#fuckyeahholidays

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

A Palomino Christmas

Jack Daniels x f!reader

|| Palomino universe oneshot, out of chronological order as I haven't finished the series yet. Can be read as a stand-alone. ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You spend Christmas at the ranch with Jack. You thought the present you got him was inspired until you see him wearing it - the cowboy way.

Inspired by snowsuit anon and this adorable post (and a super cute nickname for a pony) sent to me by @aynsleywalker.

Warnings: !Ski suit action!, drinking, mention of food, gratuitous descriptions of the male bulge body, dirty talk, safe unprotected sex, feelings so fluffy. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 4.5k

Dedicated to @guiltypleasure-girl who I'm so grateful to have made friends with this year and who, imho, draws the best Jack in all the lands. If you don't already, follow her art page @guiltypleasure-art for the most gorgeous fanart ❤️

It’s always busy in the Stateman’s main kitchen on Christmas morning. The smokey burn of firewood warms the cozy space as the radio blares holiday tunes. Poppy presides over the operations at the head of the table - everything is planned down to the T and everyone has a role.

On any other Christmas day, Jack would be her sous-chef, the one she relies on to keep everyone on schedule and in their place.

But alas, today is not any other Christmas day.

The normally put together cowboy ambles around the place like a headless chicken, leaving a trail of half-completed tasks in his wake. Tequila, in uncharacteristic discretion, follows two steps behind.

He turns off the tap that Jack’s left pouring into the already full kettle, draining the excess water and putting it on the boil.

There’s one slice of bread in the toaster, while another lies forgotten on the table, which Teak slides into the free slot and pushes down the lever.

Jack pulls a jar of pickles from the fridge unseeingly, putting it on the table and walking away in search of a mug under three sets of watching, worried eyes. Teak replaces it with his friend’s favourite strawberry jam without a word.

While the oblivious cowboy’s back is turned, Teak motions his hand and forth across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing nope emphatically at the occupants of the kitchen table.

On his cue, Poppy clears her throat and speaks up, ‘Jack, sweetie, why don��t you go check on the horses after your toast? The stable boys want to leave work early today after doing their morning rounds.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ he answers absent-mindedly, staring down into the empty mug in his grasp as if he’s lost his train of thought.

At that very moment, the toaster pops and Jack practically jumps out of his skin, stepping on Jameson’s paw where he’s lying on his rug in front of the fire, prompting an indignant yelp from the border collie and winces from around the table.

‘Sorry boy,’ he apologises and picks up his toast - burning his fingers - and stumbling over his feet to set his plate down. ‘Mornin’,’ he nods to the others without really registering who’s there.

Jack proceeds to butter his toast with such singular focus that he doesn’t notice when Tequila fills his still empty cup with coffee, only to knock it over immediately when a phone buzzes and his hand flies out to grab his. Ginger and Poppy trade concerned looks as he jumps onto his feet with another apology, snatching a tea towel to clean up the mess.

Eggsy, on potato peeling duty on the other side of the table, isn’t so diplomatic. ‘You’re jumpier than Bambi this morning, cowboy.’

Jack grunts noncommittally and chews on his toast, not rising to the bait.

‘Don’t be so nervous mate, we promise we’ll be on our best behaviour.’

Teak snorts from the kitchen counter where he’s making his PBJ. ‘I don’t know about England, but around these parts, lying on Christmas day is frowned upon.’

Eggsy replies high-handedly, ‘Can’t speak for you, Tequila, but I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

Ginger chuckles as Teak sits down at the table with his sandwich. ‘Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.’

Jack points a forceful finger at the boys, one after the other. ‘I swear to the baby Jesus Christ, if you two don’t behave yourselves, there will be hell to pay.’

Eggsy snickers. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. Ol’ cowboy Jack falls heads over heels for a bird -’ he screeches when the coffee-soaked rag hits him in the face, which sends Teak into hysterical laughter. ‘Oi! What the fuck, man!’

Ignoring the ruckus, Jack dusts the crumbs from his hands and shrugs on his jacket, grabbing a thermos and filling it up with fresh coffee. With a hurried later, he strides out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the frigid morning air.

Thermos tucked under his arm, Jack rubs his palms together, warming his fingertips with his breath as snow crunches beneath his well-worn boots. The ranch is blanketed in thick snow, a picture-perfect postcard landscape as it is every Christmas. The morning mist has yet to burn off, but he can tell by the peek of blue through the clouds that it will be a fine day.

If your flight is on time, you should be on your way by now. He’d wanted to pick you up from the airport, but you insisted that there’s no point in him driving all the way there when you already know the way. Depending on the conditions, it shouldn’t be long until you arrive.

His list of chores isn’t long this morning - the stable boys will be on duty until lunchtime - but still, he wants to tick all the boxes before you get here. Striding into the heated stables, he says howdy to the grooms and whistles, smiling as dozens of faces appear at the doors, ears pointed forwards in attention, snickering and whinnying at him.

This never gets old.

‘Mornin’ ladies and gentlemen,’ he calls out, wandering down the stalls, rubbing a velvety nose here and pulling on a furry ear there. ‘Who’s ready to stretch their legs this fine mornin’, huh?’

Starting at the end of the stables, he unlatches Bourbon’s door and ushers him out of the stall, then crosses the aisle to let out Tanqueray, Champ’s elderly but still supremely poised Friesian, who clops leisurely towards the exit. Zig-zagging back and forth, Jack whistles, jostles and chats to the horses, all smartly dressed in warm rugs, as they file out down the corridor and into the courtyard for a bit of morning exercise while the stable boys mucked out their stalls.

‘No loitering, ma’am,’ says Jack sternly when Poppy’s mare, Pie, idles in the middle of the building. He gives her a firm pat on the rump to get her moving and whistles at one of the cheeky Shetland ponies who’s snuck into someone else’s stall. ‘Half-Pint! What did I say about stealing your friends’ treats? Shoo, now!’

The stables empty, the echoes of hooves on the concrete ground fading, with Scotch being one of the last to exit. Looping back to make sure there are no dilly-dalliers, Jack’s surprised to find the palomino, who would normally be leading the charge towards the grazing fields, still lingering at the barn doors.

‘Whatcha doin’, boy?’ he calls out.

Scotch tosses his head and steps to the side -

And you appear.

With the biggest grin, you run towards him and fly into his arms.

Your cheeks are wet, the spray of snow powder melting when it hits your skin. It drifts all around you as Scotch eats up the white ground, the thundering hooves muted by the soft cushion of the untouched, overnight snow. The mountain air is sweet and pure and stingingly cold, you can barely feel your face anymore - but it might just be from how hard you’ve been smiling.

You feel like you’re in the middle of a Christmas movie. The lush, green landscape you remember so well from your trip months ago is now all coated in wintry glory, but you still recognise the contours of the land and the mountains. It’s your first time in the saddle since - the whistle of the winds in your ear is a song you remember all the words to, the burn in your out-of-practice muscles all over a familiar old friend.

And you’re happy.

Slowing Scotch to an easy trot as you approach the end of the trail, your breath mists in front of your face as you look down over the ranch, a scene straight out of a classic snow globe, thin wisps of smoke drifting from the chimneys of the wooden lodges dotted across the property.

Gently manoeuvring the palomino to a halt and giving him a pat on the neck, you turn to smile at Jack as he walks up beside you on Whiskey. ‘I’ve missed this so much.’

‘Me too,’ he answers, warm eyes on you.

You give him a sidelong glance. ‘You’ve been here the whole time, cowboy.’

‘I know. I’ve missed you being here.’ He reaches over and pulls your gloved hand towards him, presses a kiss to the back. You want to shuck off the leather and cup his whiskered jawline in your palm, push the well-worn hat off and twine your fingers into his hair -

Later. There will be time for all that later, preferably in front of a roaring fireplace.

You break the moment with an eyebrow arched in a challenge. ‘Race you to the stables?’

Jack grins. ‘You’re on, darlin’.’

Christmas dinner is in the main lodge, which you didn’t use during your trip in the summer. The intimate space is exuberantly decorated in red and gold, a huge, freshly cut pine tree stands proudly by the antique fireplace, a merry fire burning. The table is beautifully laid, silverware immaculately polished and fine china sit alongside holidays-themed napkins. A magnificent feast lines the length of the mahogany dining table comfortably seating eight.

But any kind of decorum stops there.

As the hours tick by and bottles of wine and sherry are emptied, the meal has descended into what Jack warned you in advance as ‘typical Kingsman chaos’. According to the cowboy, the whole Kingsman team comes to the ranch every summer for their annual company retreat, but only Merlin, Eggsy and Harry fly over for Christmas. And while their contingent is small, havoc is an inevitable conclusion where any number of the Kingsman are involved.

Desserts are still being passed around the table - sticky toffee pudding, pecan pie and Yule log - when Teak and Eggsy start to raise their voices and slap the table about British and American Christmas songs. They’re currently yelling - not singing - carols at each other, with Jameson barking excitedly in the background.

Tequila throws his hands up in frustration at Eggsy’s rendition of Twelve Days of Christmas. ‘Why is there a partridge in a pear tree? What the fuck is a partridge?’

Champ and Merlin are having a more civilised but no less intense debate about pies - specifically mince pies versus pumpkin pie as a holiday dessert.

‘Next year, old chap,’ declares Merlin. ‘I’ll bring mince pies with me and you’ll be eating your words, just you wait.’

Jack whispers in your ear. ‘He says that every year, but never does.’

You chuckle and turn your attention to Harry, who’s now insisting that they should put Love Actually up on the big projector screen after dinner, whereas Ginger and Poppy are lobbying for Elf.

‘Why not The Holiday? It’s literally the perfect American-British movie,' you pitch in, which launches another furious tirade of debate at your end of the table.

Jack mumbles under his breath. ‘Because they’re idiots and pointless, festive arguing is a winter sport around here.’

His arm is warm around your shoulders as you giggle into your mulled wine. ‘Is it like this every year?’

‘Yup,’ he answers, really popping the P. With a mild touch of embarrassment, he holds your amused gaze and asks, ‘Too much?’

Tipping your face upwards, you press a chaste kiss to his lips.

‘Just enough,’ you assure him as the corners of his eyes crinkle in the warmest smile.

You didn’t have time to drop off your suitcase at Jack’s cottage, which is a short drive from the ranch, when you arrived in the morning. Instead, with Champ’s blessing, you commandeered one of the guest cabins, all empty in the off-season - which is just as well. By the time midnight rolls around, it’s clear that no one is in any state to make their way back to their respective off-site houses.

Harry and the ladies retired to their borrowed rooms a little while ago, leaving you and Jack to round up the stragglers. You check on Teak, lying face down on the sofa, bundled up in his winter quilts in an aborted attempt to leave. A few steps over, you drape a blanket on Champ and another one on Merlin, who are passed out on armchairs which look comfortable enough to sleep in, socked feet up on matching ottomans. Eggsy is cuddling with Jameson in front of the fire, and Jack feeds the logs to make sure it burns till morning.

