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fayes-fics · 5 months

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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]

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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oxycodone-soup · 3 months

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As someone who has watched @janmisali's "how many Super Mario games are there" video several times and is eagerly awaiting the sequel (don't worry, I filled out the new survey already), I noticed something interesting in the beginning of GMTK's newest video. During the intro, he says he's played "... every single mainline entry in the Super Mario Brothers series". Naturally, my first reaction was to figure out what exact list of games that is. During this scene (mostly as a gag), he's set up a stack of games on the side. From bottom to top, they are:

Super Mario 3D World New Super Mario Bros U Super Mario Galaxy 2 New Super Mario Bros Wii Super Mario Sunshine Super Mario Galaxy New Super Mario Bros New Super Mario Bros 2 Super Mario 3D Land Super Mario Maker for Nintendo 3DS Super Mario 3D All-Stars Super Mario Maker 2 Super Mario Odyssey Super Mario Maker Super Mario Bros Super Mario 64 Super Mario Bros 2 (aka "USA") Super Mario Bros 3 Super Mario Land 2: 6 Golden Coins 2 Unidentifiable SNES/Super Famicom cartriges Super Mario Land

This is mostly similar to the "popular" 18-game list in the jan Misali video, with a couple differences. GMTK does include all 3 Maker games, which is completely fine since it's consistent.

While making this list I learned that the European SNES used the same design as the Super Famicom. I think this makes it likely that one of the unidentified carts is The Lost Levels, which would make the list otherwise match Misali's. I think the best candidate for the other cart is Yoshi's Island. Both of those appear in the video footage, but I don't know how to confirm either guess.

If someone has Mark Brown's contact and wants to waste his time asking for his justification on the enumeration and classification of the mainline series of games within the Mario franchise, let me know.

He also includes the following games in the video as footage, although seeing as the video also includes a lot of non-Mario games this probably means nothing for GMTK's opinion on what games are part of the mainline series:

Super Mario Bros Wonder Super Mario World 2: Yoshi's Island Super Mario Bros Deluxe Super Mario Bros: The Lost Levels New Super Luigi U New Super Mario Bros U Deluxe Super Mario Run

#super mario #gmtk #jan misali

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dear-ao3 · 3 months

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you have created one of the greatest tumblr posts in my opinion. im not from the usa and even i know some states but you guys straight up don’t know anything? i thought that was a stereotype or gag. sure, delaware sounds like a light coat adele would be able to throw on no matter the weather. *insert miss congeniality reference here* but whoa the learning experience I just went through.

can't believe people are still reading the delaware post in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four

#not a tag #from saph

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billybob598 · 9 months

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Look What I've Got (Sophia Smith x Reader)

Heyyyyy. I did not want to put this gif in because it makes me sad, but I thought it made sense with the story. Also, this is a F1 reader, there was a little vote between f1 reader or swewnt reader and f1 won 8-6 so sorry to anyone wanting the swewnt reader but this is a democracy. I might do a similar one later with a swewnt reader for those people. Anyways, it's a shit title and a shit ending so have fun reading! Remember any feedback good or bad is welcomed! Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.8k (My longest fic ever wooooo!!!)

You were a proud girlfriend right now. Here you were watching your girlfriend of almost two years, Sophia Smith, playing in her first-ever World Cup. While you missed the group stage games due to the F1 Grand Prix in Hungary and Belgium, you were finally able to come to Australia. Your girlfriend didn’t know that you were here yet nor that you were attending the USA’s Round of 16 match against Sweden. Throughout the warm-ups, Sophia seems laser-focused, so much so that she doesn’t see you sitting in the stands wearing her jersey. Of course, it is instead her best friend Naomi Girma who spots you first. When she points you out you don’t think you’ve ever seen your girlfriend's head turn so fast. Her eyes land on you and she sprints towards you with a blinding smile.

“Oh, my God! Baby, I’ve missed you so much!” Sophia squeals out as she hugs you tightly.

You chuckle, “I’ve missed you too, love.” When you pull away from the hug, Sophia immediately connects your lips. You reach back and slip your arms around her neck, trying to deepen the kiss. Gagging sounds come from beside you. Sophia groans and tries to chase your lips when you take your lips off of hers, suddenly aware of all the cameras, family members, and teammates surrounding you. You give her a weak smile and slightly push her back to the field.

“Nooo, I wanna stay with you,” she pouts. You find her pouting adorable, but as much as you want her to stay with you, you know that she has to go continue to warm up.

“Hi Y/N! I’m your favourite player right?” Naomi yells from across the field.

You wink at her with a cheeky smile, “Oh, of course. Girma on top baby.” Sophia gives her best friend a harsh glare before leaning in to give you one last hug.

“I’m your favourite though, right baby?” She asks quietly. You give her a subtle kiss on her ear while mumbling an “Always” to her.

As the game gets underway, you watch nervously at every movement the US makes. Each time Musovic makes a fantastic save you can’t help the little groan of frustration that leaves your mouth. You can tell Sophia is starting to get frustrated with herself, whenever she feels she misses an opportunity she puts her head in her hands. The skin around your nails has been chewn. When extra time ends still in a 0-0 draw, your nerves increase tenfold. As Andi steps up to take the first penalty kick, Mollie, Sophia’s mom, reaches down and grabs your hand, squeezing tightly. When Sophia steps up to take a potentially game-winning penalty, you and her mom hold your breath. You can only watch in despair as her kick goes over the bar, her hands going straight to her head as the reality that she missed sinks in.

When the VAR call comes through and Lina Hurtig’s penalty is called good, your entire body deflates. The entirety of the US team breaks down, including your girlfriend. All you want to do is hold her and comfort her when you see her crying. It’s not her fault, you know that, but she’s already got it in her head that she’s to blame for everything. After a couple of minutes of tears and hugs among the team, the players start to make their way to their families and friends. You let Sophia sob into her parents' shoulders for a while. Finally, she pulls away and looks at you. You try to give her a smile and reach for her. She looks away and slowly starts to back away from you. The confusion you feel is represented on your face.

“I’m sorry Y/N I just need some space right now,” she softly speaks. You nod, albeit confused but trying your best to be understanding. After a long time in the locker room and taking their showers, the players start to emerge. Sophia shows up, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. She heads straight for her family once again. You hang back unsure of what she wants you to do. Her family leaves the two of you alone when her eyes meet yours. Opening your mouth to say something, you are caught off guard when she speaks first.

“Just don’t, okay?” Once again confusion writes itself all over you.

“Don’t what?” You ask.

“Don’t say that I did such a good job, that it was just unlucky I missed and that I’m still young, or some shit like that,” she says, a bit of anger seeping into her voice. You nod slowly, carefully choosing your next words.

