#professor ben x ofc
Text
Visiting - Chapter 12: If I Must Have A Future
(moodboard by @agentjackdaniels)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: Spring break comes to Barrow, and with it a European trip with major consequences for Ben and Lydia.
Word count: ~18k words (I'm so sorry but HEY LOOK THEY'RE BACK!)
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Warnings (chapter specific): Smut; quite a lot of smut really; oral sex (M and F receiving); unprotected but safe PiV sex; fingering; praise kink; very mild submission kink if you squint; self-esteem and body/weight insecurity; anxiety; angst; family dynamics; strong language; alcohol consumption; references to past instances of emotional abuse; fluff
A/N: Oh, boy. This was a labour of love. An incredibly important part of their story, and one that took me ages to get ‘right’. This is not the end of Visiting - I’m planning about three more chapters, which will not be as long as this one. So there is still more to come from Ben and Lydia.
I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who was so kind and excited about the little Christmas one-shots I wrote for this pair - sometimes I feel like my dorks are the last kind of characters people want in this fandom, and it was lovely to see that they have readers who actually care (and even miss them!). Thank you too to everyone who voted in the poll about the chapter length. You wanted the full-on 18,000 words - you’re getting it.
And a special word for @agentjackdaniels, who screamed with me when we got one of the most Benergetic red carpet looks I’ve ever seen at the Emmys, who made my gorgeous new header image, and who has helped me see more times than I’d care to admit over the last few months that I matter and make a difference, especially around here. I hope I have done the same, too.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia’s story and background.
Chapter 11 - Chapter 13
Cross-posting to AO3 (and if you’re reading on there, too, and yelling along in the comments, love you!)
Further A/N at the end of the chapter.
The title of this chapter is a line from the Fontaines DC song “I Love You”, which is not terribly romantic, all told, but I heard it over the holidays and this lyric hit me hard: If I must have a future/I want it with you.
Taglist: FYI I’m retiring taglists as they are giving me so much trouble with people not getting notifications - follow me on @ladameecrit and turn on notifications. But just in case: @agentjackdaniels, @tessa-quayle , @vermillionwinter , @iamskyereads , @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247 , @love-the-abyss, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin , @littlemisspascal , @khindahra , @pedrostories , @readingiskeepingmegoing , @rhoorl , @red-red-rogue , @princessanglophile , @katareyoudrilling @survivingandenduring , @trulybetty @fictionismyreality @sunnywithachanceofjavi , @joeldjarin , @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse
“We will shortly be beginning our descent. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
You have never been one for sleeping on planes. Ben, on the other hand, has been snoozing away for the last two hours, the thin airline blanket comically small on his broad frame.
You put a hand on his arm to gently rouse him. “Love? We’re almost there.”
He blinks awake, eyes sleepy and hair askew, and stretches out his arms. “Mmmmfff. Hi, Lyd. You excited?”
“Yeah, I am. I’m really looking forward to seeing them.”
You’d mentioned the trip shortly after Valentine’s, during a conversation after dinner about plans for the spring break.
Your spring visit home had been booked since well before Christmas. A few days at home, visiting your family and catching up, and then to Paris for a week of tying up loose research ends and some vacation time.
It sounded blissful at the time. Now, your anticipation was tempered with disappointment at the prospect of leaving him here.
“So, uh, what are you doing for spring break, love? You going west, or…”
He shrugs. “Ordinarily I’d try to get a few days in San Francisco. But everyone’s got plans and is out of town on various trips, so there’s no point.” He looks a little resigned. “So it’s time catching up on work and my reading here, I guess. Maybe do some prep for directing the student play after the vacation. When are you back from your trip?”
There’s a nervous knot in your stomach. Just ask. Just do it.
“Could you take your reading and directing prep on the road?”
He looks perplexed. You take a deep breath.
“What if you came with me?”
Ben’s eyes widen. “Come with you? To see your family?”
Oh, fuck. You’ve pushed your luck. This is too weird.
“No, don’t worry about it.” You stand up from the table and pick up your plates. “I just knew I’d miss you but it’s probably too much. It’s fine. Forget I said it.”
He follows you into your tiny kitchen and leans against the doorframe. “What if I wanted to come?”