It’s bleak outside. Jack shields you from the worst of the winds, tucking you into his side as you trudge across the snow, the early start you’ve had catching up on you. Thankfully, the heating is already on in the cabin when you get there, and he starts a fire as well while you get ready for bed.

When you pad into the bedroom in your pyjamas, teeth brushed and makeup washed off, Jack looks up to see you holding a neatly-wrapped present, a shy smile on your lips.

Standing up from the fireplace, he dusts his hands and reaches for you, palms settling on the small of your back, leaning down to graze his still cold nose against yours. ‘Is that for me, darlin’?’

‘Maybe,’ you reply coyly. ‘Do you want to do presents now or tomorrow morning?’

‘Let’s do it now, I have to feed the horses early tomorrow,’ answers Jack, pecking you on the cheek. ‘Give me five minutes.’

The bed is cold, and you have to steel yourself to burrow into the icy cocoon of the thick covers, missing Jack’s warmth. He doesn’t make you wait long, re-appearing in just boxers, and a big box in hand, switching off all but the bedside lights.

Sliding under the duvet, he yelps when your icy feet tangle into his longer legs, making you laugh. His bare skin heats you up instantly as he wraps one arm around you and pulls you into his broad chest. You feel him hum when he asks, ‘You want to go first, darlin’?’

Blinking up at him, you answer nervously, ‘No - you first.’

He pushes the box your way and you sit up, pretending to shake the package to gauge what’s inside. Jack chuckles, his strong forearms dark against the beige quilt wrapped around his middle. Only his fingers give away his nerves, picking at loose threads in the fabric as you carefully unravel the wrapping paper.

Lifting the lid of the box, your lips part and you stare wordlessly at what’s inside.

‘Jack,’ you breathe. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Gently, you pull out the cowboy hat in tan suede, the smell of fresh leather comforting as you turn it over in your grasp, marvelling at the craftsmanship in the dips and swells of the construction.

‘Try it on, darlin’,’ he says, his shoulders relaxing in relief at your reaction.

You do, and of course, it fits perfectly. Shuffling onto your knees, you crawl closer to kiss him fully on the lips, tilting your head to the side so that his face fits under the brim of your hat. ‘Thank you, I love it.’

Jack arches an eyebrow. ‘You might want to check the box again, darlin’.’

Sitting back on your haunches, you send him an almost accusatory look. ‘You can’t give me two presents, cowboy.’

He shrugs with an insolent grin. ‘I’m a grown man, I’ll do what I like. ‘

Your eyes alight on the black velvet case at the bottom of the box, and you draw it out with careful fingers as if it will break. With one last glance at Jack, you gingerly lift the lid, feeling the hinges creak.

Jack watches you closely, his own breathing suspended as you stare down into your hands, thoughts whirring in his head. Is it too much, too soon? Is he comin’ on too strong? Would you even like it?

After the longest ten seconds of his life, you look up at him with soft eyes and brows drawn, a crack in your voice. ‘Jack.’

He gives you a lopsided smile and reaches for the box. ‘I went back to the same silversmith who made my belt buckle and asked him to make this.’

The chain is delicate in his big, weathered hands. It takes him a couple of tries, but he eventually manages to pry open the hinge of the clasp and holds out the necklace towards you in a question. ‘May I, darlin’?’

Turning around, the bed dips behind you as Jack shifts closer, cool silver kissing your décolletage as he fastens the clasp behind your neck. Your gaze drops downwards, the tip of your index finger testing the weight of the solid sterling pendant in the shape of a flask, Statesman emblazoned in delicate lettering -

A much smaller but exact copy of his belt buckle.

His words draw you out of your thoughts. ‘You like it?’

‘I love it,’ you correct him, twisting around to tackle him into the mattress, your knees around his waist as you loom over him, knocking off your hat so you can kiss him properly. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

The pendant dangles from your neck, tickling him on the chin as he winds one big hand into your hair, his eyes following as it sways. ‘It looks good on you, darlin’.’

The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest starts to recede as your eyes land on the present you got for him on the bed. The giddiness you felt when you found it is a distant dream, instead, anxiety threatens to take root deep in your head. If you got something from Amazon tonight, is there any chance that they could deliver tomorrow -

‘Darlin’. You’re thinking too loudly,’ says Jack soothingly, chucking you gently under your chin. ‘What’s wrong?’

You shake your head. ‘I got you a really stupid present. Let’s forget about it - I’ll get you something else.’

His brows draw together in concern as he grabs your wrists and pulls you flush against his chest so that there’s nowhere else to look but at him. ‘Don’t say that, there’s no such thing as a stupid present. Whatever you got me, I’m sure I’ll love it.’

You inhale deeply, chewing your bottom lip. ‘You mentioned a few weeks ago that your leather jacket and fleeces are too bulky and it’s hard to move around in all the layers when it's cold.’

He nods encouragingly. ‘That I did.’

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you reach out and drag the package towards him. ‘Well, I saw this at my local shop, and thought it might help.’

Jack gives you a reassuring smile and leans back into the pillows, grabbing the present excitedly. He pulls you against his side, as if he’s trying to squeeze all the self-doubt out of you, the gift draped across your laps as he starts to unwrap it.

You’re a bundle of jitters when he rips off the wrapping paper with impatient fingers, and the lightweight and puffy blue fabric comes into view.

Jack shakes out the neatly folded one-piece. ‘Is it - a ski suit?’

You nod and point out the black contrasting detailing on the front of the suit. ‘It's light and it's warm. Look at the western design with the single point pockets - I couldn’t not get it for you.’

Jack chuckles, the sound warming you as his arm tightens around your shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So simple, yet so clever.’

‘You like it?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

‘I love it,’ he grins, drawing you in for another kiss. ‘Thank you, darlin’.’

Finally assuaged, you sag against him, a yawn creeping up on you as the tension in your body recedes. ‘You want to try it on now?’

Tucking you in, he says, ‘I’ll try it tomorrow, it’s been a long day for you, darlin’.

Putting your hat and his ski suit on the bedside table, Jack turns off the light, his body immediately seeking out yours under the sheets, claiming every inch of you with a leg between your thighs, front plastered to your back, palms under your ratty pyjamas top, splayed across your naked skin.

It’s been too long.

Nose tucked behind your ear, his arms full of you - finally here after months of feeling your phantom weight in his embrace - the night slips away as the snow falls outside.

It’s too warm under the covers when you wake up, even though Jack’s side of the bed is empty. You stretch lazily, the clock reads 8am but the fire is still going strong, he must have stoked it when he got up.

You decide to make some coffee and wait for him to come back before venturing to the communal kitchen for breakfast. While the water boils, you smile as you fiddle with the necklace sitting on your chest, warm and reassuring against your skin.

The smell of caffeine fills the cabin as you sip from your mug, and before long, you hear Jack stomping up the stairs, humming a country tune in his raspy baritone as he approaches the door.

Pouring him a steaming cup, you say, ‘Hey, I made you some coffee -’

You trail off when you turn around.

Your morning brain can’t quite grasp the picture in front of you. Jack’s still wearing his cowboy hat, his nose red from the cold. Vaguely, you realise he’s wearing the present you gifted him - and you congratulate yourself on the fact that it fits him like a damn glove.

The ski suit accentuates his broad shoulders and tapers in at his waist in a flattering cut, the zipper drawn all the way up to the hollow of his throat. He’s replaced the detachable belt that came with the ski suit with his own, the flask bottle buckle popping against the blue.

But the bottom half - that you have trouble comprehending. It takes you a beat longer to realise why.

He’s wearing full-length cowboy chaps over it.

Chaps are essentially leather trousers with the seat cut out, and Jack's wearing them with his belt looped through the straps. You know he only uses them when it’s muddy, to keep his jeans clean. He didn’t wear them at all on your pack trip, but you’ve seen a peek on Facetime in the rainy months in between. And now that you're seeing them in person, you decide that like them - a lot.

Your gaze, slow as molasses despite being completely unburdened by shame, slides all the way down to the triangle of blue framed by the negative space in the brown chaps where - for the lack of a better expression - his prominent endowment hangs heavy at the apex of his strong thighs. Not that you’re trying to look, but you can see the very heft of him through the fabric.

Jesus H. Christ. It’s too fucking early to be sinning.

When Jack realises that you’re staring, he says somewhat apologetically, clearly oblivious to the merry tangent your mind has gone off on. ‘Sorry, I know I’m not meant to wear it this way, but I didn’t want to get it dirty -’

You shake your head hastily. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s - perfect.’

Something breathless in your tone catches his ear, and he tilts his head to the side, one large hand coming to rest on his hip, thick fingers spread obnoxiously wide over the side of the chaps. The beginning of a cocky smile lifts the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, darlin’? You like it?’

Leaving your mug on the counter top, you bite your lip and give him your best teasing grin. ‘Why don’t you turn around so I can take a better look, cowboy?’

He arches an eyebrow at your boldness, but decides to indulge you. Voice dropping an octave, he rasps, ‘Better take a seat for this, darlin’.’

You grin and do as you’re told, turning the kitchen chair around so that you’re facing him, running your eyes up and down his frame as he steps into your space, narrow hips swaying to a beat you can’t hear. Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he suddenly turns with a dramatic flourish and arches his back, granting you an unrivalled view of his behind framed by the chaps cut off at the top of his thighs, the ski suit tight against his pert bottom.

‘Enjoy the view, darlin’?’ he asks, grinning over his shoulder at you.

You swat him on one cheek playfully, and when he swoops suddenly into your lap in a classic burlesque move, you squeal, ‘Jack!’

Bending his knees, he grinds into your thighs as you laugh, the ski suit soft on your skin while the leather chaps scrape against your bare shins. Turning around, he reaches up to tug the suit’s zipper downwards in a slow, deliberate course, and he purrs, ‘What say you if ol’ cowboy Jack gives you a proper show, hmm?’

You inhale sharply as the white wife beater underneath comes into view, and you reach up to help him push one side of the ski suit off his shoulder, revealing the firm line of his left arm.

‘Thought that was more of Teak’s thing,’ you quip, licking your lips as your eyes skim down his front to settle on the weighty bulge now straining against the front of the suit, your eager fingers pulling him closer by his belt buckle.

Gripping the edge of the table, he traps you into your seat, his stare dropping to the matching pendant resting on your now heaving bosom, taking in your blown pupils as he grins. ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

‘Aren’t I the luckiest girl,’ you muse, taking off his hat and flinging it onto the table, his hungry stare alone pinning you in place when you drag him down to you by his lapels.

Warm lips part yours and he delves into your mouth, kissing you deeply. The promise of more leaves you chasing him as he draws back with a drawl. ‘You’re about to get a whole lot luckier, darlin’.’

The thick material of the ski suit is almost pillowy as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. It rubs gently on your nipples as you rock against Jack, arms wound around his neck while his desperate hands cup and knead the plump swell of your ass, dragging you up and down his hard cock.

‘That’s it, you’re ridin' me beautifully, darlin’,’ he growls into your ear, exhaling hot and heavy as he nips your collar bone. ‘Missed you so much.’

