#refillable foundation

[jasminewilson143]

"Foundation Trends in 2025: What's New in the Beauty World?"

The world of magnificence is always changing, and 2025 is shaping up to be an interesting year for setting trends. Whether you’re a cosmetics aficionado or a complete glam junkie, there’s something new on the horizon that will disrupt your perfect routine. Let’s go into what’s hot, what’s game-changing, and what you absolutely need to know about restaurants in 2025. Why Do Establishment Patterns…

[narcopathyfiles]

foundation tweaking saga continues i may have actually obliterated this cushion like an insane person .

[bellflowergarden]

never buying contour FUCK contour

[walble]

From Your Future Self

Paid Readings | Ko-Fi

This is meant to be a fun, general reading, so it may not resonate with everyone. Take what resonates for you and leave the rest behind! Please take a moment to breathe, focus on your intuition, and choose the photo that calls to you. Each holds a unique message for you!

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 1

Your future self is gently asking you to slow down and take a closer look at how you're treating yourself. You’ve likely been giving so much of your energy to others or trying to meet expectations that you've started to lose sight of your own needs. There's a feeling that you've been disconnected from your sense of worth, creativity, or self-care. Your future self wants you to know that true fulfillment starts within—you can't pour from an empty cup, and it's time to refill yours.

There’s also a sense of frustration—like you’ve been working hard but not seeing the growth or progress you hoped for. It might feel like you’re juggling too much or spreading yourself too thin. Your future self encourages you to simplify. Ask yourself: are you investing your time and energy in things that truly matter to you, or are you stuck in cycles that leave you feeling drained? This is a time to get clear on what’s worth your effort and what needs to be released.

A major decision may be weighing on you, one you've been putting off. It’s something that requires you to be honest with yourself and to trust your ability to choose what’s right—not just what’s easy or comfortable. Your future self is telling you that clarity will come when you stop avoiding and start listening to your inner truth. Don’t be afraid to choose what aligns with your values, even if it feels uncertain.

Lastly, there’s a message about timing. You may feel like things aren’t unfolding the way you expected, or like your future is foggy or delayed. But your future self wants you to know that delays don’t mean denial. This is a time of redirection and realignment. Be patient. Focus on building a solid foundation within yourself first—and the path ahead will become clearer when you’re ready to walk it with confidence.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 2

Your future self is encouraging you to reflect on your recent choices and the foundations you’ve been trying to build. There’s a strong message about consequences—both good and bad—and how every action you take shapes your path forward. If something feels off or unfair in your current reality, your future self wants you to know that clarity and balance are on their way. But it’s essential that you take responsibility for what you can control and release what you cannot.

There seems to be an opportunity that either slipped through your fingers or hasn’t come to full fruition. This may have left you feeling disappointed or unsure of your direction. But instead of seeing this as a dead end, your future self wants you to view it as redirection. Sometimes, what we think is a loss is actually a necessary clearing to make space for something better. What crumbled or didn’t work out may have been built on shaky ground—and now, you’re being given the chance to rebuild with more awareness and intention.

It’s possible you’ve been isolating yourself, either to avoid further disappointment or because you’re trying to make sense of everything alone. Your future self wants to remind you that while solitude can be healing, shutting yourself off for too long can become a barrier to growth. You’re being guided to slowly reengage—with life, with others, and most importantly, with your inner wisdom. You’ve learned so much through your recent experiences, and now it’s time to integrate that knowledge into your next steps.

The message is clear: trust the process, trust your pace, and trust your intuition. Your future self is proud of the resilience you've shown and wants you to know that steady progress will take you further than rushing ever could. You already carry the answers you need within you—it’s just a matter of slowing down and listening. The path ahead is not about shortcuts or grand leaps, but about patient, mindful movement toward something lasting and true.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 3

Your future self is reminding you that you are capable of building something lasting, something truly meaningful—whether it’s in your career, your relationships, or your sense of home and belonging. There’s a strong energy of abundance and long-term fulfillment in your future, but it requires you to let go of certain patterns or attachments that have kept you stuck. You may be in the process of releasing old habits, toxic influences, or beliefs that once felt comforting but now only limit your growth.

Right now, you might feel mentally trapped or unsure of how to move forward, as if you’re stuck in a loop of overthinking or self-doubt. But your future self wants you to know that the cage is an illusion. The limits you feel are not permanent—you have more power than you think. It’s time to start trusting your emotional instincts again, even if they feel raw or uncertain. Vulnerability, openness, and small expressions of your truth will lead you to the breakthroughs you’ve been hoping for.

There may also be someone around you—or perhaps an aspect of yourself—who struggles with control, impatience, or ego. Your future self advises you not to let pride or impulsiveness block your heart’s deeper desires. You are being guided toward emotional maturity, deeper compassion, and authentic connection—not performance or dominance. There’s beauty in softness, and your ability to lead with empathy will open new doors that ambition alone cannot.

Overall, your future self wants to reassure you that love, stability, and creative joy are not only possible—they’re on the horizon. But the journey requires shedding what no longer aligns and allowing yourself to dream again, even if it starts with just a flicker of hope. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to take the next honest step toward the life that truly calls to you.

Tip Jar

[dye-it-rouge-et-noir]

I just found a sleep-deprived essay in my drafts???

I have controversial pen related takes that sound incredibly pretentious. Anyways, the Pilot G2 is not that good and I say this as someone who has Pilot as their favorite pen brand. It's okay, but there are better options. I can write an entire argumentative essay on this subject.

[ladies-of-fortune]

No, you don't look put together just because you got a manicure

I’m sorry, but it’s true. Getting a manicure is just a small detail that adds to the overall picture of your appearance. If you haven’t showered in days or are dressed in frumpy clothes, no set of nails in the world is going to save you.

So, what do people actually notice?

Your teeth – Are they clean, healthy, and in alignment?

Your clothes – Are they ironed, clean, and well-fitted?

Your hair – Is it brushed, clean, and styled?

Your posture – Do you stand up straight, or do you shrink like you’re trying to disappear?

Your scent – People might not notice your perfume, but they’ll definitely notice if you haven’t showered. Trust me, you don’t want that.

Your hands – Are they moisturized?

Your nails – If you’re not wearing polish, are they clean and tidy? If you are, is it chipped or growing out?

Your face – The condition of your skin and how your makeup (if any) sits on it.

These basic hygiene habits do more than just make you look presentable—they make you feel good about how you care for yourself and how you show up in the world.

Pick Your Battles Wisely

What I said earlier doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get your nails done—far from it! If it makes you happy and helps you feel put together, go for it. But if you’re aiming to project a polished image, you need to consider the maintenance certain stylistic choices demand.

Here are a few examples of high-maintenance choices:

Nails – Getting them done costs money, and regular upkeep is a must if you don’t want chips or breaks to ruin the look.

Hair dye – From covering roots to deep-conditioning, dye jobs require constant attention (and budgeting).

Lash treatments – Extensions look amazing, but they shed over time, requiring regular refills.

Perms – The maintenance depends on how different your natural hair is from the perm. For instance, straight perms on curly hair need way more upkeep.

Fake tanning – Whether you DIY or hit the salon, tans fade, streak, or patch, so maintenance is unavoidable.

All of these treatments have one thing in common: they demand time, money, or both. And if you cut corners, it often backfires, costing you more in the long run. This isn’t to discourage you—it’s to keep you aware of what you’re committing to if you want these to be part of your signature look.

Be High Maintenance to Be Low Maintenance

If you’re aiming for a polished, effortless appearance, the key is to reduce the effort you spend on one thing so you can redirect it elsewhere—like your nails!

Here’s what that looks like:

Laser hair removal – Yes, it’s a time and money investment up front, but it saves you from shaving or waxing constantly. In the long run, you get to throw on any outfit without worrying about hair.

Fitness – Regular workouts take effort, but staying in shape means fewer wardrobe changes due to fluctuating sizes and increased energy to live your life.

Healthy eating – It takes time and effort to plan meals and eat well, but nourishing your body gives you better skin, more energy, and improved focus to crush your goals.

Investing – You may sacrifice short-term spending for long-term growth, but watching your money compound over time is worth it.

Career grinding – The hustle now pays off later, giving you the freedom to enjoy life on your terms.

It’s About More Than Looks

At the end of the day, "looking put together" is about more than the surface-level details—it’s about the foundation you build through self-care, intentional choices, and consistency. When you take care of the basics, the extras (like a nice manicure) become the cherry on top, rather than a band-aid to cover bigger gaps. So, next time you’re striving for that polished look, remember: true glow-ups start from within, not just at the nail salon.

[javier-pena]

circumstance

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a stormy night, you’re haunted by a ghost from your past.

Warnings: dub con | unprotected p in v sex | creampie | unsanitary sexual practices | cheating | coercion | possessiveness | (brief) fingering (f receiving) | biting | oral (f receiving) (mentioned) | mentions of food and alcohol | mentions of blood and war

Notes: God idk what it is with me and seeing random pictures of Pedro characters that make me go feral. Anyways, wrote this in an hour, hope this is anything. I had Latin in school but I’m not vouching for any of the Latin words in this. I mostly wrote this because I’ve had a vendetta against international bestselling author Robert Harris ever since I was 15 years old. This is loosely based on a scene from his novel Imperium that has been haunting me for almost 20 years now. Also based on this post by @ozarkthedog.

***

There’s war. Outside the city, the land is burning. Behind the city walls, life goes on as it always has. There’s decadence and dissipation and life. That’s your part of the story. That’s all you’ve ever known. The comfort and the safety. That’s all you’ve ever needed to feel fulfilled.

During the night, when the city quiets down, when the people return to their homes and the public life ceases, you can sometimes hear it, like a storm brewing over the distant sea, like the rumbling of a volcano miles and miles away, taking deep breaths before spewing its fiery death. On clear nights, nights free of clouds and wind, nights where the air is so heavy it feels like a blanket weighing you down, you can even see it, the light from the battlefield, the glow of a carnage that swallows everything, even itself.

This night isn’t clear at all. This night brought rain and hail and thunder so violent it shakes the foundations of your house. You’re alone, reclining on your triclinium, too drained from dinner to move much. The storm promised some reprieve from the muggy summer air, but the heat is worse now than it was this afternoon. The wine you had with your meal, the glass in front of you now refilled a third time, combined with the weather makes your head feel like it has been wrapped in wool. Even breathing seems laborious.

But there are footsteps against mosaic floors, and footsteps mean visitors and visitors mean business. Business at such a late hour is never a good sign. With a groan you stand, with a sigh you straighten your tunic, and then the footsteps are drowned by a clap of thunder so loud you flinch.

What follows it is not the sight of one of your servants or even your husband. In the gloomy darkness that always follows a flash of lightning a shadow moves into the room, and when your eyes have adjusted to the dim lights of the lucernae all around you, you flinch again, this time with cause.

A man is standing before you, looking like the slain ghost of a soldier from the battlefield nearby. He is covered in dirt and grime, wet from the rain, wet from the blood he has recently spilled. His armor looks black in the darkness, and your eyes flicker to his side in trepidation only to discover that he’s still wearing his sword. He’s still wearing his sword, going against the rules of your house, the rules of your husband.

“Where is he?” the stranger asks, his voice deep and dangerous like the thunder outside.

You could play dumb, you could act like you don’t know who he’s talking about, but in that voice you discover something familiar, like a memory of a distant dream, never quite forgotten.

“He isn’t here,” you reply. “He might come back later, but he’s with the senate.”

The man steps closer, quick strides that take him right to the foot of your triclinium. You step backward until you reach its head, trying to put the piece of furniture between the two of you. Your hands are clammy.

“Good,” the stranger answers with a twitch of his lips that’s all too familiar for all the wrong reasons. “I promised you I’d be back for you, and I always keep my promises.”

There’s a doorway behind you leading through a small peristyle straight to your husband’s tablinum. You glance at the court, at the shrubs and flowers and fountains that you know are there but that are currently hidden by curtains of rain and darkness.

“Don’t –,” the stranger starts, but it comes too late.

You turn and run, skip down the two steps from the porch into the garden itself, your feet splashing into puddles as you run and run. Heavy footfalls behind you, heavy breathing, and a heaviness in your heart, calling back to a similar moment years ago that happened on such a different day full of laughter and sunshine and secret kisses exchanged in secret corners.

You reach the doorway to the tablinum. “Stop!” you bellow, and to your surprise he does. To your surprise, this works, and you don’t know what to do with that. “What do you want, Acacius?” you ask, your heart growing even heavier when you name him.

“You know what I want,” he answers, the rain loudly hammering against his armor, the water dousing his hair, making his curls stick to his forehead. “I came back to collect what you owe me.”

“We were children,” you remind him.

He’s up the steps faster than you can say those three words, the years between now and that summer afternoon seemingly having left no traces.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, the storm raging over the city reflected in his eyes.

You step backwards into the tablinum, one hand protectively slung across your stomach. “You should leave, Acacius. I have nothing more to say to you.”

But there is only so far you can go before your back connects with your husband’s writing desk. And once it does there is nowhere for you to run to.

“I don’t need you to say anything.” His face is cast in shadows now, but when another flash lights up the night sky, you see that his expression is completely blank. “I just need you to lift up those expensive skirts of yours and let me take what’s mine.”

“Go back to that battlefield of yours,” you reply. “Go back and defend Rome like you’re supposed to. Or are you too much of a coward still?”

You should have known he would not take that kindly, should have known that provoking him wouldn’t make him leave. But when you feel his cold, wet hand wrapped around your wrist, when you’re being yanked into his chest, turned around, and shoved up against the desk, it still catches you by surprise. Some part of you, the one that never left that sunny afternoon, didn’t think he’d have it in him. Another part wanted him to.

His body presses into you with such force the desk scrapes against the stone floor with a creak loud enough to be heard over the storm. The sound that cannot be heard is the gasp you let out when he pushes up your tunic, exposing your legs to the humid night air.

“Don’t –,” you start.

He shushes you, one dirty finger touching your lips. You can smell the storm and the blood on him. He can feel your shaky breath.

“Just this once,” he mumbles into your hair.

Maybe you should fight this, but you don’t know how. He kicks your feet apart, and maybe you should kick back, connect your heel to his shin, and run. He bites the spot where your neck connects to your shoulder, and maybe you should bite his finger that is now resting against your lips while the rest of his hand is wrapped around your chin and throat, bite down hard until the bone cracks. He runs his other hand down your backside and pushes it between your legs, groaning at the warmth and wetness he finds there, and maybe you should use this moment of weakness to climb across the desk and search for something to defend yourself with.

All of it passes and you do nothing. All of it passes and you push backward against him, sucking his finger in between your lips. He pulls it out of your mouth, grabs the hair at the back of your neck, and pushes your head down toward the desk, your shoulders straining in protest. The groan you let loose is read as defiance by him.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Just …”

He trails off and at first you don’t know why but then the hand at the back of your neck is gone and you sigh with relief, a sound that turns into something less human when he pushes two fingers into you.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

“Please …,” you try again, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for.

There’s a rustling sound behind you, leather and fabric being moved frantically, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by something thick and heavy spreading you open. You lift yourself up on the tips of your toes, trying to adjust, trying to lessen the burn, but he digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you back down, right onto him.

“Stay,” he orders. “Just … just take it.”

His words are slurred now, and your vision is blurry, your eyes wet from biting your lip so hard you can taste blood on your tongue. He rocks into you, and your nails scrape against the wood of your husband’s desk, leaving marks in their wake. But you do as you’re told.

“That’s better.” He bites your shoulder again and you gasp from the sudden burst of pain, gasp from the way you constrict around him in response. He laughs, a rumbling like thunder, then pushes your upper body against the wood, holding you down, one hand in your hair, the other firmly locking your hip in place.

Another bolt of lightning must have illuminated your face, turned sideways for him to see the trepidation in your eyes because he says, “Don’t cry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not crying because you’re afraid of him. You’re crying because you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way, the last time sex wasn’t just a duty you had to fulfill but something someone wanted from you, and just from you, so much so he would abandon his duty to take what’s his. You don’t know how to tell him you’re terrified of what that discovery might mean for you and your marriage, how you’re hoping your husband is going to walk in right this very moment and free you from the bonds that bind you to him.

Acacius starts to lose control of his body then. He’s pushing himself up deeper and deeper into you, groaning louder with each thrust. You know those sounds, dread them when they’re coming from your husband, encourage them now with desperate whimpers of your own. He grips your hair again, pulls you up flush against his chest so hard you yelp with pain, fumbles with your tunic until he finds that bundle of nerves between your legs that he loved to kiss when you were both free to enjoy each other’s company. But it’s just for a brief moment he considers your pleasure before hitting the desk with his open palm, holding onto the wood, and letting go.

You close your eyes, waiting. It doesn’t take long for him to let out a sigh, to still deep inside of you. You can feel him twitch, you feel his hot release, but most of all you feel the sting of a promise broken. Your whole body is on edge, wound up, pulled taut, and there is nothing he’s going to do about it.

When he’s done, he pulls out of you and lets your tunic fall down around your legs. You turn to face him, your cheeks burning with shame, but his face is once again hidden behind all those shadows that come with a starless night.

“You wanted to take good care of me,” you point out, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just did,” he says, running his thumb from the corner of his mouth along his bottom lip. “You’re mine now. Leave that between your legs for him to find.”

“Acacius …,” you try, a name once so familiar then so strange now growing familiar again.

He crowds you against the desk, chest to chest this time, and wraps his thick fingers around your throat. The kiss he presses to your lips is hard, devoid of all tenderness. “Mine,” he repeats. “Never forget that.” And then he’s nothing more than heavy footsteps against mosaic floors.

[physalian]

Idk if it’s a neurodivergent thing or what and I’m sure those daily writing goals help for other people, but whenever I think about any sort of arbitrary quota or deadline, it actively works against my creativity and kills it fast.

Like I’ll know immediately if I open my WIP if it’s going to be time well spent. Some days just aren’t writing days, they’re for other creative things or for un-creative things while that reserve refills.

So to anyone who gives that “you should try to write at least x amount of words every day! Even if it’s not your wip” advice

Consider that creativity isn’t wasted even if it’s kept in your head. If I force myself to write, it will be garbage and I will be frustrated and it will need to be deleted anyway. I could have the energy to dream up a whole scene while I’m zoning out at work, but not have the ability right that second to push myself to write it down. But I still thought it, I still played out the what-ifs in my head. I’m still storytelling.

And so are you.

So, no, I don’t write every day. I’ll have writing vacuums and I’ll have writing highs, like the past ten days or so where I’ve hammered out over 34k words of my manuscript. I wrote my first published novel’s 111k word first draft in 30 days, with barely any backtracking.

And then did nothing at all with the sequel for months, and then here I am back at it.

So in short: You haven’t failed as a writer or a creative if you don’t dedicate time every single day to making physical progress on it. It’s art, not your morning hygiene routine. You don’t need to gamify your art.

And, more importantly, you won’t suddenly lose your talent if you don’t exercise it for a while. It’s not a muscle that will atrophy. You might be a *little* rusty getting back into it, but you won’t have forgotten the foundations of how to write a monologue.

Be kind to yourself, you know?

[deception-united]

hi! i’m writing a slow burn and i was wondering what are good ways to make two very socially awkward / recluse characters get closer over time?

(for reference this is a lady and her servant, and they both mostly interact with just each other)

thanks a ton :)

Hi, thanks for asking! Here are some tips + sample progression of such a dynamic.

