#vegan Christmas story | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zegrasdrysdale · 3 days ago

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“shh! they’ll hear us”

with nico hischier

part of the 1k celly event

summary : Nico and his girlfriend host a Christmas party on the eve of the holiday for the Devils before their roadie begins right after Christmas

warning(s) : nsfw ! sexual content, fingering, oral (f receiving), public teasing, dirty talk

author’s note : happy holidays to all who celebrate ! decided that my gift to y'all is another installment of the 1k celly series. enjoy whatever holiday you and your family celebrate <33

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Something is wrong with Nico.

Not physically wrong, but he’s just acting different. This behavior didn’t start until his teammates and coaches began showing up at their loft apartment for the party they’re hosting for the Devils players and staff. She been playing captain's girlfriend and has answered every doorbell then began making rounds to greet each player and coach.

All while Nico keeps a hand on her.

Her boyfriend isn’t usually the one to be affectionate in public so his hand constantly being on some part of her body is throwing her off her game. She’s more focused on his touch than conversing with her guests.

She doesn’t know what brought on this side of Nico, but she kind of likes it. She’s always wanted to be more affectionate around their friends and family, but Nico was never a huge fan and she didn't push it. All eyes were already on her since she's Nico's girlfriend so early on, she didn't care.

Right now though, she's curious.

Coach Keefe and his family arrive last, which signals the end of her time greeting teammates and coaches that arrive at their apartment for the party. She focuses on conversing with her guests and making sure everyone is okay.

What usually feels like a very large apartment feels very small at the moment. There is an entire NHL team scattered throughout the loft with their families. She can't even escape to the kitchen like she often does when there are so many people because there is a catering group preparing the meal.

Nico doesn't leave her side as they socialize amongst the players and coaches in attendance. He doesn't stop touching her either. He rests a hand on her waist or on her lower back now that they've started to have longer conversations and not running to the door to answer it.

Okay, that's very different. His behavior is making her very curious. It makes her wonder if there is something going on that he's not telling her.

Dinner is served around six. A mix of vegan and non-vegan options so everyone has something to eat. They've brought in extra tables and chairs so the adults can fit around the dining room table. Within their parents' eyesight, the kids sit at a smaller table together to eat. They are out of earshot though so the adults can have conversations that little ears shouldn't hear.

Her first serving is lasagna. It's probably the best lasagna she’s ever had. Perfect cheese to sauce to pasta ratio. Some of everything in every bite she takes. She lets out a borderline pornographic moan as she chews the bite.

Nico laughs beside her as he eats some of the steak he grabbed. “That good?” he asks with a grin.

“So good, Nico,” she tells him with a full mouth. “Oh my God. We are absolutely going to get this catering group again next time we host a party. Fuck.”

He laughs again and takes another bite of his steak.

She begins a conversation with Kristen Haula on her left side. The women talk about how well the boys have played, complimenting the other’s significant other as they talk. Their laughs are among others as small talk continues at the table.

Everyone’s plates are nearly empty about a half an hour later. Erik has jumped into her conversation with his wife while Nico converses with Jack and Luke on the other side of him.

Yet, his hand comes down on her knee under the table cloth. She folds her hands and holds them in front of her mouth as she presses her lips into a line. She listens to the Haulas share a story about their kids, and Nico’s hand slides up her thigh to the hem of her skirt.

Bold considering his teammates and coaches surround him. If any of them see him, he’s probably going to be incredibly embarrassed since it’s very rare that he’s this affectionate in public. Even in his own apartment.

She doesn’t stop him though. She should, but she lets him keep going. Even after his finger dip under the hem of her tight skirt. Her teeth pull at her bottom lip behind her hands. She begins to tune out the story that Kristen is telling her, focusing on Nico’s touch that moves closer to her uncovered core. Yes, she decided to go without a pair of panties because they would have shown through her dress via lines. Her dress is skin tight and she didn’t think she’d be doing much leaning over.

Little did she know that Nico’s fingers would be inches away from said core while his teammates and coaches sit at the table around him. She didn’t think that Nico would try to do this while at the table with his friends.

His fingers trace shapes under the skirt, teasing her since they’re so close to her core. She can feel butterflies begin to flutter in the pit of her stomach, the possibility of getting caught like this turning her on.

She’s about to make a comment about the story that the Haulas shared when Nico’s fingers dip between her crossed legs and graze her clit. His fingers run between her folds and dips into her.

She gasps at the action and covers her mouth as if she let out a hiccup.

“I, um …” she trails off as Nico shallowly fingers her. “I’m going to run to the ladies room very quickly. Excuse me.” She pushes her chair back and Nico’s hands slides out from under her skirt.

As normally as she can, she disappears down the hallway toward the bedroom she shares with Nico. She closes the door and leans against the wood. She clears her throat and lets out a heavy sigh.

The feeling of Nico’s hand between her legs is still there and she presses her thighs together to get some kind of friction.

Why would he do that? Now of all times? He has every opportunity in the world to finger her and he does it at Christmas Eve dinner with his team around him?

Something is wrong with Nico.

A soft knock rings throughout the empty room. She is quick to turn and open the bedroom door, coming face to face with her boyfriend.

“You are insane, you know that?” she questions. “God. If anyone saw what you were doing-”

“Good thing no one did then.”

He steps into the room and shuts the door with a click. Her mind races a thousand miles a second as Nico looks at her. “You are genuinely the craziest person I have ever met,” she reiterates.

“Mhm,” Nico hums as he takes a step toward her. “Tell me more.”

She takes a step back every time he takes a step toward her. “You did all that for what?” she asks. “You go from rarely every touching me or holding my hand to putting your fingers inside me at a table filled with your coaches and teammates. If that was your way of telling me that you want to be more affectionate in front of people then good job-”

Her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she is forced to sit when she falls. She looks up at Nico, who nudges her knees apart and stands between them.

“Are you done?” he asks as he traces her jaw with the game fingers he had inside her a few minutes ago. “Or are you going to let me finish what I started at the table?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks when Nico mentions the table. She nods in response to his question.

Nico sinks to his knees in front of her. Her eyes track his moment as he pushes her knees apart to get a perfect view of her glistening core. His lip drags across his bottom lip before he presses a trail of kisses up her thigh from her knee.

“Oh my God,” she gasps when his lips touch her core. She leans back and props herself up on her elbows. She drops her head back at the same time Nico pushes her skirt up so it pools around her waist.

His tongue runs through her soaked folds and she sighs at the feeling. Nico hasn’t shaved in a few days either so it feels really good to have his mouth on her. She arches her back when Nico’s tongue pushes inside of her.

“Fuck!” she cries out. “Nico!”

“Shh!” Nico tells her. “They’ll hear us. You need to be a little more quiet. Or I’ll have no choice but to stop and leave you like this.”

She shakes her head and Nico smiles up at her before he puts his mouth on her core. Her jaw drops when he slips a finger inside of her. It takes everything to not cry out his name again as he fingers her closer to her inevitable orgasm.

Between his mouth and his fingers, it won’t be long until she comes anyway.

Nico slowly works her closer to the edge, quickening and slowing his pace to keep her from coming before he’s ready to let her. She’s a panting mess under his touch and the knot in her stomach tightens to the point where it’s almost painful.

Her legs shake where they rest on Nico’s shoulders. She looks down and finds Nico looking up at her through his eyelashes.

His fingers curl in a ‘come here’ motion inside her at the same time he sucks on her clit. “Fuck,” she sighs. “Fuck, Neeks. Wanna come. Wanna make a mess on your face and fingers. Please, please please please. Wanna come.”

“Come then,” he mumbles against her sensitive skin. “You wanna make a mess on my face? Then come, baby.”

It only takes a few more curls of his fingers and sucks on her clit before she’s coming. Her entire body tenses as she comes. She cries out his name in soft whispers so their guests don’t hear her. Her vision whitens and she sees stars behind closed eyes.

Her body melt into the mattress beneath her. She whines at the loss of contact. Her legs drop off his shoulders as he stands up. He grabs something to clean her up. She sits up when he’s done, grabbing his waist before he has a chance to clean his face.

With wobbly legs, she stands up and wraps her arms around his neck. “Come here,” she breathes out. Nico smiles and leans down, initiating a soft kiss. She hums when she tastes herself on his lips. She deepens the kiss a bit and runs her fingers through his hair.

“What you did at the table was kind of hot,” she mumbles against his lips. “The idea of getting caught with your fingers inside me kind of turned me on. I won’t lie to you.”

Nico grins and pulls back from the kiss.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

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MASTERLIST | 1K CELLY EVENT

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zepskies · 6 days ago

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Against the Wind - Part 3

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn

“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”

“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”

You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.

“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.

He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”

“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”

“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”

You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.

“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.

“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases.

You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.

“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.

“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”

“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”

You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”

You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.

“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.

“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”

Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?

“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”

“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.

He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.

“What? What is it?!” you yell.

He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.

Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.

You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?

Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.

No matter what direction you take, you never find him.

“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.

Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.

“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.”

You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.

“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself.

A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father.

When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes.

“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”

Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it.

Wendigo.

“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”

You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”

You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.

You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.

“Where did it happen?”

Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.

“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”

“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.

“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say.

Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”

By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.

“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.

Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.

“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.

“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.

Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?

“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”

His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.

“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.

At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.

“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”

You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin.

Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside.

After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.

For when he gets back.

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser.

On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)

On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.

With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.

You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either.

But you’ll have to try.

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.

Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open.

A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive.

“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.

You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt.

You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.

“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.

“Yeah, just peachy,” he says.

You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.

He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door.

“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”

Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes.

“I thought something happened to you,” you say.

Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one.

“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”

Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”

His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”

You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.

“Did you find my dad?” you ask.

Dean’s expression sobers as well.

“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him.

Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”

He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place.

After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure.

You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.

He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…

He finally drags you to him in a kiss.

It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.

But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair.

“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.

He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion.

��Why?” is all you can ask.

He doesn’t want to answer.

“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.

“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.

