with a devilish grin gracing his features. He looks more fucked out than you, and if you’re remembering your tiny glimpse of your reflection as you came, you also look utterly fucked. 

He wipes the wetness of his face on your thigh only to lick it all back up, sucking a few marks to bloom later tonight. 

He places one last kiss to your clit, causing you to yelp in overstimulation. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, as if he’s reminiscing about the things he just did to you. “I’m fuckin’ thankful,” he says as he heads to the bathroom to grab a cloth to clean you up. 

Tags: @javierpena-inatacvest @katiexpunk @janaispunk @farmerlarrry @mellymbee @jobee403 @soavenuepenguin @rainbowcosmicchaos @untamedheart81 @lilynotdilly @babygal-babygal @pedritoferg @pedrostories @akah565 @getitoutofmymind

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

[drewsephrry]

everybody moved on, help im still at the restaurant

[chronically-ghosted]

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

[madhatterbri]

New Traditions | E.M.

Summary: Elijah comes up with a new holiday tradition. 18+.

"You don't have to do all this extra work for us. Let me help you relax," he whispered in your ear and nipped it playfully. His hands grabbed your waist and sat you on his lap. You planted your feet on the ground to stand up but his hands held you firm.

"Elijah," you whined yet stopped when he wrapped an arm around you. Kisses were planted on your neck. You wiggled feeling him hard against you.

"Let me take care of you, darling. I'll do all the work," he smiled and unbuttoned your pants. The zipper came undone allowing his hand to slide in your panties. You whimpered feeling his finger touch your core. Your back rested against him while your head laid on his shoulder. "Being such a good hostess. Are you going let me take care of you?"

Your eyes closed as you nodded. He smirked at your agreement. Usually he would have to convince you to play with him while you were in business mode. He played with your clit enjoying your whimpers and moans.

"I have to get back to planning Thanksgiving," you whispered hoarsely. Of course you didn't want to but Thanksgiving wouldn't plan itself. Once you were good and wet he slipped a finger inside of you. You hated how you reacted to him.

"Shhh, darling, remember I'm going to take care of you," Elijah reminded you. Your legs dangled around his. The risk of being caught by one of his siblings made this more enjoyable. "This is what is going to happen. I'm going to bend you over this table and have my way with your pretty little body. Do I make myself clear?"

He added another finger inside of you. Your body clenched around his fingers never wanting them to leave. The way he spoke to you always made you feel hotter.

"Use me," you whimpered. You buried your head against his neck. Your hand rubbed his cheek. Your hips had a mind of their own. They matched each thrust of his fingers. He shuddered yet focused on the task at hand.

"Oh trust me, I will, but for now let's see how many pretty sounds you can make with just my fingers," he teased. The thrust of his fingers picked up in pace as did your hips. Each thrust met with an 'ah' as you felt his fingers curl inside of you.

You brought your head back. Your breath quickened as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. The knot in your stomach tightened before releasing. His fingers covered in your juice. You gasped as you looked at the mess on his pants.

"Don't worry about that. Let's get you bent over this table. I can't wait much longer," he confessed. He helped you to your feet and lowered your pants and panties. He slapped your ass playfully as he watched you bend over. A sight before him that he could never get tired of. His pants impossibly tight around him.

"Beautiful," he whispered and stood up. Your heart swelled with pride at the compliment. The sound of a belt being unbuckled and a zipper being pulled down sounded in the room. He lowered his boxers and pants to his ankles.

You cried out his name as he entered you. The way the table moved with each thrust back and forth. Your body clenched on to him once more. Your cheek rested on the table. He snaked his fingers in your hair and pulled slightly.

"A year ago you were my shy little girl. Now look at you. The servants can hear your slutty little mouth moan," he teased. His hand reached around to your oversensitive clit. He thumbed it making you cry out louder.

"T-too much," you whined feeling your knees shake. He mocked you not relenting on his treatment of your body. Elijah knew what you could and couldn't take. Sure enough within seconds you were moaning for him to never stop.

He could feel your orgasm coming the moment your body gripped him tighter. The rush of fluids from your second orgasm nearly pushed him out of you. He gripped your hips and thrusted rougher. The sound of sweaty skin slapping each other echoed in the dining room.

"Look at you. Allowing me to stuff you where our family and friends are going to eat. What would they think?" He asked. His breath ragged as his hands gripped your waist harder. One final messy thrust and he stopped inside of you. He was never one to waste a single drop not inside of you.

He waited to catch his breath before slipping out of you. The absolute mess he left behind was enough to make him want more. You slowly stood up from the table. With his assistance, your panties and pants back to where they were moments ago. He fixed his own clothing.

"Let's plan the same for Christmas Eve," he whispered making you melt.

[tootiecakes234]

You cannot tell me that for friendsgiving Katsuki Bakugo is not cooking the entire fucking meal.

He already gets up early but that morning you have to get up early with him because you are his certified taste tester. Everything he cooks goes through you cuz he knows he’s gonna like his food but he has to make sure YOU like his food.

He could give a fuck what any of his friends think because he knows either way they are going to scarf it down.

He also needs you up and in the kitchen with him the entire day because you guys have gotten so in sync you’re handing him things before he even asks for them and keeping his friends in check so he can actually finish on time.

Food always smacks… never any leftovers because Bakusquad eats down!😭

[viking-raider]

Thankful

Summary: For Thanksgiving, you decide to take part of a military support group event and host a Veteran, having them over for dinner. Forming a lasting bond with a certain Captain.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: G - Cotton Candy Goodness, Angst, Mention of Loss of Family Member, Mourning, Cold Mother, Embarrassed!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Use, Fluff, Friendly Bets, Southern Charm

Inspiration: It’s for Thanksgiving. 🍗

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS! My Syverson's first name is Austin.

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLISTand turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy! @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY

You had received the message from one of the countless Military support groups you were a part of about the Sponsoring a Veteran for Thanksgiving event, and if you were interested in participating. You had hesitated for a couple days, before finally caving. You didn't have much family left of your own, just your mother. Since your father passed, when you were a kid and your only sibling, a brother, had been killed in the line of duty. Which was why you were a member of the support groups, looking to keep a closeness to him, and find some sort of peace with his death.

“All right.” The lead organizer, retired Lieutenant Sarah Timmans, sighed, looking over her clipboard at the list of names of all the Veterans that had been signed up for the event. “Your mother knows you're hosting a Vet, right?” She asked, cocking a brow at you, knowing how sensitive and touchy your mother was still about being around anything directly Military.

“I told her, I was bringing a friend over.” You answered, biting your lip nervously, knowing your mother's own mood swings on the subject.

“Girl, she's going to flip out on you.” Sarah said, shaking her head, eyes bulging. “Maybe, you should just do something one-on-one with them?” She suggested, trying to bypass a disaster.

“She's expecting us, and I'll get an earful, if I skip another family gathering.”

Sarah snorted at you, smirking. “It's your KP!” She teased, going down the list to find your name and who you'd been assigned. “So, your Vet is Captain Austin Syverson. He just retired seven months ago after nineteen years in the service of the U.S Army. Special Forces.” She informed you, looking up from the clipboard to scan the crowded room for a moment.

“Ah, there he is!” She smiled, motioning behind you.

Turning around and following her gaze, you were surprised for a moment, standing on the other side of the room, in a small cluster of other Vets, was a tall, thickly muscular guy, with a shaved head and well groomed beard. Everything about him exuded authority, self-confidence and calm. He was so damn handsome in his pair of dark wash blue jeans, brown cowboy boots and fleshly ironed, black dress shirt that was tucked in, showing off his belt buckle. Your insides tingled as you stared at him, throat going dry.

“Damn, that's a Texas boy.” You mumbled under your breath.

“Sure is.” Sarah agreed, checking him out as well. “You should go introduce yourself, before he thinks you stood him up.” She added, a hint of encouragement in her voice.

“God, you're right.” You started, frightened he just might, then weaved through the crowd towards him, pausing for a moment, until he noticed you. “Hi there.” You beamed up at him, your knees like a nervous jelly.

“Ma'am.” Syverson greeted you back with a Southern drawl, tipping his head forward.

“I'm your host, Captain Syverson.” You informed him, introducing yourself.

“Oh.” He replied, giving you a proper look over, a smile pulling over his lips as he took your lovely figure in the white, knee-length dress covered in delicate yellow flowers, paired with black flats. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” He said, his bright blue eyes meeting yours once more. “You can just call me, Sy.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Sy.” You answered, cordially extending your hand.

Smirking broader, Sy gently took your hand in his, shaking it. “I'm grateful that you've allowed me impose myself on you and your family's holiday.”

“Oh, it's quite all right.” You waved it off, shrugging your shoulders. “It's really just me and my mom, so nothing major.”

“Well, I'm just a Captain, so it'll literally be nothing Major.” Sy quipped, making the group around him crackle at the inside joke.

You dropped your head, hiding your amused smile, knowing the two of you were more than likely to get along, if he had that sense of humor. “Fair.” You nodded, lifting your head. “More than fair. Well, we can leave whenever you like.”

Sy turned over his wrist to glance at his watch. “We can go now, if you like.” He replied, twisting to a chair that was behind him and picking up a black, denim Sherpa coat off the back. “I'll see you boys later. Have a good Thanksgiving.” He bid the men, patting a couple on the shoulder, before following you out of the building.

“You can follow me to my place or we can ride together.” You told Sy, standing on the sidewalk with him, chewing on your lip.

“I can follow.” Sy answered, smiling down at you. “My truck's just over there.” He said, motioning over to the big, 2021 Dodge Ram, parked a short distance away.