Writing a Slow Burn Between Introverts

1. Establish initial barriers

Before your characters can grow closer, define what’s keeping them apart—are they both just deeply introverted, or is there a reason for their reservedness?

Ex: Trust issues from past betrayals, feeling unworthy of emotional connection, rusty social skills from years of solitude, etc.

2. Start with silence, but make it loud.

When two people aren’t used to or don't like socialising, their early interactions will be filled with everything but words, just coexisting at first: glances held too long, hands hesitating before passing an object, the way one lingers in the room just a second longer than necessary. Play with body language and what isn’t said—let the silence stretch, let it be heavy or awkward or oddly comfortable.

Ex: The servant quietly refills the lady’s tea without a word, the lady listens to the servant bustling about but never acknowledges them directly, etc.

3. Small acts of consideration (that they don’t know how to talk about)

Being socially awkward, your characters may struggle with direct displays of affection, rather preferring to show that they care in indirect ways. Let their bond develop through subtle acts of kindness and understanding to show a consideration past mere duty.

Ex: The lady notices the servant’s hands are rough from work and, without a word, leaves a tin of salve in their quarters; the servant uses it but never mentions it, instead starting to do little things in return, like bringing her a fresh quill before she runs out or remembering how she likes her blankets arranged.

4. Accidental intimacy (Oh no, that was personal)

They're so used to keeping to themselves that when something personal slips out, it’s a Big Deal. The key here is discomfort—neither of them is used to this kind of closeness, so they’ll be hyper-aware of every small meaningful moment (until it starts to feel normal).

Ex: The lady absently mentions an old childhood memory, only to realise she’s never told anyone that before; or the servant instinctively reaches out to steady her elbow as she steps over uneven ground, and they both freeze in realisation.

5. Routine

Since they primarily interact with only each other, their daily routines become the foundation of their relationship—at first, they may stick strictly to their roles (lady gives orders, servant obeys), but over time, that routine could give way into familiarity and then further intimacy.

Ex: The servant lingers after delivering a meal, pretending to adjust something unnecessarily just to exist in her presence a little longer; or the lady begins asking the servant’s opinion on minor matters.

6. Forced proximity

You might want to consider this trope for characters like this, since, left to their own devices, they would probably spend years orbiting each other without ever making a move. You've already done this somewhat through the master-servant dynamic, but it would probably still be unlikely for one of them to be bold enough to make the first move. Throwing them into situations where they're even closer together will make them have to engage and could help move things along, pushing them past their usual interactions.

Ex: Getting trapped in a storm or stuck in a carriage together, or something needs doing for the completion of which they have to cooperate or rely on each other.

7. Awkward conversation = mutual understanding

Two socially awkward people are unlikely to launch into deep heart-to-hearts overnight, but that doesn’t mean they can’t bond. Let their conversations be stilted, filled with hesitations, unfinished sentences, and long silences—these awkward exchanges can lead to mutual understanding.

Ex: The lady asks a question, the servant panics and over-explains, and she finds their nervous rambling oddly endearing; or they blurt out something out of place and are horrified only to find that she's quietly amused rather than offended.

8. Vulnerability & protection

As their bond and feelings for each other grow, you might want to include moments of vulnerability to accelerate their emotional closeness.

Ex: The lady has a nightmare and the servant comforts her; the servant falls ill and, for the first time, she cares for them instead of the other way around; or she defends them against an accusation, even though she shouldn’t.

9. Accidental (& overanalysed) touch

For characters who aren’t used to closeness, even fleeting touches can show the tension or longing without either of them knowing exactly what to do with it.

Ex: Fingers brushing when one hands the other something, both pretending not to notice/spiralling into internal panic; the servant helps her adjust a piece of jewellery.

10. Mutual comfort

Eventually, they might start noticing that they speak more freely with each other than with others, or finding themselves wanting to stay in the other's presence a little longer than necessary—generally coming to the realisation that they're comfortable with each other in a way they aren't with the rest of the world, finally reaching the point where they can just be with each other, without fear or hesitation.

Hope this helped! Happy writing ❤

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[fayes-fics]

It's That Time Of Year

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: It's that time of year... when you could use a fake boyfriend.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), vaginal sex, dirty talk, hand as gag, quiet sex, sex in childhood bedroom. Fake dating, family dynamics, lots of feelings, friends to lovers.

Word Count: 11.3 k (eek Im sorry)

Authors Note: Here's my tropetacular winter 2023 Benepic! Request fill for @broooookiecrisp (HERE), who wanted fake boyfriend trope with Benedict accompanying the reader to the USA to spend Christmas with her family. I hope you like it, my dear. Thanks to @colettebronte for the read-through. Enjoy and happy holidays! 🎄

December 20th 

“Thank you,” Benedict clinks his champagne glass against yours, “for everything.”

You blush and look down from his intense blue-eyed gaze, staring instead at the untied bowtie around his collar that seems almost more attractive than when fastened.

“It was nothing,” you demure.

“It was not nothing!” he scoffs, giving you a gentle shoulder bump as you both lean on the high-top table.

“Alright, it was my job then,” you modify, giving him a modest smile as you hotch slightly - beautiful though they are, you cannot wait to take off these high-heels.

“And you are excellent at your job,” he asserts before downing the rest of his champagne and refilling both glasses from the bottle before you. 

He is lingering much longer than you thought he might, long after all his family and all the guests have left. The event was over a while ago, and all around you, the venue staff are clearing tables and stacking chairs.

Tonight was indeed a rousing success. Your first-time event managing the end-of-year fundraising gala for the Bridgerton Family Foundation, they hit a new record amount raised. Standing next to you is the newly minted CEO of that organisation, Benedict Bridgerton, looking far too dashing in his custom-fitted tuxedo. Empathetic and naturally in tune with the needs of others, he is indeed the perfect replacement to run the charitable arm of the family business now that his mother has decided to retire. In previous years, you both took deputy roles - him to his mother, you to your old boss - this was the first year you both stepped up to the plate to run things, and if you do say so yourself, you have both done an excellent job of it. A delightful working partnership built on years of friendship since meeting at university as an exchange student.

“You deserve a long Christmas break after this,” he breezes.

“Going home to the States in a couple of days,” you nod. “I’m both looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure, to be honest,” you confess, this second glass of champagne acting like a truth serum. You didn't want to or even get the chance to drink earlier, but a little tipple to round off the rewarding night is lovely, especially in present company.

“How come?” he seems genuinely curious, his forehead knitting adorably. Of course, he wouldn't understand; he comes from an idyllic family.

“I am very much the black sheep,” you shrug, twirling a finger absent-mindedly around the rim of your glass. “Being childless, unmarried and single at thirty-three in a midwestern family is unheard of and thus the subject of much ridicule.”

“Wow,” his eyebrows shoot up, “that's…,” he hesitates.

“Judgemental? Parochial? Small-minded?” you supply dryly on his behalf.

“I was going to say traditional… but sure, those work too,” he chuckles.

You giggle a little, then sigh. “So a mixed blessing, really. It's nice to see them all; I just wish they were a bit less them, you know?” you gesture vaguely into the air.

“A boyfriend would really take the heat off?” he queries.

“Hah!” you can’t contain the bubble of amusement at the mere thought. “Chance would be a fine thing. But, yes, that likely would take the edge off the worst of their barbs.” 

“Well, I’m at a loose end,” he comments, seemingly changing the subject. “The family is spread to the four corners of the globe this Christmas. Mum is going to Costa Rica for a retired ladies' trip with Lady D. Don't ask,” he adds amusingly, holding up his hands. “Kate and Ant are taking their kids to Lapland, and my various siblings are travelling or staying with partners. Weirdly, it’ll be our first Christmas apart. At least we will all reunite for New Year's at Aubrey Hall.”

“Aww, that sounds nice,” you offer neutrally.

“What I'm saying, y/n, is…,” he continues slowly as if waiting for the penny to drop, “if you need a fake boyfriend, I am available. It’s the very least I can do after all of this,” he explains, gesturing around the room. “Plus, it might be novel to experience a typical American Christmas,” he shrugs casually.

You can’t help it; you gape at him. Completely floored. The idea is utterly left-of-field and yet so exciting your heart pounds. If there is one downside to working so closely with Benedict these last few months, it has been the exponential growth of your inappropriate feelings for him. He is so sweet and handsome; no one would be immune, frankly. It was bad enough when you were at university together; now, well, it’s slightly lethal. Your mind boggles at him playing the role of a doting boyfriend; your body, however, seems very enthused, a warm flush creeping over your skin at the mere thought.

He chuckles nervously, a likely reaction to your stunned silence. “Listen, it was just a silly suggestion; you don’t have t-” 

“Yes!” you squeak, interrupting and grabbing his jacket cuff boldly when he seems to be withdrawing. “Please,” you add almost as an afterthought, unsure how to thank someone for such a generous offer.

His face breaks out into the most handsome grin.

“Excellent! Then, it's a date!” he exclaims, tilting his glass towards yours again. “Well, a fake date,” he amends with a lopsided grin that makes your stomach flip.

Oh god. What am I letting myself in for?!

___

December 23rd

“Are you sure about this? You can still back out...” you offer, fidgeting in the bag-drop queue at Heathrow three days later. 

“Please. What else am I going to do? Sit around my flat, billy-no-mates, and eat a sad M&S ready meal?! You are literally rescuing me,” he counters, probably exaggerating for your amusement.

Very much following the motto of not looking a gift horse in the mouth, you had texted Benedict your flight details that same night, and he has made it all happen in the hours since. Somehow, he managed to wave the Brigerton magic wand and secure what was probably the last seat on your direct flight two days before Christmas. Unluckily for him, he has to slum it in economy with the rest of the plebs like yourself. He couldn't even get a seat near you; he's stuck down the back, in the middle, near the galley.

“How about we swap seats at least?” you offer, guilt creeping in, looking at your printed boarding pass. Not only is Benedict doing you a favour, but he’s also pretzelling his tall self into an uncomfortable seat. The least you can do is offer him your aisle seat.

“I’ll be fine,” he dismisses, waving a hand and fishing out his passport as you are called to the desk.

“Travelling together?” the pretty, painted lady breezes at you, holding out a perfectly manicured hand to take your passport and ticket. Then you watch her practically melt as she claps eyes on Benedict.

Tsk. Typical.

“Not exactl…” you begin.

“Yes,” he cuts in with a winning smile. “Sadly, we couldn't get seats together, though,” he pouts a touch theatrically.

“Oh! Well, let me see what I can do about that… It is Christmas, after all,” she winks at him conspiratorially, then taps on her keyboard.

A few minutes later, your bags are checked in, and you are upgraded to Premium Economy. The lady was apologetic that you still couldn't get seats together but a row apart instead. You are pretty sure if there was space, the handsome bastard would have gotten you upgraded to business without even trying.

Oh, to be a pretty Bridgerton.

___

Twelve hours later, you are in a taxi, tired but grateful for the additional legroom on the flight, even managing a few hours of light napping. Benedict is similarly sleepy, both of your heads lolling around as the car zips down the road. By the time you reach your family home, it’s evening, but to your body clocks, it's the middle of the night.

As you slide out of the taxi, a long arm wraps around your shoulders, and you startle.

“Best to look convincing from the off,” Benedict mutters as he throws his duffle bag on top of your suitcase and trundles them up the path with his other hand.

You nod and dutifully wrap your arm around his waist over his puffer coat, slightly annoyed at how good it feels, as if your arm belongs there. 

“This is so American it's almost a cliche,” he jests, looking up at your parents' house, holiday string lights twinkling in the dusk.

You giggle at his remark and bump him with your hip, quickly escalating into a friendly tussle. He hauls you into his arms and swings you in front of him.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, your limbic system alive at the feel of him pressed into you even behind heavy coats.

“Just go with it,” he responds with an easy confidence and that dazzling smile. As if in slow motion, his lips descend, and you reel as they lightly brush yours, an explosion behind your ribs at this passing touch.

Over your shoulder, you hear the front door opening and realise it’s for show, for a particular audience. You are grateful for the forethought but completely discombobulated from this partial kiss.

How am I going to survive a week of this?

“Mrs y/l/n, Mr y/l/n,” he calls as you linger in his arms, not wanting to turn around just yet.

“Well, hello there. This must be the famous Mr Bridgerton,” your dad's opening line. “We have heard so very little about you. Before yesterday anyway,” he adds, already twisting the knife in early as you pull up to the porch.

“That may well be because I asked her not to,” Benedict rebuts smoothly, releasing you to give a firm handshake. “I love the element of surprise,” he adds with a smile you have seen him deploy before, a weapon’s grade charm offensive.

Your mother’s face is a picture. “Well, well, we certainly didn't expect someone quite so handsome to accompany our daughter,” she drawls, verging on flirtatious. 

Benedict drapes his arm around your shoulders and nuzzles your hair. “Whyever not? She is simply wonderful,” he sighs, his hot breath tickling your scalp before letting you go again.

Damn, he is good at this.

“Hello, mom, dad…” you greet politely before moving in for a short hug from both.

“Happy holidays, darling. Let's get inside,” your mother fusses.

Within a few minutes, after some casual pleasantries are exchanged as you remove coats, you watch your mother give Benedict a tour of their home, including, to your chagrin, your childhood bedroom, which is a time capsule from your teen years. At least the dog-eared band posters have been taken down. As you drift back to the living room, Christmas music plays from a speaker behind the tree. Your family loves to go all out on the holiday decorating. It does feel festive and cosy, though.

“It will be a full house with all of our kids and their spouses staying tonight. So there are no spare rooms. You are on the sofabed in the den, Mr Bridgerton,” your dad comments, gesturing to the room next door; the message very clear.

“That's fine,” Benedict huffs genially, “and please, call me Ben.” 

“I might actually head to bed now,” you admit over a stifled yawn. “My body thinks it's 2am.”

“Same,” Benedict chimes.

“Oh, you should stay up, try to get into the timezone,” your mother clucks, always with an opinion about how you are not doing things how she would. “Ben has not yet been introduced to Tucker, Travis, Tegan and their spouses. They are all still out at dinner…” she indicates, listing your siblings and looking most perturbed at your decision.

“Tomorrow, Mom,” you assure.

“Alright,” she capitulates with a sigh, mostly when she sees Benedict yawn behind his hand. 

“Goodnight…” you offer to all and go to leave the room, but as you get to the door, Benedict stops you with an arm shooting out.

“Don't I get a goodnight kiss, my love?” he pouts.

At first, you look up at him shocked, then a flick of his eyes over your shoulder makes you realise he is continuing the ruse. 

“Maybe,” you flirt back, jetlag somehow making you daring. An ideal excuse to be coquettish, even though your parents likely can't hear your exchange above the music playing. They can certainly see your body language, though.

“Oh, I see. What do I have to do to earn it?” Benedict plays along, a dangerous smile and a large hand low on your lumbar spine, pulling you into him. 

“Tell me you will miss not sleeping next to me,” you boldly request, a little cheeky smile tugging at your lips to see how far he will let you push this.

A long finger swipes a tendril of hair out of your face and behind your ear, a thumb curling under your chin.

“Every night I'm not sleeping next to you is my misfortune,” he replies, sounding wistful, his eyes seeming to burn with something approaching sincerity. It makes your stomach swoop like you are standing on a cliff edge on a windy day.

“Good answer,” you stumble in acknowledgement, pushing up onto your tip toes, heart in your mouth.

“I do what I can,” he answers against your lips and then draws you into a slow, plush kiss. 

His mouth doesn't open, but it doesn't matter; the hint of wetness on his pursed lips has your body reacting, a charge ripping through your being. A sudden yearning for him to push you against the wall and plunder your mouth with his tongue. When he withdraws, you know your pupils are blown wide, but you are taken aback that his are, too; the dampness on his lip shines in the glow of the Christmas tree. 

Your father pointedly clearing his throat breaks the spell, and you jump apart as if burned.

“Sorry,” you both mumble and Benedict pulls the most adorable ‘oopsie, my bad’ face. 

“Goodnight, y/n,” he says tacitly.

“Goodnight, Ben.”

As you climb the stairs slowly, exhaling the breath it feels like you have been holding since he grabbed your arm, you know that kiss will be replaying in your head for weeks. If he keeps this up, you may well combust. 

This was a fantastically bad idea.

___

December 24th

You awaken on Christmas Eve when it’s still dark outside. A glance at your phone says it’s right after 4:30am. Already knowing you won’t get any more sleep, you throw open your case and grab slippers and a hoodie, deciding to head down to make a coffee.

You almost jump out of your skin when you see a silhouette sitting at the kitchen table.

“Sorry,” Benedict atones as he sees you clutching your chest, “time zones.”

“Same… coffee?”

“Please…”

As you potter around, making a pot as quiet as possible, he scrolls on his phone. You join him once it’s brewing.

“How is the sofa bed?” you ask, wincing guiltily.

“I've slept on worse,” he obfuscates jovially. 

“Sorry, if I’d known there wouldn't be a spare bed, I would have booked a hotel,” you apologise, rubbing your temples.

“No, it’s tradition to stay with family at Christmas,” he rebukes with a smile.

“Thank you again for all this,” you mutter, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets. “Have you done this fake boyfriend thing before?” your question is only partially in jest.

“No, what makes you say that?” he huffs bemused.

“You, uhh, have been doing an excellent acting job,” you shrug. “Thank you, by the way. I don’t think they quite believe I could land you, but I’d argue you have been very convincing regardless….”

“Don't say that,” he frowns, cutting in. 

“You don’t think they buy it?” concerned things may not be working as well as you believed.

“Not that,” he waves a dismissive hand, “the other thing. Why wouldn’t they believe you could ‘land me’?” he rounds off with a quotation gesture.

You bark a laugh. “Have you seen you?  

“Stop,” he seems genuinely ticked. “That is all shit. I would be lucky to have you,” he mumbles, not meeting your eye, staring out of the French doors into the inky blackness. It won’t be sunrise for another three hours this time of year. “I am lucky, in fact, to have you as a friend,” he adds, his thoughts sounding far away.

“Well, same. I still have no idea how to repay you for all of this…” you admit.

“I already said, none needed. Why would I not choose a little foreign adventure with a good friend when the alternative is Christmas alone?!” he scoffs as the coffee machine beeps.

Unsure quite what to say, you get up to make a cup, knowing without asking how he takes his. Retaking your seat, you pick at the idea again.

“I think we should strategise…” you mutter into your mug.

“About what?”

“The plan. Now you have some inkling of what they are like, maybe we should talk tactics…?” you trail off, not sure even yourself where you are going with this.

“It's simple, isn't it?” he counters, taking a gulp of coffee. “We hold hands, hug and kiss occasionally, you know, act like a couple….” he shrugs as if it's the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it is to him; his heart probably doesn't pound when you so much as touch.

“Okay, well, I guess we can improvise. But let me know if it all gets too much. Send me a secret code or something,” you offer.

“Like a safe word?” he chuckles.

“Something like that,” you allow, trying to mask the heat you feel creeping up your sternum at the very thought.

Just then, his phone vibrates on the table.

“Sorry, it's Ant. I should probably take this,” he apologises, standing up.

You swallow a sip of your coffee, trying not to think too hard about anything, when suddenly he leans over your shoulder from behind, the phone still buzzing in his hand.

“By the way, my safeword is Byron,” he rumbles silkily into your ear. “Not that I’ll ever need it,” he adds, walking away casually while you try to bring your heart rate back to normal.

Dear God, this man is going to kill me.