His chaps are slippery under your bare thighs from your slick, and you clench at the sensation of being completely naked on top of him when he’s still fully clothed, only his belt and zipper undone so that he can fuck up into you, the rickety kitchen chair groaning under the weight of the two of you.

‘Missed you too,’ you whisper against his lips, crying out when he hits a particularly deep spot inside you. ‘Yes, yes, harder, Jack.’

Leaning forward, he takes one breast into his hot mouth, one eye on your necklace that’s sticking to your sweaty skin before licking you between your tits and over the silver pendant, the salt sharp on his tongue. He hums, ‘You wear it so well.’

‘I won’t take it off, ever,’ you swear, throwing your head back when he scrapes his teeth against the column of your neck, so full of him that your knees quake.

‘Good,’ growls Jack, thrusting harder into you, making your breath stutter. ‘Keep me with you, darlin’ - always.’

You smile, fingers curled into his hair, stealing a tender moment as your noses bump and eyes meet with the easiest promise you will ever keep. ‘Always.’

Notes: Am I allowed to pick favourites? I'm not? I'm doing it anyway -- this is my favourite out of all the holiday fics, no question! I'm so soft for cowboy Jack and his darlin' 🥹 We've been spending time with just the two of them so far in the series, so it was really fun to explore the group situations, especially with the Kingsman involved!

I hope you enjoyed this fluffy interlude. Wishing you all a very merry Christmas and thank you so much for reading ❤️

[spiritual-rogue]

Adelaide-bound #fuckyeahholidays

[kitchenvoyeur-blog]

View from the shower. #fuckyeahholidays

[skv11000]

Cold Beer In The Hour Of Chaos #roguedeadguy #fuckyeahholidays #longbeach #airport (at Long Beach Airport (LGB))

[freeshavahcadoo]

Hanukkah gelt! Everyone wins when it comes to playing dreydel. #ilovehanukkah #mmmmmmchocolate #honoraryjewsunite #fuckyeahholidays

[addicted-obsessed]

R.I.P x Girl On Fire Mashup #fuckyeahholidays

[gridlockedmind]

First egg nog of the season #fuckyeahholidays (Taken with Instagram)

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

It's Consent Season 2022

Did I spend hours on these banners? Yes. Was it worth it? Fuck yeah. I've been holding on to these but it's time - I'm so excited to share with you guys what's coming for the last few weeks of the year!

Dieter is back! The Consent ficlets are based on the prompts and holidays that won the follower milestone vote. They will be around the 2k to 4k mark, and there will be varying degrees of tropey seasonal fun!

Anachronisms

Prompt: Bridgerton | Thanksgiving

Dieter’s plan to surprise you on the set of Bridgerton for Thanksgiving goes awry when he unwittingly gets cast opposite his ex-girlfriend for a steamy intimate scene - that you have to coordinate.

Brandy Butter

Prompt: Drunken confession | Christmas

Dieter blames it on the damn brandy butter.

Complications

Prompt: Dieter shoots a watch ad | New Year's Eve

Dieter shoots a watch ad at a New Year’s Eve party. What could possibly happen - specifically in the VIP powder room - when the ball drops?

I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who made 2022 such a blast for me. I've never been written so much in my entire life (I'm pretty sure my word count these 9 months has smashed my whole FF.net catalogue) or had so much fun writing, and a big part of it is because you guys give me so much motivation to create. Thank you - I hope you have the most blessed holiday season ❤️

Gorgeous divider by @firefly-graphics 🎄

[twogranniesandanaxe]

Only two weeks left to get my holidays!!! :D

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Brandy Butter

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

|| Consent universe oneshot, heavy mentions of the last chapter Concentric, so do not recommend reading as a stand-alone ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Prompts: Drunken confession | Christmas (additional requests sent in with the votes in notes at the end)

Summary: Dieter blames it on the damn brandy butter.

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, mention of food, dirty talk, fingering, handjob, cumshot, feelings so fluffy. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 3.4k

Notes: Posting this a week before Christmas so you guys can read at your own pace! This one came in first in the holiday vote, and I've been waiting to write this for a long time. This is dedicated to Cristina @pedropascalsx for being one of my favourite people on this hellsite, but also partly because it mentions a key scene in the series for which she commissioned this gorgeous art for. Thank you for being the sweetest friend, this is for you ❤️

It’s shaping up to be the first decent holiday season you’ve had in a while. Your parents are on a cruise (you love them, but they haven’t met Dieter in person yet and you’re happy to hold off for a day that doesn’t involve your mother stress-cooking and your father knocking back eggnog), Pete and Ana are in town, and you’re all going to Rebecca’s for dinner tonight.

You’re starting Christmas morning the same way you have since college - making Christmas pudding in your pyjamas.

Your roommate from the other side of the pond introduced you to the weird and quintessentially British holiday dessert in freshman year, and it’s been a treasured tradition of yours ever since to make it from scratch every year.

The Christmas pudding is a hard sell. The dark brown, domed sponge cake is boiled for hours, packed with alcohol-soaked dried fruit and definitely not Instagram-friendly, but you’ve yet to meet someone who you didn’t convert with your secret recipe.

Maybe Dieter Bravo would be the first.

‘It smells funny.’

You snort as you cut up butter into cubes. ‘You haven’t washed that robe in weeks and you think this smells funny?’

He picks up the recipe for the pudding and reads in mock horror, ‘Raisins, prunes, currants soaked in stout for 24 hours?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Drop the puritan act, Bravo. You’ve definitely been soaked in much worse for much longer.’

He continues, ignoring your jab. ‘The pudding can be stored for up to two years in a cool, dry place. What the fuck is this witchcraft cake, sweetheart?’

Measuring out icing sugar, you answer, ‘It’s a traditional British Christmas dessert. It’s delicious.’

‘But we’re not British,’ he protests. ‘Why can’t we have some nice, normal pecan pie or something?’

Grabbing the ingredients, you move around the kitchen counter towards the standing mixer that you brought with you when you moved in. ‘You can, if you make it. But you’re not, and I love Christmas pudding, so stop complaining.’

He follows hot on your heels, craning over your shoulder as you start beating the sugar into the butter. ‘Whatcha making?’

‘Brandy butter,’ you reply, tipping in a generous pour of said alcohol into the mixture. ‘It’s like frosting, but with lots of brandy.’

Dieter hums appreciatively, palms finding your waist. ‘Now that I can get on board with.’

You turn off the mixer to do a taste test, smacking your lips as you lick the brandy butter off the spoon. It’s delicious, sweet and smooth but the alcohol cuts through the richness - it will go perfectly with the sticky and dense Christmas pudding.

Dieter follows suit, scooping a greedy dollop of brandy butter with two fingers which disappear into his mouth. When he swallows, he unleashes a moan so guttural that it would make a porn star blush.

‘It’s good, but it’s not that good,’ you chide his over-the-top dramatics, and smack him on the back of his hand when he makes to dive into the mixing bowl again. ‘No double dipping, Bravo.’

His grin turns filthy instantly, the wolvishness that curls the corner of his lips never fails to set your pulse racing. Grabbing you by the ass, he whines into your neck, ‘But sweetheart, you love it when I double dip into your sweet, tight -’

‘Dieter -’ You cut in, but you can’t help the waver in your voice when the same two fingers that were in his mouth just now, still warm from his tongue, trail under the elastic band of your sweatpants.

You can hear the smirk in his voice when he asks, ‘How about a little Christmas present to kick the day off, sweetheart?’

His fingertips catch on your skin - with remnants of sugar from the brandy butter and dried spit - as they slide into your panties, running through the thatch of hair before finding your clit, making you cry out as he chuckles into your ear.

‘Who’s been a good girl this year?’ he teases.

Your scoff at the unoriginal innuendo careens off into a moan when he makes his way through your quickly dampening folds. ‘Really? Santa jokes?’

‘Don’t be such a grinch, sweetheart,’ he mock-admonishes you, dipping the tip of his middle finger into your wet pussy, groaning at what he finds. ‘It’s obviously working on you.’

‘Fuck,’ you bite out when he hastily shoves your pants down and sinks one thick digit in all the way down to the knuckle. Bracing yourself on the marble-top surface, you suddenly realise it’s probably time to top up the water in the pan for the Christmas pudding. ‘Wait, Dieter - I need to check on the pudding -’

‘Uh-uh,’ tuts Dieter, spinning you around and easily hoisting you onto an empty spot on the kitchen counter, the cold surface under your bare ass making you shiver. ‘Not until you cum on my hand, baby.’

‘It’ll burn!’ your protest trails off into a desperate whine when he starts pumping in and out of you, dropping his gaze to watch as your cunt slicks up his finger.

‘Then you better cum quick,’ he retorts in a cocky challenge. ‘Although, on second thought, I wouldn’t mind if it did burn.’

He slows his movements deliberately, but you shake your head, rolling your hips in chase. ‘Oh no, you won’t win, Dieter Bravo.’

He presses a messy kiss to your lips. ‘You’re so sexy when you’re competitive, baby.’

‘One more finger,’ you demand, swiping your tongue into his mouth as you push your hands into his unruly curls.

‘I thought you said no double dipping,’ he taunts against your lips, clearly having been waiting for the chance to drop that line.

‘Oh, shut up,’ you grumble with ill-concealed affection. He doesn’t deny you, and your teeth catch your bottom lip when you push back onto his hand shamelessly. ‘I want to touch you.’

Dieter doesn’t need to be told twice, untying the drawstring of his sweats and pushing them down to free his already hard cock. You wrap your palm around his erection, your wrist slack as you stroke him in an unforgiving rhythm that has him stuttering curses into the crook of your neck.

When he pushes you backwards to find your clit with his fingertips, you brace one foot on a kitchen stool, which lends you the leverage to start moving freely.

‘Ride my fingers, that’s a good girl,’ he croons while he watches you impale yourself on him, your grip around his length tightening at the same time he draws quicker circles on your clit. ‘That’s it, sweetheart, come on -’

Your back arches as you snap, your orgasm ripping hot and fast through you. Dieter grins, mouthing at your sensitive neck and scraping his teeth behind your ear, leaving you slumping bonelessly against his side.

With a low chuckle at your wrecked state, Dieter gently dislodges your palm to take himself in hand, jaw twitching as he rushes headlong into his own high. Pulling out of your heat, he holds you obscenely wide, and with a hoarse shout, he spurts thickly onto your pussy splayed open beneath him, his cum dripping like white honey through your folds and onto the countertop.

Smearing one finger through his mess, you gasp when he pushes it into your still sensitive pussy, winking as he draws it out to suck it clean. He declares, ‘Tastes even better than your brandy butter if you asked me, sweetheart.’

Despite your negligence, the Christmas pudding survives unscathed - much to Dieter’s dismay.

It’s the first time all of you are under the same roof since Resurgence ended, and it’s a merry affair. Dieter and Pete won’t stop crooning reunited and it feels so good to each other like idiots, you and Ana scoff at their antics affectionately while you catch up on the last few months.