“Okay, I won’t say that. I do think you did a good job, though. But, if you don’t think you did then whatever. All I know is that you made me crazy proud,” you state, trying to cheer her up. You don’t know what happened, but it seemed that sentence had set off Sophia.

“Well I don’t care if you're proud of me, that doesn’t change the fact that we lost and it was all my fault! If you think that it wasn’t my fault, you’re astronomically wrong,” her voice rising with each word said, “I don’t care if you're proud of me. I don’t even know why you’re here, I don’t want you to be.” Her words sting. You take a step back, trying not to show just how hurt you are.

“Do you really mean that?” You ask quietly.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Sophia says harshly. Of course, she didn’t mean it. She has no idea why she’s saying these things right now, her heart cracking at how dejected you look.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine, I think I’m gonna head back to my hotel I guess,” you whisper, looking down at the ground to ensure that she doesn’t see the tears pooling in your eyes. Quickly, you turn around and make your way to the parking lot. Your eyes stinging and your vision blurring, but you’ll be damned if Sophia gets to see you cry. The second you disappear out of her sight, Sophia feels terrible. Why on Earth would she say that? “I don’t care if you're proud of me,” who the fuck even says that? You flew halfway across the world to spend some time with her during your summer break which was only a few weeks, and this is how she treated you? For the entire bus ride back to the hotel, everyone is silent. Some people are crying, but Sophia is kicking herself over how she behaved towards you. She sends you a couple of texts, which she can see you read but don’t respond to. Then, when the team gets back to the hotel, she tries to call you a few times. Each attempt just gets your voicemail. Naomi, who was aware of the situation, just told her friend to rest and try again tomorrow. Sophia relents and comes to the conclusion that you won’t respond tonight and that she just needs to let you sleep and calm down a bit.

The next day, as soon as she wakes up Sophia tries to get a hold of you. She calls you again and again. While eating breakfast she’s on her phone, praying that you’ll reply to one of the many texts she’s sent you. Her friends are slightly concerned at how dejected the forward looks after each passing minute with no word from you. Finally, Ashley Sanchez suggests that Sophia goes to your hotel to try and iron things out. Their flight wasn’t until the next day so she had the time. After thinking about the idea for a bit, Sophia decides to just go for it. She does know where you are staying and figures it’s only a fifteen-minute walk over. Sophia plays with her rings the entire time, her nerves only increasing as she gets closer to the hotel. Finding your room easily, she stands outside of it for a few minutes, trying to plan out exactly what she’ll say. Eventually, she knocks and holds her breath. When you open the door, Sophia’s heart breaks at the sight. Your eyes were red and you looked tired. You had heavy bags under your eyes and your hair looks dishevelled. You were definitely caught off guard by Sophia just showing up at your door.

“Hey,” Sophia speaks softly.

“Hey, what do you want?” Your words have a slight bite to them. Sophia winces at your tone, but she knows it’s well deserved.

“Um, I just wanted to apologize, you know, for last night,” she says avoiding eye contact with you. You sigh heavily.

“Yeah, okay,” your girlfriend looks up at you confused by your words.

“Okay?”

“Okay. What you said was totally out of line and right now I don’t particularly feel like talking to you,” your voice is flat and she can sense a hint of anger in it.

“Oh…” Sophia trails off, now feeling stupid for coming over. Obviously you wouldn’t want to talk to her. “Right, sorry. But can’t we just try and talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about? I understand you were sad and disappointed in yourself, Soph, but you don’t get to just lash out at someone who didn’t actually need to be there. I chose to be there, for you, and then you say shit like, ‘I don’t want you to be here’ That’s not fair to me and you know it,” you breathe out, happy to finally get that off your chest.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever I have to do to show you that I’m sorry. Please just forgive me and I’ll make it up to you, please Y/N,” she begs, her eyes full of tears at this point. Now it’s your turn to avoid eye contact, looking anywhere but her eyes. You hate seeing her cry, more than anything. While your heart aches to just forgive her, you know that you can’t just let it go that easily. She’s said sorry, but that alone is not enough.

“Soph, I’m sorry. I think I need some space.”

“What? No, no, no, please Y/N. I’ll do anything,” she continues to plead with you.

“I’m not breaking up with you, okay? Don’t worry. I just need some time. What you said wasn’t cool and I just want to calm down a bit,” you say trying to keep the emotions out of your voice. You feel terrible at how heartbroken Sophia looks. “Sophia?”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, that’s okay. As long as you're not breaking up with me,” she mumbles, wiping at the tears running down her cheeks.

“No, God no. It’s just a break,” you say quickly, wanting to make sure she understood. She smiles slightly at how panicked you looked. With that, she moves to walk away, but not before giving you a hug and a kiss on your cheek. You blush slightly, watching sadly as she walks away.

For the next few weeks, you and Sophia did not talk. You went back to your apartment in Monaco and continued to train and prepare for the Dutch Grand Prix. Sophia went back to Portland and after taking a week off recovering from the World Cup, rejoined training with the Thorns. Everyone could see how distracted Sophia looked at training and outside of it. They knew that you guys were on a break and that you were not talking to each other. While she was still playing well, her friends noticed that she was a lot quieter and that she didn’t seem to want to spend too much time with other people more than she had to. Your own team could also see how sad and distant you looked. So, a few days before you were due to fly to the Netherlands, your teammate and friend, Lando Norris, suggested you ask her if she wanted to come to the race.

A/N: I know that the race weekend is scheduled from the 25-27th and that Portland has a game on the 27th, but let’s just pretend that there is no game lol.

Agreeing with the idea, you send Sophia a text asking if she wanted to fly out to the Netherlands and watch the race. Sophia, of course, says yes and immediately starts to pack her bags. You send her the tickets for the weekend and the plane.

As Sophia walks into the paddock, she’s nervous but excited. There was someone from the McLaren team showing her to the garage, and while she had come to a few Grand Prix’s before the car had been terrible then. Since the last time she came, the team had seen a ginormous amount of improvement. Now, you were competing for podiums and top 5 finishes instead of trying to not finish in the bottom 5. She was shown to your driver room and told that you were in a meeting, but you’d be done soon. After waiting for about ten minutes the door opens and you walk in, with your race suit hanging around your waist and the black fireproofs leaving little to the imagination. You stop your movements when you see Sophia sitting there.

“Hey, thanks for coming I know it was pretty last second,” you say sincerely.

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Thanks for inviting me,” she responds. She notices you playing with your hands nervously. Deciding that you need to stop, she stands up and reaches out, grabbing your hands and encouraging you to play with the rings on her hands instead. You smile softly, finding it sweet that she always remembers you like to play with her rings. For a few moments, there was silence. Then you break it with your words,

“How have you been?” Sophia sighs, thinking back to the last couple of weeks.

“I’ve been…okay,” you give her a look, “What?”

“The bags under your eyes say differently.” The US player looks down, embarrassed.