___

You take your coffee back to bed when Benedict doesn't reappear after a few minutes and end up passing out again for a couple of hours. By the time you are awake again, the house is a hive of noise and activity. You pass Kallie, your oldest brother's wife, in the hallway, and she punches your arm lightly.

“Welcome home, and well fucking done!” she winks, and you frown, confused what she’s talking about. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “That delicious slice of Britishness in there,” she elucidates. 

Shit! It just occurs to you that by falling back asleep, you left Benedict alone to fend for himself in the melee of your family. The poor man must be mauled alive by now.

So when you enter the kitchen, the last thing you expect to see is the sight before you. Benedict, with an apron on, tossing American-style pancakes like a pro on the hotplate while your family chatters around him, applauding as he serves up another perfect-looking batch.

“Darling!” he calls when he sees you. “Come here!” he exclaims warmly, holding out his arms.

Unsure what else to do and powerless to resist the opportunity, you walk over and allow yourself to be swept into his arms. He presses a kiss onto your cheek. He smells like butter and syrup, and you want to burrow into him.

“Sorry I left you alone in the lion's den,” you say close to his ear so only he can hear.

He smiles into your hair. “They are fine, honestly; I can handle it,” he assures mutely.

You pull back and swipe a tiny fleck of batter from his face, enjoying the round of his cheekbone as you do. What makes an odd weight land on your ribs is how his pupils dilate fractionally as you lick the dot off your thumb.

“Delicious, Mr Bridgerton,” again, unable to stop yourself from flirting with him now you have the excuse.

Something in him looks almost wild as your gaze locks.

“Get a room!” your brother, Tucker, jeers from the table.

Part of you wants to sass back some version of ‘apparently we’re not allowed’ and ‘I wish’, but all you can do is smile at Benedict as he mirrors your expression.

“More, please, Mr Brid-un,” your youngest nephew toddles over, holding up his plate expectantly.

Benedict finally looks away and ruffles the little kid’s hair. “Certainly, Brandon,” he offers warmly.

“What I find fascinating is how a proper British gentleman knows how to make good old-fashioned American pancakes,” your mother pipes up from her seat at the kitchen island.

“Oh, my nanny was an American,” Benedict waves the spatula as he pours more batter onto the hotplate and begins a new batch.

“Your grandmother was from the colonies?” Travis mocks, feigning outrage.

“Oh no… not that sort. My umm nanny nanny, as in the lady who looked after us as kids,” he explains, looking somewhat sheepish.

“Shhiittttt,” your sister Teegan drawls, looking up from her phone for the first time. “You’re like actual rich, huh?”

“Language Tee!” your mother warns from across the room.

Teegan pulls a face and then turns her attention back to Benedict, awaiting his response.

“Please, can you all not be so… y/l/n,” you cut in, holding up your hands to the gathered family. “For once, can you all just…?” you taper off, hoping they will read between the lines.

“How’d you two meet?” Dean, Teegan’s husband, calls out, ignoring your plea completely.

“We actually met at university many years ago,” Benedict explains, flipping the pancakes as they bubble. “But we started working together last year on various projects, and well, we grew much closer.” 

So far, so truthful.

“Then, well, one memorable day, when we successfully wrapped up a project we had worked on so hard together, I realised she meant so much more to me than a friend,” Benedict continues, sounding so sincere you almost believe it yourself. A tiny flutter in your chest that the project he refers to could be the Gala. “I kept it to myself for a while, but late one night, I couldn't resist, and I confessed my feelings. I am the luckiest man alive because it turns out she felt the same. And, well… here we are,” he concludes, shooting you a look so loaded you forget it's a yarn for a few seconds.

“Friends-to-lovers, I stan,” Claire, your other sister-in-law, comments. She always has her head stuck in some romance book.

As Benedict serves the next batch, the focus of the room is pulled to your nieces and nephews as they overload their pancakes with toppings, and you are grateful to be out of the glare of the family spotlight temporarily.

“How did I do?” Benedict murmurs into your ear as he sidles up next to you, wrapping an arm around your back. There's a tinge of pride in his voice. He knows he has them eating out the palm of his hand, and fuck if it isn't so attractive.

“I should tip you…” you joke, not wanting to give away quite how flustered you are.

“I accept payment in kisses,” he breathes, his smouldering stare sliding down to your lips as you crane your head to look up at him. 

It's only a few minutes later, as you grab a pancake from the stack that you realise he didn't say that at volume anyone else could hear… it was purely for you. And you have no earthly idea what to do with that thought.

___

The rest of Christmas Eve passes with your family’s usual rituals, with Benedict beside you, playing the doting boyfriend to perfection. Each brush of his makes your adrenaline spike—a divine torture. 

While dinner is cooking in the afternoon, your parents usher most of you out of the house for a walk in the bracing cold to build up an appetite. And so you stroll, Benedict’s gloved hand in yours.

“So Ben, is everyone in London not married with kids, or is it only my sister who can't seem to figure it out despite her old age?” your sister Teegan digs as she pushes the buggy next to you.

“Well, we are a similar age, and I'm not married with kids either,” he points out breezily.

“Yeah, but…” she halts, realising there is no response she can think of. “Wait, why don't you have kids yet? Don’t you want a family? I thought you said you had lots of brothers and sisters?”

“I do come from a big family, yes. And I suppose one day, yes, I do want kids of my own,” he adds, seemingly honest as you listen intently, your heartbeat in your ears, “but I feel no rush yet.”

“So you’re not knocking this one up anytime soon then?” your brother Tucker stirs, checking your shoulder roughly from the other side.

You can't help but feel a blush darken your cheeks at that and refuse to look up at Benedict. You open your mouth to tell Tucker to shut up, but Benedict cuts across you.

“If anyone has come close to being someone I would consider having kids with, it's your sister,” he admits casually, as if talking about the weather. But for you, it feels like you are back on that proverbial cliff edge about to dive over, heart racing. It takes every fibre of your being to keep walking and acting naturally, grateful for the gloves between your joined hands; not sure you could handle his skin touching yours as he says such things.

“Ooooooo,” Tucker singsongs, “going to the chapel, and they’re gonna get mar...”

“Cut it out!” you grouse.

He peels a laugh, then jogs on ahead to catch up with Dean.

“I’m sorry about that,” your apology hushed as you keep walking, Teegan falling behind you to deal with one of her kids' tantrums.

“Why? It's an inevitable question when you meet your other half’s family,” he points out, squeezing your hand reassuringly as you wander as a pair.

“Yes, but… it's a bit much, considering they just met you hours ago. They are intentionally stirring the pot. Trying to scare you off,” you frown, realising what they are doing as you say it aloud.

Benedict stops walking, and it makes you halt, too. “Nothing could scare me off,” he assures, his face soft with understanding as he cups your jaw. His cold, damp glove is a balm to your flushed, embarrassed face.

“Right,” you nod, “cos this is all fake…” you add quietly, trying to hide the defeated tone.

“Anyone who knows how great you are would not be scared off by the idea of a future with you,” Benedict says soothingly, a thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“Well, when you meet a candidate who fits that bill, send them over to me, yeah?” you quip brittly as you look off into the distance, unable to meet his hazy, sincere eyes.

His response is interrupted by your niece tugging on his coat.

“Uncle Ben, can I sit on your shoulders? Please? Daddy already has Brandon, and my feet are so tired,” she whines in that dramatic way only little ones do.

Benedict laughs and releases you. “Certainly, Sofia,” he smiles as he hauls her onto his shoulders, uncaring of the mess her little boots smear onto his coat as he does so.

“Faster! Go faster!” she orders, and genially, Benedict obeys, moving ahead and breaking into a light jog as she giggles loudly and holds onto his chin.

You try to ignore the flutter in your chest at the sight of him with a kid on his shoulders, as if he were born to do so.

This was such a mistake…

___

“When are you moving home, y/n?”

You knew this was likely coming. The question your mum has to ask every time you visit. And every year, your answer is the same.

“I don't think I will be, Mom,” you explain calmly as you pass the plate of peas to your sister, not wanting to look at Benedict, who sits opposite you at the long table. “I love London. It feels like home,” you add with a shrug.

“Yes, but this living abroad thing is supposed to be a phase—a young person thing. You are mid-thirties now. It's time you settled down,” she frowns.

“I am settled,” you reply neutrally, “I have a place of my own that I love.”

“Yes, but an apartment, sorry ‘flat’,” she self-corrects sarcastically, “that’s not a real home. A home is a house with a garden in a safe town with good schools for your children,” she lectures.

This line of discussion used to annoy and rile you up, but you have become weary of it over the years. The rest of your family is tucking into their food but listening smugly, having towed the traditional family line.

“I think home can be many things,” Benedict pipes up from across the table. “A home is about where you feel safe and secure, surely Mrs y/l/n?”

“Well, yes…” your mother falters, slightly taken aback by his interruption but still charmed by his effortless congeniality.

“Then I would say your daughter’s home is London,” he smiles disarmingly. “You should see her there; I encourage you to visit sometime. She has a home she has made beautiful. She has many friends, and she is amazing at her job. She is happy. I, for one, cannot imagine her anywhere else.”

Again, you can feel your heart beating at his sweet words, even knowing they are all for show; it's lovely that someone has your back for once, defending your choices.

“But what of the schools, Mr Bridgerton?” your dad piles in, “I have heard nightmares of the school system in the inner cities, in this country and yours,” he shudders.

“My family has always gone to a superb prep school in Chelsea. I see no reason why our children could not do the same when the time comes,” Benedict responds with a winning smile.

You almost drop the corn casserole at that line.

Plonking it heavily on the table and taking a deep breath, you finally pluck the courage to look over at him. Looking back at you is a playful smile and a wink. And suddenly, you know what he is doing. It likely appears genuine to others, but you know him too well; you know all his facial tells. He is doing this for sport. To entertain you. The kaleidoscope of emotions you feel is near exhausting, relief mixed with a tang of disappointment that it's all for show.

“Well, that's wonderful news, Benedict,” your mother squeaks. “I cannot wait to hear more once you are engaged,” never failing to find an opportunity to take a dig.

“You will be the first to hear, I promise,” he smiles winningly and takes a bite of food. “This is delicious, by the way,” he adds, “I hope you will share the recipe with me, seeing as we will likely be family one day...”

And just like that, he expertly manoeuvres your mother onto the only topic she loves more than marriage - cooking. As if he could intuit how to steer the conversation. Relieved, you sit back and finally take a deep breath, then a bite of your admittedly delicious plate. You are even grateful he manages to distract them long enough that there are no jibes about your weight.

Maybe this wasn't such a mistake…

___

A few hours later, with the little ones tucked up in bed, the adults gather around the tree with the fireplace roaring and the festive music softly playing. It's time for gift exchange, a family tradition away from the hubbub of Christmas morning with the focus on the children ripping through all the gifts Santa left for them.

You are enjoying the buzz a second large glass of wine provides when the focus turns to you. Benedict sits beside you and slides a hand onto your knee. Still, your body reacts, but you attempt to act as if it doesn't make your blood pump hard in your head.

“Benedict, we didn't know you were coming, so I'm sorry we have no gift for you to open,” your mother says sheepishly, “and y/n, we have done as you always ask; we have sent you a gift card over email,” she explains, “which makes me sad as you have no gift to unwrap….”

“That's fine, Mom, thank you. And don't worry, I don't need a gift,” you assure, taking another swig.

“Actually….” Benedict clears his throat, “I have a gift for my girlfriend if that is okay?”

You look agog at him.

“But… I didn't get you anything,” you splutter, even as he moves his hand from you and reaches behind his back, revealing a small navy velvet box.

“Don't worry. It's nothing really, just something small,” Benedict assures, even as you can feel everyone’s eyes on you as you reluctantly let him place it in your hands.

Slowly, you pull at the tail of the lovely soft gold ribbon until it relents. With your heart in your mouth, you snap open the box. Nestled in more navy velvet is a tiny, beautiful crystal penguin, your favourite animal.

“Ben…” you are lost for all other words, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“I remember you loved the larger one my mum had on her desk,” he explains lowly as you stare transfixed by all the facets catching the twinkling light. “Every time we had a meeting, you would stare at it or play with it. So I knew I had to get you one too, for your desk… or wherever you want to put it,” he modifies sweetly.

You can't help it - the swell of emotions makes you throw your arms around him as you clutch the precious item. It's like he has managed to distil everything you could want from a Christmas gift - something personal, tailored to you, nothing too extravagant but small, elegant and beautiful. And that he had the forethought to bring it across the Atlantic with him makes your heart burst even more. He is possibly the best friend you could ever have. You fervently wish he was so much more.

“I can't believe you remember that,” you mumble. “This is perfect and beautiful. Thank you, Ben, thank you so much.”

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he says into your hair at a volume you know is designed to be heard by the room.

“Merry Christmas,” you return quieter, only for him.

Vaguely, you hear your mother moving on to hand a gift to another, perhaps embarrassed by the display of affection between you. Grateful that the family focus seems to have shifted to someone else, you go to pull away from the embrace, but Benedict draws you tighter into him. 

“Lovers don't let go so quickly,” he whispers. “Now I'm going to kiss you again if that is okay…”

Your tummy flips. “Okay…” you barely struggle out the word.

Then his hand is on your cheek, and time seems to slow like treacle; his eyes burn into yours as he moves in, then flutter closed as his lips meet yours. Again, it is like a rollercoaster, a thrilling plunge as his lips move over yours. It's like the previous night, respectful with a closed mouth but so sweet and promising, so much more a whole ripple runs through your body. You need more, so much more, desperate to climb into his lap and demand a real kiss, audience be damned.�� When you part, he tilts his forehead against yours and smiles gently, licking his lip as if savouring the taste.

“I'm glad you like it. The gift that is,” he clarifies, a sweet mumble.

You giggle. “I love it, Ben, thank you. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything; I feel terrible.”

“Being here with you is gift enough,” he assures in a voice that melts your insides, which you assume is for the audience.

My god, this man will be the death of me.

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant fog of wine, your siblings holding court and telling stories as you listen, feeling the weight of Benedict’s hand again on your leg as he sips on a whiskey. Once again, you feel the creeping of jetlag and decide to turn in around 10pm. You give Benedict a peck on the cheek before he can draw you into another confounding kiss and make your escape upstairs with a glass of eggnog and your book.

As you settle into bed, you try not to let your thoughts spiral as you catch sight of the crystal penguin in its box. Instead, you tell yourself he is a good friend and rich; it's likely nothing to him, and not to read too much into it.

___

December 25th 

At some point, you drift off to sleep, book in hand, the timezone still catching you out. You only realise it when you are awoken suddenly around 2am by a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you croak, sitting up and rubbing your eyes to adjust to the light; you had fallen asleep with the bedside lamp on low while reading.

The door opens ajar, and Benedict’s handsome face pops in. “I saw your light on…” he says softly, “just wanted to check on you.”

You put your book aside, pull the covers around your neck and feel an odd flutter as he closes the door behind him. He looks cosy in long tartan pyjama bottoms and a soft dark t-shirt.

“I'm sure your dad would kill me if he knew I were here,” he jests as he hovers a few feet away.

“Come sit,” you pat the bed next to you, even as you feel strange about him being here, dead of night on Christmas Day. 

He nods gratefully and perches on the edge of your bed. It's a full-size mattress, bigger than a twin, but not a double bed. You can feel his weight tugging the bedding tight over your thighs.

“Thank you again for my gift, truly,” you gesture to the box on your bedside table.

“I had to. I couldn't think of anything more… you...” Benedict smiles that demure smile with downcast eyes that always makes you want to shake him and tell him to stop looking so fucking adorable. Or mount him. Or both. You have to bite your lip to stop blurting out your errant thoughts.

“But still to buy me such a wonderful gift and put up with my family… I mean… you deserve a medal,” you shrug.

A hand clamps onto your knee through the bedding, but it still surprises you. 

“Stop it,” he gruffs. “I'm going to need you to stop. Seriously. I chose to come here. It's been fun. Something different. Yes, your family is a bit… intense, but everyone’s is. Each has its own special blend of crazy. You’ve seen the Bridgerton brand of dysfunctional up close,” he points out, knowing without saying more how much you have watched them bicker over the years.

“But you’ve said all those lovely things, made up all these amazing believable stories…” you argue back weakly.

“Every single thing I have said to your family has been the truth,” he responds solemnly.

You replay a few choice record-scratch moments in your head. “But what about the stuff about me being the person you could see yourself having kids with and where these imaginary kids would go to school…” you point out, wincing as you do.

“I told no lies,” he answers each syllable enunciated slowly, staring you down.

It feels like your whole world tilts when he utters those words.

“What are you saying?” you query, breathier than you mean to sound but needing him to spell it out.

He sighs, but a mischievous grin twitches the corner of his mouth. “You are much smarter than this; don't be obtuse now, y/n,” he rumbles, something in the challenging way he says it catches a fire behind your ribs.

“Ben…” you warn, so many contradictory feelings at once.

“You are all the things I said and more, and you must know how amazing you are,” he offers softly as you feel your eyes misting.

“Please don't,” your last vestige of resistance, still not believing what he says can possibly be true, too close to a festive miracle. Part of you thinks that at any moment, you will wake up alone and bereft.

His fingertips brush your cheek, and you inhale sharply and look up to see him inches from your face.

“Fine, if you don't somehow believe my words, maybe you’ll believe my deeds…”

It's the last few words out of his mouth before his lips meet yours.

This time, it's not for an audience; it's just for the two of you, and it almost stops your heart. A hesitant, soft, sweet brush that becomes more as he leans in and deepens the kiss. His lips part yours as your mind grinds to a halt, tentatively following his lead, kissing him back… the catalyst, the permission he needs. A large hand rounds behind your head and pulls you forward. Suddenly, it's a tidal wave, his tongue rolling greedily over yours, becoming hungry, urgent, desperate, your body awash with chemicals, scarcely able to believe Benedict, the star of every one of your spicy dreams, is here in your childhood bedroom, kissing the very life out of you in the early hours of Christmas Day.

“Lay down,” he murmurs into your skin as his lips glide over your cheek, and you follow his order without thought, shuffling down obediently until you lie flat and stare up at him transfixed. 

It’s as if he’s taken your disbelief as a challenge to prove how very real this is. With one hand, he tosses aside the covers and crawls over you until he is engulfing you, surrounding you with his scent that makes your mouth water. His lips are hot on your neck as his hands map your body, lingering in places you are self-conscious about. 

“Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” he sighs as if disputing your internal monologue, his breath ghosting warm over your collarbone. 

“Stop…” you demure, wriggling under him, feeling bashful.

“No..” his crooked smile is lethal as his head pops up from worrying your throat with a little edge of his teeth. His hand skates your clothed breast, and on instinct, you push up into it, your nipple hardening as the heat of his palm seeps through your nightshirt. “Please take off your top,” he implores, his mouth finding your lips again. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamt of touching your naked body.”

“I can’t believe this…” you mutter, shaky, confounded that it could be true—the man you desire desiring you back just as wantonly. He lowers his body between your legs, surging his hips so you feel something insistent inside his pyjamas.

“Now, do you believe me?” he dusks into your ear.

“Benedict…” falls from your lips as an excited shudder.

“Say my name again, please,” he huffs right against your cheekbone, pinning you under him with his pelvis.

“Benedict,” you repeat, revelling in the effect it seems to have on him.

It gives you the courage to whip off your top. The noise he makes as he realises you are naked underneath it is a beeline right between your legs.

“Shh,” you hush, giggling, a rush through your veins, not wanting anyone to disturb this, as he slides his lips down over your skin towards your breasts.