“Wanted? I mean, you seemed totally stunned that I’d even ask.”
He shakes his head and smiles gently. “Not stunned, as such. Surprised, maybe? But not in a bad way.”
“Why surprised, then?” You cross the small linoleum floor and wrap your arms around his waist. He blushes, tucking his chin against his chest bashfully.
“I dunno. Just that you want to bring me home with you? It… it means a lot to me.”
“It means a lot to me just to ask you, love. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
He looks at you with those big dark eyes and you feel your heart swell. “But I think I’d like to. As long as that’s okay with your family, of course? I don’t want to be in the way.”
You laugh and raise your eyebrows. “In the way? I think they’d be more excited about seeing you than me.” You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “You know they think you’re great, you’ve been on the video calls. My mother asks me more about you than she does about myself.”
He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head. “It’s different in person, sometimes.”
You shake your head. “Mmmm, I don’t think so in this case. You haven’t been dealing with daily queries about the welfare and wellbeing of Ben Morales. And no, she doesn’t yet seem to realise she can just call you by your first name.”
He chuckles and holds you closer. “Guess I’d better go book some flights, huh?”
Ben pushes the luggage cart towards the sliding doors and out into the bright, bustling Arrivals area, where families wait excitedly at the barrier to greet their loved ones.
“LYDIAAAAAAAA!”
You immediately spot your parents, standing right in the centre of the barrier, aligned with the sliding doors. It’s still very early in the morning and you wonder how long they’ve been here, waiting at the perfect spot to see the two of you emerge.
You give Ben’s arm a reassuring squeeze as the two of you walk towards your excited family. “You’re not a stranger, love. They already love you. Remember that.”
Ben has barely exited the arrivals area when he’s enveloped in a warm embrace by your mother, who seems to have forgotten you entirely. Your father puts an arm around you and smiles widely while your mother coos over Ben. “And Ben Morales! Welcome, welcome. We’re so delighted to have you.”
Your mother has had her hair done and is dressed in an outfit that feels somewhere between “weekday lunch at a nice restaurant” and “Sunday best”. She’s also using what you and Kate refer to as her “telephone voice” when she speaks to Ben, more clipped and flatter than her usual tones.
“Mom, he knows what you sound like normally, you don’t need to put on the fancy accent.” You hug your father tightly and notice that his eyes are shining. He’s similarly neatly dressed, wearing a nice smart-casual pair of pants and a matching shirt and v-neck light sweater.
“I am talking normally!” your mother fires back, followed by a tinkly laugh as she tilts her head and smiles at Ben. He smiles broadly, though you know he’s shattered, and your mother gives you a look that says “See? Ben likes me.”
Your father shakes Ben’s hand before embracing him. “The two of you must be exhausted,” he says, arm still wrapped around Ben’s shoulders. “Let’s head to the car.”
Ben and your dad lead the way, your mother reaching for your hand and giving it a warm squeeze as you walk companionably a few steps behind.
“Welcome home, pet. I’m delighted he’s here too. We’re so happy for you.” She looks ahead and appraises Ben’s broad frame as he pushes the luggage cart and chats to your father.
“Grand big man, isn’t he?”, she says approvingly. “Don’t look at me like that, Lydia!”
“There’s milk there and bread and tea and coffee and a few biscuits and butter and a couple of bags of crisps and -“
“Mom, we’re fine. We’ll take care of ourselves. Okay?”
Your mother throws up her hands in resignation. “Alright! Just wanted to make sure you didn’t starve.”
Kate, Marc, and their little girls have taken over your parents’ house for the duration of renovation works on their own home, and in the interests of space (and your sanity) you’d booked a small holiday flat in your hometown for the visit. Now, with Ben in tow, the privacy of the flat was even more welcome.
“Thank you. I mean it. Now, can we please go and get some rest?” You hug her tightly and she kisses your cheek, before looking in Ben’s direction.
“Of course. We’ll see you later, though? For something to eat? Kate and Marc and the girls are that excited to see you, I think they might burst.”