“Okay, so maybe I haven’t been that great.”

“Mhm, well I guarantee you’ve been better than I have,” you murmur. Sophia gives you a questioning look. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t focus, I did terrible in the simulator training. I think some space was good for us, but now I think I’m feeling better.” She smiles at you, raising her eyebrows, encouraging you to continue “Do you wanna get back together?” Sophia smirks,

“I thought we didn’t break up? We were just on a break,” she challenges. Your eyes widen at your mistake,

“Err, well, shit.” She laughs at the expression on your face. “Well, whatever we were on, do you want to stop it now?”

“Yes please,” she requests. You chuckle lightly, before wrapping your arms around her neck. She smirks and rests her hands on your hips then leans in slowly. Your lips meet and start to move against each other. One of her hands moves across your abdomen, your abs tensing slightly under your fireproofs. She runs her tongue across your lips asking for access which you grant. Your tongues fight for dominance as she pushes you against the wall, deepening the kiss. After a couple more seconds, you pull away from each other.

“So, no more break right?” You ask teasingly. She fake ponders the question until you hit her shoulder lightly. She laughs,

“Yeah, yeah. No more break, babe” You grin and connect your lips once again.

For the rest of the weekend, Sophia is by your side. She loves hanging out with the mechanics and engineers. She also really likes Lando, who’s in a good mood for most of the weekend because the car is performing really well. Your girlfriend watches from the garage in excitement as you get your first-ever podium in F1 at Zandvoort. The Internet goes mad when you point and blow her a kiss from the podium, something which she returns. The team starts the post-race celebrations inside the garage while you are finishing up some media and debriefs. When you come running in everybody cheers and there are a lot of hugs and high-fives given out. You go straight to Sophia, holding your 2nd place trophy proudly.

“Babe! Babe! Look what I’ve got! It’s so shiny!” You shout happily. She laughs at the giddy expression on your face.

“Yeah I see it, love. It’s pretty cool,” she says while pulling you into a tight hug, “I’m so proud of you.” The smile that you give her melts her heart. For the rest of the night, you two stay tight together and drink the rest of the champagne in the bottle given to the podium finishers. A couple of weeks ago you thought your relationship was over, but now here you are with your girlfriend proudly beside you for one of your lifelong dreams. It doesn’t get much better than that.

#sophia smith x reader #sophia smith #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #uswnt x reader #f1 reader x woso

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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CULT OF VAGABONDS: PROLOGUE

NAVIGATION || COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER I ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: It all began with a white van, a gun to the spine, and five smooth words. It ended with death.

WORDCOUNT: 4.07k

WARNINGS: Abduction, blood and gore, high stress situations, angst, major character death, vomit, descriptions of wounds, canon typical

A/N: I apologize to the people who hate reading all italics - I had to do it for my own sanity since this is a flashback, lmao. I promise it’s not sticking around. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

It would have been kinder to take the bullet.

Your mind runs as you’re placed into a wooden chair roughly, the bag over your head obstructing everything but the thin beams of light passing through the itchy ramie fabric. Bits are glimpsed—people moving, shifting large bodies; tapping feet, and muttering voices like a grim party of ghouls.

You’re going to hyperventilate, you admit with a startling calm that bleeds into induced shock. Under the binds, your hands shake so violently in your lap that you wonder if they’ll break apart like glass—the skin fragments shattering as bones turn to sharp dust. Air gets thin. Black dots start dancing.

“Sir,” a voice to your left speaks, American, and you’re flinching away before the word is fully out, head whipping to the side as if you could make out more than a blob of black and gray. A sob lays heavy in the bareness of your throat as sweat slicks your neck. What was going on? “I…I can’t—”

“You’re excused.”

The sound of receding footsteps and the slam of a door is scarcely heard above your own breathing, a deep inhale to help push back the void, and a wheezing exhale to welcome the next. Bare membranes of your throat reek of bile, and you think you threw up in the van that had driven you here, though you don’t remember much of that.

Just the gun in the base of your spine and a low, smooth, voice with a British accent into the shell of your ear.

“Head down and stay quiet.” Someone had said, sternly.

Oh, it would have been kinder to take the bullet. What was it that those shows always warned you about? Never let someone take you to a second location? Your eyes wrench closed as the muscles of your numb fingers tense and loosen in an anxious pattern.

Along the floor, your feet shimmy, not able to keep still despite your mind screaming at you to try—try and disappear into molecules of oxygen and carbon. Everything had a sheen of hypersensitivity. The lights buzzed in your ears like bombs, the rope peeled back atoms of your epidermis, and the tiny groans coming from the left of you were like screams as your senses burned with a thousand suns.

But the British man had said to stay quiet—so stay quiet you did. What other choice did you have? You knew they had weapons, you shouldn’t doubt that they would use them.

But you really wanted to start screaming your head off.

When the heavy hand landed on the top of your head, only a soundless sob fell from the strained noose of your esophagus. The bag was ripped from you with a flurry of hair and dribbling tears, sweat flying down your neck faster than Pegasus sprang from the Gorgon Medusa’s blood.

Immediately wrenching your small-pupiled eyes closed with a whine, an invasive overhead light composed of knives stabs into your already blurry vision; your hands jerk upwards to attempt and cover the attack. Silence reigns above all, besides from the single source of that muffled groaning from beside you.

“Mhm…Erm…Hem,” it seemed like the sounds were gasping breaths of your name, hidden behind layers of gagged fabric, swathed in saliva and distress. But…how?

Who else was in this room with you and your kidnappers?

Blinking away the shock to your senses, your chin rises from your chest and your hands lower back down hesitantly. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the first thing you noticed was the state of the room.

Namely, how tiny it was.

Peeling blue paint hides a slideshow of broken drywall, a layer of indiscernible wallpaper hanging off like broken limbs that reach to the concrete floor. Although this might have been a beautiful basement in the past, now your flickering eyes lock onto the newer additions.

Swallowing saliva through a closed airway, the tray of silver metal doesn’t fully register with you, nor, then, does the revolver and the six bullets placed beside it. That dying innocent speck in your heart tries to persuade you to a state of fantasy.

‘If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not—’ The sentiment replays over and over in your head when you rapidly look away from the weapon like it was on fire and begin to notice the statue-like men instead.

This can’t be real…it has to be a joke. Some sick, twisted, joke.

Five of them, all dressed in black; balaclavas over slate faces tainted with grim determination. You glance over the lot of them and feel your intestines bunch, the beasts shuffling from one foot to another with a predatory gleam to the laced boots. Not one of them was lacking combat gear—vests, holstered weapons, and packs filled with God-knows-what—they looked like soldiers, but that wouldn’t make any sense.

Your hysterics only increase when one speaks, body flinching back.