That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.

“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”

Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance.

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”

You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.

“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”

“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.

“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”

You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin.

“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”

You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.

Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands.

You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin.

“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.”

Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free.

He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.

AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) finale is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘

Next Time:

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return.

▶️ Keep reading: Part 4 (Finale!)

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bradshawed · 2 days ago

Text

Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animals

summary — a somewhat chaotic grid dinner

warnings — fem!reader, fluff, grid!parents, inaccuracies, lando erasure (jk), rudy and elaine erasure (real), slight (franco) chaos

note — short one this time to thank you for all the love on "cuff him!" x

…

yourusername ♫ Frank Sinatra · Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

liked by drewstarkey, brooke_starkey, alexandrasaintmleux and more

yourusername merry christmas ya filthy animals, love from the starkey’s xo

view all comments ...

user1 oh what i'd give for a christmas with the starkey's

lilymhe had the best time, we need to do it again (without the boys) ⤷ yourusername absolutely, name a time and place x ⤷ user2 note how none of their partners complained, very cutsey, very mindful, very demure ⤷ alex_albon we're just used to it

user3 pls adopt me ⤷ user4 or if you need a third ⤷ user5 or a maid? ⤷ user6 i can bark too!

charles_leclerc thank you for the beautiful dinner and for the monégasque dishes, it felt like home 🥰 ⤷ yourusername it was my pleasure to have you and your family (especially leo) ⤷ user5 family?! can't believe we didn't get to witness a leclerc reunion

user7 need to know who was at that dinner!! ⤷ user8 from what i can tell, some of the grid, their partners and some of the obx cast members, and daniel ⤷user7 craig?? ⤷ user8 they're good friends and y/n invited him as a guest to a race

alexandrasainmleux thank you for having us mon ange ⤷ yourusername thank you for coming beautiful, the kids missed their aunty alex x

user9 drew wearing rafe's ring with his wedding band healed something in me

landonorris and where was my invite? ⤷ francolapinto lost in the mail ⤷ yourusername be nice querido, and if i remember correctly landonorris, you were too busy

user10 who in their right mind would be busy for the get together of a lifetime ⤷ francolapinto that's what i said!

user7 so i've counted drew's siblings, charles, arthur, alexandra and leo, madelyn, chase, jonathan, madison, carlacia, logan, franco, oscar and lily, ollie and kimi, and alex and lily ⤷ yourusername don't forget lewis, mark, daniel, jense and seb popped by to say hi and oooo mick and laila stayed for a bit x ⤷ user8 holy- ⤷ yourusername yuki and mama starkey helped with the food x

user11 why has no one mentioned the personalised plates, they're so cute ⤷ user12 or the tablecloth with doodles ⤷user11 straight out of my pinterest feed fr liked by yourusername

lewishamilton thank you for having me and for the delicious vegan dinner. much love to you and your family for the new year

user13 this is like something out of a wattpad fic

drewstarkey babe come back, the kids miss you (i miss you) ⤷ yourusername sorry darling (i miss you too)

user1 i want this, where's my man??

landonorris let me guess, they're sitting next to each other ⤷ carlaciagrant boo hater!

...

francolapinto added to his story

slide 1: my parents are better than yours slide 4: (y/n laughing in the background) i think she likes it, no?

#drew’s catty corner #f1 #f1 grid #f1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 smau #f1 fic #f1 fluff #obx #obx cast #obx fic #obx smau #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey smau #drew starkey fluff

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inxkpaws · 10 days ago

Text

Here’s a list of subtle and meaningful ways to incorporate therianthropy into your appearance and behavior in public or family events like Christmas:

### **Appearance Ideas**

1. **Jewelry**

- Wear necklaces, bracelets, or rings featuring wolves or paw prints as a nod to your therian side.

- Use materials like leather, stone, or bone that feel earthy and primal.

2. **Clothing**

- Subtly incorporate wolf-inspired patterns, like fur textures or earthy tones (grays, blacks, browns, and whites).

- Consider shirts or accessories with moon imagery to symbolize the wild and nocturnal nature.

3. **Makeup**

- Use smoky eyes or grayish tones to mimic wolfish coloring.

- Keep it understated—something natural or moody rather than theatrical.

4. **Hairstyling**

- Style your hair to mimic fur-like textures—think tousled, windswept looks.

- Experiment with wolf-like color streaks (e.g., silver, gray, or white).

5. **Subtle Accessories**

- Add a tail keychain to your bag or belt loop.

- Wear a scarf or hood that reminds you of fur.

---

### **Habit & Behavior Ideas**

1. **Body Language**

- Incorporate wolf-like postures subtly: stand confidently, walk with purpose, and be mindful of your movements.

- Use eye contact intentionally—strong and meaningful glances can feel wolfish without being aggressive.

2. **Dietary Choices**

- Bring vegan dishes to share that align with a wolf’s diet theme (e.g., hearty root vegetable stews or protein-packed snacks like nut “meatballs”).

3. **Mindfulness & Presence**

- Practice being attuned to your surroundings—notice sounds, smells, and movements like a wolf might.

- If it’s a family walk or activity, find ways to connect to nature briefly.

4. **Expressive Sounds**

- Laugh freely or use vocal inflections that feel instinctual. Subtle growls of amusement or soft "huffing" can express personality without drawing too much attention.

5. **Creative Engagement**

- If you’re in charge of music, slip in something primal or wolf-inspired (like Hozier’s *Eat Your Young*).

- Tell stories or share thoughts that reflect your therian values (e.g., community, loyalty, or freedom).

---

### **Personal Rituals for Connection**

1. **Before the Event**

- Spend some time grounding yourself in your wolf mindset—meditate, listen to music that evokes your therian side, or visualize your wolf self.

2. **At the Event**

- Use moments like stepping outside for air or looking at the stars to silently connect with your inner wolf.

3. **After the Event**

- Reflect on how you subtly expressed your therianthropy. Write down any feelings or ideas that came up.

---

#therian #wolf therian #wolfkin #canine therian #therianthropy #therian things #caninekin #canine theriotype #dogkin #alaskan black wolf

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chronically-ghosted · 11 months ago

Text

you got your claws in me honey, like a tiger in love

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: you arrive at your estranged uncle's door. what else is there to do but catch up over grilled cheese? well, if you have anything to say about it, you might end up doing a bit more.

warnings: dbf!dieter, grilled cheese as a way to guilt trip your dad's best friend/uncle into fucking you, drug use (weed), raising arizona that comes with its own warning, flirting with someone twice your age, no smut — that’s what part 2 is for, reminiscing, a cliffhanger? 👀

a/n: the original fic came out MONTHS before the mcu rumors, so either i have precognition, or the apocalypse is becoming predicable. happy valentine's day you filthy animals because nothing says romance like porking your dad's best friend

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From the voicemail of Mr. Paul Landeau, official Hollywood talent manager and agent to one Mr. Dieter Bravo . . .

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not.

There has to be something else out there. Look, I know Fire Monsters: A Cliff Beasts story didn’t do as well as we hoped, but Reddit says it could be a cult classic so why don’t you focus on making that happen, okay? Instead of giving me shit roles like this. I’m not doing it.

– the sound of a door opening and the phone being shuffled – – a zipper rips – – liquid pouring –

We fucking talked about this, man. I told you I needed something different, something new. Tiktok is just reels of me screaming and dying – it’s fucking bullshit –

– more liquid –

I’m done playing the fucking bad guy. I’m not signing any more headless action figures for those little snot-nosed, little fuckers in line. I’m not asking to sign their moms’ tits, either – okay, maybe – but Jesus Christ, Paul, what you sent over is, like, the opposite of where I need to be. It’s for little teeny boppers with one or two B horror movies under their belt to finally break out into the mainstream – or where actors over forty go to cash in an easy paycheck. And yes, I fucking know we need something, but fuck – is this really all there is?

– liquid stops pouring – – zipper rips – – the sound of a toilet flushing –

Don’t fucking call me back, Paul, unless you’ve got something. Something real.

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering –

Okay – fuck, that hurts – okay, Paul, what about this? It came to me in the bathroom. Remember Jack from the Christmas party at the studio’s place? So, he’s got those two Sundance films, right, but they’re in Spanish, so not appealing to an American audience. Nicki told me that he’s thinking about doing another project, one with a wider appeal, and I’m thinking I should totally give him a call. I think we could vibe. I really liked his stuff – reminded me of my old small town, fucking around with the neighbor kids, you know? Kinda hometown hero sort of thing.

– sharp inhale then a cough –

It’s not my usual thing, but I think we should give it a try. Gimme a call.

Oh, do you know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Been craving one but I think I might burn down my house if I try again and UberEats doesn’t reach the good places further south. Oh, fuck, wait –

Hey Google, how do you make a fucking excellent grilled cheese?

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking–

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn?

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

Don’t worry. I got an idea that’s going to make us a million dollars.

A shop that makes only grilled cheese. But like – fancy grilled cheese. What do the kids fucking call it, ah – boogie – yeah, boogie grilled cheese. Like gouda and white cheddar, and butter churned by blind nuns or some shit. Tomato soups that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama.

Big sign out front that says, Vegans Can Eat Shit.

They’ll eat it up.

Fuck yeah, they will.

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place.

And fuck this fucking cheese that keeps burning – goddamn it!

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

When I got started, we hung out all the time, man.

Hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier. Beer in the Pacific Ocean.

You showed me all the cool spots that no one else in LA knew about. You got me my first bump and my first stripper. God, that was fucking wild, man, you remember? I was so nervous I thought I was going to throw up. Did I ever tell you that before? Coke probably didn’t help a kid from a small town in South Cali, but – fuck, it made me feel better. Like I could get my shit together if I really tried.

What, are you too good for me now – is that it? Am I not good enough for you, huh?

Look, I’ve got Raising Arizona on right now, so why don’t you come over with a six pack –

Oh, shit, that’s right. You got a fucking family now.

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee.

Not a good –

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine.