You stand beside Ben, bringing your hand to the small of his back, and wave your parents off as they return to the car. They’re not even out of earshot when you hear your father saying “He wouldn’t let her lift a single bag! Not one! Helped her all the time. Lovely chap. Very nice. Far cry from the other fucker…”
Subtlety has never been their strong point. You just hope Ben is too jet-lagged to have heard what they said.
A relaxed family meal, she said. Nothing special, she said. Come over in the early afternoon. It’s just like a Sunday lunch, she said.
Your mother is reading Ben a list of menu options that’s longer than in some restaurants. His eyebrows rise and fall as he takes it in and considers the possibilities.
“Honestly, Mrs -“
“MARIE. I told you.”
“Honestly, Marie, I’ll just have whatever everyone else is having. It all sounds great. Do you need any help in the kitchen?”
“I most certainly do not. You can have whatever you want. You are the guest.”
“Seriously. Whatever’s easiest.” He looks nervously at you and speaks in a low voice. “What is easiest?”
You shrug. “Probably the beef.”
He beams at your mother and tells her he’ll have some beef. She tilts her head, smiles delightedly at him, and does that tinkly laugh again before returning to the kitchen.
The meal is delicious but, inevitably, chaotic. Your three-year-old niece Cora, who had insisted on sitting between you and Ben (Benjamoo, as she persisted in calling him), realises quickly that the family-style service meant she could help herself to her favourite sides as and when she wanted, chubby little hands rapidly making a mark on the mashed potato and carrots. Your mother keeps asking if the food is hot enough. Kate and Marc try to talk to Ben while corralling little Evie and making sure she gets fed.
Your father, meanwhile, veers between talking delightedly to the little girls and engaging Ben in a rapidly-shifting conversation that covers San Francisco, transatlantic flights, whether Ben liked sports, and a detailed description of the plot of a film he’d watched the week before. You couldn’t work out which film it was, but you knew it had Kevin Costner in it. Mostly because your dad kept referring to him as “Kevin Costner”, rather than by the character’s name.
You rest a hand on Ben’s knee, under the solid dining table your father had made for the family home when you were barely two.
“You doing okay? I know we’re a bit much…”
His warm hand covers yours and he smiles softly.
“I’m great, Lyd. And you haven’t been to a Morales family meal yet - now that’s a bit much. Just you wait and see.”
You grin and lean your head affectionately on his shoulder for a moment, winding your fingers through his, never noticing the conspiratorial, knowing look exchanged between Kate and your mother.
You and Ben insist on clearing the dishes, making short work of loading the dishwasher before your parents can tell you off for letting the guest do the chores. Through the kitchen window you see Cora running towards her little plastic play house, on temporary loan to your parents’ back garden while Kate and Marc’s building work is being completed. Kate follows swiftly behind, waving a soft fleece jacket at her daughter.
After wrangling Cora into her jacket, she appears at the back door. “Cora wants to know if Ben can come and visit her tea shop. Not you, Lyd. She was very clear about that. Only Benjamoo.”
He smiles happily and puts down his dish towel, before making a sympathetic face at you and kissing your cheek. “Sorry, Lyddie. I guess I better take up my invitation.”
It’s a hilarious and adorable sight: Ben, sitting cross-legged on the mat beside Cora’s house, hair a bit messy and eyes still a little tired behind his glasses, broad-shouldered in his grey Berkeley sweatshirt and decidedly out of proportion to the pink-and-white plastic cottage. You can hear him giving Cora his order and talking rapturously about the “tea” she serves him in a little pink cup, while she giggles and claps her hands.
Marc and your father arrive in the kitchen, your brother-in-law carrying little Evie in his arms. “Evie thinks she’s missing out on the fun with Ben and Cora,” he announces, opening the back door. “And we want to make sure Cora doesn’t try to force-feed mud cakes to your boyfriend.”
You’d been so nervous about this - not because you thought your family wouldn’t like Ben, or vice versa, but because by definition the first visit to your partner’s family feels a little like an audition of some kind. It has the potential to go horribly wrong, no matter how well prepared you are, or how many video calls you’ve had over the last couple of months.
But here he is, now, integrated happily into your close-knit family of origin, getting on famously with your parents, sister, and brother-in-law, and making your beloved little niece laugh like a drain as he pretends to drink from her toy teapot. Like he was always here. Or always meant to be here.