“Let’s get this started, then, shall we?” You can’t even tell which began the uttering, but the accent is undeniably British. Gruff, tainted with sharp gravel; not to be ignored if that authoritative edge was anything to go by.

The individual with crossed arms takes a step forward, buff and taller than all of the others except for one. That gargantuan creature watches you with numb light-blue eyes and pale lashes from a place against the wall. A shiver travels up your spine, and your shirt sticks to you, but you can’t look away.

They are the eyes of the living dead.

“This can’t be happening…” Your lips twitch, but only you can hear your words.

The one who appears to be the leader—Buff—tilts his head, but the dark cerulean orbs don’t even look at you. They keep to your left, at the sounds of panicked scuffling and scraping wood. “Gaz.”

Another man advances, not as robust as the first, but nonetheless built with violence. Tall. Steady. He bleeds contained purpose in the sinuses of his long fingers.

Biting your lip, number two — “Gaz” — stops near the metal table, but he doesn't look at you when your tear-flooded eyes bore into him. Your tongue is lead.

Who are you? You want to scream. What do you want?!

From the side of your eye, you see a flash of a navy blue suit, and your vision snaps to it aggressively. The air gets heavy and a stone sits in your guts.

Gaping, a familiar visage stares right back at you, the build of the face and the structure of the bones reflected back onto you––slated in the very genetic makeup that builds your frame.

A nice suit. A hurried goodbye in the morning as the butler made breakfast in the kitchen—A kiss to your forehead. Your tears slap your clenched hands, and you think you’re digging your nails into your flesh, but the thing that hurts the most is the hopelessness in your chest.

“Dad?” You sob and stare at the ragged form as your father struggles to speak around a gag, eyes running from one scuff and cut to another as the lights suddenly get ten times brighter. Damn not speaking, this was your father!

But if he was here along with you…

At that moment, all you can describe is the way your own heart was going faster than it ever had, to a point that the world swirled around you in shades of blue and red. If there was a time reminiscent of events that had never happened to you, getting into a deadly car crash or hanging onto the edge of a cliff as torrent rains battered your head, this would be it.

The alarm in your still head was telling you that this is the end of the road.

Your father’s hands are tied behind the chair, and you can see the signs of crimson dotting the floor from the binds, skin torn and weeping. His eyes are bathed in fear, the fast rise and fall of his lungs telling you all that needs to be unsaid.

And his blatant fear only increases your own.

“Dad…what’s going on?” One of the men in the front shifts, standing beside the dead-eyed individual, looking away to glance in the corner with shades of blue in his orbs and a fixing of his stocky biceps. “What is all this? Where…where are we? I was just walking to school—p-passing through the old neighborhood—”

You’re rambling through panic, and everyone just watches. They watch and watch and watch. Was this a game? A sick, twisted prank? How could they do this and just watch you panic like a bear in a trap?

A hand snaps to your father’s gag and you yell when he rages, body shifting forward feebly before a shadow descends upon you. A swift force keeps you back, and your head snaps upwards.

You’d never thought that eyes could stay with you for all eternity—when you had a friend that moved away in sixth grade, the first thing you forgot about them was their eyes. The voice was much more important to remember; their gentle touch when they pulled you up at recess after an unfortunate collision when playing tag. But at that moment…

Never would the image of sepia-colored eyes like those leave you again. Inlaid in brown skin and below dark eyebrows. Like a meadow, brown was encircled by light—a ring of amber around the pupil and flecks of emerald, though most of that was lost by numbness.

The hand digs into your shoulder, forcing you to stay in your seat as your lips quiver. It’s not delicate, the hold, and when your eyes scrunch in pain, he somewhat lessons it though not enough to stop the sting. The man everyone called Gaz was incredibly strong.

Something swam in the recesses of his gaze, some hidden emotion of sorrow or pity that showed as hesitation. He clears his throat and takes a glance at your now-raging father. You shake more violently than a house in a tornado; frozen and unable to speak. What was he going to do to you?

Gaz turns back to you and whispers, blinking through long eyelashes as the fabric of his face covering slightly moves, “It’ll be over soon.” British as well, but a tone smoother than the previous. The hand squeezes your flesh, and you flinch as far back as the seat allows.

He was the one that grabbed you this morning; your legs seize up like a dead deer at the familiar speech pattern.

The man moves back without uttering another word on sure feet, and you stare after. The sentence Gaz had given you was anything but reassuring, and with your state, it was more of a threat.

“Get your fucking hand off of her! What the hell is going on? Why is my daughter here?!” Your father’s voice fractures your gaze away from the menagerie of masked abductors, and you turn to watch him growl out in hatred; shell-shocked. “Are you after money? Ransom…? Answer me!”

“I’d think this would work better,” Buff grunted out, dropping the gag to the floor carelessly, “if you answered me, instead, eh?... Now, where’s the shipment?”

“Sweetheart,” your father turns to you, but your eyes always filter back to the gun—the men. The last out of the five strangers was one that you hadn’t seen move from the far corner yet. His hands were constantly readjusting over the black metal of a large assault-style rifle that you had only seen in movies. “—Sweetheart! Hey!”

Snapping to the feral expression of your father, you suck down air you’d been taking for granted and push away the dark spots. You’d forgotten how to breathe properly. Staring into his burning eyes, a plea is stuck to your tongue and a hunched build of your spine. But making yourself smaller wouldn’t help you like it would a rabbit hiding from a circling hawk.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights.

“It’s all going to be alright, okay?” He gasps at you, head swiveling to all parties faster than a racehorse. Buff seems to listen intently, arms loose over his chest and huffing under his breath. His deep blue eyes swivel to you, glinting darkly. “Everything is going to be alright—”

“Pick it up, Sergeant.” The command is cold, numb, and the clinking of a silver barrel connecting to a tray as it was grasped was enough to set your atoms on fire.

The gun lays loose in Gaz’s hand, hanging at his hip as Buff moves closer to your father and bends down to look into his eyes.

“The shipment. Tell me. I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” In the corner, the isolated man hunches his shoulders, eyes darting from you back to your dad—but your own stare stays stuck to the gun. Ears twitch at the loud conversation as the black wave of overwhelming delirium gets larger.

Shipments? Your fast mind runs as your eyes dart from the weapon to your father, your wrists now raw and skinned from the constant movement.

Your dad grunts and his desperate eyes look at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about, what shipments? Who are you?! If you’re after ransom money just call my wife—she’ll get you what you need.” The leader chuckles lowly while shaking his head in exasperation, pulling back as his gaze goes hard. Your father strains forward after him and repeats the same sentence as before. “What is my daughter doing here you son of a Bitch? You don’t need her.”

He turns to you, his nice suit ruined with sweat. You’d never seen your father scared—not when you’d broken your arm when you were younger or any moment later. Not until now. His pupils are small; pinched in and glossy. Like a fearful animal trapped in a corner.