Rebecca and Hank are in fine form, their beautiful house decorated to the nines. You finally meet their daughter, Coco, and the family cat Crookshanks. Everyone helps out - laying out the silverware, pouring the champagne and putting presents under the outrageously decked out ten-foot Christmas pine. The lights of Hollywood Hills twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond the infinity pool, as dusk falls and candles are lit all around the intimate dining room.

Dinner is delicious. The hosts made turkey, stuffing and an assortment of delicious sides, Ana cooked potatoes three ways, and Pete brought plenty of wine that flows liberally as the dishes go around the table for seconds, thirds and fourths.

It’s your first big holiday together as a couple - the teasing, marriage jokes and third degree are expected, and Pete doesn’t disappoint.

With the food winding down but glasses tirelessly topped up, he clamours for a reenactment of the reunion on the boat in Italy, insisting that he plays the part of Constance to make up for the fact that he missed the event. That’s how Pete and Dieter end up on the first landing on the stairs which overlooks the dining space, trying to recreate the scene where you caught him and Constance and realised that it was all a ruse.

Trying being the keyword. They’re mostly knocking back wine while arguing about the details.

‘No, no, I’m 100% sure Ana was there as well the exact moment she figured out that you guys were faking it,’ insists Pete, wagging his finger sagely.

‘How would you know, you weren’t even there, Pete!’ you heckle.

‘Pete, if you decide to try your hand in acting, you know where to find representation. You make such a convincing Constance,’ Rebecca jokes.

You think you’ve gotten away with the worst of it by the time you help clear the table and Pete gets distracted by the dessert coming out of the kitchen. Your defences are down, leaving yourself vulnerable to ambush -

You just didn’t expect it from Rebecca and Hank’s thirteen-year-old.

Coco is her mother’s daughter. Whip smart and taking after her mum’s striking looks, she has far more self-assuredness than you did at her tender age. The way she discreetly weighs you up is the same way Rebecca assessed you all those months ago when you first met in the doorway of your hotel room.

The teenager waits until everyone is sloshing with wine to pounce. You’ve all moved to the living room where the fireplace is roaring, and the desserts are laid out on the coffee table. She’s curled up next to Dieter in front of the fire, Crookshanks - who not only has the name but also the looks to boot - draped across both their laps.

You’re in the middle of explaining Christmas pudding to the sceptics, which currently stands untouched, when she coolly calls you by your name and draws first blood.

‘So, are you and Uncle D living together?’

Surprised, you blink at the sudden change in conversation and stutter a reply, ‘Um - ahem, yes, Coco - yes, we are.’

‘He’s lived with a bunch of girls, you know,’ she informs you, crossing her arms.

‘All at once or at different times?’ you joke in an attempt to lighten the mood. Pete’s mouth is hanging open in both fascination and anxiety at the unfolding drama while Ana chews on her nails, eyes darting between you and the girl.

‘Coconuts,’ pipes up Dieter with a warning tilt to his tone.

She shrugs innocently. ‘What? Just making sure you’re on the same page. Mum always says communication makes or breaks a relationship.’

‘I appreciate that, and I do know he’s lived with other women before,’ you assure her. ‘We both have our histories.’

Seizing on your comment, she continues with her line of questioning. ‘So how many men have you lived with?’

‘Coco,’ raps Becks sternly from across the room. ‘That is not an appropriate question, young lady.’

You smile and shake your head. ‘It’s ok - I’ve just lived with one guy. We were engaged.’

‘What happened?’ she asks.

You reply truthfully, ‘We broke up a few years ago. Sometimes that’s the way things turn out.’

Coco taps on her chin thoughtfully, turning to Dieter. ‘How many times have you been engaged, Uncle D? I remember twice, at least. So that’s three failed engagements between the two of you -’

The cat yowls in protest when Dieter reaches over to squeeze Coco by the shoulders, a slightly uncomfortable grin on his lips. ‘Alright, what’s up with all the interest in math tonight, kiddo?’

She points out, ‘I don’t see any posts about her on your Instagram. You’ve never kept anything secret before. What’s different this time?’

Dieter turns to Becks, tossing up his hands in disbelief. ‘You let her use Instagram? She’s thirteen!’

Becks rolls her eyes fondly. ‘Am I really getting parenting advice from Dieter Bravo?’

Then, Coco turns to you and delivers the coup de grace. ‘So - do you love him?’

Before you can react, Pete chokes violently on his eggnog, gripping at the coffee table from his seat on the plush rug. Ana has to burp him like a baby while he cries, ‘Oh god, it’s coming up my nose! It burns!’

You’re so stunned that you still haven’t moved a muscle when Dieter jumps up, sending Crookshanks scampering off with a grumpy meow.

‘Ok that’s it,’ he pronounces and hauls Coco up by her armpits. ‘Off to bed now, young lady. Say good night!’

Coco protests as she’s dragged off, slipping and sliding on her Christmas socks on the marble floor, her voice petering out as they disappear up the stairs. ‘What the heck, Uncle D? They’re fair questions and you know it. Have you even asked them yourself -’

Glancing about in the awkward silence, Pete picks up a bottle of brandy from the table and shouts. ‘Shots!’

Three quarters of an hour later, Pete is lying prostrate, snoring on the couch. Ana is engaged in a tipsy philosophical debate with Rebecca, and Hank is drunk washing up in the kitchen.

You’re tucked into Dieter’s side while he munches on a slice of Christmas pudding with a generous helping of brandy butter. ‘I take it back, sweetheart. This is fucking delicious.’

‘It’s a cake soaked in alcohol, of course it is,’ you grin, which morphs into a yawn as you glance at your watch. ‘It’s late, I think we should try and get an Uber home.’

Becks speaks up from across the room. ‘You sure, guys? We have a couple of spare rooms upstairs.’

‘It’s fine, I think Pete needs it more than us,’ you quip, reaching over to poke at his prone form with your foot.

Ana waves from the floor. ‘See you later, love birds. Merry Christmas!’

Becks gets up and loops her arm through yours as she walks you to the door. ‘Sorry about Coco. She’s protective about her Uncle D, especially when it’s the first time he’s brought a woman home for Christmas in a while.’

You smile and pull her into a hug. ‘Please don’t apologise, your kid’s a feisty one and I know exactly who she got that from. Goodness knows he could use her in his corner,’ you add with a wink.

You shepherd Dieter into the waiting car. It’s easily the most expensive Uber ride you’ve ever taken, and you breathe a sigh of relief when Dieter’s house comes into view.

Home.

Somewhere between the Hollywood Hills and Sherman Oaks, Dieter passes out cold, drool puddling on the shoulder of his fuzzy brown coat as he dozes. You have to coax him out of the car and up into the bedroom, with him whining drunkenly the whole way, face buried in the back of your neck as he stumbles after you.

It’s a struggle to get him out of his clothes - perish the thought of getting him to brush his teeth - but at least he’s just the right level of drunk that has him snoring within moments of his head hitting the pillow. You breathe a sigh of relief when you climb in after him.

Dieter immediately shuffles into your warmth and blindly presses a kiss to you, which lands on the side of your nose. You huff a laugh, rearranging yourself so that your back is to his chest, his arms wound around your waist.

‘Not so tight, I’m stuffed,’ you grumble.

He obeys, but keeps the entire length of his body smooshed against you needily, the proximity muffling his words. ‘I do, you know.’

‘What?’ you hum.

The declaration is slurred with sleep as it brushes your ear, but the tone is emphatic. ‘Love you. I love you, sweetheart.’

You stop breathing.

Not that you haven’t wondered, silently turned it over in your mind over the past few months. But it’s two in the morning - you lost count at one glass of bubbles and three and a half of wine, and him many more. You swear you can taste brandy butter on his breath.

Before you can muddle through your jumbled thoughts, he mercifully slips into sleep.

And you mull over his words until you do too.

Your side of the bed is cold when he wakes up in the morning.

Dieter winces at the light, tempted to bury himself under the duvet, but something he can’t put his finger on has him sitting up, a groan on his lips as the world tilts dangerously on its axis.

That something nags at him as he slips on his robe, nips at his heels as his feet wriggle into furry slippers.

He stops abruptly by the bedroom door.

Shit. Did he tell you that he loves you last night?

The heating is on and the house is toasty, made even warmer with the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling butter from the open kitchen. You’re at the stove as he pads quietly towards you, and you don’t turn around when he snakes his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. ‘Morning, sweetheart.’

You hum noncommittally, but at least you’re relaxing into his embrace instead of pulling away, and Dieter breathes a sigh of relief.

He hasn’t scared you away. You’re still here.

‘I meant what I said last night,’ he blurts out impulsively.

He almost winces at his rashness. But he does, and he’s never been good at holding things back, especially things that he knows. He’s not going to take it back.

Without turning around, you say evenly, ‘Go sit down, Dieter.’

He stiffens instantly behind you, nails digging into the soft fabric of your dressing gown. Fuck. Fuck. You want him to sit down? Why?

Blindly, he lets go of you and stumbles over his feet to the kitchen counter, scrambling onto a stool. The hardwood floor suddenly feels like quicksand as he wobbles in his seat, sweaty palms pressed into the cool marble surface to anchor him. You take your time, your body giving away no hint of the same gravity that’s making his stomach drop while you flip over what smells like buttermilk pancakes.

When you finally turn around with the pan in your hands, Dieter holds his breath and watches you cross the kitchen to slide something into his plate, which lands with an emphatic thwack.

Eventually, he looks up at you with the biggest puppy eyes in utter confusion. He squeaks, ‘It’s a heart-shaped pancake.’

You smile at his befuddlement. ‘That’s right. Just like that heart-shaped pizza Lorenzo made for us in Italy.’

‘Is this one a prank too?’ he asks in a small voice.

Stepping in between his legs and winding your arms around his neck, you smile. ‘Unfortunately not. I actually love you, you idiot.’

You yelp when he tugs you fully into him, making you lose your footing as you laugh. And then he’s kissing you, fingers pushing into your hair, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulls back.

‘There isn’t a ring in the pancake, is there?’ he teases with a throwback to your reaction to the heart-shaped pizza all those months ago, wriggling his eyebrows.

‘You should be so lucky, Dieter Bravo,’ you echo his words back at him.

He grins. Some day, one day - maybe even in that same house that he’s been thinking of buying for the two of you, on the roof with the terracotta floor at sunset on a summer’s day, with his grandmother's ring in a heart-shaped pizza -

But for now, he swallows the lump in his throat, his warm eyes hold yours with a surety he feels deep in his bones as he murmurs against your lips, ‘I love you too, sweetheart.’

I never regretted holding off on this moment from the main series, and writing this in the months after Consent ended (which is about the same length of time for our two idiots in the story), I feel even more strongly about this. Thank you for the enthusiastic voting for this prompt and Christmas, I loved writing this moment for these two so much - they've definitely earned it.

I hope you all have the most wonderful Christmas ❤️

Also, thank you for these requests that I had so much fun working into this fic!