I’ll play Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four reboot.

Dieter’s thumb brushes the red End Call button and tosses his phone onto the kitchen island with a growl. He can feel himself coming down from the bump earlier – a thing he absolutely did not want to happen – and he shoves his palms into his eye sockets.

There is more coke upstairs, but that would require him to walk through his very long hallways to get there. Very long, and dark, and empty hallways.

He should have asked Maria to stay once she was done with the laundry. He would have done it right too – big bowl of popcorn, fully dressed, with a sign around his neck that said, I promise I’m not trying to sleep with you.

He is becoming increasingly aware of how many erratic voicemails he just left for his agent, aware that behavior like that was libel to get him a sit down in Paul’s office with all the blinds and windows closed, Paul’s narrow face serious and using Concerned Emotion #5, as he asks, “do we need to go back to rehab, Dieter?”

We.

There once was a “we”, now there was just “he” – in a house with seven bedrooms and a pool that could fit a sixteen wheeler in it.

And TWO kitchens – why the fuck did he think he needed two kitchens –

Well, he knew he didn’t need two, but it would have been cool to show them off to someone – If there was anyone to show them off to . . .

Fuck this downer mood.

Dieter snatches up his phone again, and the movement brings up his latest apps. UberEats is the second one. He taps in a few keywords, blatantly ignoring his latest call list.

Goddamn Burger King . . .

The front doorbell rings.

Dieter frowns, pulling the screen closer under his big nose. Now, he knows he is high and he knows he should be wearing his glasses when reading but there’s no fucking way . . .

He goes out of the kitchen, the room still smelling of burnt cheese with the cast iron skillet in the sink and a black husk sticking to its bottom. He goes left, then right, his robe tightly wrapped around him as if he is some huffy housewife, then down a hall and across the marble entrance way – fuming – why is this house so goddamn huge – who thought this was a good idea?

And so he wrenches open the front door – to a girl, not holding a Burger King bag. No, she’s got a roller suitcase behind her, bright blue, and she and the case are dripping wet. Like, just sprayed with a hose kind of wet and her big bottom lip is trembling. Behind her, the sky pukes buckets of rain, groaning with thunder.

Now, he likes his call girls (he always thought it was classier to call them that) a little more . . . vampy than this, but hell, he had been turned on by much less than this— than her with her big eyes, fat droplets rolling off her lashes, flushed cheeks – and oh, shit, her shirt is totally see-through – is that purple, he feels the back of his mouth flush with spit – wow, is this Paul’s way of apology because –

“Uncle Dee?”

And he’s mentally shoving himself back into his pants because no one in years has called him that and that was a very different time in place, when he was a completely different person and if this girl is the person he thinks it is, then – Jesus Christ, he’s bound and gagged straight for hell –

He squeaks out your name and you smile, sort of grimace, at him and wave.

“Yep, it’s me. Been awhile, right?” You finally give into the mortification of your stupid plan and you scrunch up your face, your hand wrapped around your elbow. “Look, I’m so sorry, this is too weird. I don’t have your number, but I panicked when my flight got canceled and my phone’s dead and you’re the only person I know in LA and –,”

“No, no – you’re fine – sorry–,” Dieter blinks before stepping back and letting you through. You sigh in relief and yank your baby blue suitcase over the threshold as you walk in, dripping water everywhere. “Sorry, it’s been a weird night and for, like, two seconds, I thought . . . nevermind . . .”

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

You bite the corner of your lip, glancing at him, knowing it was probably unwise to piss off your one chance at not sleeping on the ground tonight — or if what you were about to say would piss him off in the first place.

“Yeah, well, it’s been eleven years since we last saw you, Uncle Dee.”

Early on in his career, he wanted to build up rep as not only an actor but a real tough guy, so he asked if he could do some stunts for an old cop show. For all his bravado, he ended up getting a real round-house kick to the face and it sent him reeling.

This feels a little bit like that.

“No way, it can’t have been that long. Besides, I know I left my number with your dad or your grandma before I left and —,”

His throat closes up when very old guilt washes over him. It’s intensified when you give him an uncomfortable look.

“So your dad didn’t give you my number then.”

It’s not a question. You shake your head. You don’t tell him that your dad tried to call years ago and got a busy tone for the first few, and then a few years after that, was brusquely informed the line had been disconnected.

He chews on his lip.

You try to smile at him again but then another shiver takes hold of you and Dieter grimaces. “Shit, sorry, one second. I think this closet down here has towels.”

He all but sprint-walks down one of the many halls branching off from the entrance, the ends of his robes flapping. You hear the creak of doors, several, as he digs around in the walls.

“Why do I have so many fucking linens?” You hear him grumble and you smile to yourself. You feel like you need to wring your hair out but wouldn’t dare move from the spot where he left you.

After a thump and more grumbling, he comes back, rubbing the back of his head, but holding out a giant lime green towel. In the light, you can see the dark circles under his eyes when you take the towel and immediately go to stop your hair from dripping on the marble.

His brain is waffling, ping ponging, between his memories and what is standing right in front of him. This? This is the little girl, not his literal blood relative, but she’s Enrico’s kid – Enrico, a slugger and one hell of a outfielder since he was eight years old, whose mom made enchiladas like nobody else in the goddamn world – Enrico, whose house became like a second home, Ricky's family a better family than his own – this is the same girl who hoarded Skittles like a fiend, the same one who he took to the pool on the weekends in the summer, and the zoo during Thanksgiving break? This little girl –

– is the same girl who is all legs under damp denim, eyes that could make Cleopatra fly into a jealous rage, and a fucking rockstar smile?

And, holy shit, those tits –

Dude, you cannot be checking her out. Dig deep and fight your fucking caveman brain. You’ve fucked up a lot in your life and you cannot do that right now. You cannot do that to Enrico.

You cannot do that to her.

You notice him grimace as he squints into the light of the chandelier above you both. “So, uh, not that I mind, but, uh, what are you doing here? I mean –,”

You laugh and it seems to echo in the empty house. “No, that’s a fair question. I was on a flight back from looking at colleges out east and my flight got grounded in LAX because of the storm. I absolutely don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel or rent a car and drive back home, so I needed a place to crash and call my sister to send me some money. And my stupid driver didn’t want to get flagged for harassing a celebrity, so he dropped me off at the corner, hence . . .”

You wave at yourself and inside his slippers, his toes curl, respectfully not looking at your damp legs and a definitely purple bra visible through your shirt.

Your mouth suddenly capsizes. “Shit, is that okay, if I stay here for a night? I didn’t even think - I - I’m not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”

Dieter chuckles, your expression undeniably cute, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe.

“Nah. Not unless you call making the worst grilled cheese imaginable a party.”

At that moment, your stomach chooses to make the most aggressive growl in your entire life and you flush deeper than the cold outside.

“Apparently someone thinks that’s a good idea,” you chuckle weakly, horrified that your body is actively trying to sabotage a normal conversation.

Did it matter that you had posters of him in your bedroom when you were thirteen? That you went to midnight releases of every one of his movies?

No. Not at all.

“I got some food, mostly leftovers.” He worries at his lip as he realizes the only thing by way of something green in his fridge is the jar of olives he got for martinis. Even then, he has a sneaking suspicion he replaced the olive juice with vodka, but the memory of that night is entirely butchered. “But, uh, I’m sure we can find something.”

You smile at him. “Actually, grilled cheese sounds great.”

“Only if you do it.” He smiles, honestly, when you laugh. “What? Don’t laugh — I’m serious. I can’t make a sandwich to save my fucking life.”

“Pretty sure I can manage two slices of bread and cheese.”

His eyebrows jump as his lips press themselves together and you watch the thumb-sized bare spot on his beard twitch.

“Yeah, that’s what you think and then your goddamn kitchen is on fire.”

“Lemme change, do some rocket surgery and brain science, and then I’ll attempt to crack this grilled cheese thing.”

“Okay, but remember we do have Chinese leftovers and I can definitely crush a microwave. This way.”

You follow him through the halls, his shoulders loosening underneath the off-green fuzz, and you try and not to stare at the immaculately beautiful walls and expansive, clean floors, so your eyes wander, and then you’re trying not to stare at the immaculately beautiful man in front of you.

You push away the thought that this house looks nothing like you’d expect someone like Dieter to have, as he leads you to the kitchen — all black and chrome and steel, like what a Norwegian serial killer would have — and nods to a door towards the opposite wall. He’s digging around for the last slices of white bread when he says,

“Bathroom’s down there. I’ll get it all ready, but I’m leaving it up to you. Can’t afford to lose another pan.”

Your eyes finally drift down from the bare walls, unsure if you should be offended that nothing of the family back home is here, or accept that there was just nothing personal anywhere. You smile gently at him and nod in thanks.

He watches you go, that bright blue suitcase flashing as loud as a tornado siren, and he shakes his head. God, he needs a drink but drinking also makes him horny and he needs every mental facility available to him if he wis going to make it through this night with his sanity still intact.

Had it really been eleven years? He always meant to call up Enrico and the old neighborhood gang. He probably forgot about that last fight anyway – even if Dieter hadn’t – even if it wasn’t more than a decade ago. Mama Gonzales always said there’d be a place for him, even after his own father said acting was for maricos and drag queens. It always hurt more when the postcards from the Gonzales family stopped coming than when Mom stopped calling. And he always meant to send back a proper return address when he moved out of that crappy loft after his first real movie premiere but that was the 90s, and much of the 90s was spent between working shit jobs and drooling on the floors of rave warehouses. It wasn’t them specifically he didn’t want to see him like that, but anyone. Anyone who knew him before Dieter Bravo.

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and he realizes he’s always fucking hated the fact that the a) the back of his house is just one big window and b) he never bothered to put in curtains. Because, the thing with windows is they reflect things — things like his pseudo-niece taking her top off in his guest bathroom. Reflected and in full color right across his kitchen island like the sexiest hologram that will haunt his fucking wet dreams until the day hell freezes over.