There’s a surge of emotions in your chest: deep love and affection, above all, but with it a reminder that your future together is by no means assured. Assuming, of course, that he wants a future together.
“He’s good with kids, isn’t he?”
Kate’s voice startles you. “Where did you come out of?”
“I’m stealthy when I want, Lyd. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”
You throw a bombastic side eye in your younger sister’s direction. “I know what you’re getting at.”
Kate shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I’m just observing.”
“Ben is a wonderful uncle. Just as I am a wonderful aunt. We like that. And that’s one of the things I love about him.” You lean on the kitchen counter, voice quieter. “So…what do you think?”
Kate arches an eyebrow in your direction. Your mother arrives in the kitchen with impeccable timing, as ever.
“What do I think of what?”
“You know what. Who. Him. Ben.”
Your mother laughs as she fills the kettle with water and puts it on to boil for some teas and coffees. She turns round to face her two daughters. “Well, Kate, I don’t know about you, but - he wouldn’t be for me.”
Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
Kate opens a cupboard and starts to take out some mugs. “I know what you mean, mom. Not really for me, either.”
“You know yourself, Kate,” your mother adds, finding a carton of milk in the fridge and filling a small milk jug, “Just not my thing at all.”
Anger spreads hot and warm across your face. “Good, because he’s not your fucking ‘thing’, he’s my thing and I can’t believe how two-faced you’re being. All sweetness and light and then saying he’s not really for you and -”
Your mother holds out a hand, expression deadpan. “Lydia, not everyone wants a man who’s kind and funny and genuine and clearly worships the ground his girlfriend walks on.”
“Exactly,” Kate chimes in. “Just because you love someone who’s really smart and nice and good with kids and is actually kind of cute in a dorky way doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”
For a moment, your confusion and anger doesn’t quite let you hear what they’re saying. “I’m not asking you to be in love with him, I’m just - oh. Oh.”
Marie and Kate burst out laughing.
“Well, fuck the two of you. Forty-two years and you’re still winding me up.”
Your mother wraps you in a warm cuddle. “Ah, poor Lyd. We’re sorry. We just couldn’t resist.”
“He’s so lovely, Lyd,” Kate adds, embracing you from behind. “I mean it. Marc thinks so, too. I know I said at Christmas that he looked like he’d been engineered in a lab for you and it looks like I was right. And Ben’s even cuter in the flesh, not that I notice such things.” She coughs for dramatic effect. “What with being a married mother of two.”
“And he loves the bones of you, darling girl,” your mother whispers. “And sure, why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know about you, love, but I’m shattered.”
Ben glances over at you and wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you in to nuzzle against his chest. He holds up his copy of the script for Samuel Beckett’s Endgame, multicoloured tabs fluttering like tiny flags.
“I’m just going to work through one more scene, is that okay?”
You hum contentedly. “Of course, love. How’s it going, anyway?”
He flicks through a few pages, scanning his notes and annotations. The comparative literature students put on a play every year, towards the end of the second semester, and Ben had to step in at short notice as director after a colleague in French fell ill. “It’s a relief we’re doing it in the English translation, put it that way. I just don’t know why Jen thought I could take this on, after Michèle went on sick leave.”
You idly rub his tummy and kiss his side through his old shirt. “Because she knows you’re great and talented and the students love you, Mr Director.”
He huffs a laugh, marks up another section, adds a tab, and closes the book before taking off his glasses and shuffling down the bed and wrapping his free arm around you. He kisses the top of your head and holds you tight.
“Thank you for bringing me home with you.”
You open your eyes and glance up at him. “Sure they haven’t put you off?”
“It would take a lot to put me off, Lyd. Anyway, they’re great. It - it meant a lot, to be welcomed like that, by the people you love.”
He looks down at you, and you place a light kiss on his jaw, smiling at the bristle of his beard against your lips. His gaze is solemn and intense as he reaches for your hand.
“I’m serious about this, Lyd. About us. You know?”
“I know. I’m serious about us, too. Deadly serious, in fact.”