LJ @prolix-yuy: IF you do the Christmas fic, I would love to see which seasonal drink/food Dieter and our Intimacy Coordinator enjoy (especially if it's polarizing for each other - does Dieter like eggnog? Fruitcake? Something even weirder) No pressure to add, love you Cee!

Anon: Maybe you could work a cat in somewhere? 😉 Like maybe he ends up around someone who has a cat? He seems like he’d be really sweet with them. He just seems like a cat man to me. Even if he doesn’t know it yet. I could be wrong. That’s just my headcanon.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

I'm signing off! Happy holidays everyone ❤️

I'll be in (hopefully not too rainy) Sri Lanka for a week and a half for a very warm Christmas 🎄 Fingers crossed Tumblr doesn't fuck up my queue, and I probably won't be able to do taglists while I'm away, so here's a recap of what's scheduled and when to look out for them:

Brandy Butter

Posted! December 16, Friday evening US time

A Palomino Christmas

Posted! December 18, Sunday morning US time

Javier's bulge II: tac vest edition

December 25, Sunday morning US time

I might drop in every now and then, but if I don't get the chance to, happy holidays to you all my darlings ❤️

Fuck Yeah Holidays ‘22 Masterlist

[freakrenaissance]

So lovely & romantic! I loved the Christmas dinner scene, too... harry suggesting love actually was too perfect 😅 then imagining him in that ski suit with the chaps? My God. Mercy. 🤤 This was so fab... no clue how i missed this! I wanna read he again rn 😆

A Palomino Christmas

Jack Daniels x f!reader

|| Palomino universe oneshot, out of chronological order as I haven't finished the series yet. Can be read as a stand-alone. ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You spend Christmas at the ranch with Jack. You thought the present you got him was inspired until you see him wearing it - the cowboy way.

Inspired by snowsuit anon and this adorable post (and a super cute nickname for a pony) sent to me by @aynsleywalker.

Warnings: !Ski suit action!, drinking, mention of food, gratuitous descriptions of the male bulge body, dirty talk, safe unprotected sex, feelings so fluffy. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 4.5k

Dedicated to @guiltypleasure-girl who I'm so grateful to have made friends with this year and who, imho, draws the best Jack in all the lands. If you don't already, follow her art page @guiltypleasure-art for the most gorgeous fanart ❤️

It’s always busy in the Stateman’s main kitchen on Christmas morning. The smokey burn of firewood warms the cozy space as the radio blares holiday tunes. Poppy presides over the operations at the head of the table - everything is planned down to the T and everyone has a role.

On any other Christmas day, Jack would be her sous-chef, the one she relies on to keep everyone on schedule and in their place.

But alas, today is not any other Christmas day.

The normally put together cowboy ambles around the place like a headless chicken, leaving a trail of half-completed tasks in his wake. Tequila, in uncharacteristic discretion, follows two steps behind.

He turns off the tap that Jack’s left pouring into the already full kettle, draining the excess water and putting it on the boil.

There’s one slice of bread in the toaster, while another lies forgotten on the table, which Teak slides into the free slot and pushes down the lever.

Jack pulls a jar of pickles from the fridge unseeingly, putting it on the table and walking away in search of a mug under three sets of watching, worried eyes. Teak replaces it with his friend’s favourite strawberry jam without a word.

While the oblivious cowboy’s back is turned, Teak motions his hand and forth across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing nope emphatically at the occupants of the kitchen table.

On his cue, Poppy clears her throat and speaks up, ‘Jack, sweetie, why don’t you go check on the horses after your toast? The stable boys want to leave work early today after doing their morning rounds.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ he answers absent-mindedly, staring down into the empty mug in his grasp as if he’s lost his train of thought.

At that very moment, the toaster pops and Jack practically jumps out of his skin, stepping on Jameson’s paw where he’s lying on his rug in front of the fire, prompting an indignant yelp from the border collie and winces from around the table.

‘Sorry boy,’ he apologises and picks up his toast - burning his fingers - and stumbling over his feet to set his plate down. ‘Mornin’,’ he nods to the others without really registering who’s there.

Jack proceeds to butter his toast with such singular focus that he doesn’t notice when Tequila fills his still empty cup with coffee, only to knock it over immediately when a phone buzzes and his hand flies out to grab his. Ginger and Poppy trade concerned looks as he jumps onto his feet with another apology, snatching a tea towel to clean up the mess.

Eggsy, on potato peeling duty on the other side of the table, isn’t so diplomatic. ‘You’re jumpier than Bambi this morning, cowboy.’

Jack grunts noncommittally and chews on his toast, not rising to the bait.

‘Don’t be so nervous mate, we promise we’ll be on our best behaviour.’

Teak snorts from the kitchen counter where he’s making his PBJ. ‘I don’t know about England, but around these parts, lying on Christmas day is frowned upon.’

Eggsy replies high-handedly, ‘Can’t speak for you, Tequila, but I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

Ginger chuckles as Teak sits down at the table with his sandwich. ‘Ha! I’ll believe it when I see it.’

Jack points a forceful finger at the boys, one after the other. ‘I swear to the baby Jesus Christ, if you two don’t behave yourselves, there will be hell to pay.’

Eggsy snickers. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. Ol’ cowboy Jack falls heads over heels for a bird -’ he screeches when the coffee-soaked rag hits him in the face, which sends Teak into hysterical laughter. ‘Oi! What the fuck, man!’

Ignoring the ruckus, Jack dusts the crumbs from his hands and shrugs on his jacket, grabbing a thermos and filling it up with fresh coffee. With a hurried later, he strides out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the frigid morning air.

Thermos tucked under his arm, Jack rubs his palms together, warming his fingertips with his breath as snow crunches beneath his well-worn boots. The ranch is blanketed in thick snow, a picture-perfect postcard landscape as it is every Christmas. The morning mist has yet to burn off, but he can tell by the peek of blue through the clouds that it will be a fine day.

If your flight is on time, you should be on your way by now. He’d wanted to pick you up from the airport, but you insisted that there’s no point in him driving all the way there when you already know the way. Depending on the conditions, it shouldn’t be long until you arrive.

His list of chores isn’t long this morning - the stable boys will be on duty until lunchtime - but still, he wants to tick all the boxes before you get here. Striding into the heated stables, he says howdy to the grooms and whistles, smiling as dozens of faces appear at the doors, ears pointed forwards in attention, snickering and whinnying at him.

This never gets old.

‘Mornin’ ladies and gentlemen,’ he calls out, wandering down the stalls, rubbing a velvety nose here and pulling on a furry ear there. ‘Who’s ready to stretch their legs this fine mornin’, huh?’

Starting at the end of the stables, he unlatches Bourbon’s door and ushers him out of the stall, then crosses the aisle to let out Tanqueray, Champ’s elderly but still supremely poised Friesian, who clops leisurely towards the exit. Zig-zagging back and forth, Jack whistles, jostles and chats to the horses, all smartly dressed in warm rugs, as they file out down the corridor and into the courtyard for a bit of morning exercise while the stable boys mucked out their stalls.

‘No loitering, ma’am,’ says Jack sternly when Poppy’s mare, Pie, idles in the middle of the building. He gives her a firm pat on the rump to get her moving and whistles at one of the cheeky Shetland ponies who’s snuck into someone else’s stall. ‘Half-Pint! What did I say about stealing your friends’ treats? Shoo, now!’

The stables empty, the echoes of hooves on the concrete ground fading, with Scotch being one of the last to exit. Looping back to make sure there are no dilly-dalliers, Jack’s surprised to find the palomino, who would normally be leading the charge towards the grazing fields, still lingering at the barn doors.

‘Whatcha doin’, boy?’ he calls out.

Scotch tosses his head and steps to the side -

And you appear.

With the biggest grin, you run towards him and fly into his arms.

Your cheeks are wet, the spray of snow powder melting when it hits your skin. It drifts all around you as Scotch eats up the white ground, the thundering hooves muted by the soft cushion of the untouched, overnight snow. The mountain air is sweet and pure and stingingly cold, you can barely feel your face anymore - but it might just be from how hard you’ve been smiling.

You feel like you’re in the middle of a Christmas movie. The lush, green landscape you remember so well from your trip months ago is now all coated in wintry glory, but you still recognise the contours of the land and the mountains. It’s your first time in the saddle since - the whistle of the winds in your ear is a song you remember all the words to, the burn in your out-of-practice muscles all over a familiar old friend.

And you’re happy.

Slowing Scotch to an easy trot as you approach the end of the trail, your breath mists in front of your face as you look down over the ranch, a scene straight out of a classic snow globe, thin wisps of smoke drifting from the chimneys of the wooden lodges dotted across the property.

Gently manoeuvring the palomino to a halt and giving him a pat on the neck, you turn to smile at Jack as he walks up beside you on Whiskey. ‘I’ve missed this so much.’

‘Me too,’ he answers, warm eyes on you.

You give him a sidelong glance. ‘You’ve been here the whole time, cowboy.’

‘I know. I’ve missed you being here.’ He reaches over and pulls your gloved hand towards him, presses a kiss to the back. You want to shuck off the leather and cup his whiskered jawline in your palm, push the well-worn hat off and twine your fingers into his hair -

Later. There will be time for all that later, preferably in front of a roaring fireplace.

You break the moment with an eyebrow arched in a challenge. ‘Race you to the stables?’

Jack grins. ‘You’re on, darlin’.’

Christmas dinner is in the main lodge, which you didn’t use during your trip in the summer. The intimate space is exuberantly decorated in red and gold, a huge, freshly cut pine tree stands proudly by the antique fireplace, a merry fire burning. The table is beautifully laid, silverware immaculately polished and fine china sit alongside holidays-themed napkins. A magnificent feast lines the length of the mahogany dining table comfortably seating eight.

But any kind of decorum stops there.

As the hours tick by and bottles of wine and sherry are emptied, the meal has descended into what Jack warned you in advance as ‘typical Kingsman chaos’. According to the cowboy, the whole Kingsman team comes to the ranch every summer for their annual company retreat, but only Merlin, Eggsy and Harry fly over for Christmas. And while their contingent is small, havoc is an inevitable conclusion where any number of the Kingsman are involved.

Desserts are still being passed around the table - sticky toffee pudding, pecan pie and Yule log - when Teak and Eggsy start to raise their voices and slap the table about British and American Christmas songs. They’re currently yelling - not singing - carols at each other, with Jameson barking excitedly in the background.

Tequila throws his hands up in frustration at Eggsy’s rendition of Twelve Days of Christmas. ‘Why is there a partridge in a pear tree? What the fuck is a partridge?’

Champ and Merlin are having a more civilised but no less intense debate about pies - specifically mince pies versus pumpkin pie as a holiday dessert.

‘Next year, old chap,’ declares Merlin. ‘I’ll bring mince pies with me and you’ll be eating your words, just you wait.’

Jack whispers in your ear. ‘He says that every year, but never does.’

You chuckle and turn your attention to Harry, who’s now insisting that they should put Love Actually up on the big projector screen after dinner, whereas Ginger and Poppy are lobbying for Elf.