You doubted you looked any better as you blink back with a thousand-yard stare, choking back gasps and biting a cut into your lip. Constantly thinking that if you speak your head will get blown off in a shower of crimson.

“Sweetheart, this is all some big misunderstanding, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll be back home soon and this’ll all go away.”

“Yeah, you’d like that then wouldn’t you?” Buff growls, “Go back to a cush life while your weapons and drugs fund terrorists, eh?”

Terrorists?! Your eyes widen, turning back to the men with horror. So this wasn’t about your family's money?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your lips move, mouth parted and eyebrows tight as your very blood seems to cool over. Everyone looks at you and the one second of courage vanishes. “‘D-dad?”

“Ignore them,” the patriarch hisses, trying to get your attention back on him, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They—You’ve got the wrong people!”

“I…I don’t understand why–”

“Sergeant.” Dread seeps like poison one drop at a time to corrupt you. There was never a moment in your life where you had ever felt like you were going to die before—an innocent sentiment of invincible youth.

But the gun being loaded puts the sense of watching a train crash right into the forefront of your mind; a sudden knowledge of your own morality. Your jaw goes slack as you hold back a scream. Steady, gloved, fingers pick up bullet after bullet and place the copper metal into a steel chamber, brown eyes hard as the stunned silence from your father physically hurts.

Clink-shunk, chink-shunk.

“What are you—?!”

“Last chance to change your mind.” The leader interjects, sighing, and you wonder as you hunch into yourself just how cruel this man really is. “Best pull the memory to you quick.”

“What?” Your father laughs in pain, throat getting choked up as he looks to every person, “Are you going to shoot me? In front of my kid?”

At this point it would be more accurate to call you ‘checked out’ if the blank look on your face was anything to go by; tears were falling and mixing with sweat, but your eyes were far away. As if about to fall asleep as you watch the world pass you by from the car window.

The leader shakes his head as Gaz finishes loading the revolver, flicking the barrel back with a deft movement of his wrist. Those brown eyes stay firmly stuck to the back wall.

Dead Eyes sends a long look to your father, and the wide-gazed form beside him tightens his grip over his biceps, shifting large hips. The man in the corner only snaps his head down and tries to disappear.

Electricity sizzles the air.

“No,” Buff answers casually, “we’re not…We’re going to shoot your daughter.”

Bile hits the floor as it rockets from your mouth; hissing through the lines between your teeth and splattering to the concrete in a sound of viscous liquid. Breakfast from this morning was unrecognizable as you blink down at it.

Someone’s shouting pleas—you’re sure it’s your father, because who else—and while you stay half-bent over the chair as your side leans on the arm, everything starts to ring. Feet struggle to stay steady on the ground below you, shoes stained with stomach acid and saliva as it drips from your chin. Over the rageful screams from your dad, the leader continues and you sputter.

“Gaz, it’s all you.”

“Yes, Sir.” The gun raises to your head, and your face tightens as you spy it from the corner of your eye, not registering beyond words and colors fading out before wafting back in.

Were you going to die in this basement? It seemed your body knew the answer even as your brain tried to disagree. There was no running or escaping, not a chance with all of these people. Even if you did manage it, how far would you get before a bullet was in your neck?

“Hey!” Your father yells, voice fracturing; arms twisting and feet splaying. The hammer of the revolver is clicked back and your pulse mirrors. “Hey, no, no, no. That’s not—She…She has nothing to do with this!” Your eyes slowly widen, face tilting as you still try to break through your dizziness. “I swear, she doesn’t know anything!” His face peels back, yet his eyes seem to focus on nothing as his attention hops from one person to another in distress. “Let her go and I’ll tell you all of it, okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

Tell you all of it? What does that mean? You want to ask, but the knowledge that your body had chosen neither fight nor flight but freeze was heavy in your heated and pounding brain as it pulses against your skull.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

You count the flood of blood that spreads through your body as the taste of vomit sticks to the back of your throat. Rats squeak from behind ventilation grates but wait eagerly for a meal as particles of dust fly past your wide vision.

Your father doesn’t look at you as you gape, and you’re not sure what to think.

Shipments? Terrorists? What could your Museum Director dad have anything to do with that? He had to be lying to save your skin—giving these people a false reality. Yes, yes, that was it. He was trying to save both of you, you just had to trust him.

Your chest rises and falls swiftly.

“I–I swear! I promise, let my little girl go and I won’t—!”

“I think she’ll stay right here.” The leader grunted, hooking his arms into his vest collar, pale eyelids half-closed. “Speak. Quickly”

“Okay! Just put the gun down—please!” The gun is lowered immediately, but it doesn’t make you feel any more present. Brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes meet yours for a few seconds before blinking away to the wall behind you; eyebrows minutely pulling tight.

You’d never hated a look of shielded pity more.

“They come in at night and stay by the dry docks—I don’t know how they get here so fast,” your father speaks as a man possessed, and, strangely, the individual in the corner starts to hang onto every word. Sending your form quick glances with rapidly moving eyes. Not that you noticed. “The products all just sit there until I can come by and take inventory! Two fifteen in the morning! It’s all under my name, I pay off the inspectors every month. Check dock number seven-one-three and the blue cargo containers.”

“What?” You mutter, trying not to gag and shake as if pushing away the instinctual actions would help you focus on the bitter revelation. “What are you…”

This is more than a lie—these are details. In-depth.

No, your mind tells you, no he’s just lying. Everything’s a lie.

“I swear it’s only me, no one else knows about it.” The man in the corner’s feet are shifting, leg muscles testing and relaxing as his fingers twitch over the metal of his gun. Your dad looks at you from the side of his eye, guilt in his bones. “God…I–I sell everything over the auctions held at—”

A gunshot pierces the air.

Liquid splatters your face, warm and heavy, and before you even know what’s happening you’re releasing a scream so loud it echoes off the walls. Snapping your chin down to your chest and bound hands over your head, a great yell erupts from the men, and a clamber of skin on gear follows the dragging of feet. Grunted breath and calls of alarm. All the noise scares off the scavengers in the vents with shrieks.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

You find a slumped figure in the chair your father had just been in with a shuttering inhale. Slack-jawed, you look over the crater that was left of his face numbly; lips and teeth ripped apart and a caved-in skull. His hair was strewn about, and without a cohesive thought, your fingers itched to smooth it down.

He hated when his hair was unruly.

A navy suit you’d seen at breakfast was stained—irreparable—with brain matter and blood that cascaded down a massacred face with a head tilted forward. His nerves jump with activity, spurring fluid to the ground until a puddle forms.

Your father was a good man. You—your father was a…good man.

The rest of the men continue to scuffle, barking orders as more feet suddenly race from the other side of the door. Your ears tune it out. You can’t look away, not even when a hand is placed on your shoulder and you’re suddenly being forcefully turned in the opposite direction of the corpse.