Yep, that’s definitely your hips, your ribs, and okay—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Dieter’s knees give out and he crouches (more like slumps) to the floor behind the island, his palms so far in his eye sockets he can only see stars.

Yeah, only stars. Focus on the stars, not the image of the curve of your gorgeous tits that’s running around his brain like a child with scissors and a Thanatos instinct off the fucking charts.

Fuck, and he just wanted to get high and watch Nicholas Cage in a mullet.

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

He stifles a groan and stands up. You smile at him, the wet jeans and agonizing white tank top gone, only to be replaced by a black Fleetwood Mac tshirt and — fuck, where are your pants?

You lower the handle to your suitcase and go to stow by the bathroom door. And that’s when he realizes you are actually wearing pants, black shorts that are practically hidden by the oversized t-shirt and are comically, hilariously, painfully small. He can’t actually see the curve of your ass as you walk around the side of the island but he is absolutely not going to let his gaze linger long enough to confirm.

He clears his throat as you come to stand beside him. He gestures to the four pieces of white bread and a stack of Crafts American cheese.

“H-h-have —,” he clears his throat again and his forebearers groan collectively in embarrassment. “Have at it.”

You smile and tuck your hair over your ear before picking up the knife.

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”

No amount of irredeemable hotness can distract him from that. “What? What do you need mayonnaise for? It’s grilled cheese.”

You cluck your tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Brain science and rocket surgery, remember? Don’t question the master.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he goes to his steel monolith of a fridge.

“Jeez, sorry, I asked,” he grumbles playfully.

He comes back with an (thankfully) unexpired jar and tub of butter and you get to work. Silence stretches a bit too long, something Dieter has never been good with, especially with beautiful women. He loves running his mouth and sometimes he's found that the women liked it too. He resigns himself to sit across from you at the island, watching you spread mayonnaise on both sides of the bread.

“So, uh, how are the folks? How’s your, uh, dad?”

You nod slowly and even though he hasn’t been around in eleven years to pick up on all your tells, he swears your hackles go up.

“Fine. All good. Dad’s still at the car repair shop — owns it now, actually. Makes decent money, I guess.”

“You guess?” He hadn’t made it his life’s work to mimic the human condition to not recognize cagey language.

You glance at him briefly before flipping over the last piece of bread and dropping a dollop of mayonnaise on top.

“Yeah. I — uh, we haven’t — I actually haven’t talked to them in a while. Though if I had, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” You sneak another glance, this one ladened with a smile that had a secret curled up in its corners. “Serves me right, probably.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He can’t help but return the smile, one of a familiarity he hasn’t earned yet. You were smiling at him as if you two had years of secrets together, memories and inside jokes that were for the pair of you alone. For the life of him and all the water in his ridiculous pool, he couldn’t fathom why you were being so nice to him. Letting him off the hook. It had been eleven fucking years after all. There are a lot of things he takes guilt free from the world. Your fucking star-eyed smile is not one of them.

So, he lets you off the hook. He doesn’t push it. If you don’t want to talk about your folks, he is happy to chatter aimlessly about something else. But, his brain winds up, what happened that caused you to fall out with your parents? Enrico, even back then, had been a hard ass, with you and your brothers. Always made sure to walk the straight and narrow. Detested drugs, always shined his shoes, thought tattoos were the devil, never kissed a girl on the first date —

And here you are, making fucking mooneyes at his daughter.

Well, one thing was for sure, he muses, something warm spreading in his gut, you are nothing like your daddy.

The hiss of the bread hitting the hot butter in a pan (you didn’t even need to ask where another pan was, you just helped yourself to his cabinets and he couldn’t have been more proud) jerks him out of his daze and he realizes that annoying silence has set in again.

“So, colleges, huh? Anything in particular spark interest?”

You nod excitedly as he found a topic that made you glow. Clearly, no one had asked about your interests in a long time.

“Yeah, actually. Emerson in Boston was amazing. I loved the city, but not sure I’d survive the winter. Swarthmore sounds good, Amherst too, but again, cold.” You grin sheepishly and flip the sandwiches, pressing the spatula (he didn’t even know he owned one of those) into the bread, making the butter sizzle and the air fill with a smell that can only be described as mouth-watering.

“It’ll be a nightmare, taking out loans for those places, but fuck, I think I’d be really happy there.”

He leans against the counter, facing you with crossed arms. He smiles a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, your folks wouldn’t pay for it? Or at least help out?”

Something sharp flashes in your eyes, like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator, before you shrug your shoulders flippantly. A well-worn deflection, he notes, right next to the place where he’s got all the places you mentioned are about as far away from California as possible. If you had mentioned somewhere in Europe, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Nah. I wouldn’t let them. Don’t want them thinking they get input into my life because they hold the purse strings over my head.” You turn off the stove and he moves to get the plates out from the cabinets – something to contribute as you made him a better meal than he’s had in ages.

“So, uh, we eat in there?” You glance down the hall to the eerily clean dining room, a place he’s pretty sure he’s never once set foot in after three years of living in this goddamn mansion.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “C’mon, I already have a movie picked out.”

You follow him, plates hot, down carpeted stairs to clearly the only room in the house that Dieter actually lives in. The lights down here are low, much more bearable than the white spotlights of the kitchen. Against one wall, there’s a fully stocked bar, with most of the alcohol halfway empty and costing a fortune. Across from the stairs is a massive record collection, going up to the ceiling, next to a gorgeous old record player — all wood and black vinyl — with big, plushy earphones curled up on a black leather recliner.

But the star of the show is the wall-to-ceiling television, with a brown, mouse-soft leather sofa that wraps like a giddy, up-turned grin in front of it.

And of course, in between the superstar television and the cozy couch, is a low glass table where he had snorted lines of coke more times he could count and where a virgin joint sits, unsmoked and tempting.

Dieter flushes as though he’d been caught by his parents with his pants down around his ankles.

“Fuck, sorry–,” he rushes over, the plate clattering with the glass, and he reaches for the joint, ready to squish it into his pocket when–

You laugh. “Relax, Dee, I know what a joint is. In fact, we are very well acquainted.”

You fold yourself into the couch, legs crossed, grinning at him as you bite into your sandwich.

He swallows, unclenching slightly as he sits down next to you. He watches you eat for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say.

“Sounds like I’ve missed my calling as the fun uncle, getting you high for the first time and all that.”

You snort and swallow your mouthful. “Yeah, by like two fucking years.”

“Oh, what a fucking lifetime. You poor thing,” he says, pouting dramatically and you giggle again, bumping into his shoulder. It sends his sanity knocking around in his brain.

You don’t notice, though, your eyes falling to the joint in the small ceramic bowl. The smile slides from your face.

“Well, you might have missed my first joint, but I’d be more than happy to take this one as my next.”

His eyebrows practically bounce off his forehead. “You’re serious?”

Your eyes slide away from the joint to his, something distractingly dark hiding there. “I mean, if the parties on your Instagram are anything to go by . . . And, well, when in Rome . . .”

You trail off, smirking, gesturing around you as if you had any idea the levels of debauchery that were obtained in this very room. Come to think of it, he halfway considers picking you up off the couch and putting a towel down underneath your perfect ass.

This is how it went sometimes, with the slower hook ups. No wet clothes, or grilled cheese, or bringing up family trauma — but initial touches, curling smiles, and then drugs. Always drugs. As if there needed to be another hand that tore off the cap of the pressurized, fizzy soda bottle. He’d play music then, for them, to show off his vinyl collection and have a plausible reason to rub his dick between their ass cheeks while dancing slowly to something croon-y from the seventies.

Not that any of that would be happening with you.

He wasn’t a complete monster after all.

With a playful grin that he had mastered over many press junkets, he snatches up the joint and lighter, and presents both to you in the flat of his hand.

“First hit goes to you, since you were so kind to make dinner for an old fuck like me.”

You snort and put your plate onto the table, wiping your hands free of crumbs on your black shirt.

“Such a gentleman.”

With deft and practiced hands, you take the joint between your index finger and your thumb, and sparking the lighter, brought the flame to your lips.

Just for one second, one goddamn second, he swears he saw The Look reflected in your eyes. He glances away, his cock fluttering awake like goddamn Lassy hearing the calls of another well-begotten child. He picks up his own plate.

“Hardly. It was all a ploy to get you to admit you follow me on Instagram.”

You burst out coughing, smoke chugging from your nose and mouth. “Dieter!”

He cackles, his tongue between his teeth, as you shove him away from you — do not think about her fingers clenched around your bicep — try to sit up and inhale again. You hang your head and groan.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.”

“Yeah, and for that, I get two puffs,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, the rest of it full of the most perfectly cooked grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Hand it over, princess.”

You hand over the lighter and the joint, the paper slightly greasy from your fingers, leaning back dramatically into one of the many plushy cup holder seats spread out along the very long couch.

He chuckles devilishly again, far too satisfied, as he lights up and leans back into the cushions.

“And, as gesture of goodwill, I’ll admit that’s a good fucking grilled cheese.”

Your eyes snap open and a wide grin splits your face. “Hell yes! Mayonnaise on both sides, butter on the side with cheese. Best family recipe. Mwah!”

“Fuck, even I know that’s too much cholesterol for me,” he grunts and digs into the cushions, feeling around for the remote.

“Well, that’s not enough cholesterol for me,” you wink as you take the joint from the hand on his thigh, eyes daring you to do something about it. Nowhere near high enough to take the bait, he just narrows his eyes at you as he clicks the button and the entertainment system comes to life with a primordial hum.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, eyes wide, as the speakers roar and the lights dim further and the screen glows, “it’s like I’m in a fucking movie theater . . . in space.”

“It’s great, right?” Dieter moans like a loving father over his first child. This thing is his pride and joy, the only thing he could stomach in this goddamn house.

The DVD buffer for Raising Arizona begins and you squeal quietly, sliding onto your back, the joint dangling between your lips.

“No fucking way, I love this movie.”

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?”