‘Why not The Holiday? It’s literally the perfect American-British movie,' you pitch in, which launches another furious tirade of debate at your end of the table.

Jack mumbles under his breath. ‘Because they’re idiots and pointless, festive arguing is a winter sport around here.’

His arm is warm around your shoulders as you giggle into your mulled wine. ‘Is it like this every year?’

‘Yup,’ he answers, really popping the P. With a mild touch of embarrassment, he holds your amused gaze and asks, ‘Too much?’

Tipping your face upwards, you press a chaste kiss to his lips.

‘Just enough,’ you assure him as the corners of his eyes crinkle in the warmest smile.

You didn’t have time to drop off your suitcase at Jack’s cottage, which is a short drive from the ranch, when you arrived in the morning. Instead, with Champ’s blessing, you commandeered one of the guest cabins, all empty in the off-season - which is just as well. By the time midnight rolls around, it’s clear that no one is in any state to make their way back to their respective off-site houses.

Harry and the ladies retired to their borrowed rooms a little while ago, leaving you and Jack to round up the stragglers. You check on Teak, lying face down on the sofa, bundled up in his winter quilts in an aborted attempt to leave. A few steps over, you drape a blanket on Champ and another one on Merlin, who are passed out on armchairs which look comfortable enough to sleep in, socked feet up on matching ottomans. Eggsy is cuddling with Jameson in front of the fire, and Jack feeds the logs to make sure it burns till morning.

It’s bleak outside. Jack shields you from the worst of the winds, tucking you into his side as you trudge across the snow, the early start you’ve had catching up on you. Thankfully, the heating is already on in the cabin when you get there, and he starts a fire as well while you get ready for bed.

When you pad into the bedroom in your pyjamas, teeth brushed and makeup washed off, Jack looks up to see you holding a neatly-wrapped present, a shy smile on your lips.

Standing up from the fireplace, he dusts his hands and reaches for you, palms settling on the small of your back, leaning down to graze his still cold nose against yours. ‘Is that for me, darlin’?’

‘Maybe,’ you reply coyly. ‘Do you want to do presents now or tomorrow morning?’

‘Let’s do it now, I have to feed the horses early tomorrow,’ answers Jack, pecking you on the cheek. ‘Give me five minutes.’

The bed is cold, and you have to steel yourself to burrow into the icy cocoon of the thick covers, missing Jack’s warmth. He doesn’t make you wait long, re-appearing in just boxers, and a big box in hand, switching off all but the bedside lights.

Sliding under the duvet, he yelps when your icy feet tangle into his longer legs, making you laugh. His bare skin heats you up instantly as he wraps one arm around you and pulls you into his broad chest. You feel him hum when he asks, ‘You want to go first, darlin’?’

Blinking up at him, you answer nervously, ‘No - you first.’

He pushes the box your way and you sit up, pretending to shake the package to gauge what’s inside. Jack chuckles, his strong forearms dark against the beige quilt wrapped around his middle. Only his fingers give away his nerves, picking at loose threads in the fabric as you carefully unravel the wrapping paper.

Lifting the lid of the box, your lips part and you stare wordlessly at what’s inside.

‘Jack,’ you breathe. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Gently, you pull out the cowboy hat in tan suede, the smell of fresh leather comforting as you turn it over in your grasp, marvelling at the craftsmanship in the dips and swells of the construction.

‘Try it on, darlin’,’ he says, his shoulders relaxing in relief at your reaction.

You do, and of course, it fits perfectly. Shuffling onto your knees, you crawl closer to kiss him fully on the lips, tilting your head to the side so that his face fits under the brim of your hat. ‘Thank you, I love it.’

Jack arches an eyebrow. ‘You might want to check the box again, darlin’.’

Sitting back on your haunches, you send him an almost accusatory look. ‘You can’t give me two presents, cowboy.’

He shrugs with an insolent grin. ‘I’m a grown man, I’ll do what I like. ‘

Your eyes alight on the black velvet case at the bottom of the box, and you draw it out with careful fingers as if it will break. With one last glance at Jack, you gingerly lift the lid, feeling the hinges creak.

Jack watches you closely, his own breathing suspended as you stare down into your hands, thoughts whirring in his head. Is it too much, too soon? Is he comin’ on too strong? Would you even like it?

After the longest ten seconds of his life, you look up at him with soft eyes and brows drawn, a crack in your voice. ‘Jack.’

He gives you a lopsided smile and reaches for the box. ‘I went back to the same silversmith who made my belt buckle and asked him to make this.’

The chain is delicate in his big, weathered hands. It takes him a couple of tries, but he eventually manages to pry open the hinge of the clasp and holds out the necklace towards you in a question. ‘May I, darlin’?’

Turning around, the bed dips behind you as Jack shifts closer, cool silver kissing your décolletage as he fastens the clasp behind your neck. Your gaze drops downwards, the tip of your index finger testing the weight of the solid sterling pendant in the shape of a flask, Statesman emblazoned in delicate lettering -

A much smaller but exact copy of his belt buckle.

His words draw you out of your thoughts. ‘You like it?’

‘I love it,’ you correct him, twisting around to tackle him into the mattress, your knees around his waist as you loom over him, knocking off your hat so you can kiss him properly. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

The pendant dangles from your neck, tickling him on the chin as he winds one big hand into your hair, his eyes following as it sways. ‘It looks good on you, darlin’.’

The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest starts to recede as your eyes land on the present you got for him on the bed. The giddiness you felt when you found it is a distant dream, instead, anxiety threatens to take root deep in your head. If you got something from Amazon tonight, is there any chance that they could deliver tomorrow -

‘Darlin’. You’re thinking too loudly,’ says Jack soothingly, chucking you gently under your chin. ‘What’s wrong?’

You shake your head. ‘I got you a really stupid present. Let’s forget about it - I’ll get you something else.’

His brows draw together in concern as he grabs your wrists and pulls you flush against his chest so that there’s nowhere else to look but at him. ‘Don’t say that, there’s no such thing as a stupid present. Whatever you got me, I’m sure I’ll love it.’

You inhale deeply, chewing your bottom lip. ‘You mentioned a few weeks ago that your leather jacket and fleeces are too bulky and it’s hard to move around in all the layers when it's cold.’

He nods encouragingly. ‘That I did.’

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you reach out and drag the package towards him. ‘Well, I saw this at my local shop, and thought it might help.’

Jack gives you a reassuring smile and leans back into the pillows, grabbing the present excitedly. He pulls you against his side, as if he’s trying to squeeze all the self-doubt out of you, the gift draped across your laps as he starts to unwrap it.

You’re a bundle of jitters when he rips off the wrapping paper with impatient fingers, and the lightweight and puffy blue fabric comes into view.

Jack shakes out the neatly folded one-piece. ‘Is it - a ski suit?’

You nod and point out the black contrasting detailing on the front of the suit. ‘It's light and it's warm. Look at the western design with the single point pockets - I couldn’t not get it for you.’

Jack chuckles, the sound warming you as his arm tightens around your shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So simple, yet so clever.’

‘You like it?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

‘I love it,’ he grins, drawing you in for another kiss. ‘Thank you, darlin’.’

Finally assuaged, you sag against him, a yawn creeping up on you as the tension in your body recedes. ‘You want to try it on now?’

Tucking you in, he says, ‘I’ll try it tomorrow, it’s been a long day for you, darlin’.

Putting your hat and his ski suit on the bedside table, Jack turns off the light, his body immediately seeking out yours under the sheets, claiming every inch of you with a leg between your thighs, front plastered to your back, palms under your ratty pyjamas top, splayed across your naked skin.

It’s been too long.

Nose tucked behind your ear, his arms full of you - finally here after months of feeling your phantom weight in his embrace - the night slips away as the snow falls outside.

It’s too warm under the covers when you wake up, even though Jack’s side of the bed is empty. You stretch lazily, the clock reads 8am but the fire is still going strong, he must have stoked it when he got up.

You decide to make some coffee and wait for him to come back before venturing to the communal kitchen for breakfast. While the water boils, you smile as you fiddle with the necklace sitting on your chest, warm and reassuring against your skin.

The smell of caffeine fills the cabin as you sip from your mug, and before long, you hear Jack stomping up the stairs, humming a country tune in his raspy baritone as he approaches the door.

Pouring him a steaming cup, you say, ‘Hey, I made you some coffee -’

You trail off when you turn around.

Your morning brain can’t quite grasp the picture in front of you. Jack’s still wearing his cowboy hat, his nose red from the cold. Vaguely, you realise he’s wearing the present you gifted him - and you congratulate yourself on the fact that it fits him like a damn glove.

The ski suit accentuates his broad shoulders and tapers in at his waist in a flattering cut, the zipper drawn all the way up to the hollow of his throat. He’s replaced the detachable belt that came with the ski suit with his own, the flask bottle buckle popping against the blue.

But the bottom half - that you have trouble comprehending. It takes you a beat longer to realise why.

He’s wearing full-length cowboy chaps over it.

Chaps are essentially leather trousers with the seat cut out, and Jack's wearing them with his belt looped through the straps. You know he only uses them when it’s muddy, to keep his jeans clean. He didn’t wear them at all on your pack trip, but you’ve seen a peek on Facetime in the rainy months in between. And now that you're seeing them in person, you decide that like them - a lot.

Your gaze, slow as molasses despite being completely unburdened by shame, slides all the way down to the triangle of blue framed by the negative space in the brown chaps where - for the lack of a better expression - his prominent endowment hangs heavy at the apex of his strong thighs. Not that you’re trying to look, but you can see the very heft of him through the fabric.

Jesus H. Christ. It’s too fucking early to be sinning.

When Jack realises that you’re staring, he says somewhat apologetically, clearly oblivious to the merry tangent your mind has gone off on. ‘Sorry, I know I’m not meant to wear it this way, but I didn’t want to get it dirty -’

You shake your head hastily. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s - perfect.’

Something breathless in your tone catches his ear, and he tilts his head to the side, one large hand coming to rest on his hip, thick fingers spread obnoxiously wide over the side of the chaps. The beginning of a cocky smile lifts the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, darlin’? You like it?’

Leaving your mug on the counter top, you bite your lip and give him your best teasing grin. ‘Why don’t you turn around so I can take a better look, cowboy?’

He arches an eyebrow at your boldness, but decides to indulge you. Voice dropping an octave, he rasps, ‘Better take a seat for this, darlin’.’

You grin and do as you’re told, turning the kitchen chair around so that you’re facing him, running your eyes up and down his frame as he steps into your space, narrow hips swaying to a beat you can’t hear. Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he suddenly turns with a dramatic flourish and arches his back, granting you an unrivalled view of his behind framed by the chaps cut off at the top of his thighs, the ski suit tight against his pert bottom.

‘Enjoy the view, darlin’?’ he asks, grinning over his shoulder at you.

You swat him on one cheek playfully, and when he swoops suddenly into your lap in a classic burlesque move, you squeal, ‘Jack!’