“Okay. I'm just right there.” You informed him, pointing out your little KIA Niro.

“On your lead then, Major.” Sy quipped, winking at you, before heading off towards his truck.

“Christ,” You huffed, watching after him for a moment, your hand moving up to a necklace around your neck. “He reminds me so much of you, Phelan.” You sighed, then made for your vehicle.

Pulling out of the parking space, your phone started to ring, so you connected the car's Bluetooth. “Mother.” You answered, glancing in your rear-view, to make sure Sy was behind you, before you started out of the parking lot and into the street.

“How much longer are you going to be?” Your mother snapped through the car's speakers.

“I'm just leaving now, mom.” You sighed, pressing your lips together. “I had to find my friend and now we're heading there now. We should be there in about ten or so minutes.”

“Why is he spending Thanksgiving with us? Doesn't he have his own family?” She demanded, clearly pacing the house.

“I'm sure he has a family, mother. But I invited him over to ours and he accepted. So, please, be nice to him. He's a very polite and outstanding person, who doesn't need to be pestered and guilt tripped, or reminded his mother is lucky, that her son is still alive and not in the military and so on.” You hoped to warn and deter her from her usual interaction with the males she came into contact with. “Let's just have a nice dinner, for once.”

“How can we, when your brother isn't here.” She growled, then the line went dead.

“At least, I'm here.” You sighed, deflated by her words. “I should really warn Sy before we get into the house.” You thought, then pushed that unpleasantness aside.

Sy managed to keep behind your car, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He felt a little nervous about going to a random, pretty young lady's home to have Thanksgiving dinner with her mother. However, he didn't have any other plans for the holiday under his belt, other than staying on the ranch he'd started up on his return home with Aika.

“Idle hands are the devil's workshop.” He commented aloud, following you off the on-ramp.

It would have just been him and his pup, working the horses all day, before making another ten minute meal and sitting in front of his laptop, since he still hadn't gotten around to buying himself a proper tv for the living room. So, he let one of his buddies nag him into signing up for the event. Sy wasn't at all disappointed either.

You were more than easy on his eyes.

Finally making it outside your place, you got out and met Sy in your driveway, shifting glances between him and the front door.

“Are you all right?” Sy asked, squinting down at you.

“Okay, look.” You blurted out, not looking back at him. “My mom is super touchy about the military.” You started to explain to Sy, giving him an embarrassed glance.

“Why?” He frowned, confused.

Your shoulders slumped slightly and a tired expression washed over your face. “My brother died in Afghanistan six years ago. My mom has taken that to her heart and soul. So anything military tends to set her off.”

“Then, should I even be here?” Sy asked, concerned about causing your mother any distress.

“It's my house and you're my guest.” You told him, bluntly. “I want you here for dinner. It'll be nice to have someone over that might actually engage with me.” You said, heading up the footpath towards the front door. “And not remind me that I'm not my dead, older brother.” You added under your breath, but Sy's sharp ear heard you all the same.

“Mom!” You called out, toeing off your shoes as you stood in the entry with Sy. “We're here.”

“Took long enough.” Her voice echoed back somewhere in the house.

You looked up at Sy. “I'm so sorry.” You mouthed, shaking your head.

“It's all right.” He smiled, his hand touching the back of your arm.

“Do you want something to drink?” You asked, showing him into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. “Got wine, a couple bottles.” You twisted your upper half to peek at an upper shelf. “Looks like she's left my Ardbeg whiskey alone.”

“I wouldn't mind a little whiskey.”

Nodding, you shut the fridge and got down two glasses with the whiskey bottle. “Straight or on the rocks?”

“What are you having?” Sy asked, leaning back against your sink, a twinkle of mischievous curiosity in his eyes.

“The rocks.” You answered, a playful smirk tugging on your lips.

Sy drew a breath in through his nose, pressing his lips together as he nodded. “Impressed.”

“Thank you.” You chuckled, grabbing a couple ice cubes from the freezer and dropped them into your glasses, then poured you and Sy a generous amount of amber liquid. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Sy tipped his head, taking the glass from you and took a sip. “Damn, that's smooth.”

“Mmm, for a twenty year old bottle, it should be.” You snorted, taking a gulp of yours.

“Twenty years.” Sy choked slightly. “Damn, almost as long as I was in--” He caught himself, eyes shooting to the two kitchen entrances. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, a little stiff, praying your mother was lurking nearby, and polished off your drink, before moving over to the oven, revealing a nice sized turkey, just starting to turn a golden brown, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering scent. “I started this about an hour and a half ago, so it should have about another hour or so to go. While it does that, I can show you around.”

“And, if you're as much of a Texan as I think you are, I'll pop the football game on.”

“You don't have to put the game on.” Sy laughed, feeling called out. “We can watch whatever you and your mother want. I'd hate to impose.”

“Captain Austin Syverson, you're not imposing.” You informed him, putting your foot down.

Sy's eyes widened and he gave you a half smirk. “I do love a woman that takes charge. Yes, ma'am, if you say so.”

“Besides, I'd love to see the Chiefs kick the Cowboys ass.” You added, teasingly.

“Oh, you're a traitor to your home state!” Sy gasped, horror on his face.

“Texas isn't my home state.” You giggled at him, then tisked. “Kansas isn't either, to be far.” You snorted, amused by the banter. “But I like Mahomes.”

“What's wrong with Dak Prescott?”

“Nothing! He's a great QB. I'm just a Chiefs girl.”

“I may have to call this Thanksgiving off.” Sy said, draining his whiskey glass and set it on the counter behind him and pushed off the edge. “To eat at the same table as a Chiefs girl, may just be too much for this ol' Texas boy.”

You were worried for a moment that Sy was genuine, and felt terrible for bringing it up, until you finally noticed the look in his eye and relaxed. He had a dry humor and pulled it out on you, catching you good.

“Shoot, you had me there.” You chuckled, breathy.

He winked at you, amusing you more with his cute double blink.

“Well,” You sighed, looking at the kitchen. “This is the kitchen.”

“A very nice kitchen.” Sy echoed, nodding and rubbing a hand over the counter top. “Nice and clean.”

“Thank you, I do my best.” You replied, bowing your head. “Out that way is the dining room, where we'll be having dinner.” You said, motioning to your right, and Sy peeked in, finding a long, glass table already set for three people with nice little autumn decorations as a centerpiece. “Over here, is the living room, where we'll probably be starting our football rivalry.”

You showed him into the living room, just as your mother came downstairs, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, a tank top and an open bathrobe, a half glass of white wine clutched in her hand. You felt a cold shard of embarrassment go down your back. You had hoped, when you told her you were going to get Sy, she would have dressed into something—anything.

“Mom, this is Sy.” You told her, keeping your voice even. “Sy, this is my mother, Dana.” You introduced them, chewing the inside of your lip to bits.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” Sy greeted her politely, nodding his head kindly, like nothing was out of place.

She looked Sy over, taking a gulp of her wine. “How do you and my daughter know each other?” She inquired, lifting a brow at him.

You stiffened, you hadn't considered fielding that question from her while Sy was over.

“Work.” Sy said, casually.

“So, she's your accountant?” Dana pressed and showed no sign of easing off.

“I am.” You chimed in, hoping to get her to drop the subject and leave Sy alone.

“That she is.” Sy confirmed, backing you up. “Helps me out with my ranch.” He told Dana, tapping that belt buckle at his waist, bearing the Hook Hill Ranch logo on it.

“Hmm.” Your mother grunted, not sounding convinced. “Why aren't you spending Thanksgiving with your family?” She asked, giving Sy a hard look.

“Mom!” You snapped, horrified.

“It's all right.” He assured you, giving you a soft smile. “I'm an only child. I've never known my father and my mother ran off, when I was ten years old, leaving me to be raised by uncle, her brother. He had a heart attack three years ago, while milkin' his cows. So, it's just me and my dog, Aika, nowadays. Your daughter was kind enough to ask me over to your Thanksgiving dinner, and I accepted.”

“Satisfied?” You asked, annoyed your mother caused Sy to divulge such personal information.

Rolling her eyes, your mother turned in a flare of her bathrobe and headed back upstairs.

“Turkey will be done in an hour!” You called after her, with no reply. “I'm so sorry.” You said, turning back to Sy.

“It's okay.” He said softly, more concerned for you. “Is there anything I can do to help you finish up with dinner?”

“Um,” You tapped your foot. “No, I don't think so. Besides, you're my guest. You should relax.” You told him, waving over to the couch. “I can handle everything.” You assured him, rounding the arm of the couch to swipe the remote of the coffee table and turned the tv on, quickly finding the football game. “Ooh, Cowboys are beating the Chiefs by two points!” You hissed, casting a glance over your shoulder at Sy.

Sy moved to join you, holding your gaze. “I bet you a round of drinks, at a later time, that the Cowboys beat your Chiefs.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Syverson?” You asked, surprised.

“I am.” He admitted, unashamed.

“Then, you're on.” You grinned, giving him a cocky look. “But, if the Chiefs win, I want to see your ranch.”

“Bold.” Sy smirked, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I'll even cook for you.”

“Sold.” You agreed, extending your hand out to him.

He shook your hand, then sat down on the couch, getting comfortable to watch the game, while you returned to the kitchen. Pausing for a moment, you refilled his whiskey glass and took it out to him, giving him a soft smile as you set the cool glass down on a coaster and went back to prepping dinner. Sy watched you over the back of the couch, moving and bumping about, taking a deep breath and taking all the lovely smells of your hard work wafting towards him and making his belly rumble.