Unresponsive, your far-away look meets creased amber and dark lashes—eyes you had decided you’d never forget and now that sentiment was forged with steel and tempered to perfection. Just like you’d never forget that your father’s body was just a reach away, and it was never supposed to happen. His blood was staining your clothes; your face and hair. A bath of gore.

Dead…? No, he was just alive a second ago. He—he can’t be. How? I just saw him this morning. We were going to go into the museum tomorrow to help set up a new section.

Your mouth moves, but no words escape.

A smooth voice tries to speak to you, but all you do is watch the fabric of a black balaclava shift and strain as the noise sounds like car sirens. Gaz is attempting to shake you, lightly, and when it doesn’t help he looks around stiffly, pausing on the body before looking away to the ground in search.

Without much thought behind the action, your loose lips pull back and utter only one word. Weak. Fractured and horribly hoarse.

“Oh.”

It was somewhat of a mercy when the itchy ramie fabric of the previous bag was refitted in one swift motion. And all the while you sit there, shaking, a hand never leaves the top of your head, holding it down.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee

(sorry if some of these don’t work)

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chloessleepystories · 6 months

Text

A New Treat

Mind control, Drugged, Female/Female

"Trick or treat!!"

A common scene in suburban Anytown, USA. Small children running from house to house, shrieking, parents walking along behind them. And two teenage girls, with a bit of gore makeup and torn clothes - just enough to suggest zombie versions of themselves, but not so much that they weren't still attractive - standing on a porch, in the light of an open door.

“Well, what have we here?” the man said, leaning on the door frame with an easy smile. “The sexy zombie, an excellent choice.”

The blonde one giggled. “You think we’re sexy, mister?” she said, throwing out a hip.

“Don’t be gross, Jess,” muttered the other zombie.

The man laughed. “You guys look great. How old are you? Still in school?”

“We’re seniors. We were supposed to go to a party, but our friends bailed on us after we already had our faces on, so we thought we’d take a walk, get some candy.”

“Wise choice. You haven’t had too much of ‘Aren't you a little too old for trick-or-treating,’ I hope...”

“Nah,” said Jess. “Once or twice, but overall, people have been really nice. What’s the harm, right? It's Halloween!”

“Exactly. And better than a lot of things teenagers could be getting up to. Hang on."

The man turned, and passed his hand over the big bowl of little candy before reaching into the little bowl full of big candy. He handed the girls a pair of chocolate bars.

"Full size candy bars? Awesome! Thanks!"

"Happy Halloween, you two. Have fun tonight."

He smiled, showing his teeth.

They waved, and hopped down the steps, giggling as they headed toward the next house.

The man closed the door slowly, watching them go. On the back of the door was a small chalkboard, with a piece of chalk attached by string. He carefully took the chalk and added two tally marks to the marks already counted there ...

***

The leaves were crunchy underfoot as Jessika and Dionne crossed the quiet suburban street. It was dark enough that there were fewer kids out now. Most of the younger ones had been taken home.

“My bag is getting heavy,” said Jess.

“Oh, poor baby! I’ve got so much candy, I can hardly carry it all,” laughed her friend. “ ‘I can’t close my wallet cuz it’s too full of fifties, and my diamond shoes are too tight.’ ”

“Stop it.” She gave Dee a playful shove.

It was a nice warm night, warmer than average for Halloween. A nice night for a nice walk with her best friend.

“I’m gonna start eating my candy, I’m hungry.”

Then they both shouted, “Hungry for SUGARRRRR…” One of their many pointless running gags, whose origins were lost in time.

“So what’s your boyfriend doing tonight?” asked Jessika, rummaging in her bag.

“Oh, you know, nothing much. Just being useless. Call of Duty, I think, or one of those games that’s more important than going to a party with his – What?”

Jess had let out a squeal. “I forgot about this! Lookit that big-ass slab of chocolate…” She produced the bar from the man they’d dubbed “Mr King Size” – a nickname that had kept them in stitches for blocks. “I’m starting with this … “

It was some kind of off-brand chocolate – not a name they’d ever heard of before. But that didn’t matter, “Chocolate Fog” was exactly what she needed right then. She tore it open and broke off a piece, then moaned, in shocked exuberance.

“Holy cow, what am I eating?! My mouth just had an orgasm!”

“Gimme!”

“You got your own …”

“One piece!”

“Damn, it even smells good. Here, smell it.” She held the chocolate under Dionne’s nose, and was a little impressed – and a little aroused – when she saw her friend’s eyes flutter. Dee’s mouth hung open a little, and her eyes glazed for a second.

“Oh, fuck, that smells divine. Where’s mine …”

Dionne had to fight back a sudden impulse to dump the whole bag out just to find the candy bar. She got on her knees on the sidewalk and dug around with both hands and it didn’t take long to find the biggest piece of candy. In seconds she had torn off one end of the wrapper, broken off a square, and stuffed it in her mouth.

“Oh godd why is that so good …” moaned Dionne, lying back on the sidewalk. “Am I just that chocolate-starved?”

“Get up, you lunatic!” laughed Jess. She had already chewed up a second piece, and was licking her chocolatey fingers. “Mmmm, I’m definitely going to have to find some more of these at the store …” She sucked on her fingers, not wanting to take them out of her mouth, in case she found a little more chocolate taste. “Geffup,” she said indistinctly, giving her friend a gentle kick.

Dionne leapt dutifully to her feet, and they walked on. “Here, I’ll show you good I think it is,” said Dee. She peeled back the paper and sucked on one end of the bar, then started pushing it slowly into her mouth. Her moans took on a sexual quality.

“Eww you’re disgusting!!” screamed Jess, finally taking the fingers out of her mouth.

Dionne put a hand to the back of her own head, and pushed her head onto the chocolate, simulating someone forcing it deeper and deeper into her mouth. Jess howled with laughter as she broke off another square.

Dee had felt the chocolate hit the back of her throat, just for a second, and now, as she pulled the bar slowly out of her mouth, strings of drool hanging between it and her lips, she panted. A light sheen of sweat showed on her face as they approached the streetlight, and her eyes seemed a little out of focus as she gasped breathlessly.

“Here, watch this,” said Jessika. The square had been melting between her warm fingers for a moment, but now she held it up to run her tongue over and around the dark chunk. Around and around her tongue swirled, as she made oral love to it, watching her friend with a smirk.

Dee licked her lips as she watched, mesmerized … staring at the chocolate. Staring at her friend’s tongue. Jess popped it into her mouth, and Dee, still not smiling, just watched. Watched her lips as she chewed, the tongue that came out to lick the lips … Then her eyes moved to Jess’s chocolatey fingers.