“I cannot,” he remarks gleefully,  “not with such a bounty beneath me.” 

His lips clamp onto your left nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Might wake fam…” you stumble out, impressed you can even do that.

He pulls up, his biceps in tense relief as he balances on his fists curled on either side of your waist. “Then lock your damn door,” he growls in a way that has you clenching.

“No lock…” you squeak, wishing beyond belief you had one.

“Shit, really?” he sighs, leaning back down to kiss over your sternum. “I’m not sure I can be quiet; I’ve wanted this for too long…”

You go to query that statement, but he moves to your other breast and does the same, so the only sound you are capable of is a guttural moan.

“Shh,” he hushes you back cheekily, tilting his head up from your chest, eyes sparkling and face so achingly handsome you still can barely believe this is happening,

“We really do have to be quiet…” you point out reluctantly.

“I know,” he sighs into your breastbone, dropping a soft kiss there. “I want to tell you so many things….” 

“Whisper them to me…” you beseech, running your fingers through his lush, thick head of hair, tilting your breast back up to his mouth.

He smirks and catches your unsubtle hint, once again using his talented mouth to make you shudder under him. He runs a finger down your centre line to your belly. 

“Your body is perfect,” he sighs. You go to protest, but he shoots you a disapproving look, so you bite back your words. “I could get lost for hours tracing your lines,” he hums, his featherlight touch tickling as it crosses under your belly button, making you giggle. “Hmm, a little ticklish too,” he sounds utterly captivated by that discovery, throwing you a very troublesome expression.

“Don't use it against me…” you warn, knowing he will ignore you, a fizzy feeling at this playfulness.

“Oh, I just might…” he chuckles as he runs his tongue lower over your torso, a hot, damp line that leaves fluttering in his wake. “I could do this all night…your skin is so soft,” he purrs, inhaling deeply, nuzzling his nose above the line of your pyjama bottoms. “You always smell so fantastic,” he sighs, using his teeth to tug on the ribbon. 

You’ve never had someone be this vocal during intimacy. It makes you feel reassured but also slightly bewildered by just how aroused you are getting, Benedict’s resonant voice skittering compliments over your skin, making you embarrassingly wet. Your hands greedily pull at his t-shirt, hoping he will get the hint.

“If you want something from me, you have to say it,” he teases as he switches to using his fingers to undo the bow on your pyjamas. 

“Please take off your top, Ben,” you mewl, even as your heart pounds at the idea you will soon be naked under him.

“I will,” he promises, “in a minute…” 

As if sensing your apprehension about removing your last item of clothing, he leaves it in place, shuffling lower and stretching your legs wide with his shoulders. You gasp loudly as his mouth, hot through the thin cotton protecting your modesty, sucks insistently over your slit. A large hand curling around your hip to stop you canting off the bed. Your clit throbs, and your pussy leaks copiously down your bottom.

“Fuck I can tell how wet you are even through this fabric,” he stutters.

“I'm sorry...” you squirm, embarrassed.

He surges upright, grabs your hands from around his head and cages them on the mattress beside your hips.

“Let's get two things very clear,” his voice stern but achingly seductive. “One, your body is incredible, and you should know by now how much I desire you. Two, if you ever apologise again for being turned on, I will be annoyed. Do you know how proud I am? That I can do this to you? How absolutely rigid this makes me?” rutting his hard cock against your left calf to prove his point. “I want your desire running down to your knees. I want you mindless and trembling with need for me.” 

“O-okay,” you stumble out, entranced. This filthy poetry and feralness is beyond anything you could imagine him capable of. You have seen hints of his menacing potential, but full force, it’s breathtaking.

“Good,” he smiles crookedly, releasing your hands. “Now lift your hips so I can get you properly naked,” the slightly bossy rejoinder really working for you.

Mutely, you do as bidden, his fingertips trailing fire down your hips as he tugs the material over your thighs, impatiently pulling them from around your ankles and tossing them over his shoulder, his gaze locked onto your body. He groans a curse, and you again find yourself clenching around nothing at his untamed response.

Whispering his name is a reflex, your fingers carding again into his hair as he lowers his mouth and suckles the skin of your hip before slowly, almost torturously, winding his way lower towards your centre. Every place he touches feels alive and fluttering, him whispering reassurance and praise into your flesh, like a sensual requiem that catches your breath. By the time he trails his nose down the crease where your thigh meets your body, you are panting, eyes screwed shut, head tilted back, anticipation knotting your guts.

“Look at me,” he orders softly, his face framed by your thighs as you gulp and look down the plane of your body to him. “Don’t look away; I want to see your eyes when I do this,” his breath hot on your slit.

He unfurls his tongue and ploughs through your wet flesh, making your toes and fingers curl. You have to bite your lip and curse behind your teeth, the sensation overwhelming, his eye flashing fire in his blown pupils at your bodily reaction. You hiss loudly, needing to call out so bad your lungs ache. You twist your pillow to bite down on a corner but keep your eyes on him as told. He chuckles pridefully, the sensation shooting up your pelvis, then keeps going. Teasing around your clit with a lathing action that is nothing like you've had before, devouring, using his whole face, strong arms wrapping your thighs in a vice-like grip, held lewdly open It feels so good that within moments you are panting. Still, part of you is tense, scared about your ability to be silent.

“Relax,” he breathes, shaking your hip gently in his grip, sensing the tension in your being. 

“I'm worried I won't be able to stay quiet enough,” you admit, muffled around the pillowcase, looking away to stare at the ceiling as he busses a soft kiss onto your inner thigh.  

“One moment…” he withdraws and hops off the bed. You watch, vaguely dazed, as he drags a heavy chair against the door and wedges it under the handle so it can’t be opened. “There, now we should get some warning.”.

When he turns back around, you instinctively pull the cover over yourself to hide your naked body, even as you can’t help but stare at the tent in his pyjama bottoms, mouth watering at visions of what lies beneath.

“Don’t do that,” he reproaches softly, “show yourself to me.”

Reluctantly, you push the sheet away again, squirming slightly as his eyes roam your body lasciviously as he prowls over to you, stripping off his t-shirt as he does. His naked torso is perfect, toned and honed, and as he crawls over you, you are hypnotised by the view. 

“You are so beautiful,” he sighs, dropping a kiss on the tip of your nose, the scent of your arousal on his face. “Never cover yourself in front of me; you should be proud of your body.”

You’ve never had someone say that before, and your insides are molten, a need for him that burns so bright, an inferno purely of his making.

“Tell me what you want,” he proposes, lacing your fingers with his, kissing your fingertips, then sucking them into his mouth, looking at you expectantly as you stutter at his warm, wet, talented tongue lathing over your fingertips.

“Everything…” you blurt out honestly. “Anything. This is all wonderful… Can I return the favour for you?” you deflect, brushing your other hand tentatively over his bulge as he hovers over you.

“Yes, you bloody can,” he growls, releasing your fingers from his lips as his eyes flash dark. But he grabs your hand away from his cock, calming his tone. “But not tonight. Another time…”

“Another time?” you echo, temporarily stunned by the idea this isn't a never-to-be-repeated Christmas miracle.

“Yes. Why would you think this a one-time thing?” his brow knits as he drops a kiss on your cheek. “What about my actions and words tonight suggest that?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” you concede, “just history…”

He cups your jaw. “The past is the past. This is now and me,” he states clearly, running a thumb tenderly over your lip. “I will do whatever you want. If you tell me to leave this room right now, I will, and I won't think any less of you…”

“Don't you dare,” it's a snarl from some dark recess deep inside you, your legs twining around his to lock him in place.

“There she is…” he chuckles, that lopsided grin taking over his face before kissing a line down your throat. “Now tell me what you want, y/n.”

“I want you inside me,” you confess, running your hands over his naked back, loving the play of muscles under warm skin.

He groans at your words, an edge of teeth on your jugular, making you ripen, feel daring. If he wants to know just how wild he makes you, you are going to show it. You grab his face and drag it up until he is over you again, his pupils blown and his hair a mess from your tugging.

“Fuck me, right now, Ben,” you demand hotly, pushing your body up into his and delving a hand inside the back of his pyjamas to grab his shapely rear, keen for him to be as naked as you.

He snarls and pins your arms beside your head on the pillow.

“Do you have any condoms?” he breathes hot in your ear.

“Ah shit,” your head thumps back, chastising yourself for not planning better. But then this seemed like such an unlikely outcome, frankly miraculous; why on earth would you have?

“Good thing I came prepared then,” he teases, releasing his grip to produce a small packet from the pocket of his pyjamas.

“You….” you scold, equal parts impressed and irked, running your fingers around his waistband. 

“It was a sincere wish, not an expected conclusion,” he smiles bashfully, his lips meeting yours for a searing kiss as he slips off the last of his clothing.

A shiver runs down your spine as he bears you into the mattress, naked, his rigid cock brandishing the inside of your thigh. He keeps kissing you over and over until your lips feel tingly from the slight hint of stubble around his. You wrap all of your limbs around him, craving for your bodies to be melded.

When he pushes up slightly to rip open the packet, you glance down and see, nestled in a patch of trimmed hair, a sizeable but very pretty cock. You can’t resist reaching out and touching it, loving the feel of steely strength under the silky texture; his soft groan is like music to your ears. Sighing his name, you are impatient for him to be inside you, already knowing it will feel wonderful, part of you craving skin on skin. 

Again he wears that demure smile, looking up at you through his lashes, so you take over, eagerly rolling the condom onto that pretty cock and then pulling him down on top of you forcefully.

“I like it when you are just a little bossy,” he confesses into your mouth, one hand pulling the cover over you both, then sliding between your bodies to guide himself towards you.

“I like it when you are a little bossy,” you counter, but then all your words die out as his cock slides insistently into you.

Your eyes roll back as he inches inside, so much heat and girth, your body stretching to accommodate his invasion. You both seem to utter a curse, and your hands grasp each other tight.

“You feel amazing…” he murmurs as he bottoms out, the feeling of fullness so perfect.

You whisper your agreement as he withdraws and surges back in, your feet curling around his legs, toes sliding into the light fuzz on the back of his calves. There are soft sighs, both of you trying to muffle your sounds as he sets a languid pace, your body rolling with his; each push has your walls clinging to him, your breasts squashing against his broad chest. What strikes you most as you move together is that nothing is awkward; it all feels natural, predestined, an easy intimacy that suggests months or even years together rather than a first time.

He feels so good moving inside you, so perfect; all you can do is cling to him, trying to convey with your eyes what you dare not voice. Afraid that if you open your mouth, you will release the noises you are fighting to hold in, blazing in your lungs. His stare is blistering, too, a blush across his face that speaks of desire and denied words, his neck corded, a pulse beating wildly in his prominent vein, a sheen gathering on his forehead as he pushes into you over and over.

His breath is hot on your temple as he shifts, dropping a shoulder and reaching down, looping your leg into the crook of his arm, the sheet pulling taut around your knee as he does. He hits a new spot deep inside with his next thrust, which has you digging your nails into his back and whimpering behind your sealed lips. It's as if he is doing his damnedest to break you, make you cry out, and it's the best torture you have ever known.

You huff out of your nose as he does the same, both sounding winded, as he picks up the pace, your teenage bed starting to squeak in protest.

“Shhh,” you plead with the furniture as much as him.

He stops moving, buried in you, and reaches above, stuffing a throw pillow between the bedframe and the wall, his arms flexing deliciously right over your face, the scent of his body spiking your need. It makes you grasp your thighs around his hips and flip him over, landing with a bounce, him still inside as you are on top of him now.

“Wow, that was…” he looks both astounded and exhilarated.

“Surprising?” you supply with a triumphant crooked smile of your own, your hands tracing the lines of his pectorals.

“Wonderful,” he clarifies, his hands grasping your hips as you start to ride him. The way he looks up at you, with dark pupils and a bitten lip, makes you fearless. Starting a leisurely pace, you place your hands over his on your hips, fingers lacing as his eyes slip from yours briefly, transfixed by his cock disappearing into you.

He groans low, undulating beneath you, pushing up as you sink down, his eyes back to your face, a prideful expression as your mouth drops open, his cock nudging deeper than ever before, almost a dull ache that you need, moving faster now, chasing that hit with every downstroke. You can feel your body flushing hot from the exertion, your thigh muscles burning slightly. Still, you don't waver, too addicted to that feeling of being so utterly filled, his cock dragging all the right places inside that switch off your brain and forget everything, every doubt, every uncertainty about yourself and your body, and just chase pleasure. 

“My god, you are beautiful,” he gasps, “I love to see you like this, so untamed, so free…” 

The compliments just drip like whispered jewels from his tongue as he guides your joined hands up to your breasts and grabs them with a force that fans the heavy, hot feeling in your pelvis, his knuckles snagging your sensitive buds. It makes you want to ride him forever, your clit throbbing each time you sink down, tugging temptingly but not enough to quite tip you over. The clawing sensation of being so close makes you drag your fingernails down his torso and clench around his cock. He stutters and looks at you hungrily, possessed, and then, before you know it, the room tilts as he rolls you back under him, again never leaving your body.

He withdraws and thrusts back into you with such force the wind is knocked out of your lungs, the pillow muffling the thud against the wall. Something in the atmosphere shifts; an urgency, like the heat that has been simmering, is now boiling over for both of you. He grabs your knees and encourages you to wrap your legs high around his torso, tilting your pelvis to a new angle, and when he moves, you cry loudly behind your lips, his body glancing at your clit.

He hushes you with a prideful chuckle. So you grab one of his hands and place it over your mouth, knowing you cannot trust yourself to stay quiet now. The hitch in his breath as you gag yourself with his palm is like poetry. 

Oh, Ben, you have no idea what I may want from you one day…

Your errant thoughts run to your darker fantasies, things you’ve never done before but are intrigued by, and in every one of them, it's him. Treating you just a little rough while you beg for more.

“Whatever you are thinking,” he gusts into your ear, moving faster now, “I hope it involves me.”

You nod, feeling his fingers flex across your face.

“Good, I can't wait for you to tell me,” he rasps lowly.

A bead of sweat forms along his hairline as the whole bed rocks now, the trapped pillow muffling the sound, his punishing pace pushing you ever closer to orgasm, pleasure spiking with each thrust. His hand grips your jaw; something about that pressure and the sweet words he murmurs is a contradiction of primal and tender. Sex before has always been one or the other for you; blended together, it's a potent elixir.

He takes you hard, without mercy, and you silently beg him with your eyes for just that; his cock feels so hot and rigid, pounding into you as your cries are muffled by his tangy palm. The onslaught is perfect, and you are teetering on the edge just as he pleads roughly with you to come with him. So you let yourself go, your mind blanks out, your body bucking under his violently. Shuddering convulsions fanning out from your pussy, gripping tight around him and racing through every ounce of your being, muscles taut, eyes screwed shut, a scream trapped in your lungs. He stills above you, his hand releasing your mouth as that bead of sweat splashes down onto your nose. He curls around you, coming hard, huffing gulps of air and twitching almost violently with tiny aftershocks.

After a pause filled with panted breaths and strokes on overheated skin, he carefully withdraws and discards the condom.

“Merry Christmas,” you giggle into his neck as you collapse together.

He hauls you into his embrace, tucking you under his arm and kissing your dewy forehead. 

“Merry Christmas indeed,” his answer ragged, wrapped in a warm laugh.

And that is how you both drift off - exhausted, sated bodies entwined, damp skin pressed together.

___

A few hours later, you are awakened by overexcited nieces and nephews thundering down the stairs, eager to see what Santa has brought them. It takes a moment to recall what transpired overnight, a telltale delicious residual pang between your legs, followed by the realisation you are alone. Part of you relieved Benedict has snuck back to the safety of the den, but a larger part sad not to be waking up in his arms. Sighing, you roll over and spy a jaunty cartoon penguin Christmas card propped up on your bedside table. Upon opening, you beam, immediately recognising the beautiful, looped handwriting.

Y/n 

Thank you for the most magical night. Leaving this bed might be the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather be on Christmas Day or, indeed, any other day of the year. But I don't want your father to be angry with me. I have a lifetime to disappoint him… if you will let me. 

I can't wait to see you downstairs.

Merry Christmas,

B xx

P.S. I may have just booked a hotel for the rest of our stay. I think we deserve some privacy ;)

You giggle, elated; the exciting prospect of nights in a hotel and the pledge of a lifetime ahead makes your stomach leap—this could be the start of something. You momentarily clutch the card to your chest, revelling in your joy, before burying it into your book for safekeeping and going to take a shower.

When you descend the stairs, out of the picture window, you see most of the family gathered on the street with the kids circling on their new bikes. But as you round into the living room, a sight melts your heart. Benedict sitting cross-legged on the floor with Sofia, a novelty Santa hat perched on his head, surrounded by shreds of wrapping paper, festive music playing in the background as he puts batteries in some loud plastic toy that will no doubt drive everyone up the wall for the rest of the day. 

She whoops with delight as the toy noisily springs to life and runs away to play with it. That's when he looks up and sees you watching from the doorway, his face lighting up. Slowly, he gets to his feet, and then you gasp as he wordlessly pulls you into his arms, brings your hand to his face and kisses your knuckles before starting to waltz.

“I didn't know you could dance like this, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease, impressed, allowing him to lead you around, dodging haphazard toys and boxes.

“Oh, there are so many, many things you have yet to learn about me, Ms y/l/n,” he proclaims alluringly as Frank Sinatra croons from the speaker.

♫ It's that time of year  When the world falls in love Every song you hear seems to say Merry Christmas May your New Year's dreams come true. ♫

“I hope you don't have plans for New Year's,” he whispers into your hair as he brings you to a halt. “I would very much like you to accompany me to Aubrey Hall. As my girlfriend,” he explains, grinning. “Not fake,” he adds drolly after a pause.

You laugh, feeling lightheaded and giddy, but just as you go to answer, you are both interrupted by a little hand tugging on his jeans. 

“Uncle Ben, you are my favouritist,” Sofia declares solemnly. “Will you visit every Christmas?”

Meeting your gaze, his expression contains multitudes. 

“It would be my greatest honour, Sofia,” he replies to her, even though his eyes never stray from yours.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

Lights divider by @/saradika [x]

[niallerspayno]

Bordersz

Masterlist

A round of Never Have I Ever turns revealing when you admit you’ve never had sex—and suddenly, Zayn Malik is looking at you like he’s found something he didn’t know he was missing. One slow, heated night later, it’s clear this isn’t just casual anymore.

Tags: Zayn x reader, smut (virgin reader, fem receiving oral, protected p in v)

...

It’s loud, but not overwhelming—the kind of bar that smells like lime and beer, where the lights are low enough to feel cozy, and the music hums just below the chatter. You’re tucked into a booth that barely fits six, pressed between Zayn and Liam, a mostly-melted mojito in your hand.

You’re not really sure how this happened. One minute you were doing final touch-ups backstage, brushing powder over Harry’s nose while Louis heckled from the couch, and the next you were being dragged along to their night out. No time to change, no time to overthink it.

Zayn had just said, “She’s coming,” like it was obvious. Like no one needed to ask you.

So now here you are, squeezed between two popstars in a booth sticky with spilled rum and laughter, trying to pretend this is normal.

You’re their junior stylist—junior being the keyword. Lou brought you on a few months ago, and you’re still learning the rhythm of tour life. You handle the minor jobs—foundation touch-ups, hair gel emergencies, panic-bought concealer when someone’s breakout threatens a photo op. Most days you feel invisible, floating around the boys while they joke and banter like brothers.