Lord have mercy, she's gorgeous.

“You sweet on my daughter?” Dana's voice came up behind him.

Sy's head swung around to look back at her, seeing she'd finally gotten dressed, now wearing a pair of black leggings and a loose, cream colored jumper, but no shoes or socks. “I just might be.” He answered, meeting her gaze head on. “She's a sweet, generous young lady.”

“Young lady, how old are you?” Dana huffed, dropping down into a recliner at the end of the couch.

“I'm thirty-eight.” Sy replied, with an odd amusement.

Dana looked Sy over, her gray eyes scrutinizing. “At least you're both in your thirties.” She huffed, curling her legs underneath her and glared at the tv.

What a curious woman. Sy blinked, shaking his head at her.

The two of them sat quietly, not speaking or interacting with each other any further. Which didn't bother either Sy or Dana. You peeked in at them from time to time, scurrying out to fill Sy's glass, whenever you noticed it was empty and always asking if he needed or wanted something, before vanishing back into the kitchen or dining room.

You wanted the dinner to be as great as possible for Sy, and your mother.

“Dinner is ready, everyone!” You declared, coming into the living room, glancing at the football score, discovering the Chiefs had recovered since the last time you'd entered, now ahead by four points.

“Smells delicious.” Sy complimented you, as he and your mother came into the dining room, finding the set table.

The turkey was juicy and golden-brown, slices already carved and on a plate beside it, with sides of stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls and cornbread muffins, yams with marshmallows, peas and asparagus, accompanied with pecan and pumpkin pie. There were two decanters of red and white wine, a bottle of Ardbeg, and a pitcher of iced tea.

“Thank you.” You grinned with shy pride, biting the inside of your lip. “Sit wherever you like and dig in.” You said, motioning to the chairs around the table, before slipping into one.

Sy joined you, winking at you, as he picked up a plate and started helping himself, piling his plate with meat, rolls, yams and cornbread. “Mmm, this is amazing.” He hummed, nodding his head and chewing his mouthful of turkey and mashed potatoes.

You were giddy that Sy was so in love with your cooking, glancing towards your mother, who was at the end of the table. But found she was sipping a glass of red and nibbling on a buttered roll, to your slight dismay. Pushing the feeling away, you fixed your plate and dug in, moaning at how tasty it was.

“So, your team was winning.” Sy commented, giving you a side brow as he continued to eat.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You smirked, feeling bubbly, as you poured yourself some wine. “Looks like we'll be spending some more time together.”

“That it does.” He nodded, feeling your mother's eyes on him. “I'll have to show you the new foal that was born last week.”

A flood of excitement filled you, you loved the thought of seeing a baby horse. “Oh! I bet they're just the cutest thing on the planet!” You gushed, eyes bright with love already. “What did you name it?”

“Oh, I haven't named the little rascal, yet.” Sy laughed, watching you just gush. “Maybe, you could help me come up with a name for her?” He suggested, looking at you over the rim of his whiskey glass.

“Hmm.” You hummed, falling into a meditative state as you brewed over a name for the baby horse.

“So,” Dana cleared her throat, eyes narrowed between you and Sy. “You're a Rancher?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sy nodded, turning to regard her, nothing by polite respect in his expression.

“How long have you been one?” She questioned, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Ranchin' has been in my family for generations.” Sy replied, not letting her trip him up. “My many great-grandfather came over from Ireland, just after the American Revolution. Then, when the Civil War happened, my family fought and were granted land at the end, for their service. We've been doing it ever since.”

“So, your family fought for the South.” Dana said bluntly, causing you to choke on your food.

“Mother.” You rasped, eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“No, ma'am.” Sy said coolly. “We fought for the North.” He told her, and left it at that.

“Are you satisfied?” You asked her slowly, eyes still wide and mouth agape.

“No.” She answered, getting up and leaving the room.

“I'm so sorry, Sy.” You stuttered, ashamed of your mother.

“It's all right, love.” He shook his head, wiping his hands on his napkin. “It's not your fault. It's not hers either, really.” He said softly. “She's mourning her son, and doing so takes the form in many ways. That's how your Ma is coping with your brother no longer being on this Earth.” He told you, resting back in his chair and fixing his blue eyes on you. “You're coping by going to support groups and trying to understand the kind people that he was, that he worked with, that he died surrounded by.”

You bit your lip, a lump of emotion strangling you and blurring your eyes; Sy was right. You wanted to be surrounded by those like your brother. It was like still having him there, in a way. You felt the strong, rough warmth of Sy's hand slip into yours, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over your wrist as the two of you sat there, quiet and surrounded by your Thanksgiving feast.

“You know,” Sy spoke, breaking the silence. “I could actually use an accountant for my ranch.” He said, smirking over at you. “Plus, how about drinks at my place, while you figure out a new name for my foal? Who cares who wins the game.” He chuckled, arching a suggestive brow at you.

“Are you hinting at a sort of date, Syverson?” You asked, playfully thumb warred him.

“It's possible.” Sy laughed, letting you pin his thumb. “Maybe, I'll even cook you Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, I think I'd like that.” You told him, grinning, thankful you'd decided to host him for Thanksgiving.

[princessaxoxo]

Thanksgiving

August Walker x Reader 

Summary: August has you over for thanksgiving.

Warnings: 18+ Only, NSFW, unprotected sex (p in v), oral (f receiving), pet names, some food play, fluff, age gap, vulgar language

Wordcount: 930

A/N: Had this in mind for weeks but things got a bit chaotic in my personal life so it is a bit rushed. So sorry. 😣

A spread of Thanksgiving delicacies and candlelight covered August's dining table as you were squirming in your seat across from him. Although you had been alone with him before, this was the first time he had asked you to his place with such boldness.

“Which one do you prefer?” He pointed at the turkey and ham. “Oh, um, the turkey,” you awkwardly replied. Internally, you were scolding yourself.

August took your plate and placed a turkey slice on it. When your plate was placed in front of you again, part of the food was on the edges since you didn't want to be impolite and refuse any of the food he had prepared. “It looks delicious, August."

As you began eating your food, halfway, you noticed August hadn’t touched his. “Why aren’t you eating?"

August took notice of your nervous mannerisms since the beginning of the night. “Why are you fidgeting?” You looked away from his eyes and dropped your utensil. He leaned across the table and raised your face so you would look at him. “Tell me.” His light-hearted question has now turned into a demand.

“Well, we’ve never done this.” His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “What do you mean?"

“This is intimate. Well, we have been intimate before, but this is a different type of intimacy. It’s romantic. This is different for us.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. August sat back in his chair and chuckled.

“It’s not funny!” You huffed and crossed your arms.

“Oh, I don't think it's humorous, baby. I simply don't understand why you withheld your concerns from me. I am aware that this is unusual for us because we haven't been able to go on the kind of date that I had hoped for. However, the fact that it will be our first Thanksgiving spent together makes it more special.”

Suddenly, all the nerves you held floated away.

August took a few steps around the table before bringing out the chair beside you. He kissed your hand after grasping it.

"This is really special, and I'm glad it's with you. Thank you for doing all of this." You said before giving him a kiss that started out as affectionate but quickly turned hungry. "Suddenly, none of this food appeals to me."

“But you made all of it. It shouldn’t go to waste.” He nodded his head, and you could tell he had an idea. “It won’t go to waste, princess.”

You watched as he brought the bowl filled with mashed potatoes closer. It suddenly became clear to you what he was intending to do. “You’re going to eat the food off of me?"

August started to take your dress off your body, and you allowed him to. "Indeed, I am. After all, it's Thanksgiving. We must be grateful and eat until we put on ten pounds." He paused to give you a kiss on the inside of your thigh. "This is what I'm thankful for—this wonderful food. And above all, you."

As you bit your lip, you saw him apply mashed potatoes to both sides of your inner thighs before starting to eat them off of you. When you felt him sucking and twirling his tongue around, pleasure took over you.

Moans effortlessly left you as you grasped your breasts and pinched your nipples. He applied another sheer coat of mashed potatoes to your cunt, and you soon felt the feel of his tongue pressing against your clit. 

His formerly brilliant blue eyes were bursting with desire as you gazed down at him. His tongue lapsed and sucked until you were a wailing mess that was coming apart. “God, August.” 

He kissed his way up to your mouth. “Get undressed now,” you demanded of him. He tore his clothes off in a rush. And, thoughtlessly lifted you and placed you down on the table. August lifted the cranberry sauce and poured it over your breasts. When he began to suck and twirl his tongue over your nipples, groans fell from his lips.

“August, I need you inside me.”

His face held a wicked smile. “You want me inside of you, princess? Want to feel all of me?"

“Yes, please.” 

With rapidity, he lunged inside you, and your legs encircled his waist. His sac struck your ass with each push. As you bent in to give him a kiss, you noticed how his muscles strained with every thrust.

You encircled his neck firmly with your arms, and he enveloped his powerful arms beneath your thighs. When he pressed you against the wall and invaded you, you were able to feel him more deeply. With every push, his cock grazed your g-spot.

Your come covered his cock. “My good girl, covering me with her come.”

With your mouth hanging open and your eyes shut, you became mute as the pounding intensified. He gripped your face tightly. "Look at me; I must see that stunning face of yours as I come into you."

His body began to jerk as his seed filled you.

August's head rested on the bend of your neck while you both tried to breathe again. Once he was breathing normally again, he took a look at you and let out a little laugh. “What is it?” you questioned him.

"There's food in your hair," he said, moving your hair away from your face.

You chuckled hysterically and touched his face before speaking. "Happy Thanksgiving, baby."