The few times he felt nostalgic for his old life — his old, old life when he was still a kid from nowhere, a nobody, you couldn’t pick him out of a line up of his sweaty, grubby cousins when they were all cobbled together like crooked teeth in front of Abuela Josefina’s television that still had knobs and bunny ears to watch movie after movie of Nicholas Cage reruns. Even with knees in his back, elbows in his ears, Dieter could quote every single line, his heart swelling.

That’s gonna be me some day.

“This movie is from, like, another century,” he mutters as he watches you settle in, something sickening like adoration clawing up in his chest.

“Yeah and it’s great,” you say eagerly, ignoring the way he plucks the joint out of your fingers. “Put it on!”

He resolutely ignores the pinch in his low stomach at your almost whine and presseS the play button with a little more force than necessary. Then, balancing the joint on the ceramic bowl, he sticks his fingers into his robe, pulls out his glasses, and puts them on without a second thought – just as he always did when watching movies.

It is only when he realizes he doesn’t hear you breathing that he realizes what he has done. Slowly he pulls the square glasses off his face and looks at them, feeling as disgusted as the day his doctor put them in his hands.

Near-sighted. Very common. Happens when people as they age.

“Got ‘em–,” his throat closes again, “got ‘em a few years ago. Only have to wear ‘em to see things up close and, uh . . . Well, I think they make me look old as shit.”

He can’t quite look at you, unsure what he’ll see on your face and knowing for sure that he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t the way you look at him before. If you just would tease him about it, then —

“No,” you say, your voice very soft and small. His heart nearly punches out his throat, his neck nearly snapping in half as his head whips up to look at you. You sit up on your elbows, the darkness of the room cushioning your soft cheeks and muting the glaze in your eyes as you watch him over the bend of your knees.

“Nah,” you say, your nose scrunching, the weight of the high clearly settling into your skin, “they make you look . . . Uh, they’re cute.”

Dieter sucks in the side of his cheek, nodding slowly and sliding the glasses back over his nose. Cute, he could work with that.

“Jeez, would you start the movie already?” You poke his side with your toe. He doesn’t need to look at you to hear the faint blush in your voice.

He turns the volume up and crosses his arms, smiling faintly. You’re warm next to him, he thinks vaguely, his own high finally starting to sink into his bones.

Cute. Definitely not a word he’s going to obsess over.

The movie goes on.

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

Your laugh is the clattering of bells in his ears and he can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard his sides hurt.

He’s coming up from bent over, knees almost to his chest, laughter nearly popping his ribs, when he realizes your feet are in his lap. The arches of your soles, the delicate bones of your ankles, the long smooth planes that run up to your gorgeous calves—

They are there, in his lap, and you don’t seem to mind. Head turned towards the screen, face bright from laughing, your arm arched back over your head, pressing your chest up — it’s like you meant for them to be there.

It’s just one hand, right? Two at the most. Just putting his hands down where he had them a moment ago. Up and — down.

You don't flinch. His palm is on the arched top of your foot, the other just above your other ankle.

You do smile, but that might have been because of Nicholas Cage raging again.

And then, during another bout of giggles, he clutches your shin bone, wraps his fingers around your heel, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

You wipe the tears away from your eyes, the end credits rolling.

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.”

He swallows, swiping quickly under his glasses before taking them off and chucking them onto the table in front.

“You’re fucking right it is,” he says hoarsely, leaning forward and plucking up the last of the joint. He inhales, letting the smoke ease stifle the tears in the corner of his eyes, gulping down a breath before offering it to you.

You take it, distracted, eyes on the credits, the light from the screen glowing on your cheeks.

He presses up under your ankle with his middle finger. “What? You knew what was gonna happen, you’d said you’d seen it before.”

You nodded, still not looking at him.

He goes for a more direct approach. He pinches your calf, and you scowl, the light back in your eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, a bit sharply. He’s not nearly done having fun with you, not nearly. You take another sip of smoke before setting the joint back on the table.

You huff, settling onto your back, pinching at your nails.

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

Dieter hums. He knows when to let him come to you. He taps the arch of your foot.

“How are you feeling?” His gaze nudges the joint on the table.

You grin. “Really good. Tingly. Warm. Like everything else is a million miles away.”

Just the two of us.

“Enough to tell ol’ Uncle Dee what’s on your mind?”

You roll your eyes and sit up a bit, yanking a pillow behind you.

“Just thinkin’ about the old days, I guess.” You glance up at him from under your eyes. “Not in a bad way. At all. I just . . .”

“What?” If you gave him hell for the last eleven years, then fuck it, he deserved it. He pulls at your ankle. “What?”

With a big sigh, you lean back, something finally breaking and, with it, comes a great big smile.

“Okay, remember when you’d put on those plays with the rest of us kids during those super lame family reunions o-o-or Christmas? Marissa would have everything written out, all the cousins cast and you’d beg her to let you play – fucking – Bear Number 5 or something ridiculous – and she’d fight you on it but she’d relent, always putting on a show of her own – as if a ten year old could be put out like that.” You giggled, biting on your thumb, a sparkling in your eyes that made something in his chest burn.

Yes, he remembers the incredibly stupid fuzzy ears and the bear claw mittens. The fake roaring. TMZ would have a fucking stroke if those pictures of him, baby-faced, were to ever surface online. He smiles at you and basks in the warmth of those memories, his high making them brighter.

“I think it would have crushed her little heart if you didn’t ask,” you said, heavy-lidded eyes on you again. “I know it broke her when you stopped showing up at all.”

His heart actually pinches at that. He knows you’re not scolding him but fuck, maybe he’d feel better if you did. What a fucking idiot he was, for leaving all of that for empty mansions and meals from UberEats and all this fucking gunked up shit in his veins that made him feel older and older every year. Like he was chasing something that was never real in the first place.

“Look, honey,” the pet name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He’s twisting towards you, both hands under your calves now. “I should have called. Should have made sure that at least you knew where to find me, even if things between your dad and I were fucked.”

“Oh, God, Dee, no. I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame my dad, sometimes. You just were very different people. He’s fine living his life in the same small ass town in the middle of nowhere. But you weren’t. And, fuck . . . I’m not either.”

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

“You know, I thought about following you out to Hollywood. Because of those plays. I had the best fucking time doing them and Hollywood didn’t seem so scary . . . with Uncle Dee out here. But, uh, I dunno. I grew up, I guess. Figured I was better at telling stories than performing them. I just knew I didn’t want to end up like my dad. Dying where I lived. Unremembered.”

His gut doubles in on itself. Please don’t say you gave up your dreams because I stopped calling.

“Do you still think about acting?” He asks quietly, trying to fight the faint ringing in his ears.

“Oh God, no,” you wave your hands, dusting away his near-panic that he’d somehow ruined your life. “I really do prefer writing stories, even if they exist only within the pages of a book. Or a really bad pamphlet, once or twice. I tried to continue the plays at home for a few years, after you left and Marissa took up cheerleading and thought she was too old to play with her little cousins anymore. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Or you.”

He realizes all too late that he can feel your pulse under your ankle. Strong. Pounding. Pounding, hard. Like you’re nervous. So struck by the notion that he can feel something so personal of yours, the smoke trapped in his brain lifts only slightly when he catches your eyes looking somewhere you absolutely should not be.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, he knows that look. You blink at him, then your gaze slowly slides down, down to his crotch, as smoothly you can beneath the weight of the smoke in your brain and he battles between the desire to throw your legs off him or pull you underneath him.

It’s The Look.

Men, women, it didn’t matter. The look was the same.

When the possibility of sex first enters their mind, when that first bloom of lust rushes down their spine and the memory of the physical exertion of fucking – all the panting and the heavy breathing, aching muscles and sweat – comes back, as real as a song stuck in your head. When that spark of imagination threatens to sway from the hypothetical to the actual, it’s a look he knows so fucking well, he might as well be able to carve it from clay, blind-folded.

And you’re giving it to him, right now.

You haven’t really thought about seducing him yet, no, that part hasn’t crossed your mind yet. But you definitely are imagining what his cock would feel like inside you, and you and your imagination and your wide-eyed gaze at his lap all whole-heartedly agreed: that would be a great fucking thing.

You, on your elbows, your heel dangerously close to his half-hard cock, the glaze in your eyes having something to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing, and your short breath having everything to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing.

He was quite sure you were completely unaware of the expression your face was making. Eyes hooded, mouth parted, breath short. Masking your emotions and filthy thoughts is a skill set mastered later in life and perhaps the last time you looked at someone like that, they simply bent you over the nearest surface and railed you till your knees buckled.

What a fucking excellent idea, his libido trilled. Now get off the couch and do something about it. I’m foaming at the fucking mouth here, man.

Dieter silences his inner horny monster, unintentionally squeezing his hand, the one that happens to be wrapped around your calf.

The movement seems to break you out of your dizzying spiral and you blink up at him.

He swallows. With a half smirk on the edge of your lips that you try to not let him see, you take your feet out of his lap, then reach forward, your palm alarmingly high on his thigh as you take the joint from his fingers. Your eyes flash like warning signs.

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“So, you gonna give me a tour of this place or what?”

End of Part 1 | Next

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #the bubble fanfic #the bubble 2016 #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction

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icarusredwings · 5 months ago

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Various head canons for my Saxteen/ Temple Noble household series.

As the board of headcanons, I declare these headcanons as offical.

Shout outs for the ideas or just being OGs:

@roxannepolice

@kidshows-are-life

@strobbiery

@the--quotifyer--innit

@huntersroses

Now- Onto the headcanons!

-Sylvia still gets nervous when the Doctor does weird shit and will often tell him off for it (which often backfires)

"why cant you be like that one? Sit quietly and stop catching the kitchen on fire!"

".....Him? You mean... The master?? You know he eats people right?"

".... Dont be like him then. I take it back."

-They take bubble baths together quite often

-Rosie has given Sax advice on which brands of make up to buy (vegan or cruelty free)

-Sometimes Wilf and Shaun witness a weekly ritual of donna, rosie, and two old gays doing face masks, nails, and other 'sleep over' things in the kitchen. They call it Gals night.