But tonight, they’ve pulled you in. Not just physically—though Zayn’s thigh is warm against yours, and Liam keeps refilling your drink without asking—but socially. Properly.

“We’re playing something,” Louis announces, tossing a coaster at Niall. “Before I get too drunk to speak words.”

Niall catches it with one hand, somehow already flushed. “Truth or dare?”

Harry shakes his head. “Too chaotic.”

“Spin the bottle?” Liam teases, raising a brow.

“Oh, please,” you mutter, “You’d all die before kissing each other.”

“I wouldn’t,” Zayn says casually beside you, and you nearly choke on your drink.

Louis grins like he’s just won something. “Never Have I Ever, then?”

A chorus of nods follows. Glasses clink. A fresh round is ordered.

“You ever played before?” Liam asks, leaning in just enough that you can hear him over the music.

You nod. “Once. Uni party. Someone puked on a bean bag halfway through.”

“Charming,” Zayn murmurs near your ear. You swear you feel the ghost of a smile on your neck.

Louis slams his hand down. “Right. I’ll start. Never have I ever… worn eyeliner.”

Everyone groans and drinks.

Even Liam.

You laugh into your straw, relaxing a little as the game rolls on. The questions start off easy—silly tour stuff, harmless confessions. Harry admits to stealing conditioner from hotels. Niall cops to crying during The Lion King. Zayn hasn’t said much, but you catch him watching you out of the corner of your eye more than once.

And then Louis leans forward, smirking like he’s about to drop a bomb.

“Never have I ever… had sex in a tour bus bathroom.”

Groans. Laughter. Drinks raised.

And just like that, the game shifts.

You feel your stomach flip, your fingers tightening around your glass.

They’re about to start sharing stories.

You laugh along with the others, cheeks warm, limbs loose from the cocktails and the late hour. The game has moved into dangerous territory—no longer silly little confessions, but real ones. Blurred lines. Edging into intimacy.

Zayn’s thigh is still pressed against yours, the leather of the booth creaking when either of you shifts. He hasn’t said much since Louis’ bathroom story, but you feel him there. Solid. Present.

“Alright,” Harry says, swirling the last of his drink, voice low and mischievous, “my turn.”

“Oh no,” Liam groans. “Here we go.”

Harry grins. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”

The table explodes.

Niall howls, immediately downing his drink.

Louis slaps his hand to his heart. “So many sins. So little time.”

Liam drinks with an awkward little cough. “University was… a time.”

Even Zayn lifts his glass and sips—no drama, no explanation.

And then they all look at you.

You hesitate.

Smile faintly.

And slowly shake your head.

You don’t drink.

At first, no one reacts.

Not really.

Louis is already halfway into another story—something about a girl who turned out to be a twin. But then he falters, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Wait,” he says, pointing at you with a squint. “Not even once?”

You give a small shrug. “Nope.”

Niall frowns. “But you said you’ve been in relationships.”

“Not… really,” you say. “I’ve dated. But nothing serious.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Liam’s brows lift, something dawning in his expression. “So… wait—”

“I haven’t,” you say quickly, cheeks burning. “Had sex. Ever.”

The words feel loud, too loud.

You wish you could grab them and stuff them back in your mouth.

There’s another pause, longer this time.

Then—

“Oh.” Niall says, soft and surprised.

You brace yourself for awkwardness. For teasing. For the boys to make it weird, even if they don’t mean to.

But instead—

“That’s alright,” Liam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Louis blinks, then grins. “Shit, I think that just means you’ve got standards.”

Harry laughs. “High ones, clearly, if none of us ever made the cut.”

You snort, tension starting to break. “Please. You lot couldn’t handle me.”

That earns a chorus of laughter, and the mood shifts again—gentle now, softer around the edges.

Niall leans across the table, eyes kind. “You don’t have to feel weird about it. Honestly. If anything, you’re the only one here who hasn’t had some tragic, messy story.”

“Oh yeah,” Louis nods seriously. “You’re the only one who’s still pure. You must be protected at all costs.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks is fading, replaced by something warmer. Something steadier.

But beside you, Zayn hasn’t said anything.

You risk a glance, and he’s still looking at you—jaw slightly tight, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass like he’s trying to work something out.

“Zayn?” you say quietly, half-joking. “You alright?”

He snaps out of it, blinking once. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—”

He pauses.

Then, softly, “Didn’t expect that.”

You smile nervously. “Surprise.”

But he doesn’t laugh.

He just keeps looking at you, like he’s seeing you differently now. Not in a bad way. Just… deeper.

“How’s someone like you never…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “I mean—you’re beautiful. And kind. And smart. And—”

You blink, caught off guard.

He shakes his head, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Sorry. That sounded—fuck. That sounded weird.”

“No,” you say quickly, voice smaller than before. “It didn’t.”

Louis whistles. “Alright, loverboy.”

Zayn shoots him a glare, but there’s no real bite in it.

You can feel your pulse racing again—but this time, not from embarrassment.

From something else entirely.

Something new.

And maybe a little electric.

You try to laugh off the moment, but Zayn’s words linger in the air like smoke—visible, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

He’s still watching you, jaw tight, one hand wrapped around his drink like he’s forgotten it’s there. The way he’s looking at you now is… different. Focused. Almost reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Which, apparently, is also not going unnoticed.

Harry is the first to clock it. His eyebrows lift slowly, mouth twitching like he’s about to say something but—shockingly—chooses not to.

Louis, however, is less restrained.

He leans across the table, nudging Niall. “Is it just me, or did Zayn’s soul just leave his body for a second there?”

Zayn snaps out of his trance with a slow blink. “Piss off.”

Niall grins, catching on immediately. “Mate, you alright? You’ve gone a bit… soft in the eyes.”

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands.

Zayn shifts beside you, clearly trying to play it cool. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?” Louis says innocently, clearly delighted. “We’re just admiring how smitten you look.”

“Yeah,” Harry adds, voice smooth, “it’s kind of sweet. Like watching a Victorian man fall in love with a scandalous woman who just showed him her ankle.”

Liam lets out a loud laugh. “Ankle, wow.”

You finally lower your hands, aiming a glare at the whole table. “You’re all children.”

Louis grins. “And yet you’re the one being courted in public.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter.

Zayn tries to lean back, casual, but the blush rising in his cheeks gives him away. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Liam says with a shrug, “but we’re not wrong.”

Niall lifts his glass. “To sexual tension.”

You slap a hand over his mouth before he can say more, laughing despite yourself.

Zayn shoots you a sideways glance, something soft behind his eyes. “You okay?”

You nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s something heavier in his voice. “I just… didn’t think you’d be full of surprises like that.”

You tilt your head, trying to keep things light. “You saying I seem like the type?”

He looks at you for a long beat, eyes warm. “Nah. I’m saying I don’t think I’ve figured you out yet.”

Your breath catches.

And across the table, four smug idiots exchange glances.

“Oh, they’re definitely gonna hook up before the tour ends,” Louis whispers loudly to Harry, who nods like he’s observing wildlife in its natural habitat.

You and Zayn say nothing.

But neither of you look away.

You try to shake it off—try to join back into the game, sip your drink, laugh at Harry’s impression of their old vocal coach—but it’s impossible to ignore Zayn’s presence beside you now. Like the heat of him has increased, the space between your bodies charged with something electric.

Every time you move, your thigh brushes his. Every time someone laughs too loud or leans too close, you feel his hand lightly graze your lower back as if instinctively grounding you.

The others keep stealing glances. Less subtle now.

“God, the vibes,” Louis mutters under his breath, dramatically fanning himself with a coaster.

“Should we leave them alone?” Niall asks, not even bothering to whisper.

“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t so hot,” Harry adds, sipping his drink with a smirk.

You shoot them all a look, but your heart is beating too fast for it to land properly.

Zayn, to his credit, doesn’t say anything. But you feel him tense beside you—like he’s fighting the same thing you are.

Liam glances at his watch and stretches. “Alright, I’m calling it. My liver’s begging for mercy.”

“Same,” Niall agrees, dragging his coat off the back of the booth. “And I want chips before bed.”

Everyone starts to shift, gathering phones and unfinished drinks. You follow suit, sliding out of the booth—Zayn moves too, standing beside you like it’s automatic. Protective.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Louis calls, clapping you both on the shoulder as he passes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves a lot of questionable grey area,” you mutter, earning a chorus of snickers.

The group spills out onto the pavement, the night cool and crisp, city lights glinting off the sidewalk. They start debating whether to walk or call a car, scattering slightly in different directions.

You hang back a little.

So does Zayn.

You’re both quiet for a second, until he speaks—voice low, like it’s just for you.

“Wanna walk?”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The others are too busy arguing over the route to notice as you peel away, footsteps falling into rhythm as the buzz of the night folds around you both.

You don’t say anything right away.

Neither does he.

But his hand brushes yours, once.

Then again.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he laces his fingers through yours.

Just like that.

And you let him.

The walk back is quiet. Comfortable.

Zayn doesn’t let go of your hand the whole way, even when you reach the hotel entrance, even when the doorman gives you both a knowing look as he holds the door open.

The lobby is mostly empty—just soft lighting, a few murmured voices from the overnight staff, the faint hum of an elevator arriving. You glance toward the others, who are still bickering near the vending machines, loud and distracted.

No one’s looking.

Zayn doesn’t stop walking.

He gives your hand a gentle tug, and you follow him into the lift without a word.

You ride up in silence. His thumb is stroking along your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you even as your heart thumps against your ribs.

You’re not sure what this is. Or what it’s about to be.

But you don’t want to let go, either.

The doors slide open on his floor, and he turns to you—voice soft, careful.

“You don’t have to,” he says, like he’s offering you an out. “But if you want to come up. Just to hang out. Or talk. Or… not talk.”

There’s no pressure in his tone. No expectation.

Just Zayn. Quiet. Open. Honest.

You nod once, heart catching in your throat. “Yeah. I want to.”

He leads you down the hall, your hand still in his. The corridor is dim and quiet, carpet muffling your footsteps. When he reaches his room, he swipes the keycard and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

It’s a typical hotel suite. Neat. A little impersonal. But it smells faintly like him—warm spice and something smoky.

He lets your hand go gently, just long enough to toss the card on the counter and flick on a lamp.

The room fills with a soft amber glow.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of the silence. The way the door clicks shut behind you. The way his eyes find yours in the quiet.

He steps a little closer. Not crowding you, just… nearer.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You hesitate—then smile, small and a little breathless. “Are you?”

He laughs under his breath. “Not even a little.”

And for some reason, that calms you more than anything.

You let out a breathy laugh, the kind that feels more like a release than amusement. “You don’t seem that nervous.”

“I’m good at pretending,” he says, and for a moment, the smile slips from his lips. “I didn’t expect tonight to go like this.”

You nod, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve. “Me neither.”

He watches you for a second, then speaks again—quieter now. “Is it bad that I wanted to be around you tonight? Even before the game. Even before I knew…”

You look up at him.

His eyes are serious. Warm.

“I think I’ve been trying not to think about you like that,” he says, like he’s confessing something heavy. “Because you work with us. And you’re Lou’s. And you’re… you.”

“Me?” you ask, brows lifting.

Zayn gives a small, almost helpless smile. “Yeah. You. You’re funny, and sharp, and you don’t take shit from any of us. You look after everyone, and you don’t even realise it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, something fluttering and fragile rising in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, the words slipping out before fear can catch them. “And not just tonight.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. Then he nods—just once—and steps closer again.

This time, when he lifts a hand to your cheek, you lean into it.

His thumb brushes your skin.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft—tentative, exploratory, like he’s afraid to break something delicate. But when your hands find the hem of his shirt, and he sighs against your mouth, the kiss deepens. His other hand finds your waist, then your back, pulling you closer until there’s barely space between you at all.

You feel dizzy with it. The heat of him, the scent of his skin, the way he’s kissing you like he wants to know every part of you, every thought.

But then he pulls back suddenly, breath hitching. His hands still on your hips, but his face just inches from yours.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “Wait.”

You pause, blinking up at him. “Zayn?”

He lets out a rough breath. “I didn’t bring you back here just to sleep with you.”

You smile softly. “Okay.”

“I mean—I wanted to be with you tonight, yeah,” he says, words tumbling out fast now. “But I didn’t have some plan. I didn’t think, oh, she’s a virgin, now’s my chance. I swear I didn’t. I just… wanted more time with you. Away from them. Just us.”

“Zayn,” you say gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Even if you had brought me back here to have sex with me… I would’ve been okay with it.”

He opens his eyes then. Searching yours like he’s making sure.

“Because I trust you,” you continue. “And because I wanted this too. I still do.”

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension in them bleeding out. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You smile, letting your fingers trace the edge of his shirt. “You keep saying that.”

He leans in again, this time slower, more certain. “Because I keep meaning it.”

And when he kisses you again, there's no more hesitation.

It’s still gentle—deliberate—but deeper now. Slower. The kind of kiss that makes your knees a little unsteady. He backs you toward the bed with soft touches and quiet breaths, never rushing, never letting his hands wander too far too fast. Just enough to let you feel him. To know he’s there.

You fall back onto the mattress with a breathless laugh, and he follows, crawling over you with a low, fond hum. His hands settle at your hips, grounding you, but his eyes search yours again.

“You good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your throat. “Still gonna say it. As many times as you need.”

You reach for him, curling your fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt, tugging gently. “Take this off?”

Zayn sits up just enough to pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. You drink in the sight of him—bare skin, warm tattoos, the soft shadows that curve down his stomach. He doesn’t flex. Doesn’t show off. Just watches your face as you look at him.

You reach up and run your hand down his chest, slow. He shivers under your touch.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

You nod, and he helps you—soft and careful, lifting your shirt over your head and unclasping your bra without fumbling or asking questions. Like he wants to make it easy. Like he’s been thinking about this longer than he’ll ever admit.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes roaming your chest, your waist, the soft curve of your stomach. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

You flush, but he doesn’t give you time to hide. He kisses you again, slower now, and lets his hands explore—palms dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it. His mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, sucking a soft mark just under your breast. You arch up into him, a shaky gasp escaping your lips.

“That feel good?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yes.”

His hands work down your body, undoing the button of your jeans, slipping them down your legs with the same kind of reverence he’s shown all night. You’re bare beneath him now, just your underwear still on, and Zayn kisses your inner thigh before glancing up.

“Can I taste you?”

You feel your breath leave you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Zayn lowers himself between your legs like he’s worshiping, not rushing, just sinking onto his knees at the edge of the bed with maddening calm. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, thumbs sweeping in slow circles as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee—then higher. Another kiss, hotter now. Then higher still.

You’re already trembling.

No one’s ever done this before. Not even close.

He leans in and kisses you over the thin fabric of your underwear, warm breath ghosting across your skin, and the sound you make is barely human. A choked gasp, hips jolting slightly before his hands tighten to keep you grounded.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, voice full of awe. “So responsive already.”

You manage a shaky breath. “I’ve never…”

Zayn glances up, eyes dark and soft. “No one’s ever gone down on you?”

You shake your head, suddenly shy again. “No.”

He lets out the quietest groan, his thumbs grazing along your hips. “That’s gonna change. Right now.”

And then he peels your underwear down.

Slow.

Torturous.

He watches as he does it, his eyes fixed on the way your body’s revealed to him inch by inch. When the fabric is finally gone and you’re bare before him, he exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re dripping.”

Your whole body lights up at the way he says it—rough, reverent, hungry.

Then his mouth is on you.

It starts with a slow lick, from bottom to top, just enough pressure to make your back arch. You gasp—your fingers shooting down to tangle in his hair—and he groans against you like your reaction alone is enough to wreck him.

He flattens his tongue and licks again, firmer this time. Then a flick—precise, teasing—over your clit that makes you moan, loud and raw.

“Oh my God—”

He hums, mouth closing around you, and the vibration nearly makes you come undone.

His tongue moves in perfect rhythm, unrelenting but still somehow patient, like he wants to savor every twitch of your body, every breathy moan. He circles your clit with slow, steady flicks, then sucks gently, just once—enough to have you clenching around nothing, toes curling, a whimper breaking from your lips.

Your thighs start to shake, and he slides his hands under them, spreading you wider, holding you open for him like he never plans to stop.

“Zayn—fuck—” You grip the sheets with one hand, the other still tangled in his hair. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he murmurs, barely lifting his mouth. “You’re doing so fucking good. Just let go.”

You’ve never felt anything like it—like every nerve ending is alive, like the pleasure is building too fast to contain. It rushes up your spine, through your core, until it’s all you are—heat and tension and Zayn’s mouth and—

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits hard, your entire body shaking with it, a cry tearing from your throat as you grind against his tongue. Zayn groans again, deeper this time, holding you through it, licking you gently as your body pulses with aftershocks.

He doesn't pull away until your legs twitch and you whimper from overstimulation.

Then—finally—he lifts his head, lips shiny, pupils blown wide.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.

You’re breathless. Boneless. Floating.

“I don’t even know my name right now.”

Zayn grins, crawling back up your body and pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips—slow and filthy and sweet all at once. You taste yourself on his mouth and moan softly into him.

“I’ve been dreaming about doing that,” he admits between kisses. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.”

You cup his face, still flushed and dazed. “That was the best thing anyone’s ever done to me.”

His smile softens. “Then let me keep going. Let me make the rest just as good.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s the promise in his voice that makes your heart race all over again.

Zayn’s mouth is still warm against yours, his weight pressed carefully into your body, one hand stroking your side like he’s trying to calm you—but it’s your pulse that’s thundering now, a different kind of need building in your chest.

You trail your fingers down the line of his chest, over the tattoos you’ve only ever seen peeking from under his shirts, your touch featherlight. He shivers.

“You okay?” he murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

You nod. “Yeah. I just… I want to touch you.”

His breath catches.

“You can,” he says, voice rough. “You can do anything you want.”

You slide your hand lower, fingers tracing down the ridges of his stomach, then over the waistband of his jeans. There’s a sharp tension in his jaw now—like he’s trying to stay still for you, to be good, to give you time.

You palm him gently through his jeans, and he lets out a low, shaky exhale, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You smile, gaining a bit of confidence, and undo his button. He lifts his hips slightly to help as you tug his jeans down, then his briefs, revealing him fully. And for a second, you just look.

He’s thick, flushed, hard already from everything you’ve been doing—and from the look of restraint on his face, he’s been aching for you this entire time.

You reach out, fingers curling around him, and he lets out a strangled sound.

“Jesus—okay, slow down—” His hand covers yours, not to stop you, but to guide. “Like this.”

He shows you, gently—how to stroke him, how to twist your wrist just enough at the top, how to run your thumb over the sensitive underside. You follow his lead, watching his face as his eyes fall shut and his lips part.

He groans again, deeper this time, hips rocking up into your fist.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “I like seeing you like this.”

His eyes open—dark, wild, and reverent.

“I like you seeing me like this,” he whispers, and the honesty in it makes your stomach flutter.

You keep stroking him until his breath turns ragged, his hips twitching, his muscles trembling under your touch.

Then he catches your wrist gently, stilling you. “If you keep going, this’ll be over too fast.”

You smile, flushed and pleased. “You make it hard not to.”

He leans down and kisses you again, this time with heat behind it. “Come here.”

He reaches into the drawer again, his hand finding a condom—because now, there’s no more pausing. No more slowing down.

It’s time.

And he’s going to make it just as good for both of you.