Bending his knees, he grinds into your thighs as you laugh, the ski suit soft on your skin while the leather chaps scrape against your bare shins. Turning around, he reaches up to tug the suit’s zipper downwards in a slow, deliberate course, and he purrs, ‘What say you if ol’ cowboy Jack gives you a proper show, hmm?’

You inhale sharply as the white wife beater underneath comes into view, and you reach up to help him push one side of the ski suit off his shoulder, revealing the firm line of his left arm.

‘Thought that was more of Teak’s thing,’ you quip, licking your lips as your eyes skim down his front to settle on the weighty bulge now straining against the front of the suit, your eager fingers pulling him closer by his belt buckle.

Gripping the edge of the table, he traps you into your seat, his stare dropping to the matching pendant resting on your now heaving bosom, taking in your blown pupils as he grins. ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

‘Aren’t I the luckiest girl,’ you muse, taking off his hat and flinging it onto the table, his hungry stare alone pinning you in place when you drag him down to you by his lapels.

Warm lips part yours and he delves into your mouth, kissing you deeply. The promise of more leaves you chasing him as he draws back with a drawl. ‘You’re about to get a whole lot luckier, darlin’.’

The thick material of the ski suit is almost pillowy as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. It rubs gently on your nipples as you rock against Jack, arms wound around his neck while his desperate hands cup and knead the plump swell of your ass, dragging you up and down his hard cock.

‘That’s it, you’re ridin' me beautifully, darlin’,’ he growls into your ear, exhaling hot and heavy as he nips your collar bone. ‘Missed you so much.’

His chaps are slippery under your bare thighs from your slick, and you clench at the sensation of being completely naked on top of him when he’s still fully clothed, only his belt and zipper undone so that he can fuck up into you, the rickety kitchen chair groaning under the weight of the two of you.

‘Missed you too,’ you whisper against his lips, crying out when he hits a particularly deep spot inside you. ‘Yes, yes, harder, Jack.’

Leaning forward, he takes one breast into his hot mouth, one eye on your necklace that’s sticking to your sweaty skin before licking you between your tits and over the silver pendant, the salt sharp on his tongue. He hums, ‘You wear it so well.’

‘I won’t take it off, ever,’ you swear, throwing your head back when he scrapes his teeth against the column of your neck, so full of him that your knees quake.

‘Good,’ growls Jack, thrusting harder into you, making your breath stutter. ‘Keep me with you, darlin’ - always.’

You smile, fingers curled into his hair, stealing a tender moment as your noses bump and eyes meet with the easiest promise you will ever keep. ‘Always.’

Notes: Am I allowed to pick favourites? I'm not? I'm doing it anyway -- this is my favourite out of all the holiday fics, no question! I'm so soft for cowboy Jack and his darlin' 🥹 We've been spending time with just the two of them so far in the series, so it was really fun to explore the group situations, especially with the Kingsman involved!

I hope you enjoyed this fluffy interlude. Wishing you all a very merry Christmas and thank you so much for reading ❤️

[freakrenaissance]

Dropped everything I was doing to devour this! Love them so much!

Brandy Butter

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

|| Consent universe oneshot, heavy mentions of the last chapter Concentric, so do not recommend reading as a stand-alone ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Prompts: Drunken confession | Christmas (additional requests sent in with the votes in notes at the end)

Summary: Dieter blames it on the damn brandy butter.

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, mention of food, dirty talk, fingering, handjob, cumshot, feelings so fluffy. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 3.4k

Notes: Posting this a week before Christmas so you guys can read at your own pace! This one came in first in the holiday vote, and I've been waiting to write this for a long time. This is dedicated to Cristina @pedropascalsx for being one of my favourite people on this hellsite, but also partly because it mentions a key scene in the series for which she commissioned this gorgeous art for. Thank you for being the sweetest friend, this is for you ❤️

It’s shaping up to be the first decent holiday season you’ve had in a while. Your parents are on a cruise (you love them, but they haven’t met Dieter in person yet and you’re happy to hold off for a day that doesn’t involve your mother stress-cooking and your father knocking back eggnog), Pete and Ana are in town, and you’re all going to Rebecca’s for dinner tonight.

You’re starting Christmas morning the same way you have since college - making Christmas pudding in your pyjamas.

Your roommate from the other side of the pond introduced you to the weird and quintessentially British holiday dessert in freshman year, and it’s been a treasured tradition of yours ever since to make it from scratch every year.

The Christmas pudding is a hard sell. The dark brown, domed sponge cake is boiled for hours, packed with alcohol-soaked dried fruit and definitely not Instagram-friendly, but you’ve yet to meet someone who you didn’t convert with your secret recipe.

Maybe Dieter Bravo would be the first.

‘It smells funny.’

You snort as you cut up butter into cubes. ‘You haven’t washed that robe in weeks and you think this smells funny?’

He picks up the recipe for the pudding and reads in mock horror, ‘Raisins, prunes, currants soaked in stout for 24 hours?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Drop the puritan act, Bravo. You’ve definitely been soaked in much worse for much longer.’

He continues, ignoring your jab. ‘The pudding can be stored for up to two years in a cool, dry place. What the fuck is this witchcraft cake, sweetheart?’

Measuring out icing sugar, you answer, ‘It’s a traditional British Christmas dessert. It’s delicious.’

‘But we’re not British,’ he protests. ‘Why can’t we have some nice, normal pecan pie or something?’

Grabbing the ingredients, you move around the kitchen counter towards the standing mixer that you brought with you when you moved in. ‘You can, if you make it. But you’re not, and I love Christmas pudding, so stop complaining.’

He follows hot on your heels, craning over your shoulder as you start beating the sugar into the butter. ‘Whatcha making?’

‘Brandy butter,’ you reply, tipping in a generous pour of said alcohol into the mixture. ‘It’s like frosting, but with lots of brandy.’

Dieter hums appreciatively, palms finding your waist. ‘Now that I can get on board with.’

You turn off the mixer to do a taste test, smacking your lips as you lick the brandy butter off the spoon. It’s delicious, sweet and smooth but the alcohol cuts through the richness - it will go perfectly with the sticky and dense Christmas pudding.

Dieter follows suit, scooping a greedy dollop of brandy butter with two fingers which disappear into his mouth. When he swallows, he unleashes a moan so guttural that it would make a porn star blush.

‘It’s good, but it’s not that good,’ you chide his over-the-top dramatics, and smack him on the back of his hand when he makes to dive into the mixing bowl again. ‘No double dipping, Bravo.’

His grin turns filthy instantly, the wolvishness that curls the corner of his lips never fails to set your pulse racing. Grabbing you by the ass, he whines into your neck, ‘But sweetheart, you love it when I double dip into your sweet, tight -’

‘Dieter -’ You cut in, but you can’t help the waver in your voice when the same two fingers that were in his mouth just now, still warm from his tongue, trail under the elastic band of your sweatpants.

You can hear the smirk in his voice when he asks, ‘How about a little Christmas present to kick the day off, sweetheart?’

His fingertips catch on your skin - with remnants of sugar from the brandy butter and dried spit - as they slide into your panties, running through the thatch of hair before finding your clit, making you cry out as he chuckles into your ear.

‘Who’s been a good girl this year?’ he teases.

Your scoff at the unoriginal innuendo careens off into a moan when he makes his way through your quickly dampening folds. ‘Really? Santa jokes?’

‘Don’t be such a grinch, sweetheart,’ he mock-admonishes you, dipping the tip of his middle finger into your wet pussy, groaning at what he finds. ‘It’s obviously working on you.’

‘Fuck,’ you bite out when he hastily shoves your pants down and sinks one thick digit in all the way down to the knuckle. Bracing yourself on the marble-top surface, you suddenly realise it’s probably time to top up the water in the pan for the Christmas pudding. ‘Wait, Dieter - I need to check on the pudding -’

‘Uh-uh,’ tuts Dieter, spinning you around and easily hoisting you onto an empty spot on the kitchen counter, the cold surface under your bare ass making you shiver. ‘Not until you cum on my hand, baby.’

‘It’ll burn!’ your protest trails off into a desperate whine when he starts pumping in and out of you, dropping his gaze to watch as your cunt slicks up his finger.

‘Then you better cum quick,’ he retorts in a cocky challenge. ‘Although, on second thought, I wouldn’t mind if it did burn.’

He slows his movements deliberately, but you shake your head, rolling your hips in chase. ‘Oh no, you won’t win, Dieter Bravo.’

He presses a messy kiss to your lips. ‘You’re so sexy when you’re competitive, baby.’

‘One more finger,’ you demand, swiping your tongue into his mouth as you push your hands into his unruly curls.

‘I thought you said no double dipping,’ he taunts against your lips, clearly having been waiting for the chance to drop that line.

‘Oh, shut up,’ you grumble with ill-concealed affection. He doesn’t deny you, and your teeth catch your bottom lip when you push back onto his hand shamelessly. ‘I want to touch you.’

Dieter doesn’t need to be told twice, untying the drawstring of his sweats and pushing them down to free his already hard cock. You wrap your palm around his erection, your wrist slack as you stroke him in an unforgiving rhythm that has him stuttering curses into the crook of your neck.

When he pushes you backwards to find your clit with his fingertips, you brace one foot on a kitchen stool, which lends you the leverage to start moving freely.

‘Ride my fingers, that’s a good girl,’ he croons while he watches you impale yourself on him, your grip around his length tightening at the same time he draws quicker circles on your clit. ‘That’s it, sweetheart, come on -’

Your back arches as you snap, your orgasm ripping hot and fast through you. Dieter grins, mouthing at your sensitive neck and scraping his teeth behind your ear, leaving you slumping bonelessly against his side.

With a low chuckle at your wrecked state, Dieter gently dislodges your palm to take himself in hand, jaw twitching as he rushes headlong into his own high. Pulling out of your heat, he holds you obscenely wide, and with a hoarse shout, he spurts thickly onto your pussy splayed open beneath him, his cum dripping like white honey through your folds and onto the countertop.

Smearing one finger through his mess, you gasp when he pushes it into your still sensitive pussy, winking as he draws it out to suck it clean. He declares, ‘Tastes even better than your brandy butter if you asked me, sweetheart.’

Despite your negligence, the Christmas pudding survives unscathed - much to Dieter’s dismay.

It’s the first time all of you are under the same roof since Resurgence ended, and it’s a merry affair. Dieter and Pete won’t stop crooning reunited and it feels so good to each other like idiots, you and Ana scoff at their antics affectionately while you catch up on the last few months.

Rebecca and Hank are in fine form, their beautiful house decorated to the nines. You finally meet their daughter, Coco, and the family cat Crookshanks. Everyone helps out - laying out the silverware, pouring the champagne and putting presents under the outrageously decked out ten-foot Christmas pine. The lights of Hollywood Hills twinkle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond the infinity pool, as dusk falls and candles are lit all around the intimate dining room.

Dinner is delicious. The hosts made turkey, stuffing and an assortment of delicious sides, Ana cooked potatoes three ways, and Pete brought plenty of wine that flows liberally as the dishes go around the table for seconds, thirds and fourths.