-When Shaun questions it even in the slightest, 14 responds with "Were all girls here."

"Even him?" *points to sax whos passed out cold with cucumbers on his eyes* "well not yet. But yes."

"Not yet??"

"Alien stuff hon. Alien stuff."

"Regenerative alien stuff to be exact!"

-Shaun was actually very excited when Rose came out because he had always wanted to be a girl dad. Sometimes, he asks her paint his nails and wishes that she was young enough to have tea parties with.

-This being mentioned leads to everyone in the house participating in the South France House Annual Tea Party (14 even gave out offical invitations) Everyone gets a boa and a crown. Saxons crown is not cheap plastic, though. It is real. He demanded it to be. Even wilf has on a pink boa in his wheel chair.

-The evening is filled with tiny sandwitches, tea of all kinds, donna talking about Agatha Christie, the time she almost got murdered by a massive bug, and 14 dosing his husband with catmint tea (which makes him very purry)

-Rosie sleeps with a bonnet. So does saxon. He thinks itll stop him from balding.

-When walking to the store, They hold each other. Depending on the day, it's the Master on the Doctors arm or vise versa. Sometimes, they'll hold pinkies. The Master HAS bitten someone for negativaly commenting about it

-The Doctor falls asleep on the loo sometimes

-Shaun is so madly in love with the new Donna and will sit and stare at her while asking math questions in utter awe. Hes OBSESSED with her, of course he loved her before but now its like meeting a newer, BRIGHTER, happier Donna and he constantly is taking her on dates, getting flustard, and is more handsy. This overall has improved their marriage (not that it was in any danger to begin with)

-When the two are being flirty and frisky in the kitchen, Rose will audibly say "GAG" and then walk away

-Wilfred is very happy to see his grand daughter shine, and you can find him repeating his favorite stories from when she was just a girl. It's part of his Alzheimer's.

-Wilfred sometimes forgets that the Doctor isn't actually his real son and will refer to him as his child when talking to people, and depending on who the person is, the doctor won't correct him.

-The Doctor is trying to grow his hair out to put them in braids. Unfortunately, he gets sneezy rosemary oil, so he uses a lot of castor oil and rose oils. (The Master thinks he stinks when he does this)

-The master suggests dying his greys but the Doctor refuses, wanting to be a "Silver fox"

-The master, to this day, uses the exact same box dye that he did all those years ago. His hair is fried, LMAO

-Rosie has made the master a stuffy called Shadow. Sylvia once got bitten for washing shadow, and the master sat at the door and watched her get washed the entire time, growling at donna, who in turn had learned to growl back.

-The Doctor proposed on Christmas and the master slapped him. They then proceeded to get married NEXT Christmas due to saxon demanding a custom traditional outfit to be made.

-Both have gained relationship weight, and Donna is the only one allowed to poke fun at them for it. "Not a pole anymore, I see, hmm?" She does not comment on saxons new small streach marks as that is blantantly rude. Wtf? Who does that? Not in this house.

-They take up the entire couch for naps. The doctor has told him multiple times that he likes his weight on top of him. "You're like a warm weighted blanket." And was then smothered with a pillow because saxon is insecure about it still.

-When meeting new people the Doctor keeps slipping that hes an alien. Hes said he wants the neighbors in France to not know hes an alien because hes curious about how people treat him differently compared to if they know or not.

The neighbors wanted help moving their sofa so the Doctor picked it up... the whole thing... by himself.

"Wow!! Its like you have super human strength!!"

"Aha- well... about that.. not human-"

"What?"

"Shit- honey I did it again!"

#doctor who #the master #thoschei #fourteenth doctor #saxteen #donna noble #retired time lords #headcanons #headcanon #dw headcanon #rose noble #wilfred mott #shaun temple

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alrightbuckaroo · 1 year ago

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Thanksgiving is a week away and I do not have the time to write a Thanksigiving story (even though I'd love to, we need more Thanksgiving settings) so instead, I present some 126 Thankgiving head-canons:

Owen has deigned himself the host of Thanksgiving and everyone tells him to finally take advantage of the chance to eat as unhealthily as he wants to.

Nancy and Tommy both agree to bring dessert - Tommy brings homemade blondies and Nancy brings store bought vanilla cupcakes. "Don't look at me like that, TK. I did "bring" them."

Carlos calls Andrea to let her know that she's invited to the 126 thanksgiving and Andrea tells him that she already knows, Owen invited her first.

Grace reprimands Carlos over how long it's been since he's been online and she's been stuck kicking everyone's ass in Overwatch all by herself.

Mateo, Carlos, TK, Paul, Judd play touch football after dinner. Owen is invited to join but he's still the only one gnawing on the vegan turkey roast that no one else wanted to eat.

Judd keeps nodding off after dinner to the sound of Spaghetti Westerns while Charlie lies on his lap. He keeps waking himself up and telling everyone that he's just resting his eyes.

Paul is in charge of the dinner party playlist - it's a jazz mix with Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Nat King Cole, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald and Chet Baker. He finds a way to sneak Frank Sinatra's Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas somewhere in there.

Marjan's recently started taking pottery classes with Joe and she brings over homemade dishes to hold the sides. Marjan's looks perfect, Joe's not so much.

Tommy and Andrea have both been obsessed with the same telenovela and Grace has to tell them both to stop spoiling it; she hasn't caught up just yet.

Carlos, without a doubt, plays peek-a-boo with Charlie.

TK spends a good ten minutes trying to convince Tommy's girls to ask Tommy for a bearded dragon so Lou II can have someone to play with.

Paul and Mateo break the wishbone - Mateo wins and wishes for more wishbones.

Both Owen and Judd agree that Carlos should be the one to carve the turkey, something Gabriel always used to do during the Reyes Thanksgiving.

Mateo and Nancy are both cheating at Phase 10 and the other one knows it but they both don't mind.

On the drive back home, TK makes an awful pun about the 126 being #SquashGoals and while Carlos acts like he hates it, he not so secretly loves it.

#sadly put much more thought into this than i should have LOL #911 lone star #911 ls #tk strand #carlos reyes #tarlos #owen strand #grace ryder #judd ryder #tommy vega #nancy gillian #paul strickland #marjan marwani #mateo chavez

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gingerjolover · 1 year ago

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You're not Bob the Builder - naomi mcpherson (MUNA) x reader (soft!gf coded)

this comes as a lil side story from mornings :)

synopsis: nomi and joey build soft!gf a vanity and chaos ensues before an early muna!christmas dinner

g's notes: i want so celebrate muna christmas w nomi baby and my bff kelli siiiiiiigh

Warnings: RPF, christmas!, noami and jo being chaotic, no fundamental physical descriptors, reader is soft!gf coded so she/her pronouns/afab?

Your brow is sweating, weight rested on one foot as you stand at the stove, whisking gravy in a medium-sized pot.

"Where do you want this babe?" Kelli asks, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a charcuterie board, an assortment of cheeses and meats, both vegan and not, decorated with fruits and dips paired with edible flowers, an impressive spread made by Kelli herself.

"The fridge I gues-" you start to say cut off by a yell coming from your bedroom.

"Put the hammer down!" "Naomi I swear to god..."

Kelli rolls her eyes, albeit lovingly as she opens the fridge.

"Do I even want to know?" you snort, returning to the stove. Kelli giggles, coming and sitting on the island a few feet away from you, feet swinging to kick your legs softly.

"They're putting together your vanity, I think," Kelli shrugs, popping a grape from a bowl on the counter into her mouth.

"I thought it was pre-built... the box was huge," you shrug gently.

"Nope, I think Jo was going to help set it up in the room and attach the mirror, but it came disassembled," Kelli winces.

"Should've asked Julien," you mumble, getting a belly chuckle out of Kelli, you both know Julien is far better with furniture and building things then either of your partners.

"Who knows, maybe they'll get it done faster because there's two of them?" she shrugs, popping another grape into her mouth and hopping down, getting ready to cut a baguette.

"Yeah, or I'll end up with no vanity and holes in my ceiling or walls," you grumble.

"Oh, don't be like that-" her words were cut off by two deep squeals and the sound of the electric drill, something flinging against the wall with a thump; Kelli's eyes widened.

Kelli moves quick but you move quicker, you shut off the stove and move the pot to an unused burner.

You both climb the stairs, moving to stand in the doorway, Naomi standing shirtless with their back facing you, and hands intertwined on the top of their head. Jo lays on the floor, staring at the ceiling, both letting out small huffs.

"What the hell was that?" you ask, looking down at the floor; you and Kelli's eyes are comically wide as you stare at the scattered vanity pieces all over your bedroom floor.

"Hi, babydoll," Naomi says casually, walking over to you, brushing your hair back, and placing small kisses on the crown of your hairline. Naomi's hair is tucked into a baseball cap, small curls peeking out the sides, sweat running down the middle of their torso, and the windows cracked open, letting a welcomed breeze into the room.

Jo groans from her place on the floor, tank top riding up slightly, visible sweat on their forehead.

"Why are you sweaty?" Kelli asks, eyebrows scrunched.

"Because Naomi ordered a fucking whack ass piece of furniture and-"

"I didn't, Jo! It's not my fault it didn't come with instructions--" Noami refutes, both of them starting to bicker again, Noami rubbing their hands over their face.

"Wait, it didn't come with instructions?" you ask, jaw dropped slightly as you stare at the half built base of the vanity.

"Maybe we should call JB," Kelli mumbles; Jo and Naomi whip their heads towards her.

"Bite your tongue!" "Take that back!"

Kelli puts her hands up, eyes widening as she fights a smile, "Okay, okay, sorry... didn't mean to touch a nerve..." she says, her tone filling with humor.

"We can do this, we- we can do this, Naomi, we don't need Julien... we can build this thing ourselves," Jo says, standing up and gesturing between themselves and Naomi. Jo's tone is almost as if she's trying to convince herself and Noami simultaneously.