With a sudden grab for her wrist, she sucked Jess’s fingers into her wet, warm mouth. Dee’s eyes closed and she shuddered a little as she tasted the chocolate. Waves of pleasure tremored through her body and she moaned, and kept sucking, working her tongue between the fingers, poking her fingernails into the back of her throat.

“Oh god,” Jessika breathed, open-mouthed at this performance. Dionne really looked like a zombie for the first time all night – heavy-lidded, dull-brained, drooling, and needy.

Having her best friend suckle on her fingers was sending warm tingles through Jess’s core. A fluttering in her belly … and lower …

“Hey … Hey Dee –“ she gasped, pulling her wet fingers back to grab the chocolate bar. She broke off a piece, then waved in front of her zombified friend’s face. Dionne’s eyes followed it back and forth, her mouth open slightly. Jessika put it between her own lips, holding it in place with her teeth, and smiled.

Dionne didn’t hesitate. She moved in, kissing her friend passionately. They bit the chocolate in half and each kept chewing and tasting while sucking on each other’s tongues, hands groping their clothing, their skin …

Jess’s hand pressed into Dee’s cunt.

Dee lifted Jess’s sweater to squeeze her breast.

Jess bit Dee on the neck, licking and sucking.

Dee hungrily brought her lips to Jess’s nipple, even as she squirmed against Jess’s insistent fingers.

Jessika pulled her tight little sweater and bra over her head, smiling.

Dionne pushed her friend back into a huge pile of leaves, and leapt on her, devouring her juicy tits, lifting her skirt, ripping off her panties, and diving tongue first into the first pussy she’d ever tasted. It was juicy, and warm, and delicious, and her mind swooned with flavor and desire and need.

Jess held her friend’s head in place, humping against her lips, knowing her turn was next, needing to give as much as she was receiving.

Dee growled like a werewolf.

Jess screamed like a banshee …

Later, as they rested in the crunchy pile of leaves – feeling like children, but not at all like children, resting from their play that was more than play – Dee stroked Jess’s hair as Jess cooed and smiled muzzily.

“That was amazing,” murmured Dee. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Jess looked up, kissed her friend’s mouth. “Let me take you home. I’ll sneak you into my bedroom for a while before you have to go home.”

Dionne bit her lip, thinking. Her boyfriend wouldn’t even miss her.

“We’ve still got some of that chocolate left,” Jessika sing-songed.

Dee grinned. “Deal.” And they helped each other out of the leaves and into their clothes, and walked off hand in hand, to enjoy more of this new treat they’d found … each other.

#chocolate fog #mind control #sleepytimechloe #drugged #female female

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madaman0 · 6 months

Note

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE EDDSWORLD USA AU?

I think it was a fun gag, and the designs are cool. I wish we got to see Matt and Tord’s equivalent tho.

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daisies-daydreams · 7 months

Note

Your Hobie fics are so good ahhh. I was wondering if I could request a gn reader who lives with abusive family getting comfort and reassurance from Hobie? Like telling you you aren't imagining the abuse and it IS as bad as you feel it is and it ISN'T normal and you DO deserve love and kindness and just sort of holding you and reaffirming reality and positive attributes like intelligence and letting you know your body is okay, etc. Sorry if this is long or too specific!! Thank you for the fics you've already written either way!

I’m Here (Hobie Brown x GN!Reader)

Pairing: Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

Category: Angst/Comfort

Warnings: Depictions of Physical/Verbal Abuse, Alcoholism, Blood, Bruises, Mentions of Suicidal Ideation, Swearing

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: Hello hello and thank you for your request! I’ve never really written a fic like this one before, but I hope I’m able to provide you with comfort with it…and I hope more than anything that you’re safe.

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW/LOVE IS IN DANGER, CALL 911 (USA/CANADA) OR 999 (UK) IMMEDIATELY.

(More resources for seeking help will be listed at the end)

It all happened so fast.

You came home from a long night out, making sure to gently close the back door as you crept towards your room. Your mother was passed out at the table. You sighed as you laid your jacket over her shoulders before creeping down the hallway. You gasped when you felt a large hand squeeze your shoulder before you were slammed against the wall.

“Where the fuck ‘ave you been?” your father slurred as he wobbled back and forth. You wrinkled your nose as the acerbic stench of booze filled your nostrils.

“I was out with friends,” you said in a monotone voice as you glanced down at your shoes. You yelped when he struck your nose, blood gushing down your face as you desperately held back tears.

“Don’t give me that tone, you stupid fuckin’ brat,” he hissed. You kept your head turned away, only to be met with a sharp sting against your cheek. Your head spun as you collapsed onto the floor, your father quickly picking you up by the collar of your shirt and shaking you.

“It’s just a bad dream,” you told yourself as his spit flew in your face, his furious tone fading to sound like a voice underwater. “It’ll all be over soon”.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he roared. You reluctantly stared into his bloodshot eyes, your lips twitching ever so slightly as you heard your mother wailing in the other room. Your heart dropped as you felt him curl his fist inside your shirt.

“Now look at what you did! You made your mum upset!” he seethed. You frowned as a lump formed in your throat at the sound of your mother’s cries. You knew deep down it wasn’t true, but before you could even blink, your father tossed you down the hall. You yelped as you curled your arms around your head, your entire body jolting with a sharp pain as your old man stomped over.

“Get the fuck out of this house-now!” your father bellowed. You held your cheek before scrambling away, your entire body aching as you rushed out the back door. Your heart was pounding inside your ears as you stumbled through the gate, the smell of sewage and cigarettes causing you to gag. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked down the dimly lit street, your body now trembling as the adrenaline hit you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you let out a small sniff. Your cheeks burned as you looked down at your scraped up shoes, hugging yourself even tighter despite the pain that seeped into your muscles. You blinked away the sheet of tears as you approached River Thames, the dark water reflecting the lights of the city.

You sniffed and wiped your nose on your sleeve, your eyes not even widening as you saw a familiar crimson soak into the fabric of your shirt. You quickly turned your attention back to the river, debating on whether you should submerge yourself in the cold water as you stepped to the edge of the dock. You sucked in a sharp breath as you closed your eyes, the pain fading for a moment as you imagined it all ending in an instant…

“(Y/N)?” a familiar voice called. You opened your eyes as you nearly tripped forward. You gasped quietly when you saw your friend, Hobie, standing on the deck of his longboat. You flinched when he jumped over the railing and rushed towards you, the whites of his eyes growing larger when he saw your broken nose.

“Love…what happened to you?” he asked with furrowed brows as he kept his hands at his sides. You tilted your head down as your cheeks burned again. Hobie stood silently before gently nudging your hand with his. You jumped back as your shoulders tensed, mind racing at his simple touch. Hobie frowned as his brows knitted together.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly. You lowered your head as you felt his gaze on you, ashamed of being around him in such a state. Hobie was always the one who knew what do to, always so put together. Falling apart in front of him terrified you…and yet, you couldn’t stop the tears that gushed down your face.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed as you rubbed your hands over your tired eyes. Hobie was quickly at your side, his hands hovering around your waist as you shook like thin branches in the wind. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated as you hiccuped.