It’s your first big holiday together as a couple - the teasing, marriage jokes and third degree are expected, and Pete doesn’t disappoint.

With the food winding down but glasses tirelessly topped up, he clamours for a reenactment of the reunion on the boat in Italy, insisting that he plays the part of Constance to make up for the fact that he missed the event. That’s how Pete and Dieter end up on the first landing on the stairs which overlooks the dining space, trying to recreate the scene where you caught him and Constance and realised that it was all a ruse.

Trying being the keyword. They’re mostly knocking back wine while arguing about the details.

‘No, no, I’m 100% sure Ana was there as well the exact moment she figured out that you guys were faking it,’ insists Pete, wagging his finger sagely.

‘How would you know, you weren’t even there, Pete!’ you heckle.

‘Pete, if you decide to try your hand in acting, you know where to find representation. You make such a convincing Constance,’ Rebecca jokes.

You think you’ve gotten away with the worst of it by the time you help clear the table and Pete gets distracted by the dessert coming out of the kitchen. Your defences are down, leaving yourself vulnerable to ambush -

You just didn’t expect it from Rebecca and Hank’s thirteen-year-old.

Coco is her mother’s daughter. Whip smart and taking after her mum’s striking looks, she has far more self-assuredness than you did at her tender age. The way she discreetly weighs you up is the same way Rebecca assessed you all those months ago when you first met in the doorway of your hotel room.

The teenager waits until everyone is sloshing with wine to pounce. You’ve all moved to the living room where the fireplace is roaring, and the desserts are laid out on the coffee table. She’s curled up next to Dieter in front of the fire, Crookshanks - who not only has the name but also the looks to boot - draped across both their laps.

You’re in the middle of explaining Christmas pudding to the sceptics, which currently stands untouched, when she coolly calls you by your name and draws first blood.

‘So, are you and Uncle D living together?’

Surprised, you blink at the sudden change in conversation and stutter a reply, ‘Um - ahem, yes, Coco - yes, we are.’

‘He’s lived with a bunch of girls, you know,’ she informs you, crossing her arms.

‘All at once or at different times?’ you joke in an attempt to lighten the mood. Pete’s mouth is hanging open in both fascination and anxiety at the unfolding drama while Ana chews on her nails, eyes darting between you and the girl.

‘Coconuts,’ pipes up Dieter with a warning tilt to his tone.

She shrugs innocently. ‘What? Just making sure you’re on the same page. Mum always says communication makes or breaks a relationship.’

‘I appreciate that, and I do know he’s lived with other women before,’ you assure her. ‘We both have our histories.’

Seizing on your comment, she continues with her line of questioning. ‘So how many men have you lived with?’

‘Coco,’ raps Becks sternly from across the room. ‘That is not an appropriate question, young lady.’

You smile and shake your head. ‘It’s ok - I’ve just lived with one guy. We were engaged.’

‘What happened?’ she asks.

You reply truthfully, ‘We broke up a few years ago. Sometimes that’s the way things turn out.’

Coco taps on her chin thoughtfully, turning to Dieter. ‘How many times have you been engaged, Uncle D? I remember twice, at least. So that’s three failed engagements between the two of you -’

The cat yowls in protest when Dieter reaches over to squeeze Coco by the shoulders, a slightly uncomfortable grin on his lips. ‘Alright, what’s up with all the interest in math tonight, kiddo?’

She points out, ‘I don’t see any posts about her on your Instagram. You’ve never kept anything secret before. What’s different this time?’

Dieter turns to Becks, tossing up his hands in disbelief. ‘You let her use Instagram? She’s thirteen!’

Becks rolls her eyes fondly. ‘Am I really getting parenting advice from Dieter Bravo?’

Then, Coco turns to you and delivers the coup de grace. ‘So - do you love him?’

Before you can react, Pete chokes violently on his eggnog, gripping at the coffee table from his seat on the plush rug. Ana has to burp him like a baby while he cries, ‘Oh god, it’s coming up my nose! It burns!’

You’re so stunned that you still haven’t moved a muscle when Dieter jumps up, sending Crookshanks scampering off with a grumpy meow.

‘Ok that’s it,’ he pronounces and hauls Coco up by her armpits. ‘Off to bed now, young lady. Say good night!’

Coco protests as she’s dragged off, slipping and sliding on her Christmas socks on the marble floor, her voice petering out as they disappear up the stairs. ‘What the heck, Uncle D? They’re fair questions and you know it. Have you even asked them yourself -’

Glancing about in the awkward silence, Pete picks up a bottle of brandy from the table and shouts. ‘Shots!’

Three quarters of an hour later, Pete is lying prostrate, snoring on the couch. Ana is engaged in a tipsy philosophical debate with Rebecca, and Hank is drunk washing up in the kitchen.

You’re tucked into Dieter’s side while he munches on a slice of Christmas pudding with a generous helping of brandy butter. ‘I take it back, sweetheart. This is fucking delicious.’

‘It’s a cake soaked in alcohol, of course it is,’ you grin, which morphs into a yawn as you glance at your watch. ‘It’s late, I think we should try and get an Uber home.’

Becks speaks up from across the room. ‘You sure, guys? We have a couple of spare rooms upstairs.’

‘It’s fine, I think Pete needs it more than us,’ you quip, reaching over to poke at his prone form with your foot.

Ana waves from the floor. ‘See you later, love birds. Merry Christmas!’

Becks gets up and loops her arm through yours as she walks you to the door. ‘Sorry about Coco. She’s protective about her Uncle D, especially when it’s the first time he’s brought a woman home for Christmas in a while.’

You smile and pull her into a hug. ‘Please don’t apologise, your kid’s a feisty one and I know exactly who she got that from. Goodness knows he could use her in his corner,’ you add with a wink.

You shepherd Dieter into the waiting car. It’s easily the most expensive Uber ride you’ve ever taken, and you breathe a sigh of relief when Dieter’s house comes into view.

Home.

Somewhere between the Hollywood Hills and Sherman Oaks, Dieter passes out cold, drool puddling on the shoulder of his fuzzy brown coat as he dozes. You have to coax him out of the car and up into the bedroom, with him whining drunkenly the whole way, face buried in the back of your neck as he stumbles after you.

It’s a struggle to get him out of his clothes - perish the thought of getting him to brush his teeth - but at least he’s just the right level of drunk that has him snoring within moments of his head hitting the pillow. You breathe a sigh of relief when you climb in after him.

Dieter immediately shuffles into your warmth and blindly presses a kiss to you, which lands on the side of your nose. You huff a laugh, rearranging yourself so that your back is to his chest, his arms wound around your waist.

‘Not so tight, I’m stuffed,’ you grumble.

He obeys, but keeps the entire length of his body smooshed against you needily, the proximity muffling his words. ‘I do, you know.’

‘What?’ you hum.

The declaration is slurred with sleep as it brushes your ear, but the tone is emphatic. ‘Love you. I love you, sweetheart.’

You stop breathing.

Not that you haven’t wondered, silently turned it over in your mind over the past few months. But it’s two in the morning - you lost count at one glass of bubbles and three and a half of wine, and him many more. You swear you can taste brandy butter on his breath.

Before you can muddle through your jumbled thoughts, he mercifully slips into sleep.

And you mull over his words until you do too.

Your side of the bed is cold when he wakes up in the morning.

Dieter winces at the light, tempted to bury himself under the duvet, but something he can’t put his finger on has him sitting up, a groan on his lips as the world tilts dangerously on its axis.

That something nags at him as he slips on his robe, nips at his heels as his feet wriggle into furry slippers.

He stops abruptly by the bedroom door.

Shit. Did he tell you that he loves you last night?

The heating is on and the house is toasty, made even warmer with the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling butter from the open kitchen. You’re at the stove as he pads quietly towards you, and you don’t turn around when he snakes his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. ‘Morning, sweetheart.’

You hum noncommittally, but at least you’re relaxing into his embrace instead of pulling away, and Dieter breathes a sigh of relief.

He hasn’t scared you away. You’re still here.

‘I meant what I said last night,’ he blurts out impulsively.

He almost winces at his rashness. But he does, and he’s never been good at holding things back, especially things that he knows. He’s not going to take it back.

Without turning around, you say evenly, ‘Go sit down, Dieter.’

He stiffens instantly behind you, nails digging into the soft fabric of your dressing gown. Fuck. Fuck. You want him to sit down? Why?

Blindly, he lets go of you and stumbles over his feet to the kitchen counter, scrambling onto a stool. The hardwood floor suddenly feels like quicksand as he wobbles in his seat, sweaty palms pressed into the cool marble surface to anchor him. You take your time, your body giving away no hint of the same gravity that’s making his stomach drop while you flip over what smells like buttermilk pancakes.

When you finally turn around with the pan in your hands, Dieter holds his breath and watches you cross the kitchen to slide something into his plate, which lands with an emphatic thwack.

Eventually, he looks up at you with the biggest puppy eyes in utter confusion. He squeaks, ‘It’s a heart-shaped pancake.’

You smile at his befuddlement. ‘That’s right. Just like that heart-shaped pizza Lorenzo made for us in Italy.’

‘Is this one a prank too?’ he asks in a small voice.

Stepping in between his legs and winding your arms around his neck, you smile. ‘Unfortunately not. I actually love you, you idiot.’

You yelp when he tugs you fully into him, making you lose your footing as you laugh. And then he’s kissing you, fingers pushing into your hair, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulls back.

‘There isn’t a ring in the pancake, is there?’ he teases with a throwback to your reaction to the heart-shaped pizza all those months ago, wriggling his eyebrows.

‘You should be so lucky, Dieter Bravo,’ you echo his words back at him.

He grins. Some day, one day - maybe even in that same house that he’s been thinking of buying for the two of you, on the roof with the terracotta floor at sunset on a summer’s day, with his grandmother's ring in a heart-shaped pizza -

But for now, he swallows the lump in his throat, his warm eyes hold yours with a surety he feels deep in his bones as he murmurs against your lips, ‘I love you too, sweetheart.’

I never regretted holding off on this moment from the main series, and writing this in the months after Consent ended (which is about the same length of time for our two idiots in the story), I feel even more strongly about this. Thank you for the enthusiastic voting for this prompt and Christmas, I loved writing this moment for these two so much - they've definitely earned it.

I hope you all have the most wonderful Christmas ❤️

Also, thank you for these requests that I had so much fun working into this fic!

LJ @prolix-yuy: IF you do the Christmas fic, I would love to see which seasonal drink/food Dieter and our Intimacy Coordinator enjoy (especially if it's polarizing for each other - does Dieter like eggnog? Fruitcake? Something even weirder) No pressure to add, love you Cee!

Anon: Maybe you could work a cat in somewhere? 😉 Like maybe he ends up around someone who has a cat? He seems like he’d be really sweet with them. He just seems like a cat man to me. Even if he doesn’t know it yet. I could be wrong. That’s just my headcanon.