"Yeah, fuck yeah... we can..." Naomi starts, turning to look back at you with a lopsided smile. "I can build... a vanity, baby, I can," Naomi says, trying to convince you.

"Right, yeah, I totally believe in you..." you say, tight smile as you look at the dent in your wall, eyes widening again.

Jo looks at you sheepishly, hands coming out in front of them, "I'll fix it," they say quickly as Naomi speaks over top of her, "It was an accident!"

All you can do is shake your head, rubbing the skin between your eyebrows and the bridge of your nose as you look at the bedside table across the room where the alarm clock sits. "People will be here in 6 hours..." you say, biting your lip nervously.

"Jo, we still need to go home and get ready..." Kelli warns softly.

"It's fine...we got this," Jo says cockily, eyes filled with terror as they look towards Naomi, both sharing a look.

"Okay, well... we'll leave you two to it," Kelli says suspiciously, pulling her phone out as you both back out of the room, returning downstairs.

"Please text JB," you murmur once you're out of earshot.

"Already did," Kelli huffs.

BONUS:

"Yo!" Julien says as she walks into the house, Lucy and Phoebe behind her, their partners carrying dishes or flowers into the house. Julien's girlfriend kisses your cheek softly, kissing Kelli and Katie's cheeks before heading into your kitchen; everyone starts chatting as more of your friends arrive.

"So where's the vanity?" Julien asks, adjusting the collar of her dress shirt.

"Upstairs... I don't really know what you're about to walk into... It wasn't finished or stable when Jo and Kelli left to get ready, and I haven't been upstairs since I got ready so..." you smile sheepishly.

Julien winks and pinches your cheek gently before bounding up the stairs.

"Babe? You told Julien?" Naomi yells down, offended. "Kelli, really?" Jo yells immediately after.

"Just let her check your work!" Kelli yells up, making the room laugh at the antics of your partners.

"I'm sure they did a great job," Julien's girlfriend says sweetly, arm around your waist as she leans her head onto your shoulder.

"Tell that to the hammer sized dent in my bedroom wall..." you huff, her hands adjusting the bow in your hair.

"The what?!"

fyi: they did build it correctly, julien just tightened some screws and helped them secure it to the wall, AND jo DID fix the dent in the wall hehe <3

#anon cutie #naomi mcpherson x reader #julien baker x reader #josette maskin x reader #all of the soft!gf's are collidingggg #nomi soft!gf x kelli catton #this is in the nomi universe obviously #nomi is naomi for those who dont know #canonically this is last christmas #like 2022 #because soft!gf and jb dont live in LA yet #because 2023 holiday party is at jb and soft!gfs house in LA #anyways #gingybread's holidaze #gingy's blurb night

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templetogavage · 1 year ago

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Monthly Measurement: December 2023

To celebrate December 2023, here’s a roundup of 31 posts from last month that I quite enjoyed.

December 10th 22:35: https://www.tumblr.com/peanutbuttergainer/736379009300086785

This excellent photoset depicting a funnel feeding and its aftermath shows off @peanutbuttergainer in some excellent positions. Click through for some more photos.

2. December 12th 16:57: https://www.tumblr.com/exxjockk/736538917387550720/do-you-have-any-clothing-which-you-just-cant-fit

@exxjockk shows off in an outgrown shirt. Check out the rest of the tumblr for a record of his impressive gain.

3. December 13th 10:31: https://www.tumblr.com/mortiskiller/736605222096551936

Denial roleplay is always good- who doesn’t want to watch a fat guy get fatter while pretending he’s getting thinner any day now? @mortiskiller has a great sense for storytelling, and his voice is an excellent instrument- I haven’t watched the video in full, but I don’t need to in order to sincerely recommend it.

4. December 15th 1:38: https://www.tumblr.com/lovingbarbariancomputer/736752892123414528

While the associated story isn’t to my taste, the picture and the writing were sufficient for this one to make the cut. In general, @lovingbarbarbariancomputer tends to tie American values, culture, and aesthetics to fattening men in a way I personally quite enjoy- I’d recommend a quick sampling to see if you like any posts yourself. 5. December 15th 18:03: https://www.tumblr.com/gentlerubz/736814869056274432/something-ex-vegan-idk

Todd Ingram’s poutine habit practically demands this treatment. @gentlerubz delivers, showing the ex-vegan character after he’s completely ditched his old diet. Excellent art as always. I recommend skimming the blog for characters you’d like to see fattened up.

6. December 19th 11:24: https://www.tumblr.com/beauxned-blog/737152167138508800

Deeply embarrassing to find a man with so little body fat as attractive as I do, but sometimes football players just have something special. Much thanks to @beauxned-blog for sharing this picture of James Ferentz. 7. December 19th 17:40: https://www.tumblr.com/chasing-gayns/737175782238076928

At this time of year, anything Santa-themed tends to draw my focus. Cute guy in red chugging milk with the caption “Santa in training”? I’m easy to please. @chasing-gayns has made a pretty compelling advertisement for his Patreon here, if I’m honest, so I’m rewarding it by spreading it.

8. December 20th 7:58: https://www.tumblr.com/thetumarchive/737229785122668544

@thetumarchive is providing an important service here, supplying feedist Christmas prompts. A bit late to be sharing them on my part, perhaps, but there’s always next December.

9. December 20th 18:31: https://www.tumblr.com/overfed-meathead/737269629996695552

From the beginning, @overfed-meathead has had a unique look, due to the commitment to building muscle and fat, but this picture really shows off just how hard he’s gone on it. The only thing that could improve this photo would be him snacking with the other hand.

10. December 21st 9:31: https://www.tumblr.com/13uckaroo/737326241807482880

@13uckaroo mostly posts furry art, which is not usually my thing, so I had to share this piece, which is definitely my thing. I love the art style, and I love watching a gorgeous man turn into a Santa.

11. December 22nd 10:39: https://www.tumblr.com/overfed-n-overweight/737421120372932608

Thanks to @overfed-n-overweight for sharing this gem. Here’s a cute fat guy performing some athletic feats. Look at how proud of himself he is!

12. December 22nd 17:04: https://www.tumblr.com/fat-male-celebrities/737445350859784192

It’s not the largest change, but something about this progression posted by @fat-male-celebrities strikes me as particularly hot. Partially the beard, partially the grey, and partially that Mauricio Pochettino is a former player turned manager.

13. December 23rd 11:05: https://www.tumblr.com/thegainingdesk/737513343630344192

@thegainingdesk has done something I never would have expected- posted a gaining-related statement fic for The Magnus Archives. If you don’t know what that means, you may enjoy it less than I did, but it’s a short horror-themed piece about a man being fattened up by his landlord, so give it a shot even if you don’t have the fannish context. If you like this style, check out https://www.tumblr.com/thegainingdesk/737185437925457920/the-grommr-profile-of-dorian-grey.

14. December 24th 13:35: https://www.tumblr.com/pettyheft/737613389259538432

@pettyheft plays the part of a fat Santa chugging his milk. No cookies in sight, unfortunately- but perhaps they’ve already been eaten.

15. December 24th 16:43: https://www.tumblr.com/sandwichfella/737625208927748096/2-month-before-and-after-im-going-way-faster

@sandwichfella ended the year with a 2 month before and after. Not bad, though of course I’m looking forward to the 1 year before and after…I’ll keep an eye out.

16. December 24th 17:26: https://www.tumblr.com/largeluke24/737627917164658688/get-more-from-largeluke-on-patreon

A fat boy in a Christmas sweater shaking his belly like a bowlful of jelly. A very festive present from @largeluke24 this year.

17. December 24th 22:53: https://www.tumblr.com/thebeautyofbigger/737648509966254080

@thebeautyofbigger decided to dress up as Santa getting lightly buzzed before his big sleigh ride- I question whether this is ideal for someone about to make a trip around the world, but I approve of the extra calories.

18. December 25th 2:24: https://www.tumblr.com/boneyardbellybabe/737661769138536448

I actually have this same outfit, albeit in two parts rather than as a onesie. @boneyardbellybabe wears it better.

19. December 25th 10:52: https://www.tumblr.com/sometimesgaining/737693743745007616

What an excellent present! And I’m glad we dispensed with the need for wrapping paper, better to see what we’re going to get. @sometimesgaining looks incredible here- the bow is a nice touch, but the camera quality also does wonders for the already gorgeous belly on display.

20. December 25th 10:59: https://www.tumblr.com/ntls-24722/737694166033760256

The rare post from outside our little containment zone that I will include, here’s a post about how annoying it is when sexy Santa takes are muscular and not fat. Fat Santas are way sexier.

21. December 25th 18:31: https://www.tumblr.com/pigjolt/737722622306140160

I’ve already included a few along these lines, but @pigjolt looks so good in this festive sweatshirt chugging milk that I couldn’t resist. Merry Christmas indeed.

22. December 25th 23:33: https://www.tumblr.com/snackkattackk/737741579277713408

I love how little @snackkattackk is trying with this costume to be anything other than a sexy Santa. I mean, of course, you have the accoutrements, but that shirt is leaving little to the imagination.

23. December 26th 10:02: https://www.tumblr.com/fat-male-celebrities/737781147804778496

A fun selection of photos from @fat-male-celebrities showing a chubby footballer, Kevin Pannewitz. I don’t know the context for the last two photos, but I appreciate the belly peeking through.

24. December 26th 22:28: https://www.tumblr.com/roundnfuzzy/737828117777874944/onlyfans

Santa jiggling his bowlful of jelly. Transfixing preview from @roundnfuzzy.

25. December 27th 12:19: https://www.tumblr.com/devilmaychub/737880382974869504/every-day-ive-been-eating-so-much-cheesecake-late

A sweet little description of being a gainer with a sweet tooth. @devilmaychub may be straight, but his description here applies just as well for those of us on the other team. Grab a dessert while you read it.