Zayn kisses you again as he rolls the condom on—slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off yours for long. His hand glides down your side, grounding you, while his body settles between your thighs, warm and solid and trembling with restraint.

“You still okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper, breath catching. “More than okay.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your throat, then the center of your chest—like a silent thank you. Then he positions himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, and pauses.

“This might sting a little,” he says softly. “But I’ll go slow. You just tell me anything you need.”

You nod, and he watches your face as he starts to push in.

You feel the stretch first—thick, deliberate, burning in a way that steals your breath. Your fingers dig into his biceps as your back arches off the mattress, and Zayn stills instantly.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’re doing so fucking well.”

You exhale shakily, and he continues—inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt, his body trembling above yours with the effort of holding back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. You feel unreal.”

You feel full, completely overwhelmed in the best way—your body stretched and aching and lit up all at once. But with Zayn’s body wrapped around yours, the pressure starts to ease. The burn fades into heat, into want.

He doesn’t move until you shift beneath him, pressing your hips up gently in silent invitation.

“You sure?” he breathes, voice strained.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining. “Please.”

Zayn kisses you again—slow and deep—before drawing his hips back and pushing in again, slow and measured. The first few thrusts are tentative, shallow, but they still make you gasp, your nails biting into his arms.

He’s careful, watching every reaction you give him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more. “Zayn…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans your name and moves deeper, hips rolling with just enough force to drag a moan out of you. You grip him tighter, the friction growing with every stroke, pleasure curling low in your belly as your body starts to adjust, to crave it.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that, baby. You’re taking me so well.”

His voice wrecks you—deep and reverent, like he’s in awe of you. Like he can’t believe he’s the one making you feel like this.

He starts to move faster now, his thrusts harder but still controlled, like he’s desperate but still focused on you. You cling to him, breathing hard, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants. “So fucking good for me.”

Your hips roll up to meet his, desperate for more, chasing that spark again. “Zayn—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he groans, his pace quickening. “Wanna make you come again. Want you to fall apart on me.”

You cry out when he hits that spot deep inside you again, over and over, and it’s like everything coils tight—your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking, heat blooming hot and fast.

“Zayn—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, his hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit. “Come for me. Let go.”

And you do.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, harder this time, ripping through your body like a wave. You cry out, shaking under him, your muscles fluttering around his cock as he fucks you through it.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight, and then he’s groaning your name as he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt, every muscle in his body trembling.

Zayn collapses onto his elbows, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

For a long moment, there’s just silence.

Heavy breathing. Heartbeats pounding.

Then he kisses you again—soft, slow, almost dazed.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, still clinging to him. “That was… incredible.”

Zayn exhales like he’s been holding that breath the entire time. He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the feel of your lips against his. His hand moves gently over your side, fingertips dragging lightly down your skin, grounding you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, brushing his nose against yours. “Not too sore?”

“I’m good,” you whisper, still breathless. “Sensitive, but… yeah. I feel good.”

He smiles softly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “You were so perfect, you know that?”

You laugh, flushed and floating. “I don’t think I did anything.”

“You let me see you,” he says, voice quiet, reverent. “That’s everything.”

You blink, your throat tightening a little at the way he says it—like you gave him a gift. Like it meant something.

Zayn starts to shift, carefully pulling out of you. You whimper softly at the sensation, and his hand strokes your thigh instantly, soothing.

“Sorry, I know,” he murmurs. “Hang on, I’ll take care of you.”

He slips out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the water run, the rustle of something soft, and a moment later he’s back, warm towel in hand. He moves gently, kneeling between your legs again, cleaning you up with slow, careful strokes. You’re already squirming, body overstimulated, and he presses a kiss to your knee.

“Almost done, sweetheart.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname.

Once you’re cleaned up, he tosses the towel aside and crawls back into bed, pulling the sheets over you both. His arms slide around you instantly, tugging you into his chest like he can’t stand the thought of space between you now.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in—sweat and skin and something warm and smoky that’s just him. His fingers trail lightly up and down your spine, lazy and soft.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs after a beat. “You sure you’re alright?”

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. “I’m just… kind of in shock. In the best way.”

Zayn watches you, eyes soft in the low light.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his fingers never stopping their gentle glide along your back. “What kind of shock?”

You smile faintly, cheeks warm. “Like… I didn’t know it could be like that. I thought it would be awkward, or painful, or…” You trail off, tucking your head under his jaw again. “But it wasn’t. It felt… safe. And really, really good.”

He exhales a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Good,” he whispers. “I wanted it to feel like that for you. I wanted to take care of you.”

“You did,” you murmur. “You do.”

He’s quiet for a second, then tilts his head to rest his cheek against your temple. “I know it was your first time,” he says slowly, “and I don’t ever want you to think I—fuck, I don’t want this to feel like it was some kind of heat-of-the-moment thing for me. Or like it didn’t mean anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t just bring you back here to fuck you,” he adds, voice quiet but firm. “I brought you back because I wanted you close. Because I’ve been wanting you for a while now, even if I’ve been too much of a coward to say it.”

You lift your head, eyes searching his.

“Zayn…”

He brushes your hair gently behind your ear, his gaze steady. “I care about you. More than I realized, maybe. And I know we’ve been tiptoeing around it, but tonight just—” He swallows. “It made me sure. I don’t want this to be a one-night thing. I want you. For real.”

Your heart thuds hard, and you blink, surprised by how fast the emotion wells in your chest. “I want you too,” you whisper. “I thought maybe I was making more of this in my head, but… I didn’t want it to be just tonight either.”

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face, like he’s been waiting to hear that. “Good,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

You laugh softly and curl into him again, one leg hooking over his, your arms sliding around his middle like you never want to be anywhere else.

His hand comes to rest at the small of your back, thumb sweeping in slow, comforting strokes.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur against his chest.

“Anything.”

“Was I okay? Like… did I do okay?”

Zayn freezes for half a second, then lifts your chin gently so you’re looking at him.

“You were incredible,” he says, eyes dark with sincerity. “You were so responsive, so open. You let me see you, and feel you, and… I’ve never been with someone who made me feel like that. Don’t ever doubt it.”

You bite your lip, flustered, but his words settle deep in your chest like something solid. Something warm.

“I meant it,” he adds, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

You blink back sudden tears, overwhelmed and aching in the best way.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then I’m yours.”

He pulls you in closer, burying his face in your neck, and holds you like he never wants to let go.

“Mine,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I like the sound of that.”

And the way he holds you after that—tight and tender and secure—tells you he means every word.

...

You wake to the feeling of warm fingers tracing lazy circles along your back and the low rasp of Zayn’s voice in your ear.

“Mm. Stay.”

You shift slightly, face still pressed against his chest. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” he mumbles, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist.

You smile against his skin. “We’re supposed to be at hair and makeup in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “But we’re here.”

You laugh, eyes still shut. “That’s not how time works.”

Zayn hums and pulls you even closer, one of his legs slipping between yours, like he’s physically anchoring you in bed. “Five more minutes.”

You give in. Of course you do.

The five minutes turn into ten. Then fifteen. You only finally drag yourself up when your phone buzzes with a message from Lou: “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. GET YOUR ASS HERE BEFORE I LET LOUIS DO HIS OWN FOUNDATION AGAIN.”

“Shit,” you mumble, fumbling to get out of bed. “We’re so late.”

Zayn groans, rolling onto his back with one arm draped over his eyes. “I’d rather die than go to glam right now.”

You toss one of his hoodies over your head—it smells like him, and it’s soft and worn in the best way. He watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and slow-blinking like a cat in the sun.

“You look good in that,” he murmurs, voice still sleepy. “You should keep it.”

You pause at the mirror, cheeks warming. “You saying that because you want to see me in it again, or because you’re too lazy to wash it?”

“Both.”

You huff a laugh and toss him a clean shirt from his suitcase. “Get dressed, Malik.”

...

You both slip into the makeup trailer twenty-five minutes late, trying to be casual about it—but the second you open the door, the entire room freezes.

Harry’s halfway through a pastry, Niall’s drinking coffee, Liam’s looking over his shoulder at something on Lou’s phone, and Louis is—of course—the first to break the silence.

He points dramatically. “You two had sex!"

You freeze mid-step. Zayn stops beside you, one hand still in his hoodie pocket like this is all very normal.

Harry chokes on his pastry.

Liam sighs, rubbing his forehead like he’s already tired.

Niall mutters, “Took them long enough,” and goes back to his coffee.

You stare at Louis, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

Louis stands from the makeup chair like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? You’re late. You’re glowing. You’re wearing his hoodie. And Zayn hasn’t looked away from you once since walking in. I rest my case.”

You blink. “You just described coincidence.”

“Oh, please.” Louis turns to the others. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Harry just smirks and says nothing.

Liam coughs behind his hand. “She does look a bit… soft.”

“And he’s smiling,” Niall adds, like that alone is suspicious. “Zayn never smiles this early.”

Zayn finally speaks, calm and cool as ever. “You’re all deeply annoying.”

“And deeply right,” Louis fires back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You roll your eyes and move around the boys toward the makeup counter, trying to pretend you’re not wearing Zayn’s hoodie, trying to pretend you’re not still a little wrecked from last night. “Can we focus on the actual job now, maybe?”

“Sure,” Harry says, leaning casually against the wall. “Just as soon as Zayn stops looking at you like he wants to write poetry about your mouth.”

You freeze for half a second, brush case halfway unzipped.

Behind you, Zayn hums. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

You toss a makeup sponge at him without turning around. It hits his chest and bounces off.

Lou finally speaks, tapping her fingers impatiently on her palette. “Unless someone here wants to explain to management why I was forced to airbrush Liam using my elbow, I suggest we get back to work.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, stepping beside her and grabbing one of the brushes from your kit. “Finally, someone with sense.”

“Mm,” Lou hums as she inspects a compact. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Your head snaps toward her. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. That’s not your usual concealer routine. That’s the kind of glow that comes from… well.” She glances at Zayn. “Clearly a good night.”

Louis absolutely howls with laughter. “Lou!”

Even Liam lets out a surprised chuckle. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your forehead. “You’re all children.”

Louis gasps, clutching his chest. “She confirms it with sass! Look at her—feisty, radiant, tangled in Zayn’s hoodie like a love-drunk woodland creature.”

“I will stab you with this eyebrow pencil,” you mutter, pulling a brush from your kit.

Zayn, still seated in the chair with an air of practiced patience, lifts a brow. “Will you all leave my girlfriend alone, please?”

The room goes very still.

You blink.

Louis gasps again, somehow louder this time. “Girlfriend?” He turns to the others like he’s just witnessed a royal announcement. “Did you hear that? Girlfriend!”

“Confirmed by the man himself,” Niall says with a grin.

Harry gives Zayn a slow clap. “I honestly didn’t think you’d admit it first.”

Liam raises both hands. “I didn’t have that on my bingo card, but I’m not mad.”

Lou doesn’t even look up from her brushes. “Finally. Now maybe we can stop pretending none of us saw this coming two months ago.”

You glance at Zayn, stunned but smiling, and he just shrugs like it’s no big deal—like he hasn’t just casually dropped a title that makes your stomach flip.

“Was that okay?” he murmurs, soft enough only you can hear.

You nod, heart racing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Louis, meanwhile, is pacing the trailer like he’s narrating a documentary. “First she was just the junior stylist. Quiet. Unassuming. Then—bam!—Zayn Malik’s girlfriend. What a plot twist. What a hero’s journey.”

“Someone sedate him,” Lou mutters.

“I’ve got a setting spray I could use like pepper spray,” you offer.

Zayn smirks. “Use it.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to work, trying not to grin too hard as you catch your reflection in the mirror.

Zayn watches you from his chair, one leg bouncing, one hand curled loosely around the edge of the counter—completely relaxed now.

And when your eyes meet again in the mirror, he winks.

[soon-palestine]

Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian graduate student at Columbia University, was forcibly abducted on March 8, by undercover Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents who stalked him on his way home to university housing. Khalil was targeted for his activism and involvement in Columbia’s student encampments protesting the ongoing genocide in Gaza. His detention is not just an injustice—it is a blatant act of vengeance for going against U.S. and Israeli coordinated crimes. 

The Trump Administration called for his deportation by name and set forth a dangerous and targeted campaign against the nation’s university system with the ultimatum that student pro-Palestinian activism is grounds for deportation. 

By all accounts, Khalil’s abduction and detainment make him a political prisoner. However, we must not fall into the trap of what Mohammed El Kurd, in his new book Perfect Victims, calls, “singularity.” 

“Singular stories, especially when told recklessly, tend to isolate the individual from the group, sanctifying the former and demonizing the latter. Singular stories tend to situate man-made atrocities outside of politics reinventing them as inexplicable natural disasters.” 

By treating each case as an exception, the machinery of suppression continues unchallenged. Khalil’s ordeal is not about a single student; it is about a state’s ongoing efforts to silence those who dare to resist.

In fact, Mahmoud Khalil’s abduction is not an anomaly, but part of a long-standing pattern of state persecution against Palestinians who dare challenge state hegemony. By isolating his case from the broader history of criminalizing Palestinian activism, the narrative becomes watered down and stripped of its political relevance and the historical state-sanctioned violence that ensued. It misrepresents Khalil’s situation instead, making it an individual misfortune or a freak incident. 

Mahmoud Khalil’s abduction is not an anomaly, but part of a long-standing pattern of state persecution against Palestinians who dare challenge state hegemony.

Khalil’s detention follows decades of targeted harassment, imprisonment, and deportation of Palestinian students, scholars, and community leaders in the U.S. From the Holy Land Foundation Five to Dr. Sami Al-Arian, the playbook remains the same: fabricate charges, apply excessive force, and erase the political motivations behind the repression. When viewed in this context Khalil’s case is not the exception, but rather the rule. 

Take the case of Dr. Sami Al Arian, a Palestinian U.S. permanent resident and professor at the University of Florida who was arrested in February 2003 on faux charges of conspiring to aid Palestinian terrorism. Dr. Al Arian was imprisoned and subjugated to continuous months of solitary confinement and abuse which lasted 3 years when a Florida jury failed to return a single guilty verdict of any of the 17 charges against him. However, prosecutors refiled the charges, and Dr. Al Arian chose instead to plead guilty and take jail time rather than face a re-trial. 

In an interview with Democracy Now, Dr. Al Arian stated that his unjust imprisonment was a “retaliatory action against any activist” and was a time of extreme “intolerance, exclusionary political and hegemony [taking] center stage, where rational people were no longer able to advance any kind of dialogue.” 

Then there is the case of the Holy Land Foundation Five (HLF), where Palestinian American philanthropists who once ran the largest Muslim charity in the U.S. were shut down by the Bush administration as designated as a terrorist group. According to Human Rights Watch, the defendants in the HLF case were never accused of directly funding terrorist groups or attacks, yet they were still prosecuted under U.S. “material support” legislation. Their leaders are serving upwards of 65 years in federal prison. 

And for some of them, their conditions in prison are only worsening. Shukri Abu Baker is serving a 65-year sentence and currently facing new types of abuse by correctional officers. During the holy month of Ramadan, Shukri Abu Baker is not allowed to sleep after 5 a.m. His daughter Nida Abu Baker tells me that “for a full week straight, they’d take my dad to the cafeteria from 4 a.m. and he would stand there for hours. He was required to stop all the Muslim inmates from taking extra food back to their cells. He had to do the job of a correctional officer and he had to do this 3 times a day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner all while fasting as a 66-year-old man with aching bones.” 

Nida says when she looks at what is currently taking place across the country, she can’t help but feel deja vu. “The FBI went knocking on the doors of hundreds of Palestinian families after the HLF indictments. Some of whom were deported after being detained by ICE, and I specifically remember a family had their green cards revoked.” 

“So everything that’s happening is not new, and I am not surprised it all started decades ago on U.S soil when the government went after students and professionals who were giving back to their community.” 

In 2022, I wrote about how Shukri nearly died after inhaling fumes from tear gas thrown at inmates, and at the time he told me he did not want to advocate for his condition in prison to change: “I don’t wish this incident to become the focal point of my struggles. I am not trying to improve the conditions of my incarceration, rather I am challenging the very premise of my presence here.” 

“The prosecutors wanted to make sure my family and I pay heavily for not toeing the line of bigotry against the Palestinians who were in dire need for humanitarian aid.”

Given this history, it is essential that we heed Mohammed El-Kurd’s words and not sanctify one case while completely ignoring another, as it’s clear the target is Palestine and the Palestinian movement for liberation in total. The dangerous results of this can already be seen in several other cases that have not received nearly the same level of attention as Khalil’s. 

Swiftly after Khalil’s abduction, ICE detained a foreign student, Ranjani Srinivasan for participating in “activities supporting Hamas.” Srinivasan chose to flee the country to Canada on March 11 before she could be deported. 

“It is a privilege to be granted a visa to live and study in the United States of America. When you advocate for violence and terrorism, that privilege should be revoked, and you should not be in this country. I am glad to see one of the Columbia University terrorist sympathizers use the CBP Home app to self-deport,” Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem said. 

Srinivasan’s visa revocation and flight from the country did not make international news nor garner calls advocating for a student’s right to freedom of expression in the same way Khalil’s case did. The obvious reason could be the injustice that Khalil has permanent residency and is married to a U.S. citizen, while Srinivasan was in a more vulnerable position on a student visa and made the tough decision to leave her place of study behind and save herself from U.S. persecution. 

It is understandable to find the absurdity of Khalil’s case, especially when we try to highlight his supposedly secure legal status when trying to advocate on his behalf. However, we in the pro-Palestinian solidarity movement are setting ourselves up for failure if we accept these arbitrary distinctions. By being keen on highlighting Khalil’s legal status, we are inadvertently justifying the deportations of thousands of people on student visas who dare fight against the United States’ genocidal crimes. 

We are already seeing the danger of our actions. This weekend, Brown University professor and doctor Rasha Alawieh, who specializes in kidney transplants, was deported to Lebanon upon her arrival at Boston airport. The Department of Justice justified the deportation after “finding sympathetic photos and videos of prominent Hezbollah figures in the deleted items folder” of Alawieh’s cell phone. 

Even if Khalil supported Hamas, and Alawieh supported Hezbollah, they have not committed a crime that would justify their abductions and deportations. 

Instead of highlighting this fundamental right, Khalil’s lawyer Amy Greer spoke to NBC News about Khalil’s case asserting that supporting Hamas “is not what he stands for. That would be completely opposite to his values.” Greer had an opportunity to push back, and to protect the rights of all students, and all people that have an even more vulnerable status than Khalil. The fundamental basis of a deportation cannot and should not ever be justified due to one’s political beliefs. Greer should have reaffirmed that even if he did support Hamas, he has not committed a crime, Alawieh has not committed a crime and neither has any other student or professional demanding the liberation of the Palestinian people. 

By attempting to distance Khalil from any accusations of political alignment rather than challenging the legitimacy of such accusations altogether, Greer reinforced the very framework that allows for the criminalization of Palestinian activism. The issue is not whether Khalil or any other individual meets an arbitrary threshold of acceptability in the eyes of the state, but rather that no one should face deportation, imprisonment, or retaliation for their political beliefs.

This failure to challenge the state’s power to police political thought does not just abandon Khalil, it abandons every student, professor, journalist, and activist who has been, or will be targeted for their advocacy. It leaves the door open for the next arrest, the next deportation, the next political prisoner.

To protect only those deemed “acceptable” within the limits of state-sanctioned discourse is to concede the broader fight for fundamental rights. The defense of political speech must be absolute, without exceptions or qualifiers.