“Shhh, it’s alright,” your friend cooed. You released a shaky breath as your body burned and ached. Hobie cleared his throat before tilting his head towards his boat. “Why don’t you come inside, yeah?” he said.

You gulped and nodded, shivering as another gust of wind blasted down the docks. Hobie held his hand out, his expression soft as he spread out his fingers. You parted your lips as you slowly slid your hand into his. He gave you a gentle smile before leading you towards his home on the water. You sighed as a wave of warmth washed over you as you stepped inside. Hobie closed the door behind you before guiding you to his rugged sofa.

“Wait ‘ere a moment. There’s tissues on the coffee table for your nose,” he said. You nodded before sinking into his couch, your hands shaking as you pulled a few tissues up to your face. You winced as you pinched the bridge of your nose, the sting bleeding into your bones. You gazed down at your lap as Hobie brought over a pack of frozen peas, a bottle of water, and some ibuprofen. He sat down next to you as he handed you the items.

“Nothin’ feels broken, does it?” he asked. You shook your head as you opened the bottle of water and popped two pills into your mouth. You gulped it down before squeezing your eyes shut. You remained stiff for a bit before taking the cold peck and sinking into the couch cushions. The space heater hummed in the corner of the room as you felt the pain ebb and flow through your body.

“You want somethin’ to eat?” Hobie asked. You sniffed and shook your head, the blood flow thinning from your nose as you sighed. Hobie gave a slow nod before shifting in his seat. “(Y/N)…we both know this didn’t happen ‘cause you slipped,” he suddenly said. You felt your face grow cold as your throat tightened. You clenched the pack of peas as you gritted your teeth.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

“It’s not nothing, (Y/N). Your bleedin’ from your nose, got a mark across your cheek an’ bruises all over you,” he said, his normally calm tone wavering as his voice cracked. Your heart sank when you saw his eyes become glossy, his frown deep and sullen as he stared at your face.

“Look at what you did…”

“I-I’m sorry,” you swallowed. “I’m sorry I made you upset,” you breathed. Hobie shook his head.

“I’m not upset at you love-I’m fuckin’ pissed at whoever did this to you,” he said curtly. You blinked as your fingers dug into the pack, your body tensing at his words. Your shoulders sank as you gripped the edge of the couch cushion with your other hand.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you said. You swallowed the lump in your throat before releasing a stuttering breath. “It’s my fault, anyway…” you muttered. The sofa creaked as Hobie inches a bit closer to you.

“No it’s not,” he said firmly. You shook your head as you whipped your head around.

“Yes it is!” you screamed. Hobie’s face tightened as you flared your nostrils. “It’s always my fault! It’s my fault that my dad drinks! It’s my fault that my mum’s a mess! It’s…it’s always my fault,” you shivered as tears rushed from your eyes. You shook your head as you ducked away, not wanting to see his look of disappointment at your sudden outburst. “If I wasn’t born, maybe she wouldn’t have stayed with him,” you thought aloud. “If I wasn’t born…maybe he would’ve been different,” you choked.

“Oi,” Hobie grunted. You didn’t look up, didn’t want to subject yourself to even more embarrassment than you’ve already endured. “You know none of that’s your fault, right?” he said. You slowly glanced up to see him giving you a gentle, sympathetic look. You blinked away a few more tears before resting your forehead on his shoulder. Hobie let you slowly inch towards him, pressing your body against his. He cooed as he wrapped his arms around your shivering frame as if he were shielding you.

“None of it’s your fault,” Hobie reassured you as he stroked your back. Your tears soaked into his t-shirt as he held you close. “Your dad drinkin’ and bein’ an arsehole is his choice, not yours,” your friend affirmed. You nodded, though the voice of your father still echoed inside of your head.

“I’m so stupid,” you blurted out. Hobie pulled back a little as he furrowed his brows.

“Why do you say that?” he asked. You sighed.

“My dad always says I’m stupid. Or clumsy. Or ugly…” your voice trailed off as you pushed your head against his arm.

“Well, he’s a fuckin’ twat,” Hobie seethed. Your jaw dropped as a small sound escaped from your tight throat. To say he looked downright furious would be an understatement: his nostrils flared, eyebrows scrunched together as he clenched his jaw. You took his hand into yours and smoothed your thumb across his knuckles.

“Please, Hobie…it’s not-“

“It is, (Y/N). It is that bad…and it will always be. He’s not going to change,” he said. You squeezed his hand.

“H-He can be nice sometimes-“ you stammered.

“That’s the thing: he’s nice sometimes,” Hobie replied. Your hand shook in his as your mind raced. “(Y/N), you deserve someone to be nice-no, to be kind to you all the time,” he explained. His words shattered your heart, your chest bursting into a million pieces as you sat there with wide eyes.

“B-But everyone’s parents get upset with them. It’s normal,” you rationalized. The look on his face told you all you needed to know. You collapsed your face into your hands. “Oh, God,” you murmured. Hobie held you as he hummed quietly.

“I’m here, love,” Hobie whispered. You sniffed as he patted your upper back. “We’re here,” he murmured. You nodded and swallowed thickly.

“And you know what? You’re not stupid. You’re far from it,” he said. You sniffed as he squeezed your hand this time. “You’re bloody brilliant,” he smiled brightly as he cupped your other cheek. You leaned into his touch as he rubbed his thumb against your cheek bone.

“And even if you’re a little clumsy, that’s okay. Everyone is,” he shrugged.

“You’re not,” you frowned. Hobie grinned.

“That’s ‘cause I’m perfect,” he shrugged with a smirk. You rolled your eyes and playfully slapped his arm, making him chuckle. “Kidding,” he said. Your breath hitched as he suddenly gazed into your eyes.

“And we both know for a fact that you’re not ugly,” he murmured. Heat filled to cheek as you hit your lip.

“Hobie,” you whispered. He smiled as he patted your cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. You gripped his hand as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“B-But I’m too…broken,” you gasped out. “Too many bruises and broken bones and-“

“And you’re still beautiful,” Hobie said softly. Your eyes widened as warmth instantly flooded your chest. You sat speechless for what felt like an eternity before you suddenly pulled him close to you. Hobie ran his fingers through your hair as you buried your face into his chest, your arms wrapped tightly around his wiry frame.

“Thank you,” your voice cracked. “Thank you so much, Hobie,” you sniffed. Hobie nodded as he gently rocked you side to side.

“You’re welcome, love,” he murmured.

————

Thank you for reading! ❤️

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