"Honey, happy Thanksgiving." He kissed you several times over your face after giving you a quick peck on the lips.

Taglist: @shellyshellshell @chloe92 @identity2212 @juliaorpll78 @armystay89

[johnnys-breastmilk]

Even though Ryan didn't get a whole lot to do, he was REALLY doing it for me with his obvious displays of interest, so Ryan x Male Reader request where both are preparing for the Thanksgiving parade, he's expressed being attracted to the reader in the past, & has been heavily flirting while in the pilgrim costume with lots of holiday appropriate innuendos. When everybody else clears out, it leads to him fulfilling his promise of "stuffing" the reader.

sososo good omfg

a/n — brought to you by slotslights! would've been posted sooner if finals and holidays didn't exist ayyyy ... little late for the holiday im so sorry

summary — check the ask!

warnings — standard smut, jokefic cause this movie is unserious, spit as lube and this was rushed sorry!

words — 2.4k

~~~

You stood on top of a small, obviously fake ship. It was comical in design and size, being barely enough to fit you, let alone two people on it. There’s some kind of block—a wooden crate, you think—at the very back of the narrow space to stand. The ship was a bit taller than the rest of the floats, overlooking the living cornucopia of little kids painted to be greens and sweet fruits to your left, the dinner table with some townsfolk in pilgrim costumes sitting around it to your right, and your ship was spearheading the order precisely in the middle. Their costumes only reminded you how itchy yours was, being composed of spandex and knit cotton that caused the perfect combination of skin-hugging discomfort.

Behind all three was the large inflatable turkey, inconsistently staring at people as it bobbed and billowed. On the opposite end of things, in front of your float, were the marchers and mascot of the holiday. You envied him the most, as he stood out past the large opening in the building that housed the whole show with a thick, full-body costume on. He had to be as warm as being in a literal oven.

The organizers handed you two mic-packs with an earpiece for each rectangular receiver right before you boarded the ship, except it was just you on the deck. You started securing the receiver to your hip. Footsteps scaling up the warehouse stepladder drew your attention, and shortly after, the mock-Mayflower shifted a bit on its stand to make room for another voyager.

You turned, immediately recognizing the man under the Pilgrim hat. “And the king of putting his arm around people’s shoulders returns!”

“I said I was sorry.” He rolled his eyes, acting as if his blunt advances last week should be forgotten about.

“Don’t, Ryan.” Your cheap costume wouldn’t be the only pain in the ass on this boat. Unfortunately, they had already wheeled the mobile staircase that was your only escape away, making the only viable option to wait and ride this out at about three miles per hour.

If there was one thing about Ryan, that felt like it defined him entirely, was how forward he expressed himself to be. “Come on, stop playing cold turkey. I know you’re addicted to me.”

“Here.” He wore an identical costume that you got to eye up and down when you had to begrudgingly hand him his ticket aboard. His rite of passage to be putting-his-arm-over-your-shoulder-length away from you.

Ryan took it from your hands, a smirk on his face with his bottom lip jutting out in confidence. “Someone’s defrosting.”

The fleeting moment got away from your hands like a bird that could fly, unfortunate for the turkey that took its place. The revving of engines signaled that the parade was about to start. A messy collaboration of trumpeters, drummers, and every kind of walking noisemaker started to play in united dissonance. They marched, heading straight down the road. It only took a moment for your float and the ones on either side of it to start their slow roll out into the daylight.

The sidewalks were occupied with people and striped barriers made out of wood lined the street, separating the modern from the old. Old might not have been the right word to describe it—defunct, maybe? Something that was a dead mode of transportation and classified as primordial for a reason, because, as soon as the ship had to hold its own on the tail of a pickup truck, it was shaking and rocking against the bumpy main road. Even a small pothole rocked the ship, sending you stumbling towards Ryan. He held on to you, making sure you were on your feet. He looked back to the wooden crate, moving towards it as you pulled away from him. He sat down on it and extended his hand.

“Seriously?” You scoffed, occupying your hands with the divots of your elbows as you crossed your arms.

“Just swallow whatever mouthful of pride you have and sit with me. This thing is held together by tape and staples and a dream.” His eyes pleaded with the words he knew he couldn’t say.

Falling off this ship might not be lethal, but it sure is embarrassing. So is being in the arms of someone who so obviously wanted you, but at least one of these wouldn’t lead to a hospital visit… you think. Ryan was painfully right, you had to stomach your pride like a dish a family member got you to try that tasted like utter trash. From the slow roll of your parade float to the pace of your steps, it was like you were acting in slow motion. Thankfully, the crowd had the modern mindset that meant you could get a little historically inaccurate in costume. You placed yourself on the upper part of his thigh, legs pouring down into the space between his—indiscernible from the black cloth coating his legs down to his ankles as it covered yours, too.

You scratched at your neck, peeling a bit of the white ruff clawing at your neck away for a few seconds. Momentarily, you could breathe. In that breath taken, you spoke to Ryan, “I need this off me.”

“You don’t need to tell me.” His eyes lingered on the bare spot on your neck, ready to dive in if it weren’t for the lack of privacy. When the public was staring at you, he came in closer. Whispering, “Just a few more blocks, then you’re mine. I’ll tear this off you, yeah?”

“Like the skin on a turkey.” Your patience was like a meat timer that had popped. Your skin felt hot, and you needed this costume off as soon as possible. Ready to escape the open air and go somewhere more private, confined with an excuse to be pressed up to Ryan.

He never left your side, keeping his closeness while you were leaning into his hold. One arm running over both your shoulders was enough to send shivers down your whole back. His other hand waved so that it looked more natural like two optimistic travelers were on their way to discover already-found land. But when the hell were museums about American holidays rightfully celebrated the way they were meant to be? He added in his closeness, “And I’ll stuff you like one, too.”

The old firehouse in Plymouth was where the floats would go after everyone screamed their lungs out and waved their hands into the sky since it was big enough to store several of the old firetrucks that had all been moved downtown. It was a slow ride to your final destination. 

As each display of the town’s affection for the holiday pulled into the makeshift warehouse and parked, the worst part proved itself to be how slowly everyone filed out of the depot. There was an agonizing wait for the required assistance down from the float, meaning that you had to stay closer to Ryan longer, the attraction between you the both of you growing stronger each second.

When you did have to leave him, you almost missed his warmth and hands. Almost, because he was back on you in seconds of your feet hitting the smooth concrete in the firehouse. Pitter-pattering was heard as your buckled shoes tapped away from everyone and up the stairs to the second floor, being led to the spot by a knowledgeable Ryan. The second floor was an open area, helmed by a kitchen as you reached the top step. It was arguably only slightly more private than the parade float you were standing on moments ago, but the shuttling of the bay doors downstairs let you know that no one who belonged there would come up to see Ryan feasting on you. Sure, you and Ryan had no business wandering away from the organizers, but two heads leaving their sight wouldn’t do much now that the parade was over.

He had you backed against the dusty counter in seconds, lips to yours, and grabbing what he could through the cheap costume. You two ditched the hats on accident, knocking them off in your attempts to pull one another closer with your holdings. It seemed to be a large kitchen island of sorts, from what you saw before Ryan pulled your attention away, now cluttered with taped-up boxes and a thick layer of dust that was wiped away by you leaning against it. There was a stove on the opposite side of where you and Ryan were cooking with your own heat. Ryan made sure that people would know of your presence by lifting you up on the counter.

“I’m gonna explode if I don’t undo my pants, fuck.” Ryan complained, breaking away from you like a wishbone—his dream coming true as he had you at his mercy. He had done the hunting, the alluring, and now, he was ready to claim you.

“Can that drumstick even fit on my plate?” You asked when he dropped his pants and let them bunch at his ankles. The black fabric of his suit must have hidden what he was packing. “Looks a little too big for me. Maybe you should just butter stuff up instead of trying to fit that in?”

“Trust me, I’ll make it fit.” Ryan tugged on himself a few times before grabbing you by the hips. He slid you towards him. “Lean back, pumpkin pie.”

“You’re so funny,” you feigned a laugh and leaned back on the cold countertop. Ryan pushed your legs up so that you got the message to keep your knees tucked into your chest, giving him an easy entrance to your ass after he undid your pants just enough to see it clearly.

You didn’t have to hear him spitting in his hand to know that he was lubing up your hole with a quick solution. Wet, warm saliva was spread over your entrance and his fingers lightly dipped in with a tasteful slip of his fingers into your tightness. Not all of it went to preparing you for his massive girth, though. The hand he didn’t use to tease you was slicking up his cock with his own spit, a remark flying out of his mouth as he welled up another wad of spit in his mouth. “I don’t usually master-baste like this but…”

“Shut up…” You said softly, too inebriated by the feeling of Ryan’s hand playing with you. The only thing that could send you out of this comatose state of pleasure was the pain of him stretching you out. 

“Oh, fuck.” He moaned, feeling his tip be fought against by the constricting feeling of you constantly wrapped around him. His pleasure heightened knowing that he had effectively dominated you after you let him do this following his many, many advances. 

Ryan delved further, exploring your cavity in its entirety. He loved how he constantly felt the tightness around any part of his cock at any given moment, yet he was still being gripped by the rest of your insides—though, it was much softer, like a gentle hand tugging on him without any part of him left untouched. You liked it, too. For as much as it hurt, stretching you out beyond what you felt you could take, there was still this feeling of letting him hurt you in a way that caused pleasure. 

Ryan eventually bottomed out, pulling all the way out to regain that feeling of tightness along his entire cock. But, he noticed that you were gaping for him, your muscles relaxing for him like they wanted to welcome him back in. He let his cock sink back in, fucking you properly after getting to know the space he was dealing with and being accustomed to the pleasure.