He smiles, eyes shining, and kisses you, soft and slow, pulling you closer and working a path of kisses down the side of your neck as your body writhes against his. Tiredness is forgotten, for the moment, as you slip your hand inside the waistband of his loose boxers and tug them down, fingers wrapping around his cock. Ben sighs against your chest as you stroke him, his mouth finding your nipples as his long fingers trace the wetness building between your legs. With one leg hitched across his, you angle your hips just so and guide him inside you as he whispers your name against your ear.
After you’ve made love, Ben falls asleep mid-cuddle, and you tuck yourself against him and close your eyes. But sleep doesn’t come easy. You should be delighted, after the beautiful day you’d had. But there’s an anxiety building in the back of your mind that you can’t quite shake.
Serious this relationship may be, but spring will soon turn to summer, and with it the prospect of being separated indefinitely by an entire ocean and several time zones. Kate was wont to remind you that you “could just do distance for a while”, and she meant well. It was intended to reassure you.
The problem was, the more you thought about what that option would actually mean, the less comfort it provided.
Over the next couple of days, you introduce Ben to the world of your hometown, to the places and people that shaped you. It is strange, at first, to see him, whole and present, in the spaces that defined your childhood. But it is a beautifully intimate thing, sharing memories with someone you love. You lay yourself even more bare before them, revealing the you that was before they knew you.
The two of you have, of course, shared so much about yourselves and your pasts with each other in the time since you met. But this was different. Walking with him, pointing out your old schools, old haunts, swapping memories and stories, introducing him to random relations you meet in the streets: you are quietly knotting the strands of your past - with all its love, loss, joy and sorrow - with the man who, you hope, represents your future.
Kate and Marc insist on bringing you to dinner one night. “It’d be wrong not to,” Marc had explained as you sat in your parents’ living room, Ben playing peek-a-boo with Evie while your mother looked on approvingly. “Sure we have built-in babysitting while we’re staying with Joe and Marie.”
Your mother’s expression shifted instantaneously, shooting daggers at your brother-in-law. “Cheeky.”
Your hometown is not known for haute cuisine, but Kate booked a table at the nicest restaurant in town and it has been a perfect evening: good food, decent wine, and the pleasure of seeing how well Ben, Kate, and Marc are getting along. You and Kate go to the bathroom at one point, and she eyeballs you as you top up your lipstick, side by side, in the mirror.
“Think he’s passed the audition, Lyd.” She pouts and blows a kiss at her reflection. “Oh, and guess what? We’ve got a special immersive cultural experience planned for the rest of the night.”
You swivel and glare at her. “And what does that involve, exactly?”
Kate picks up her handbag and does a little shimmy on the spot. “The Roxy, Lyd. The ultimate method of integrating your lovely Benjamin into your native place.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The Roxy was once the town’s cinema, built in the 1940s and made redundant by the coming of the multiplex in the 1990s. Its owners had moved swiftly, though, and transformed the Roxy into a nightclub. It was a site of memorable nights out dancing with your friends, of crying in the bathrooms when you realised your crush was interested in someone else, of bad kissing, of telling random men to fuck off when they told you to smile, of screaming with glee when “Hey Ya” came on.
If the Roxy was a taste, it would be peach schnapps and orange squash. Its smell, meanwhile, had lodged permanently in your memory: old cigarettes, sticky carpets, cheap aftershave, vanilla musk body spray.
She was not kidding. You and Kate sit on some banquette seating in a corner of the Roxy’s lounge - which was just a separate floor with slightly better, more old-school music - and take in the completely incongruous sight of Ben, followed by Marc, weaving his way through the habitual crowd of locals with your drinks in hand.
“Vodka tonic for Lyddie, gin and tonic for Kate.” Ben places the glasses on the table and nestles in beside you, giving your thigh a little squeeze. He reaches for his bottle of beer and raises it slightly. “Uh, cheers, I guess?”
Kate enthusiastically clinks her swimming pool-sized glass of gin and tonic off Ben’s drink. “Cheers! Now, you have to promise me you’ll dance. Otherwise it’s not full assimilation.”
You groan audibly and stir your drink with the straw as Ben chuckles. “C’mon, Lyd, you’ve got moves.” He raises an eyebrow at you mischievously.