And finally, and most importantly, in our efforts to fight for Khalil we must always re-center Palestine, the assault on the West Bank, the genocide and starvation campaign in Gaza. Khalil’s abduction was meant to intimidate and ultimately stifle the movement from acting on its greater goal to end our complicity in the crimes against the Palestinian people. His abduction was meant to destroy our morale and scare us into silence. It was also meant to give institutions more power to censor and repress pro-Palestinian students, faculty, and professionals from being loud. We can’t let them win- it is our imperative, now more than ever, that we do not concede to the fascistic attempts to silence us. 

[swamp-chicken]

wild life ep. 2 ficlet - ethubs, 648 words

There’s a fragile pink flower sitting in Etho’s base. It’s wilting a little in the sun, its leaves starting to brown and curl at the edges.

Bdubs can’t help but admire it as he plans out his tower and builds up his walls. There isn’t much else in the way of inspiration around here. The island’s a construction zone, a mess of cobble foundations and building outlines, jagged walls and chests spilling over with useful junk.

It’s a pretty flower, even though it’s wilting. Gem has even potted it— a stupid luxury this early in the game. And she has given it to Etho, so sweet and so kind, and called Etho family, and Bdubs, overhearing, has swallowed down the sting and convinced himself that it doesn’t hurt at all. Because family is stupid luxury, too.

“It’s poison,” Bdubs cautions after Gem bounces away. Etho ignores him, picking up the pot and cradling it in his hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Don’t eat it!” Bdubs snaps, but Etho just shakes his head, still grinning like an idiot.

Etho turns the flower so he can admire it from all angles. “I’m gonna save it!” His voice is warm. “It’s my precious gift from Gem.”

Bdubs scoffs and turns back to his work. “Sure. Save it.”

Bdubs has tried to save things before. He protected them in walls of stone and snow, held them close, squeezed too tight. He played the game all wrong, wore his loyalty like a noose. It drew tighter and tighter until it strangled him— until he was knocked to the ground with the taste of iron spreading across his tongue. The snow blanketed him until he was completely erased.

Etho places the flower down in his base. “Nobody’s gonna touch it, okay?” There’s laughter in his voice, the creep of irony. “No one touch my beautiful flower from Gem!”

Bdubs can’t help but laugh along. “You know how this goes, don’t you?”

Etho smiles up at him. “I do.” Bdubs is almost taken aback by the brilliance, by Etho standing there in his tower foundations, eyes shining, the copper gleaming in the sun.

Bdubs has to work to speak around the sudden tightness in his throat. “If you put value on anything, it’s over.”

Etho shrugs and falls silent. Bdubs thinks he understands why Etho did what he did, all those years ago.

Night falls. In the glow of torchlight, Bdubs is building his tower block by block.

Etho’s tower has grown next to his, but his doorway is still unfinished. Light spills out of the tower and pours onto the grass. On the next trip to refill his inventory, Bdubs can’t help but glance inside.

It’s homey. Etho has laid down wood floors, a crafting bench, some chests. Etho himself is in there, too. His back is to the doorway and he doesn’t notice Bdubs’ approach. He must be busy with something. Bdubs can hear him humming the way he does when he’s concentrating, quiet and off-key.

Etho steps back and now Bdubs can see the water bucket in his hand, the task that Etho was so diligently working on. The pink flower: no longer wilting, but standing tall.

“Bdubs!” Etho exclaims, and Bdubs flinches. “How long have you been there?”

Bdubs shifts his weight. “Just checkin’ up on you.”

“And?” Etho asks.

“Copper tower, check. Golden ratio, uh… I gotta count.”

Etho snorts. “You’re pretty nosy for a guy who said we were all gonna mind our own business this season.”

“Yeah, well…” Bdubs doesn’t have a retort. “The flower looks nice.”

“Mm,” Etho agrees. His gaze sharpens. “Don’t get any ideas!”

“No, I—“ Bdubs is choking. “I’d never.”

“Never?”

Bdubs is uncomfortable with the skepticism in Etho’s voice, uncomfortable with the wave of emotion cresting through his body.

“Goodnight, then,” Bdubs says. And he quietly returns to his work.

[fact-dogsarehappiness]

Right and so Steve drains the pool for the winter and never refills it. His parents aren’t home enough to care so he doesn’t think it matters until the kids start hounding him for a pool party. He wants to make them happy so he fills the pool only to immediately drain it again. He tells them a lie about a crack in the foundation that he can’t afford to have fixed right now. They take him for his word (friends don’t lie) and lay off. It’s not until years down the line when Robin catches Steve staring at the empty pool from the kitchen window that anyone brings it up again

Robin’s the only person who knows that every time Steve looks at the pool, he sees Barb

Robin’s the only person who knows that he’s had nightmares about her dying in the pool since he found out what happened to her

Robin’s the only person who knows about the panic attack he had the last time he tried to fill the pool because he started worrying about the same thing happening to one of the kids

Robin’s the one to suggest he fill the pool once more (for good this time). That he should use dirt and rocks. That he should plant flowers and strawberries where the pool used to be so that he doesn’t have to look at it and see Barb’s death anymore

So that he can look in his backyard and see life

[anythinggoesbutme]

Whiskey Words

Nash Hawthorne x Libby Grambs

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, public embarrassment (mild), language, mutual pining, friends-to-lovers, slow burn

Synopsis: Nash Hawthorne has always played it cool—until a few too many drinks loosen his tongue at a family party and he finally says out loud what he’s been holding in for far too long. Right in front of everyone.

Word Count: 902

Libby liked Hawthorne parties the way she liked overly complicated frosting techniques: pretty to look at, a nightmare to pull off.

Still, she stood on the back patio of the estate, a fizzy drink in one hand and the other curled protectively around her paper plate of charcuterie, trying not to feel out of place in a world of tailored blazers and offhand millions.

“Whatcha thinkin’ so hard about, darlin’?” came a familiar drawl.

She smiled before even turning.

Nash.

Worn jeans, button-down flannel, boots. Somehow both effortless and magnetic. A warm breeze of a man who didn’t seem to carry the storm clouds his brothers did.

“You brought me the good stuff,” she said, gesturing to the can of cherry soda he’d pressed into her hand earlier.

He winked. “Wouldn’t let you suffer through Hawthorne brand champagne without backup.”

He didn’t usually drink much—beer at most, and even then, slowly. But tonight was different. Libby noticed the flush on his cheeks, the slower drawl, the way he leaned into her laugh like it steadied him.

Later, she’d realize he’d been building up to something. That every refilled drink and easy joke had been a layer pulled back. But at the time, she just thought Nash was feeling extra friendly.

“I ever tell you,” he said after his fourth drink (or was it fifth?), “how pretty you look in blue?”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I—uh—thank you. It’s kind of my thing,” she joked, motioning to her dyed hair.

But Nash wasn’t laughing.

“You always look good, Libbs,” he said, too earnestly. “Not just the hair. You smile like you mean it. Even when this place makes you nervous. I don’t know how you do that.”

She blinked. “Nash, are you drunk?”

He grinned. “Workin’ on it.”

And then—because the universe has no mercy—Jameson called out: “Nash! C’mere, we need you for the toast!”

“Libby too!” shouted Xander.

She started to wave them off, but Nash gently tugged her along.

The family gathered by the fire pit, toasting the launch of one of Grayson’s new foundations—something about clean water and legacy.

And that’s when Nash decided to open his mouth.

“I got somethin’ to say.”

There was a pause.

Even Jameson, who was halfway through a joke, stopped talking.

Nash stepped forward, swaying slightly.

“I just wanna say… this girl right here?” He pointed at Libby. “Best damn thing to walk into my life.”

Libby froze.

“She bakes like magic. She cares about people. She sees straight through all the Hawthorne B.S. and still chooses to hang around us. I don’t know why.”

“Nash,” Avery murmured, eyes darting toward Libby, toward the stunned crowd.

But Nash didn’t stop.

“I ain’t good with words. Never was. But every time I see her—it’s like somethin’ in me slows down. Like I can breathe better. I’ve been holdin’ this in for so long I might explode if I don’t say it now.”

Libby’s heart was pounding.

“I’m in love with you, Libby Grambs,” he said. “Have been for a while.”

Silence.

The kind that stretches and pulses like a balloon waiting to pop.

Libby opened her mouth, closed it again.

Nash laughed nervously. “Guess I shoulda saved that for, uh… not in front of all y’all.”

The brothers stared. Even Max, mid-bite, had frozen.

“Nash,” Libby whispered, finally stepping forward. “You’re drunk.”

“Yup,” he said cheerfully.

“Let’s get you inside.”

He didn’t protest when she took his hand, leading him back through the French doors and into the quieter side of the house.

The sitting room was dim, a soft lamp casting golden light across the couch. Libby sat him down, hands shaking.

“I’m gonna get you some water.”

“You mad?” he asked, eyes soft.

“No,” she said honestly, returning with a glass. “Just… surprised.”

“I didn’t mean to do it like that,” he said, looking down. “It just came out.”

Libby sat beside him. “You meant it, though?”

He nodded. “Drunk words, sober feelings.”

She laughed, despite herself. “You would say that.”

He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

And maybe she was.

“I never wanted to mess things up,” he said. “Didn’t think I deserved to say it.”

Libby’s voice was soft. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “You’re this bright, wild thing. I’m just… me. Lotta people look at me and see the easy-going one, but you—you look at me and actually see me. That scares the hell outta me.”

Libby didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she reached for his hand.

“I don’t think you’re easy-going,” she said. “I think you’re steady. You’re kind. You make people feel safe.”

His eyes met hers.

“I didn’t know what to do with my feelings either,” she admitted. “But I’ve had them. For a while.”

He blinked. “You have?”

She nodded.

“I love you too, Nash Hawthorne.”

There was no kiss. No sweeping music.

Just two people on a couch, a little broken, a little brave, holding hands in the quiet.

The next morning, when Nash woke up with a splitting headache and a vague memory of emotional disaster, Libby handed him coffee, kissed his cheek, and said:

“Next time you confess your love, maybe don’t do it with Xander filming.”

His groan was so loud it shook the walls.

But underneath it, a smile crept in.

Because despite everything, she stayed.

And maybe that’s what love was.

[baronessvonglitter]

Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 19 🍒

"Hungry Heart"

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 6,022

Summary: Going to Jackson for a wedding seems like just a friend doing a favor for a friend, but old acquaintances and new attitudes don't always make for a great combination.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (reader is 39, Joel is 56), takes place June - December 2023, mention of eating food/drinking alcohol, mention of divorce, language, No Smut, mention of infidelity, post-divorce strife, Ellie is kind of a delinquent (will be discussed in next chapter), brief glimpse of lumberjack!Joel, forced proximity, mutual pining (mostly on Joel's side), Joel tries to be an authority figure and Ellie ain't having it

Author's Note: thank you to everyone who's stuck around to read this and been very patient with me! my birthday was last week so there was a lot going on, otherwise I would have had this out earlier. So.. we've got these two together again, but the reunion isn't exactly a happy one..

Series Masterlist

June 2023 San Francisco, CA

It's not until you're seated in a booth at the trendy new sushi bar downtown that you begin to doubt your agreement to meet Sarah while she's in town for a work conference. You'd said yes initially, then waffled about it in the coming weeks, and now you're drinking sake to fortify yourself. Your therapist told you it's a bad idea to mix alcohol with reacquaintances, but you're already refilling the ochoko when you look up for a moment and spy Sarah approaching you through the crowded restaurant.

You've never thought about what she might look like. A part of you imagined that you'd be sitting down to dinner with the same kid from twenty years ago. But Sarah has grown up, in her thirties, a successful attorney. And, from what you gathered by spying on Joel's Facebook account years ago, she's also a mother.

"Thank you for meeting me," she says, embracing you the way women always embrace each other, something you never got used to because of you lack of female friends. She smells like expensive perfume, the kind you spray on yourself at Sephora just for fun, and is dressed in a white maxi dress with blue floral print. She looks amazing, and you silently berate yourself for wearing black distressed jeans, a Rolling Stones tee and your lucky red Converse.

"You're all grown up," you remark, a hint of sadness in your tone.

"You look beautiful," she says in return. "You don't even look like twenty years have passed."

Little does she know you spent forty dollars on a concealer to hide your undereye circles, and were talked into spending another twenty on something called a lip oil that makes your lips sticky and tastes like cheap pineapple, which you wiped away on the restaurant napkin as soon as you sat down.

Settling down to small talk, you neglect to look at your menus, annoying the waitress who stops by to take your order three times and ultimately just comes by to refill your drinks.

Sarah lives out east in Boulder, Colorado, practicing law alongside her fiance Theo. They have a son together, ten year old Finn.

"Theo proposed when I got pregnant," Sarah says. "But I wanted us to build a foundation first, construct our little family. And when the time was right, I proposed to him."

She shows off pictures of Finn, sharing the funny and cute anecdotes that parents do, and when she asks about Ellie you do the same: Ellie in the hospital, just hours old, wearing a tiny knitted pink and blue hat as she glowered at the camera; Ellie at four, playing T-ball, one of just two girls on an all-boys team; Ellie at ten winning the school spelling bee.

Being an Army wife gave you the opportunity to see the world, experience things you otherwise wouldn't. Japan, Germany, Italy.. you were happy that Ellie got to experience them too.

But even that couldn't save your marriage to Justin.

There were infidelities on both sides, and when you found out about his, it was almost a relief to discover he was not Nice Justin, just a man who had affairs. In the midst of your own liaisons, you felt vindicated, though the fun wore off easier than it had in your youth.

Filing for divorce was only difficult considering Ellie. Justin didn't fight it, handing over full custody. It was the only part of the process that broke your heart. Now you were just repeating a history of broken families. Once the divorce was finalized it was like throwing up after being nauseous for so long, just good to get it out of your system.

("I kept my married name, just to piss off the new wife," you tell Sarah, who snickers in response. "That's understandable.")

Settling in San Francisco where you like the neighborhood and the schools, life seems easier.

"Ninth grade history," you answer when Sarah asks what you teach. "I introduce Romeo & Juliet to kids who are the same age as those characters."

And now, with the niceties out of the way, there's nothing left to talk about but the past.

You've been dreading it.

"I never apologized for what I did," she says.

You nod, inviting her to continue.

"You probably know this by now, but I was the one who called your mom."

Of course you knew it all along, but hearing it is a different thing.

She got her number from your phone when you weren't around. And, unable to get the picture of you and her dad out of her mind, she dialed it one day and explained to your mom what she saw.

"Why?" you ask.

She averts her eyes a brief moment. "Deep down I always knew there was something going on with you and my dad.. the day of my party when I walked in on you, it was a rude awakening. It's one thing to know something is going on, and another thing to witness it. And later, when you left, I realized I'd taken it too far."

Sarah goes quiet and so do you, despite the chatter in the busy restaurant.

You ask, "Did Joel ever find out it was you?"

She nods. "I told him later.. after he started seeing that awful girl you were friends with."

That part of your life, the bubble of jealousy and despair in which you made your home, seems so long ago. "Hailey," you remind her.

"Yeah.. she didn't last very long. Dad broke things off when he caught her stealing from him.. and when that happened I realized he was just better off with you. But.. by then it was too late."

By then you were already apart. The damage had been done.

"Was he angry at you for what you did?"

Sarah shrugs. "It was a silent kind of angry. You know how he is. We avoided each other for weeks until it became impossible. And by then.. you were gone."

You take a moment to reflect on your memories of Joel. "How is he?"

She smiles, as if she knew or even hoped you'd ask about him. "He's good. He's in Jackson now. Wyoming. Tommy's there with his new wife.."

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. "And, uh.. your stepmom?"

She looks blank for a moment. "You mean Tess? No, they divorced a few years ago. She was nice, it just didn't work out."

You don't know whether to feel sorrow or relief at this fact, but for once you decide to be petty and let the relief take over, hoping he went through a fraction of the pain you endured.

Sarah toys with her salmon roll. "I'm sorry," she says, nodding to herself as if giving herself strength to do it. She looks you in the eye and you catch a glimpse of the girl she used to be. "I'm sorry. For starting everything."

So many times you've imagined what it would be like if you hadn't been found out by anyone else. Would you still have stayed in Austin? Would you and Joel have had more time together?

"It's in the past, right?" You manage a smile, happy that this is out in the open. A part of you feels like a weight is lifted. Things may not have happened the way you wanted, but now you can reconcile the things you can't control anymore.

"This is probably the wrong time to say this," Sarah continues, "but I'd like to invite you and Ellie to my wedding this December, in Jackson. You won't have to worry about airfare or hotels. Theo and I will cover your ticket and.. well, everyone's staying at my dad's. He has a huge house in town, enough for close family. I'd really love it if you would come."

"Justin, you're really fucking me over, do you know that?" you try to speak as quietly as you can into the phone while laying out outfits for the Jackson trip. "Ellie's going to be brokenhearted. You told her you'd have her the entire two weeks."

On the other line Justin sighs, the new, younger Mrs. Williams can be heard in the background. "I promised Svetlana first. We really need this time together," he whispers as well, likely not trying to instigate another argument with his wife.

You have some choice words for Svetlana, but are interrupted when Ellie quietly walks into the room, well aware that the discussion is about her. "I'll call you back."

"Let me guess.." Ellie sits on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going with Dad for Christmas.."

There's no point in lying to her. She's a sharp kid. "I'm sorry you had to hear that, kiddo. He and your stepmother are taking an extended honeymoon in Malta," you tell her gently.

"You mean Slutlana?"

"What? Ellie, that's rude. Don't say that." You pause. "Don't say that to her face, at least."

She's quiet, and at times like this you regret that she's essentially living the life you lived at fourteen, always wondering when Dad would come back, if he even wanted to spend time with his own child.

"So.. I'm going with you?"

You nod. "Thank god your probation is over. It'd be nice if you paid Marlene a visit, or at least called her," I said, speaking of the parole officer assigned to Ellie after a particular incident. "We should send her some Tiff's Treats or something, she deserves a gift after putting up with your delinquent self." You playfully toss a tee shirt at her.

"Can I say bye to Riley?" she asks, hope evident in her eyes.

"No," you're adamant on this one thing, as lax as you were before the trespassing situation.

"Mom, my probation's over. I'm not gonna get in trouble just for talking to her."

"I don't care. I'm not going by the judge's rules, I'm going by mine." You pause. "You'll just have to come with me to Wyoming."

Sarah had gone to the trouble of sending a beautifully embossed wedding invitation, done in traditional cream and gold, with photos of the two of them as children, as teens, and one gorgeously done couples photo. Theo's cute, and Sarah seems happy with him.

"Boring," Ellie says in response to the wedding festivities. "Why would anyone want to get married?"

You decide not to give her a response. At her age you didn't understand the fuss about weddings either.

Forgoing Sarah's offer of paying for your flight, you rent a Chevrolet Suburban for the drive over.

"You do realize we'll be driving for over fourteen hours, right?" Ellie says, helping you put the suitcases and bags in the roomy luggage hold.

"Yep. I checked it out on Google Maps."

"What happens if you get tired?"

"We'll drive during the day and find a rest stop or a motel at night," you shrug.

"You know.. I could take over the drive sometimes," she offers.

"Okay, kiddo. Why not?"

She brightens. "Really?"

"Absolutely fucking not." With a smile you open the passenger door and she hops in, grumbling,

Only so much music can suffice a long ride, and somewhere outside of Reno, Ellie busts out a dog-eared copy of a book Justin had given her as a gag won the spelling bee.