It was almost ironic that last week, you wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole. But now, you wanted him inside. You needed him, like an addiction. His humor, his charm, and most importantly, his high-quality assets that he was more than happy to whore out to you. You figured that you should add his knowledge onto there, too, because he was handling himself like a champ. While he was losing his composure, his thrusts growing sloppier each time he forced all of himself into you, he kept up the pace like he was mashing potatoes—or, churning thick, creamy butter with each pump. And look, he was doing it with no hands! Well, excluding the ones he kept on your legs to keep you from sliding back or having your legs get too tired. He was still considerate, even when fulfilling his selfish desires.

That’s why he slid one of his hands down your thigh and past your pants, reaching into the small window formed by the stretching of the fabric between your legs and your ass. His hand went straight for your cock, playing with it as his thrusts shook your whole body. He wanted you to feel all of the euphoria entangled with pain that he experienced at that moment, his shaft feeling suffocated by your entrance, only to have wide walls to fuck and tug his dick along on the inside.

His hand was calloused and cracked from the cold weather, but he still felt good on your sensitive skin. Little maneuvers like rubbing his thumb over the head of your dick and keeping his grip tight when he moved his hand along your length sent you spiraling. Grunts and moans filled the air like the wafting scent of a momentous dinner being laid out on the table. The sight of you alone, but mixed with Ryan’s primal energy made this feel more fulfilling than any food could. 

Eventually, you announced that you were on the verge of coming, but it probably sounded a lot less clear in your head. Ryan was still jerking you off but stopped as felt sticky white spray over his fingers and he watched it cover the stomach of your cheap costume. As he saw you unfold, he finally came, leaving you with a mix of creamy white and meaty stuffing still filling you up. You enjoyed how full he made you feel a little too much, missing it as he pulled out with a softening cock coated in his own release. Some of it hit the floor as he was still leaking out the last bits of it. Your hole could barely contain his homemade stuffing.

You sat up, catching your breath. “I need two things from you. Some paper towels, and an invite to your family’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

[ivyblossom]

Thank You

I'm so grateful that fandom is there and acting as the infrastructure where fanfiction can go and exist.

I realize anyone could just write fanfiction at any time and it could exist without a fandom to hold it. But people who have the creativity, strength, and courage to create things that don't have a place to exist are rare. Those are paradigm-shifters. Not everyone is a paradigm-shifter.

I'm not a paradigm-shifter. I think if I'd known that fanfiction had a place to go and exist when I was tiny, I would have started writing it the moment I could hold a pencil. But I didn't know, and without that infrastructure and a place to hold the thing, it's just so much harder to see it as an option. It's not always so easy to just do what you want, especially when you're younger or less confident, or if you still follow rules, or believe that rules like that are real things.

So whenever I see posts about the importance of feeding fanfic authors with kudos and comments, I hesitate a little. Because, sure. I get it. It's good to know you're not just shouting in the void, and the engagement with other people who dig your idea is absolutely amazing, it is. It feels great. Feedback is terrific. And I have been incredibly lucky in that regard for the whole of my fanfiction career to date. I wrote shitty fanfiction when I started out, and someone was kind enough to very gently school me to make me better, too. So what would I know about voids and silence? Nothing.

But I can't stop marvelling at the fact that I get to write the thing I feel compelled to write, this thing that's fighting its way out of me and will keep clawing at me until it gets out, because there's a place for it to go where it will be understood and it can exist. I can write it and then look back at it and tell it it's pretty and I love it, and then I can put it somewhere where it can live and where it can be understood, where it will part of a larger community of things that look like it, where it belongs. And then I can look at it and say, there you are. You're where you need to be now, and I'll always know where to find you.

Other people engaging with it is a whole other level, and it is so incredibly delightful, but the relief and pleasure of having what amounts to permission to lovingly expel a super self-indulgent, or silly, or wacky story and see it safely home is so immense I don't know how to properly articulate it.

Comments and kudos are amazing, I love them and I'm grateful for them, and there are so many brilliant and insightful people in fandom who have turned my world upside down with their commentary. Their work in that regard matters a lot, it's life-changing stuff, but comments and kudos aren't the cost of admission. Comments and kudos are fanwork in the same way that fanfiction or fanart is fanwork, as far as I'm concerned. As a fanfiction writer, my fanfiction exists because I wanted it to and I need it to. It's my self-care, it's my hobby, it's my joy. Engagement with it is fanwork and a gift, not payment.

Thank you for being the community where fanfiction can go and exist. Thank you for making space for it to belong somewhere. Thank you.

[missmaywemeetagain]

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving 💗🧣🦃

A very happy Thanksgiving weekend to those who celebrate! ❤️

This blurb came out of nowhere, in a fit of Thanksgiving inspiration (and a special thanks to Norah for inadvertently nudging me towards a Thanksgiving prompt)! Because of this, it is not overly edited or revised. I will say, I'm not sure yet just how canon I want this to be in terms of the PS Universe, but I figure it came out of me for a reason, so I decided to go with it for now. 

I think my current moody headspace influenced the vibe for this--for us fans, it's a slightly indulgent "what could have been" scenario. But that's PS in a nutshell, isn't it?  🥹

Anyhoo, I hope this hits you in the feels! And I hope you know just how much you matter to me, even though I've been a bit MIA recently. 

Much love xoxoxox, Madi 💗

TW: It's 1977, so...medical issues/trauma/strife. Panic attack. Thanksgiving stress. A little hint of sexy at the end bc I couldn't leave you on a melancholy note! 💋

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1977

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. P, but the oven is out. Lamar took a peek, but the thing is as cold as ice and don’t look like it’s gonna be warm any time soon,” Mary says, looking as distraught as you feel. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch it sooner.”

The naked, trussed, and cold turkey on the counter mocks you.

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Mary. We’ll…figure something out,” you try and reassure her, but it feels like a weight has just been placed on your chest. You pinch the bridge of your nose to stave off the massive headache that began early this morning when Nicky barged into your room at the crack of dawn sobbing because he’d had a nightmare that Mr. Gobble Gobble, a monster turkey, had eaten Daddy instead of the other way around.

This was one of many nightmares that your poor little boy had suffered since August, but certainly the first starring a murderous Thanksgiving turkey. He’d barely been consolable and neither of you had gotten back to sleep.

You take a deep breath, holding back the tears that threaten your vision.

Today needs to be perfect. It was supposed to be perfect.

But you should have known. After all, this year has been far from perfect.

You force yourself away from the wave of despair trying to overcome you. No, we���ve been lucky, you think. It could be so much worse.

Unfortunately, your nerves are shot, which makes sense considering the last few months you’ve had. You’ve kept it together so well. You’ve had to. For Nicky. For Elvis. But that tried resolve begins to crumble with the pressure of it all, as though everything that has happened is hitting you all at once.

Now you have a house full of hungry people, Elvis will be home any minute, and your usual quick-footed problem-solving skills have flown out the window. Your hands begin to tremble.

The panic swells as the kitchen swarms with people looking to you for direction, and in that moment, Nicky runs through the adults, chased by one of the other kids. It happens so fast—you barely have time to register the commotion before disaster strikes.

You watch in horror as the kids fly into the sideboard, knocking the precious side dishes and desserts onto the floor with a resounding crash.

The collective gasp of the adults in the room sends your panic into overdrive.

Thanksgiving is officially ruined.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you shout. The entire room goes silent. It’s not everyday Elvis Presley’s calm and collected wife loses her shit. No, that is something usually reserved for the man himself.

“Well, that’s not quite the welcome home I was expecting,” a familiar baritone chuckles from behind you.

You whip around, your bottom lip quivering. “Elvis?” you whisper.

He’s standing right here—standing! On his own!—leaning on his cane for support, a twinkle in his eye that you haven’t seen in ages. One you weren’t sure you’d ever see again. And the sight of him finally being home again after so many months in the hospital is more than you can bear. After standing tall and strong for him for so long, you crumble into a thousand pieces. An uncontrollable sob chokes out of you, your tears overflowing.

“Aw, honey,” he says quietly, slowly making his way to you, waving everyone else out of the room with the commanding flick of his hand. They exit in a flash with their concerned and pitied looks. Not that you care, because the second you can, you are falling into your husband’s open arms.

“I’m so sorry…your homecoming…it’s all ruined,” you sob into his chest, being mindful of the long scar down the center. Feeling the warmth of him engulfing you is overwhelming. His scent, untainted by antiseptic and hospital smells for the first time in a long time, swirls around you, caressing your senses.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it all out, Satnin,” he coos, stroking your hair with his free hand. “Hers has been so strong for hims, but hims is home now.”

The tenderness of his baby talk in your ear sends a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, staining the silk of his blue dress shirt. He’s dressed up, you think absently, knowing this is a huge thing. Even before that fateful August morning, he’d been mostly wearing his tracksuits when he wasn’t performing. He’d been so uncomfortable and in pain, you’d understood why.

You bury your head into his neck, pent up emotions violently shuddering through your body as you let your tears fall freely for the first time in months. You can barely breathe with how you wedge yourself into him, with how he holds you tight. He’s so much slimmer now that the edema is gone and his colon has been tended to, you realize, but he’s still soft in all the right places. You still fit against him perfectly, and his grip on you makes you realize he understands just how raw you are.