26. December 27th 12:54: https://www.tumblr.com/anorthsidecub/737882576848666624

Sometimes a simple GIF is all you need. All it’s missing are some milk and cookies, which I will choose to imagine @anorthsidecub has just off-screen.

27. December 27th 15:04: https://www.tumblr.com/dangercocktail/737890742552395777

A beefcake showing off his belly. Enough said. @dangercocktail might be more known for fiction, but I might also check out the rest of this Tumblr now.

28. December 27th 16:04: https://www.tumblr.com/dilfcontent/737894555383447552

While his brother may have achieved fame outside of football circles recently, @dilfcontent has correctly identified which Kelce I’d like to see more of.

29. December 27th 16:33: https://www.tumblr.com/babelnimrod/737896386296692737

Just a big fat guy, looking fat. @babelnimrod always shocks me, somehow, whenever I see photos. I don’t know what it is, but that belly always looks fatter than I remember. Well done.

30. December 28th 22:23: https://www.tumblr.com/tytoalbion/738009007160213504

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gainer Content. Either way, a cute guy with a belly belongs on my blog. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good bulk.

31. December 30th 18:16: https://www.tumblr.com/urges-to-gain/738174632959655936/aftermath-of-a-pizza-stuffing-do-i-look-bigger

What can I say? A fat man eating and rubbing his jiggly belly is exactly what I like to see. Thanks to @urges-to-gain for giving us a nice note to end on.

I hope everyone enjoyed their holidays (or, at least, were grateful for the excuse to pig out). Here's to December, and to 2023, even if it's a bit late.

#monthly measurement #gayning and encouraging #male weight gain #content type: roundup

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kinsey3furry300 · 9 days ago

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"So how did you become vegan?"

Western European's: "Well its quite a complex story..."

Every Polish Vegan I've ever met: "Got too attached to the bathtub carp at Christmas."

#real life shitpost #poland #polska #polish tumblr #Vegan

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h0n3y-b33z · 11 days ago

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Happy birthday to the apple twins and I. As my gift for them, they get a story.

Enjoy.

508 years since is was born.

500 of those years I suffered. I was alone. No one had cared. Abused , alone, a folks story people would tell their children.

Why am I still here? Just to suffer?

"Boss! Open up! We need to eat eventually!" Killer yells through the door to the office, banging his fist on the old wood.

Damnit Kilz not again-

"boooossss plsssss! Murder isn't letting us eat until you do! Birthday rules or som-" Killer pauses, unfortunately remembering the day. It seems his memory is getting better atleast. Two years he wouldn't remember until Christmas.

Killer giggles, tugging the handle to the locked door. "oh bossy~! It's ya birthday!” Killer coos, taking his favorite knife out, running his index finger along the edge.

"don't remind me. Tell everyone I will be downstairs in a moment." The king informs him, rolling off his bed (which is a fake bookshelf that converts into a bed.)

Nightmare yawns, the balls of his feet hitting the floor and sending a static feeling up his legs and his knees locking. Of course... Two tendrils go to massage his knees and femurs.

This is getting ridiculous... Nightmare mutters to himself, the feeling in his legs dying down. This was the third time this week. After a few more minutes the pain is bare able and he stands up and walks to the door.

No need to change when you slept in your clothes.

In the dining room the table was set with all of Nightmare's favorite foods and beverages. Wine, coffee, pie, pancakes, turkey dipped in the most mouth watering sauces and other savory things you would expect to see on Gyftmas. Not a birthday.

Killer groans, reaching out for the jerkey that was just out of reach. The result was Murder slapping his hand. "Damnit bunny just let me eaaaat!" Killer whines, his tears staining the vintage wooden table again. Killer was one of the few who had a seat just for him. Furthest from Nightmare where all the silver tear stains are.

"No kitty... We wait for mare mare." Horror says, brushing the fur on his jacket. He needs to look his Saturday best! Killer glares at Horror, tempted to throw a knife at him. "aint talking to you wolfki" He mutters, using the insult varient of the brute's nickname.

"c0uld y°u st0p." Error mutters, munching on a chocolate wrapper. 'To get all the chocolate goodness' he told Swap. Which was mostly true. Murder sits still, dissociating from the world.

"gods what do yo- oo wine." Nightmare brings everyone out of their brooding as he sits down at the head of the table, grabbing the bottle of vintage Italian wine and pouring a genorous amount into his birthday mug.

"Th€ gh0$ts 4®€ back. B33n 4-4n0¥y1ng m3 n0n $t0p" Error complains. Flicking away another pesky floating ded rat. Error is surrounded by floating objects. Plastic knifes and forks, a spatula and a dirty whisk. Error is glitching out alot.

Nightmare looks at the whisk, eye socket narrowing. "you made cake..?" He questions, growling softly at the batter falling to the flour covered floor. "we maDE CAKE?" Killer pipes up, grinning from eye socket to eye socket.

"ye-yes... T-teeth and Enough made it." Horror murmers, picking up his fork and fiddling with a grape in the salad. Murder looks down, a larger shadow casted on his face. Killer shrugs, reaching for the jerkey. Murder slaps his wrist again. "that vegan s[..]t is in the oven." Murder informs, stopping the recently vegan Killer.

"oh." Killer stands up, grabs his plate and dashes to the kitchen to get his beloved plant based jerkey. Nightmare groans, glaring at the most mentally sane of the grou. "you know I'm not a fan of cake, Murder." Nightmare says, dishing a healthy amount of turkey onto his plate. Once he finished dishing, Horror and Murder started dishing. Killer returns with his jerkey, mouth watering black ooze.

"hey you started dishing without me!" Killer when's and darts to the table to dish his greens. Who know all it took was a vegan teacher to get the dumbass to eat his fruits and vegetables? Although now he won't eat meat and sh[iz] now...

Goddammit Colour... Why did yo give him access to the internet...? Nightmare wonders, chewing on his delicious turkey wing. Horror speaks up "It was Aliza's Idea... She's coming over later to celebrate too." Horror informs him. Nightmare stares at him, disbelief and silent disdain on his face. "your daughter... Wishes to celebrate my birthday?" the king questions, gaining another nod from Horror.

"Dream visit...ed. Brought food. I told him not to work on his birthday. Aliza heard." The brute further explains, mouth full of pie. Nightmare rolls his eyelight. She shouldn't care. He tells himself. "y0u® g1rlfriend l3ft 4 ll3t ter. " Error says, handing a letter with a dusty snake symbol on it. It was the the stamp She made just for him.

She is his equal. His other half. Sure Nightmare is gayer than Icurus, but She is his. He is hers. He smiles softly, opening the envelope. Inside was a letter wishing him, her kraken, happy birthday. Even suggesting a date for the two of them and their little fetaherbaby.

Nightmare smiles, noting that he should write a reply letter later. Possibly arrange a flight to Greece to see his queen. He engulfs the letter in a burning flame of purples and blues. He continues to eat. The food is nice. Just how he likes it...

Maybe my birthday isn't a waste...

"Oh great guardian! Happy birthday!"

Again and again, those were the words he heard today. Seemingly a broken record.

"Great guardian, we need your help!"

That was a sentence he heard almost everyday.

You would think that after the truce Dream would finally be left alone. But nooo. It was great guardian this and great guardian that. It was tiring. He's supposed to be retired!

Dream sighs, getting a snake named Fluffy down from a tree. Lil Fluffy the anaconda slithers into his body, hugging him. Dream knows it is a hug because Fluffy broke his bones once and felt guilty as hell. Dream climbs down, looking down at his recent friend, a 8 year old girl who wears brightly colored hand made punk clothing.

"thank you Lemon Boy!" she says, gently holding her arms out so that Fluffy can slither back to her. Emily is one of the few Dream would want to go out of his way to help. He likes helping her. "no problem little Rockstar! Run off to your parents now, I saw them by the toy bikes." Dream informs, running his hand down Fluffy's scales.

Maybe I should get a snake... He thinks to himself. The companionship would be nice. Maybe he could get a black mumba! Those get to like 10 feet long, I could raise it from a babe! Cold things are nice things. The creature would love Dream's body heat. It's naturally high.

His phone pings. Then another ping. Likely the groupchat again. Wait didn't I mute that-? He thinks to himself, taking out his phone and opening his chats. It was Swap and Lust. His friends. Another ping came when Red and Edge messaged, then another from Cinnimon. All saying happy birthday. Dream smiles at the texts, replying with some difficulty.

The one day I forget my glasses... He sighs and puts his phone away, lazily moving his hand in a circular motion to open a gden glittery portal. He steps through and heads to the lounge, flopping onto the couch with a grunt.

"Someone's had a bad day." Reaper says, sipping his coffee. Dream lifts his head from the couch, looking up at the bringer of Bad deaths. "no s[..]t Sherlock." He says, catching the hot water bottle thrown at him "f[..]k you Watson." Reaper shots back, stretching his 3 pairs of wings.

"Still wondering why you don't want a private birthday party kid." Reaper informs, putting his mug down and grabbing his scythe, his 6 wings merging into 2. Dream shrugs

Dream says, clutching the water bottle.

Reaper chuckles softly. "awe, my baby boy has grown up since I found him." Reaper coos, checking out the baalde to ensure it is fit for reaping. Although it was never on paper, Reaper adopted Dream after finding him in that abandoned AU the kid o me called home.

He looks up at the demi-godling. "want to come with me for work? My gift." Reaper says, summoning the toy scythe he made for Dream when the child guardian asked for one. Dream looks at the scythe and sighs, stnwifng up with a smile. The scythe was nothing to be scared of, made of dead pyrike (frozen wood) and is smaller than Reaper's, but it means the multiverse to Dream "sure."

Atleast Dream can help people cross over to the underworld instead of silly little things he doesn't like.

(done. I the colors of their speech thingies represent the soul traits! Although I didn't have YELLOW for Dream. Hope you liked the insight on my UTMV)

#dreamtale #apple twins #dream sans #nightmare sans #dust sans #killer sans #horror sans #error sans #reaper sans #my birthday #short story

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