"Oh no, Ellie, for god's sake, not the puns," you whine dramatically.

"Yes, the puns," she grins. "How else am I supposed to spend my time on this boring-ass road trip?"

"Brace yourself. We've only been on the road less than four hours."

She groans, slumping forward in her seat, revived shortly when she decides to recite every single pun in that damn book, and when you give her that Mom look, she simply grins and tells you, "That's what you get for turning down a plane ticket."

Three days later you arrive. Jackson Hole is picturesque, especially in winter, as it it was just made to be the snowy backdrop on a postcard or a highlight on Instagram.

You turn down the main thoroughfare of the town, a light dusting of snow already falling from the heavens as you peer out the window, frowning in concentration as you try to familiarize yourself with the location. Ellie's buzzing in your ear like a mosquito, singing along to something on the radio. You turn the volume down. "Quiet down, I can't see."

She nearly bursts at the seam with withheld laughter. "You want me to quiet down... because you can't see?" she teases.

"Ellie!" you groan. "We're already late for lunch with the family."

Promising yourself you'll settle in a hotel after what you hope will be a painless reunification with Sarah and the rest of the Millers, you find your destination and drive up a perfectly paved driveway. Joel's house, a craftsman-style facade done in red brick and accented with carved gable peaks, looks exactly like a house Joel would own.

Parking close enough on the curved driveway without blocking in any other cars, you take a moment to rest, stretching your neck and shoulders.

"Should've let me drive," Ellie says from her seat as you both start to disembark.

There's a smart remark on your lips but when you turn to her you're distracted by a figure at the side of the house.

Someone's chopping wood, splitting logs with precision, though not necessarily speed. He's wearing just a white tee shirt, jeans, boots. You let your eyes linger on his physique. Who is that? you wonder.

As if he can hear your thoughts or sense your presence, the figure turns and wipes the sweat off his brow.

You know him in an instant.

Joel.

Your heart feels like it's going into arrhythmia.

"Come on, Ellie," you hurry her up the walk and to the front steps.

"The bags--"

"Fuck the bags." You press the doorbell nervously, willing Sarah or anyone to open quickly.

"You made it!" Sarah practically mauls you as she greets you, giving both you and Ellie a hug.

You're swept inside where it's nice and cozy, the air scented with pine and gingerbread. Christmas garlands are strung over every doorway, along the staircase railing, the windows, and the fireplace.

"Was my dad out there? I told him he needs to start getting ready. I don't want him coming to the luncheon all sweaty," Sarah says.

"What? No. I didn't see anything.. anyone," you stutter.

"I'm happy you're here, because we're actually going to have lunch at the Tipsy Bison instead. It's Tommy's bar, you probably passed it on the way up here."

"Oh, uh.." you're distracted by Ellie precariously sloshing a winter themed snow globe, the thought of Joel is still spinning around in your sleep-deprived brain, and Sarah is still talking to you like you don't look completely zoned out and anxious.

To make things worse, Joel comes in, carrying most of yours and Ellie's luggage. His white tee sticks to his sweaty skin, his face pink with exertion and dewy with sweat, his hair dark with more gray now than ever, and on his beard too. His eyes, those dark depths you've lost yourself in so many times, peer into yours, and for a moment you forget to breathe.

"You left the trunk open," he murmurs, as if it's a quiet admonition, a secret he doesn't want to tell.

"Oh.. thank you. You didn't have to do that." Your nervous glance at him gives your blushing away because you see his face redden as well.

"Dad, can you believe she has a kid now?" Sarah says excitedly.

There's a jolt of fear when you realize father and daughter are going to be in the same room, and neither of them knows it.

"Uh, Ellie, this is Joel Miller. He's, uh, Sarah's dad, and I used to babysit Sarah.. a long time ago.." Being put on the spot, you falter your words.

"Put 'er there, Joel," Ellie says, holding out her hand for him to shake, which Joel does, the start of a tiny smirk on his lips.

"We all lived in Austin together, with your Aunt Sofia. I mean, we didn't live together but we were neighbors," you babble, feeling even more blush creep up your neck. "Way before you were born, kiddo."

Meanwhile Sarah's eyes dart from Ellie to Joel to you, and back again, slower each time, as if she's piecing the puzzle together. Her eyes linger on Ellie, her expression unreadable before settling on you. You quickly glance away.

"Let me take that from you," you motion to the luggage Joel's carrying.

"Nah, I got it. I'll show ya to y'all's rooms." He hefts the suitcases and bags like they're nothing and heads upstairs. You have no choice but to follow him, sneaking a little glance at how his great his ass looks in his jeans.

"Nice place you got here, Joel," Ellie remarks, eyes skyward, surveying the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "Do you always address your elders by their given names?"

"Ellie," you whisper harshly. "Mind your manners."

"Damn, sorry," she mutters back.

"Sorry, Joel. She's--"

"Hey, why do you get to call him Joel?"

"Because I'm an adult," you say under your breath.

"He's older than you. Like, a lot. Like, Grandpa Bob's age."

"Stop it," you say through clenched teeth as Joel clears his throat.

"I can put y'all next door to each other--"

"I call this one!" Ellie claims the first door on the left, grabbing her bags and leaving Joel to lead you a little further down the hall.

"'M afraid this one is right across the hall from mine," he mumbles, leading you inside the comfortably decorated bedroom to set your things down.

"Thank you," you murmur, heart thrumming in your chest. This is the first time you've been alone with him in fifteen years. "You.. have a really beautiful home here, Joel."

He looks around, eyes darting anywhere but yours. "Thank you, that means a lot. Built it myself-- well, with Tommy's help."

"Really?" It's hard to pretend you're not impressed. "Must've been a lot of hard work."

"Yeah, it was. But she's sturdy." Joel gives a sturdy pat to the wall, and you can't help looking at his hand, the way his thick fingers splay out against the dark green wallpaper. Those are fingers that used to find their way inside you, curving just so in order for you to come quickly while his lips and tongue worked in tandem to--

Ellie's voice comes from the other room. "Wow! You guys have cable? Do you have HBO?"

"No Euphoria!" you shout back, scoffing when she quiets again.

There are too many questions on the tip of your tongue, too many things you want to say but not when you're so nervous that your hands are shaking. Staying quiet is easier. More awkward, but easier.

The room fills with unspoken words and missed chances as the two of you shift uneasily, not knowing where to start, not knowing if you should start.

"Didn't know ya had a daughter," he grumbles. "Not 'til Sarah told me."

"Yeah. Ellie's.. precocious."

A ghost of a smile graces Joel's lips as he looks at you and for a moment in time you feel eighteen again.

"How old is she?" he asks.

"She turned fourteen this past spring." God, please don't let him do the math, please don't let him do the math.

Instead he gives a low whistle, wears a teasing smile. "You look good for bein' the mom of a teenager. You still look beauti-- still look the same," he finishes.

You're thirty nine now and in possession of all the complexities that come with your age. There's more gray in your hair than you care to admit (which Ellie tells you not to dye because it "looks cool"), and there are a few more pounds on your person and a few more lines on your face than you're happy with, but his compliment warms you nonetheless.

"You look.. good.. too." Jesus, how did this man age like fine wine? If anything, the past two decades only served to make him hotter. It's unfair.

He takes a step forward, his face determined, lips pursed like he's still calculating his decision. "I.. I wanted to say--"

This time Sarah comes up, dressed for the cold, putting on her gray gloves. "Dad, get in the shower already," she scolds him. "I'm taking her and Ellie to the Tipsy Bison. We'll see you there."

Joel's eyes set on you. "I don't mind takin' them."

You open your mouth to speak, even though you have no idea how to respond. "Honestly, I'll drive me and my daughter. And we can get a room in town."

"No way, Jose." Sarah loops your arm through hers. "You're staying with us and that's final. So, will you let me drive you, or do you want to wait for my dad?"

Waiting for Joel.. it seems you've spent the majority of your youth waiting for him.

"Can we go with Sarah?" Ellie asks, solving the problem for you.

In truth you would have liked a moment to rest, to sleep, to puzzle over the strangeness of the day so far. You're almost a thousand miles from the home you've made after your divorce, under the same roof as the man who changed your life in ways good and bad, harboring a secret from him and his family. Not to mention Ellie's ignorance of her origins.

Sarah herds you and Ellie into the Tipsy Bison, a spacious bar establishment on Main Street, part of the scenery you must have driven by without noticing upon driving into town. Inside is the typical decor you'd expect: neon lights advertising every brand of beer and alcohol you can imagine, taxidermy mounts of bears, bucks, and elk. Pool tables are at the far left, dartboards to the right, a couple of foosball tables as well. There's a stage beyond the pool tables, ready for a band or DJ, a makeshift dance floor in front of it, and colored lights remain still overhead, their brightness dulled and stilled by the daytime.

There's a homey, cozy feeling as you glance around. The bar spreads along the far side beyond a range of tables and booths, boasting a wide variety of booze. Working behind the bar is a face you haven't seen in awhile: Tommy.

He comes out to greet you, his smile and bright and joyful as you've always known him to be, and part of you feels guilty that the last time you were together you'd been drunk, making out next to his truck, after meeting in a bar just like this one.

"Hey you!" He envelops you in a tight hug, and you start to feel better. Bygones are certainly bygones in his case.

"Tommy, it's good to see you again," you smile, pulling away to get a good look at him. "You've hardly aged. What's with you Millers, are you all vampires or something?" You cast a playful look at Sarah, who's bringing her fiance and her son to meet you.

Tommy shrugs, a playful grin on his lips. "You're more than welcome to join our Legion of the Undead," he jokes.

You're introduced to Theo, Sarah's husband-to-be, who's on the quiet side, a contradiction to Sarah who's chattering away about him, and Finn, who's an exact replica of his dad, eyeing you and Ellie with a shy smile.

Ellie manages to find a friend in him as you and the others get to catching up. You're introduced to Maria, Tommy's wife, the roundness of her baby bump just barely showing. She oversees the caterers as they start setting up for lunch. Tommy and Sarah talk about you like you're a part of the family instead of someone who knew them for a summer and changed things forever, even in some small way.

"Sarah tells me this is your place now," you speak to Tommy, who's behind the bar and pouring you a drink.

"Sure is," he says, sliding the drink across the bar to you. "Don't know anyone who orders a gin and tonic in the middle of winter," he says, teasing you.

"I'm eccentric," you smirk, taking a sip of the crisp, slightly bitter drink.

"Should be you behind this bar, Cherry," he winks.

"Oh god, no one's called me that in forever," you groan, doing a quick check on Ellie to find her attempting to play pool with Finn.

"How's business?" you ask him.

"Good, good," he nods. "Just glad to be settin' down some roots, buildin' somethin' for when the baby comes."

"Congratulations," you smile. "You and Maria seem like a good fit."

"Well.. y'know.. can't fuck around forever," he chuckles, then he spots someone at the entrance.

"Hey, brother!" Tommy raises his hand in greeting and you stay still, wishing you could sink down into the ground or better yet, become invisible completely.

The old-fashioned jukebox ends a Fleetwood Mac song and drifts into "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen starts, the catchy, melancholic combo of piano, drums, bass, guitar and saxophone wafting throughout the bar. You keep your eyes on your drink, willing for all of this to be just a dream, some intrusive thought you've put incredible detail into, prolonging your grief over lost love.

But there he is, a barstool between you, giving you your space while ready to jump up at a moment's notice if you want him closer. Your casual glance gives you away when you stare too long at him, clad in a green flannel shirt, his gray tee peeking beneath. You could swear it's the same flannel shirt you wore at the cabin, in the days when you were younger and carefree, before bad things happened to separate you.

Joel catches your look, lips twitching into a smile as his hands wrap around a glass of whiskey.

"So, what took you away from Boston?" you ask, putting your lips to your drink so you're not tempted to ask too much. It's an attempt to break the awkward silence.

"Lot of things," he mutters, staring into the amber liquid. "But mostly I followed Tommy out here."

"I was in Boston with him for awhile." Tommy shakes his head. "Hated it. I'll never set foot on the East Coast again if I can help it. I came out here, met Maria, started a family."

"And Sarah was already out here, buildin' a life. Just made sense for us all to be together again."

You look at both of them, glad the conversation isn't just between you and Joel. "The house is amazing. Joel told me you both built it."

The look of pride on their faces is endearing.

"We did, and mine too, across the street from his," Tommy adds.

"What happened to the contracting business?"

"We expanded it," Joel answers, a twinkle in his eye though his expression remains serious. "Made a nice chunk of change. Got branches in Oklahoma, Arkansas, even as far as Georgia."

That would explain the six-bedroom house, the fancy week-long wedding rituals that Sarah has joyfully swept you up in, and the catered lunches. The Millers have become quite financially well-off.

You listen to the brothers talk about some of the adventures they've been on, the good and the bad that has passed and ultimately brought them here, with you, once again.

The lunch spread is impressive: Texas style barbecue of ribs, brisket, and chicken; side dishes of beans, potato salad, grilled corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese, and mouthwatering desserts of pumpkin and pecan pies, cheesecake, banana pudding, and peach cobbler.

You haven't realized how hungry you are until you realize you have to remember to force yourself to eat slower, accidentally spilling a little barbecue sauce on your shirt. Embarrassed, you wipe it away, glancing at Ellie and finding her doing the same thing, just shoveling forkfuls of food in her mouth.

"Easy there," Joel's voice booms from across the table. "No one's gonna take it from ya," he playfully chides.

You were so absorbed in your lunch that you didn't realize he was right across from you. "Ellie," you scold her quietly. "Slow down."

"This is slow for me," she answers.

"Mind your mama," Joel says gruffly, his tone is authoritative.

She looks up at him, in annoyance and surprise. "You don't tell me what to do."

"And you don't talk back like that." Joel's voice gets a little more strict.

"Joel, stop," you intercede, your voice just as terse. The chatter around the table has dimmed but it's obvious everyone has their focus on you three.

"The kid obviously needs some fuckin' manners."

You scoff. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His eyes lock with yours, dark and cold. "I see where she gets it from. I guess that's what happens when a dad ain't around to teach some respect."

"Fuck this," Ellie mutters, pushing back from the table and throwing down her napkin, quick to get up and leave.

Your face is flaming red with both anger and embarrassment as your gaze burns through Joel's. "There's something wrong with you. Seriously," you mutter before getting up to go after her.

Joel goes after you. Sarah goes after Joel.

"Ellie!" you call out, watching her walk off in the direction of the house.

"I'll get her," Sarah volunteers, gently touching your arm. And then you hear her speak to Joel under her breath, something like "You're ruining it," before she hurries up to catch Ellie.

It's you and Joel now.

"Babygirl," he starts, his voice low.

"Babygirl?? Fuck you!"

Joel goes pale, obviously not expecting that. "I deserve that. I deserve for you to hate me."

"Hate you? No, you deserve worse than for me to hate you! How dare you yell at Ellie like that? I never once saw you treat Sarah that way."

"She never acted like that," he huffs.

"Do us both a favor and just stay away from us for the rest of the week. I'll see about getting a motel tonight, just.. fucking leave us alone."

He mutters Christ, and reaches for you, pulls you to the side of the building. "I'm sorry, all right?"

"Yeah? Tell her that." You could easily leave. He's not restraining you, but you stay. "Is that all you have to apologize for?"

He looks guilty. "No, of course not. I've been trying to talk to you since you got here--"

"Fifteen goddamn years and I don't hear anything from you? And now you.. what, you expect me to fall into your arms like I'm a stupid fucking teenager again? Go to hell! Nothing is that simple anymore!"

You hadn't meant for all your rage to come spilling out, it was just supposed to be about Ellie, but now that you're face to face with him, you can't help wanting to rage at him. Joel backs away from you, his eyes on the ground, hands on his hips, jaw set.

"Longer than that, actually," you softly correct yourself. "San Antonio.. you fucking left me. On my birthday."

He steps forward, not ready to back down. "I went to jail for you. On my birthday."

"I didn't ask you to do that! I didn't ask for anything but for you to love me! And you stopped!"

"No, I didn't," he whispers, arms hanging at his side even though they itch to reach out for you, hold you, make it better again.

"Don't say that," you warn him, backing away. "Don't insult my intelligence, Joel. You don't know what I went through after you left me. My heart was broken for years!"

"You were just a kid. I.. I thought I was doin' right by lettin' you go."

"I wasn't better because of you breaking up with me. I got worse! So much worse!" You don't dwell a lot on the past, specifically the college years that are now mostly a blur of hookups and hangovers, but now it all comes rushing back. Joel was your safety net and he took all that away from you once you started to freefall.

"Bullshit. You got married," he says bitterly.

"I did that so I could feel normal again. I tried to save myself. But it didn't matter in the end because he didn't love me either. Though I have to say, my divorce hurt a hell of a lot less than your abandonment."

Joel starts to look his age. The lines in his face deepen with worry and regret as he absorbs your words, mulling over everything that has happened. "I'm sorry--"

"Besides, you got married too! So please don't play like you're such a saint. You hardly look the part." Your anger has warmed you, given some spice to your blood so that you don't even feel the cold anymore. You roll your sleeves to your elbows, fists curled, adrenaline pumping as you finally tell him everything that's been locked away inside your heart.

"I don't accept your apology," you grunt, adding, "And don't ever yell at our daughter like that ever again!" You storm off, wishing you'd brought your jacket but it would mean having to walk past Joel, back into the restaurant and out again, and you're already walking away. It seems one of you is always walking away from the other.

It's snowing again when you find Sarah and Ellie, further down in front of a storefront, steaming cups of hot chocolate in their hands. Both are smiling, chatting, seemingly getting along. You know you should reprimand Ellie, tell her to apologize to Joel, but how can you be a hypocrite that way when you won't even talk to him yourself? All you can think about is leaving, going straight to the motel and picking up your things at Joel's later.

Sarah talks you into staying, warning of bad weather coming in soon. She apologizes for Joel, and you apologize for airing your grievances so publicly.

"Just don't do it at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow," she smirks. "Then I'll have to leave your ass out in the snow."

That evening you and Ellie keep to your rooms. You use your phone for distraction when your attention span keeps drifting from your novel, but even technology isn't the answer. There's only so much Merge Mansion you can play, and not even True Detective can hold your attention for long. You decide to rewatch Narcos (for the plot, you tell yourself) when Ellie knocks on your door.

"What's up, kiddo?" You press pause and scoot over on the bed, offering her to get comfy next to you.

"Have you seen the news?"

You're on Do Not Disturb and haven't gotten any of your usual notifications.

"There's a blizzard coming tonight. Sarah says sometimes the main roads get snowed in and we won't be able to get out."

Oh Sarah Miller, the purveyor of bad news. "She told me something like that. How long do they expect conditions to last?" You're already checking your phone.

"Could be days, maybe even up to a week," Ellie shrugs.

"Great," you mutter. "So we're stuck here even after the wedding?" It's the day after tomorrow.

"Please don't make us go to the motel. Sarah's really cool and really nice. And I even like Theo and Finn.. even Joel isn't so bad so long as he stops talking to me like a dad."

That night, as the blizzard blows in, turning everything outside completely white, Joel tosses in his sleep in his room across the hall from yours. It's not the howling winds keeping him awake; he's lived here long enough to get used to such natural disasters.

There's something you said to him, earlier outside the bar. It was an explosive moment, with words exchanged like bullets. But in the midst of it all he took away that one sentence: don't ever yell at our daughter like that ever again.

Our daughter?

dividers by @saradika 👑

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