You cry more, thinking about how the last time he was here was when you’d found him unresponsive on the bathroom floor. How you’d never been so scared in your entire life, not even when you yourself had brushes with death.

It's a miracle he’s here at all. None of you, doctors included, were sure if he’d ever step through the doors of Graceland again. Not after the heart attack, or the coma, or the complications from his various surgeries. It had been one blow after another, for weeks, months. But somehow, in true stubborn Elvis fashion, he’d pulled through.

He’d gritted his way through healing, through physical therapy, through weaning off so many of the meds he’d been on before and during his hospital stay, and he hated every second of it. He’d been livid about the colostomy, but you’d had no care for his vanity when you’d had to make the decision to save his life. You didn’t care if he hated you because at least he’d be alive to tell you so. He’d gotten past it, mostly, especially once he was feeling better.

The entire ordeal had terrified him. Something had changed in him in those weeks he’d lingered between life and death, something he wasn’t ready to talk about just yet, but even with all the setbacks, his determination to come home was intensely motivating.

Which is why you’d wanted it to be special, and why it being Thanksgiving had so much meaning. Elvis was finally coming home. Then everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.

“I wanted everything to be perfect for you. You deserve it,” you say quietly, sniffling, holding him as tight as you dare without wanting to hurt him.

“Darlin’, just bein’ back home with you and Nicky is more than I ever dreamed of. I don’t need no big fancy dinner or welcome home committee. I jus’ need you.”

You pull back then, your heart about ready to burst, and look at him. He looks downright debonair with his silvery hair (which you’d convinced him not to dye back after it had grown out during his illness), freshly cut and shorter than it had been in years, fluffy but brushed back off his face in a style reminiscent to when he was younger. His apple cheeks are full and have more color than they’ve had in months.

“What?” he asks looking down at you, almost bashful under your gaze.

You reach up and cup his freshly shaven cheek, smooth and soft under your palm. Those deep ocean blue eyes of his threaten to swallow you whole. Staring into their depths, you don’t want to imagine a world without him in it anymore.

“I just love you,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out without choking up again. “So much.”

Eyes shining, Elvis pulls you up and into him. His lips are as sweet and as soft as you remember when they press into yours. The kiss is full of yearning, of love, and of everything you two have been through the past twenty years. It’s truly like coming home.

The kiss turns hungry then, more so than you expect. It’s been so very long since you’ve had each other in this way and it surprises you how readily your body remembers, despite all the pain and trauma you both have experienced. You open for him, and he moans when his tongue brushes against yours. A fiery wave of heat blisters through you then, hastily banishing away your tears.

Despite all the challenges you’ve faced over the years, you’ve always felt the pull of him in your soul. You’ve always wanted him, neededhim, even when you convinced yourself to forget because you thought you couldn’t have him. And now, after almost losing him for good, you can think of nothing else but him. The warmth of his body pressed against yours causes you to melt. The way his lips and hands roam over the curves of your body sends you soaring.

You thought you’d never have this again. It had almost broken you.

“I’m here, baby. I’m home, I promise,” he mutters into your skin, as if reading your mind.

You kiss him deeply, yanking him into you by his pretty shirt, taking his breath away.

He pulls away and presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel him sway on his feet, a little unbalanced.

“Good news—looks like Little Elvis is back in working order,” he says breathlessly, pressing his thickening erection into your belly. He seems pleasantly surprised.

Honestly, with everything dire that happened, it hadn’t even crossed your mind as a concern, but it makes sense that it could be an issue. You grin up at him with the knowledge that it isn’t, then roll your hips against him.

He groans. “Bad news—not sure I have the energy to do all the things I wanna to ya, and we got a house full of people.” Doesn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of your bottom, however.

“Oh, that’s never stopped us before, now has it?” you muse, walking your fingers gently down his chest and over his belly to palm his length.

“Lord have mercy, woman,” he moans, his eyes fluttering closed. You notice him lean more heavily on his cane and instantly ease up. One blue eye opens with a quirked brow. “Hey now, I din’t say stop.”

You laugh. “Well, it seems dinner is ruined anyhow,” you say, surveying the disaster of broken dishes and scattered food all over the floor, and the cold, raw turkey on the counter. “Maybe we better get you upstairs to rest.”

Rest is, of course, the furthest thing from your mind now, which you let him know with a little squeeze to his butt.

“Mmhmm, yes, I definitely need to lie down,” he mumbles as he peppers you with kisses. Suddenly, he freezes against you. “But, honey, I-I-I’m not sure how much I can do,” he whispers, a wave of uncertainty washing over him.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Real slow. One step at a time, like fumbling teenagers,” you say lightly, cupping his face and looking up into his eyes. “Or we can just kiss and hold each other. I’m just happy you’re here, baby.”

He nods, seemingly reassured by this. “I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but I thank God every day for you and for what we have together, Satnin,” he says quietly, brushing your hair behind your ear, kissing you gently. “I love you.”

Your heart and body ache for him. “We better get you upstairs to “rest”before I start crying again,” you snuffle, laughing, slowly walking with him toward the stairs.

“Well, tears aren’t entirely off the table…I can think of a couple good ways I can make you cry,” he teases, nibbling at your ear.

“Elvis Aaron, you did not just…” you gasp.

“What??” he says innocently. “Am I wrong?”

A shiver runs down your spine and settles in the heat of your belly.

You’ve missed him. Terribly.

But you do have so much to be thankful for this year, namely for the infuriatingly talented, generous, and stubborn man you married and are gingerly leading up the stairs for the first time in months.

In fact, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

*

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[overnighttosunflowers]

Summary:

They were tangled together in rumpled sheets, Laudna cradled loosely in the crook of Imogen’s arm and tucked against her side. They’d been giggling and talking and relishing in the feeling of holding each other, reaching out to brush hair from the other’s face or trail a finger across the other’s lips and falling back, intermittently, into periods of simply getting lost in one another. Now the sun was starting to sidle lower in the sky and still they were here, together, letting the hours spend themselves only in each other’s company. It was unfathomable. It was real.

The last chapter of every thought's a possibility is here. I hope you love it as much as I've loved writing it. Thank you all so much for coming on this ride with me, for reading and commenting and being in this fandom. You're the best.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Recipe for Family (Steve Harrington x Reader)

Recipe for Family (Rated G)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Word Count: 2.0k

Warnings: None, except tooth-rotting fluff (I was in a mood guys)

Summary: Set Post-ST4. The year is 1990. Everyone has moved on since the events of Vol. 2 and living their lives, Steve more than others. He finally has everything he's ever wanted. Now it's Thanksgiving in Hawkins and he begins to realize more and more about what he's grateful for...and a lot of it has to do with you and the micro-clones you call your family.

“Are we sure that’s everything?”

“Potatoes, cranberry sauce, turkey’s in the oven…I think that’s everything, babe.” Steve’s eyes raked over the rows of platters which were currently littered across the kitchen island. This was one of the first times he could really remember seeing his parents’ kitchen full of this much life and chaos.

Actually, that was a lie.

The first time the Harrington family kitchen at this level of chaos was in the early days of your relationship, when you had first started dating. Steve had mentioned how much he had disliked the holiday season. What point was there to celebrating the holidays if you didn’t have people to share it with? This had evidently been a mistake to tell you, as on the morning of that Thanksgiving, you and Dustin were perched on his doorstep with an abundance of shopping bags and baked goods.

The three of you had spent most of the day together in the kitchen, crafting a holiday meal fit for the whole party. Well, if Steve was being honest, it was more so a duo rather than a trio effort. Dustin had thought it would be helpful to “monitor” your progress by shouting random encouragement from his spot at the island, a bag of chips at his side. Steve couldn’t complain though. It had been one of the best Thanksgivings of his life. He tried so hard to memorize every detail of the day, from the way you shared your grandmother’s secret sweet potato recipe to how many times a stray lock of hair would fall into your eyes.

Now here he was, five years later in the same situation. Except things were a little different now. Thanksgiving was still meant to be shared with his friends, but now everyone had all grown up. The kids he used to babysit were college students now, having just come home to Hawkins for the first time since August. He and Dustin still spoke every chance they had, the young genius being the reason Steve’s phone bill is so damn expensive nowadays. The kid just had to be smart enough to get into Columbia.

Another big change was that Steve now owned his parents’ home. After some protest, they moved out after giving their son the keys and lived in a retirement community just outside of Hawkins. They still don’t talk to him, but that’s okay. He finally came to terms with something truly important: they may have been family by blood, but they weren’t the family that mattered. No, because that was you. . .

. . .and your two daughters: Amelia and Emery.

One year after the chaos of Vecna and the great Hawkins earthquake of ‘86, during your two year anniversary, Steve had finally mustered up the courage to ask you the big question. Proposing seemed a lot easier when he first bought the ring. He planned the whole night: a movie, dinner by candlelight, he even wrote an entire speech. Yet in the heat of the moment, all words simply left him except for those four crucial ones.

He still can’t believe you said yes, not to mention that you gave him two little miracles at once. The twins were three years old now and looking more and more like you every day. However, you still swear that Em has the start of his famous hair and striking hazel eyes. There was nothing Steve loved more than coming home after every long shift to his girls. Every day, without fail, they put the biggest smile on his face as they clung to his leg and held on for dear life as he made exaggerated steps toward you to share a gentle kiss of hello.