You manage to stave off the inevitable for a while, finishing your first vodka tonic and about to suggest you go to the bar when a familiar opening melody sends Kate leaping out of her seat, excitedly grabbing her husband and beckoning to you.
“AS IT WAS?!? COME OOOONNNN LYYYYD!” Kate bellows back to you and Ben from the tiny dancefloor, where Marc is already showing off a move you can only describe as “rhythmic shuffling” while mouthing Harry Styles’ lyrics.
You look at Ben. He stands, removes his jacket, and offers you his hand, smiling expectantly. His hand rests gently on the small of your back as you join your sister and brother-in-law on the dancefloor, and he pulls you in to whisper in your ear.
“We can do better than them, can’t we?”
You laugh, leaning in as he wraps an arm around your waist, takes your hand, and helps you exorcise all those demons of heartbreak long past on the dancefloor.
As she clambers into a taxi in the early hours of the morning, Kate turns and yells “I’m telling mom you’re bringing a boy home with you from the Roxy!”, before collapsing in hysterics as Marc takes her hand and pulls her into the car. They grin and wave at you and Ben as it disappears up the street and back towards your parents’ house.
You lean against Ben as you walk back towards the little flat you’d rented for your stay at home, sighing contentedly as he drapes an arm around your shoulders.
“She’s right, though,” you giggle, “I’m actually bringing the hot boy home with me from the Roxy. I’ve come a long way from endless rejection and the odd bit of bad kissing.”
Ben huffs a laugh as you open the main door of the building and climb the stairs to the apartment. “Well, fuckin’ good.” He adds a sassy little head movement for emphasis.
“Excuse me?”
“Fuckin’ good. Because what would have happened to me if you’d been swept off your feet by one of those bad kissing boys back then?” He follows you into the little entrance hall and, for all his joking tone, there’s a vulnerability lurking in his beautiful eyes.
You cradle his face in your hands. “I’d have found you one way or another, Benjamin.” A coy smile crosses your lips as you take him in - danced out, hair mussed, and so stupidly sexy you still can’t quite believe he’s real.
Your fingers hook inside his waistband as you pull him tight to you, leading him into the living room and pushing him against the wall as you bring a hand to his crotch. “And I’d like to make the most of bringing the hottest man home from the club for once in my life, if you don’t mind. Especially seeing as he was worth the wait.”
Ben’s eyes widen and he half gasps, half chuckles as you undo his jeans and slip a hand inside his boxers, stroking his cock as you pepper his throat with tiny kisses. He leans down slightly to bring a hand under the skirt of your dress, hitching up the fabric and slipping two fingers into your panties to play with your clit as he kisses you: hungry, urgent, wanting.
But you’ve had something else on your mind all night. You break the kiss and begin to sink to your knees, hands around Ben’s waist for balance.
Your eyes flit up to meet his. “Let me make you feel good, darling.”
His breath hitches as he takes you in: hair a little messy, eyes wide and wild, lips slightly parted, the soft flesh of your tits rising and falling with your breathing.
“Fuck, Lyd, you’re amazing.”
“That a yes?”
He swallows hard and nods rapidly. “Fuck. Yes. Yes. Please.”
You lick your lips and smile as you carefully tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. Your mouth presses into the softest, most sensitive parts of him: a kiss, a lick, a little nip to his belly; a course plotted down from his abdomen to the hardening cock you hold in your hand. You take him into your mouth, tongue swirling gently over the tip as you stroke him, revelling in the sensation and the moans of pleasure you’re pulling from the gorgeous man above you. Ben rests his hand on the back of your head and leans back against the wall, panting harder as you find your rhythm.
The ache between your thighs builds with his every grunt and groan. Your fingertips find your clit, rubbing little circles over it in a fruitless bid to find some relief. You ease his cock out of your mouth with a pop and Ben helps you to your feet before you take his hand and guide him to the couch.
You slip off your panties and encourage him to lie back on the sofa as you gather the skirt of your dress around your waist and straddle him. “Need to fuck you, my love.”
He grips the flesh of your hips and thighs, fingers pressing into your body as you take him inside you and begin to ride him, relishing the slow drag of his cock as you come undone. He looks beautiful underneath you, eyes wide and shining as he watches every move of your body.