“I still feel like we’re missing something,” you mused to yourself as you absentmindedly wiped flour off on your apron. You had been cooking for almost three days straight to make sure that there would be enough food for the stampede of guests arriving in the next few hours. “Did we get the rolls from that bakery Max likes? And the special butter for Will? I know certain dairy bothers his stomach.”

“Babe, relax.” Steve pressed a kiss to your flour-covered cheek. “We have everything. Don’t forget, Robin and Nance are bringing over the green-bean casserole. Jonathan and Will were in charge of the stuffing and Eddie’s bringing over the mulled cider with Argyle.”

“I better not see any weird pineapple covered sides or joints being passed around,” you said with a sigh. Steve watched as your nose scrunched up into that little wrinkle he loved so much. He wished he could lean forward and kiss it off your face entirely, but there were much more important matters at hand. You would certainly kick his ass if he fell behind schedule due to stealing some private time.

Instead, Steve turned his attention to his current challenge: baking the perfect pumpkin pie. “Don’t worry, beautiful,” he tried to soothe as he prepped the pie tin. “Everything is going to be okay. Just head upstairs and get ready. I’ll finish up what’s left.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, now go before I pick you up and drop you in that bedroom myself.”

You smirked. “Is that a threat, Mr. Harrington?”

“No,” he replied. “It’s a promise. Although I can’t promise I’ll be too willing to leave if I have to take you up there myself.” He picked up a nearby dish towel and playfully snapped it in your direction. “Now hurry up. Our guests of honor will be here soon.”

You shook your head with a ghost of a smile, making sure to press a kiss to his lips before you sauntered over to the stairs. Steve rolled his eyes and felt the corner of his own lips pull up into a smirk as you purposefully swayed your hips when taking the first stair.

As he rolled out the final pie crust on the calendar, Steve felt a squeeze around his right leg. Looking down, he caught sight of messy sun-kissed chocolate ringlets and big hazel eyes that shone as bright as stars. “Daddyyyyyy,” came the high-pitched and dramatic cry from his daughter. “When can you pway?”

Steve chuckled. “Soon baby, okay?” He reassured her with a warm smile. “Daddy has to finish making these pies. Why don’t you go and make a card for Uncle Dustin with Amy?” He gestured to the living room, where her lighter-haired sister was happily scribbling atop the paper on the coffee table, eyes glued to the television before her.

His mini-doppelganger gave a huff of indignation far too mature for any five-year-old girl. “But ‘wan play wiff you!”

“Soon, Em. I promise. Daddy just needs to finish the pies.”

Emery tilted her head and Steve had to fight the urge to push back a loose strand of her hair back with flour covered fingers. She appeared to be contemplating something, raising a tiny index finger to her lower lip in thought. The action reminded Steve of you and how you’d nervously play with or bite your lips when deep in thought. “Can I helps?”

A warmth blossomed in Steve’s heart and flooded his entire body. He felt the smile which toyed on his lips threaten to split his face in half. His daughter was asking to help him with something; he could teach her something. “Of course, sweetheart,” he mused. “Now let’s wash those hands before we put the crust in the tin, okay?”

One singing of “happy birthday” and cloud of flour later, Steve held Em’s tiny hands in his own as they pressed the pie dough into the tin together. She was standing on the step-stool the two of you decided to buy early on. It was a preparation purchase for when the girls were a bit older and you wanted to encourage them to do things themselves. The fact that his three-year-old– his very own daughter– was standing in front of him using the steps shocked Steve to the core. This little person was someone he helped to create. She was growing up a little more every single day and it amazed him that this could happen with someone so tiny.

He watched as she stuck her tongue out in concentration when stabbing the dough bottom with a fork. It was only meant to get the air pockets out of the crust, but to young Emery, it was a life or death mission. After they pre-baked the crust, Steve let Em mix up the bowl of pumpkin filling…and maybe be the unofficial taste tester. Someone had to make sure it passed inspection, right?

“WAIT!” Em screeched as Steve reached over her head to pick up the tin to put it in the oven once they finished scooping the filling. He smiled in confusion as she reached over to stick her finger in the filling and dragged it through.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Uncwe Will says a good artist always signs theiwe work!” Em answered proudly. She leaned back slightly once she was done, tiny index finger pointing to the squiggles now etched in the pie. “Emewy…and Daddy!”

Steve could have melted into a puddle right then and there if he could.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Nothing could have prepared Steve when he saw you come down the stairs a few hours later. While he had dressed up in a navy button down and slacks, you had somehow transformed into a work of art. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you moved from setting the table to adjusting the pigtails you put in Amy’s hair. God, how did he ever get so lucky?

When you finally caught his stare, you smiled and walked over in his direction. “Hey there, handsome,” you quipped. “What’s captured your attention?”

“You,” came the smooth reply. “Always you. Can’t believe I got so lucky."

“I think,” you started as you smoothed out the collar of his shirt, “that I’m the lucky one.”

Before he could say more, guests began arriving and the rest of the night sped by in a blur. The Harrington household was filled with the sounds of laughter and silverware tapping against plates. Eddie and Dustin caught up with Mike and Lucas, lamenting about the various adventures of their Dungeons and Dragons groups. They had planned to get the rest of Hellfire to complete some kind of oneshot over the break, but Steve lost the ability to understand what they were talking about somewhere around the introduction of the land of Frotsgaard.

You were catching up with Nancy and Robin, who had moved out to New York to focus on their education and careers. After graduation, Nancy started work as a cub reporter for the New York Times, whereas Robin decided to study theater and English at NYU. They had just gotten a small apartment near 8th Ave that they absolutely couldn’t wait to decorate. Robin was already talking about Christmas trees, much to Nancy’s chagrin.

Em was practically bursting at the seams to talk about her pumpkin pie that she had baked with Steve. She told everyone about her design and proudly showed off her signature to Will, who grinned and ruffled her hair. He called her a natural artist, which only made her squeal with happiness more. Amy took that as an opportunity to show off her latest drawing to Dustin, who promised to hang it up in his dorm as soon as he got back.

At one point in the evening, Steve reached over to tuck a stray hair behind your ear and kiss your temple. He brought his chair closer and wrapped an arm around your waist. As Robin continued to describe her latest class in a very animated fashion, he could feel you relax in his hold. He pressed another kiss against your skin, this time against the corner of your mouth. “I love you,” he whispered in your ear.

This was all he truly needed.

Growing up, the holidays may not have been anything special for Steve. He would have traded anything to have a kinder family, to have parents that cared. But with the family he has now? The love he found with you, the happiness he feels with your girls? He wouldn’t change that for the world. For once in his life, Steve spent Thanksgiving happy and actually thankful for those in his life.

And that’s all he could ever ask for.

======================

Author's Note: To my American readers, happy thanksgiving! I'm actually surprised I was able to draft and write this idea just in time for the holiday. In all, this took me about 3 hours to write and format. As you can tell, I am still head over heels for domestic Steve Harrington, especially dad!Steve. I had this idea and just knew it needed to be written down. I hope to write more dad!Steve in the future because his interactions with little Em are just precious.

If you want to see more fics like this on my blog, make sure to drop a comment and reblog this post. Likes are appreciated, but it's the reblogs that really help spread the word about my writing and send the happy emotion chemicals into my singular brain cell. Want to join my taglist? Shoot me a message, an ask, or even reply to this post and I'll be sure to tag you! :)

Finally, if you have ideas for dad!Steve, send me your thoughts and maybe I'll have the motivation to craft a fic from it. Either way, I'll definitely be responding and sharing the love for our guy. Until next time, my lovely sparks! <3

Taglist: @bakerstreethound

[arandomaewblog]

this is my first time posting anything in the AEW fandom so please be nice! this is also just me trying to not lose my mind while being around my family for the next three days so if it's not good I blame it on that

basically this is a situation in which you've been friends with the AEW roster for so long that even though you're not a wrestler yourself you still get invited to hang out with them or whatever; I'm trying really hard not to overthink the plot because if I do that I'm never gonna write anything so just like take it with a grain of salt and tilt your head and squint or whatever

I'm rambling so here's you and Hook making out in a closet. enjoy.

****

"Name of the game is Seven Minutes in Heaven!"

Everyone in the room groans.

"Stop trying to get everyone to make out, Max!" Bowens shouts, but Max ignores him.

"It's not me!" he swears, holding his hands up in front of himself defensively. "It's all up to the bottle!" Max gestures to the empty Tito's bottle in the middle of the table. Bowens just rolls his eyes and lets it happen.

You start by just watching everyone else play - some of the pairings are ridiculous and would probably be do-overs if Max wasn't in charge, but he is, so there are no do-overs. Whoever the bottle lands on is who it lands on. No exceptions.

It's fine and fun and you're having a great time until it's your turn and the bottle ends up pointing at the guy you've had a crush on for months but haven't really spoken to all that much because he keeps to himself most of the time: Hook.

"Shit," you say to yourself, knowing nobody else in the room could have possibly heard it because Max is YELLING, all but shoving you and Hook into the closet himself. (Well, he tries guiding Hook, but Hook snatches his arm away and turns to face Max so fast that Max immediately takes his hand off and backs up a couple steps.) You open the door and step in, thankful that it's more of a walk-in closet situation so you have more room to back up and let Hook in after you. The doors must have some sort of soundproofing on them, or just be really thick, because when the door closes behind him, it's almost completely silent. You don't know what to do, mostly because being this close to the man you've been crushing on for months is...overwhelming, to say the least.

"So, uh..." Hook starts, his voice softer than you were anticipating, "what do you wanna do?" He looks up at you, hood still up and hair all in his face like normal, and fuck so handsome.

Not freak out and make you think I'm a weirdo, you think, but say something completely different and totally unexpected, even to yourself: "Can I say something?"

He nods.

You take a deep breath. "I know we don't know each other that well because we never really talk but I've had the biggest crush on you for months now and I don't know if you're that kind of guy, we can definitely talk about it later if you want, but all I want right now is for you to grab my face and kiss me until neither of us can breathe and I forget about all the people out there."

It's dark in the closet, so you have no idea what expression Hook has on his face right now, but he doesn't say anything right away. You're about to backtrack when he speaks.

"Too many people for you, too?"

His answer catches you by surprise, but it makes sense that he'd also be overwhelmed by it all. "Yeah," you say, softly, and you gasp when he steps into your space, your faces so close but still so far away.

"You wanna forget about 'em?" he asks, softly taking hold of your chin and tilting your head to look at him. All you can do is nod and try not to buckle at the knees when he cups your jaw and moves in closer.

"Let me help."

Thinking back on it later, you were expecting him to kiss like he fights: methodical, calculating, always three steps ahead of his competitor - but it's the exact opposite. He's methodical and almost cautious, yeah, but there's an uncertainty in the way he leans in, a small gasp of surprise when his lips finally meet yours, something that feels like relief when you start kissing him back.

Honestly? It's better than you'd imagined, and boy have you imagined it a lot. His lips are soft, his hands gentle, one holding your jaw and the other slipping around to your lower back. It starts as little individual kisses, and you'd be cool if it stayed that way for the whole time but something happens that makes you gasp, which leads to Hook softly biting into your bottom lip, and at that point all bets are off. The mild sting makes you groan, which makes Hook chuckle, a rumble deep in his chest like he's amused.

"Oh, you like that?" he asks teasingly, and again, all you can do is nod.

[chronically-ghosted]

I always thought the scene from Deadpool was hot where he and Vanessa are having hot sex mixed with food on Thanksgiving.

Maybe that with Joel or Javier P?

Ahhh, anon. this has been stewing in my brain since you sent it. And I know you said thanksgiving, but the line in this happened in, like, a single scene after the thanksgiving one! please forgive my timing!

kiss me ‘till I’m warm

rating: T

Pairing: jaiver peña x f!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: a very drunk javi has something he wants to share with you.

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, one stupid joke, the absurdity of someone drunk off their ass trying to flirt, light kissing on body parts, references to smut, but ultimately this is fluffy as hell

a/n: wishing all of you a great start to your week as december plods along! shout out to the incredible @saradika for the divider!

🤍Masterlist

Javier Peña is a giggly drunk. 

Not all the time, mind you, not always. Depends on the liquor, his mood, and what he’s had to eat that day – if anything at all. But given the right circumstances and the stars align, once in a blue moon, Javier blushes and giggles like a fourteen year old with a first crush. 

Now, that might come as a surprise to anyone who has seen him lurking around the hallways of the American Embassy, scowling and smelling of stale cigarettes. The women he used to visit would swear up and down that Javier Peña was not a giggly drunk, having seen him knock back a drink or two, or three, or five. Certainly, all the narcos he’d rounded up and captured would be rather offended to hear that about the man who sent them to prison. It would shock them all to hear that, in the end, it was eggnog. Eggnog, the creamy, thick holiday drink that in terms of calories and sugar blew every other frappuccino out of the water – it was eggnog that turned Javier’s world upside down. From frown-set smokestack, to someone who wanders into his girlfriend’s bedroom after her office party and nearly blows his knee out on the bed frame. 

“Javier, honey, are you okay?” You scramble towards where he tripped, expecting either blood or for him to be knocked on conscious. But instead, you just see fluff. White fluff. White fluff that proceeds red velvet, more fluff, and then thick dark hair. 

Javier stands up, grinning from ear to ear. He stretches his arms wide, his white undershirt thin on his chest. He arches further, revealing a dusting of hair below the hem of his shirt that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Well, when his pants are buttoned.

“Tada!” he beams. You roll your eyes and he giggles, following you on his hands and knees as you crawl back to your spot by the pillows. You had come in here to get some lotion for your hands and despite your insistence that he does not leave the couch, he stumbled in after you.

“Pero, mi amor,” he pouts when he sits on his knees behind you, “te fuiste.”

“You poor thing,” you frown at him over your shoulder as you rub the lotion into your hands, then your knees. His eyes bob between your tits through your sleep shirt and your circular motions over your skin. You narrow your eyes at him when his mouth goes slack and his eyes dark. “Oh, absolutely not, Javier. You are drunk as a skunk and about two minutes away from passing out.”

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, wobbling slightly as he crawls towards you. “Please?”

“No.”

“¿Por favor?” 

“No!”

You frown, suspicious, when he chuckles as he loosely grabs you by the ankles, thumbs pressed in below the knot of bone. His shirt is loose enough you can see down the collar to his tanned chest. It’s not like the idea isn’t enticing, but you’d only seen him this drunk once before after the Christmas party at Steve and Connie’s two years ago. He made the same proposition back then and when he went to lie down on the floor to take his pants off, you looked over the bed to find him passed out, spread eagle and only his belt undone. 

“Bien, bien,” he waves his hand in the air, the cotton ball of his Santa hat falling over his eyes, “pero tengo un chiste para ti.”

Another sign that Javier had reached the point of no return: he spoke much more in Spanish and the words blurred together, as if sticking on top of each other. 

You eye him with faux annoyance when he uses your legs to pull himself in between your ankles. He kisses the tops of your knees, his palms warm beneath the weight of your calf muscles. Giddy and care-free until he wakes up with a pounding headache, drunk Javier is something you always cherished, because it is one of the few times he can be care-free. Relaxed. You are the only person he lets see him like this and you would protect that vulnerability with everything in your heart.

“Javier.” He hums, his teeth against your knee and dropping lower. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s changed. “I think you had something you wanted to tell me.”

He blinks, open mouth freezing on the bone of your calf. “Right. Yeah. Of course, mi vida.” 

That heady, blurred look of desire on his face melts away almost as fast as it came on. He presses the arch of his nose against your other knee, giggling, as he readjusts his feet under him. 

“Okay, okay,” he sniffs, sits up, and looks at you with bleary, water-y brown eyes. “Steve told it to me, so if you don’t think it’s funny, it’s his fault.” 

You nod and then he taps the inside of your thigh with two fingers.

“If your left leg is Thanksgiving y tu pierna derecha es Navidad,” he outright gropes your other thigh, his slur worsening, mouth full of damp, gummy cotton balls. “Can I visit you entre días festivos?

Javier Peña raises a single eyebrow at you, as if he had been the first one to discover pick up lines, perfected the art of flirting, and discovered he had the ritz to seduce any woman in the world all in one night. His hands tighten in the meat of your inner thighs as he pushes them apart, his chest pressing forward, down, into you. With surprising dexterity and stability, he crawls between your open legs, hands firm as they plant on either side of your head. He’s still wearing that infuriatingly smug grin, his hips rolling forward until you feel the scrape of the teeth of his jeans on your thigh.

“What do you say, baby?” his teeth edge the rim of your ear, “¿p-p-puedo –,”

He full-on snorts in your ear, suddenly overcome with giggles and you jerk away. “Javi!”

You pinch his waist and he flops over on to the other side of the bed, his face turning red as he howls with laughter. His Santa hat pushed up over his forehead, the back of his hair sticking up from where he’s nestled against the pillows, Javier clutches his sides as he rolls back and forth. 

You sit up, smiling, and watch the man you love enjoy himself for once. Sure, he could (and did, often) get lost in sex, but this is different. Your mother always said there was something healing about laughter, about feeling safe enough to close your eyes around another person, and Javier had spent far too long with his eyes wide open. 

Tears are streaming down his cheeks by the time you pluck the Santa hat off his head and kiss his forehead. Giggles trickling down, he curls onto his side, his bare feet seemingly so large on your covers. You stroke his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his mustache, and the last giggle fades to a hum. He closes his eyes, cheeks pink, his head turning ever so slightly towards your touch.

“Do you need some water, baby?”

“Mhm hmm.” 

Kissing him on his nose, you slide off the bed and go towards the kitchen. After filling up a glass from the filter, you turn off the lights, check the front door, and close the blinds. But when you come back to your bedroom, the golden light of your bedside lamp the only glow left in the entire apartment, you know instantly he’s already asleep. Javier lies still curled up on his side, his wide shoulders curled in, the white expanse of his t-shirt rising and falling with each breath. 

You didn’t know him very well the first time you slept together, but the night he stayed over, all the way until the morning light broke through your shutters, you knew it had been an extraordinary step for him. 

Now he sleeps in your bed, unguarded and unburdened, as much as he can. 

You put the glass of water on his side of the bed and gently ease him onto his back. His arm slithers over his torso as his shoulder collides with the mattress, his matted hair where the hat sat in a line stiff against his forehead. 

In his more morose moments, Javier announced he was getting old. His back hurt, his eyesight was shit, and he swears he spots more and more gray hairs in the mirror every day. 

But, when he’s like this, when he’s Javi not Javier, when he’s just yours and no one else’s, he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

A hand pressed to his warm chest, you lean forward and kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you whisper against his skin. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Sliding your earrings out of their posts and into the little dish beside your bed, you glance at him one more time before turning off the light. The room is dark, warm, and in the emptiness you can hear him breathing. 

The shape of him is more familiar to you than your own, able to trace his profile with nothing but memory, so without searching, as though reaching for a piece of yourself, you intertwine your hand with his. 

His fingers twitch and the sound of his breathing slows. 

In the absence of every other sense, you are overwhelmed by the weight of his palm in yours, the soothing rock of the rise and fall of his chest, your ears tuned to his every sigh, every noise –

In the absence of everything else, you listen to him inhale –

“Merry Christmas, baby.” 

– and exhale.