“Fuck, Lyd,” he pants, smiling up at you. “You look incredible.” He reaches up and pulls down your neckline, groping your breasts and gazing at you like you’re the sexiest thing he’s ever seen: head thrown back, eyes closed, and vocal.
He begins to thrust up into you, finding a rhythm that complements yours, intensifying the sensation so much that you can’t help but cry out with pleasure.
“Yes, baby…fuck, that’s so fucking good, Ben, that’s fucking it, fuck!”
“Take it, Lyddie.” His dark eyes stare into yours, hands still gripping you firmly. “Ride me, take what you need…fuck, good fucking girl. I’ll give you whatever you need, whatever you want.”
And he knows what you need, in that moment. His thick fingers slip between your thighs and find your clit, circling it over and over as you keep on fucking him.
You come hard, the last flutters of your orgasm still working through you when Ben follows suit. He’s still inside as you bend forward to kiss him, trailing your hands over his beautiful face and through his damp hair. You rest on his chest and let the sound of his breathing start to steady you as he holds you close for a couple of moments.
“I love you so much, Lyddie,” he pants quietly, chuckling to himself. “You’re a hell of a woman.”
For your last day, Ben suggests that he might make dinner at the flat, as a gesture of thanks for your family’s hospitality. You suggest lasagne with some sides as a general crowdpleaser, borrow some dishes from your mother, and Ben gets to work while you lay the place settings.
The lasagne is cooking away happily when your mother arrives with Kate, Marc, and the girls. You look puzzled.
“Where’s Dad?”
Your mother rolls her eyes as Cora goes tearing off around the flat, Kate following swiftly behind. “He insisted he had to go to the football match tonight. Of course. Anyway, he said he’ll be here shortly.”
Ben emerges from the kitchen, clad in a navy and white striped apron you’d used back when you (briefly) did home economics at school. He kisses your mother and Kate on the cheek and hugs Marc, before bending down to give a delighted Cora a high five.
“I made you a present,” she says quietly, suddenly shy.
Ben brings himself down to her level. “A present? For me? That’s amazing.”
Kate rummages in her bag and produces a rolled-up piece of paper, handing it to Ben. “She did it all herself. Mostly.”
You stand beside him as he unfurls it and Cora looks down at her toes. The drawing features a large figure with a mop of dark wavy hair and a wide smile - “Benjamoo”, Cora points out helpfully - standing close beside a slightly smaller figure immediately recognisable as you. “Auntie Lyd,” she adds seriously, in case you weren’t aware.
The figures’ stick arms are touching. “Holding hands,” Cora says.
Ben looks at Cora, then up at you, and back to the little girl. “This is the best art anyone’s ever given me. I’m going to put it on my wall when I get home.” He stands, and reaches for your hand, noticing the tears threatening in your eyes. “Auntie Lyd will help. Won’t you?”
You nod and squeeze his hand. Cora starts to giggle and points at you and Ben.
“See? Holding hands.”
Ben and Marc pop out to the nearest supermarket shortly afterwards, when you realise you had neglected to buy garlic bread. You sit in the open-plan kitchen and dining area with your mother while Kate plays with her daughters in the living room.
“You alright, love?” Marie notices how you fiddle with the place settings and rub your fingers together, sure signs that something’s on your mind.
“Mmm? Sorry, I was miles away. Yeah, I’m… I think so.” You exhale. “I don’t know.”
Your mother gives you a little breathing room, waiting to see if you’ll open up more.
“It’s just… fuck. I don’t know. I - what the fuck are we going to do?”
She sighs softly and pats the back of your hand. “You and Ben?”
“Me and Ben. It’s spring break. And there’s no clear pathway about what we’ll do when my year in Barrow ends and I have to come back to my job over this side of the ocean.”
“Well, I mean… I know you hate the thoughts of it, Lyd, but have you talked about it? Kate’s right, you could always do long-distance for a while, until you knew what you both really wanted.”
You put your head in your hands. “We’ve said that we’re very serious about the relationship.”
“So then! There’s your answer. No?”
You look up at her mournfully. “Yes and no. Yes, we’re serious about each other. No, that doesn’t mean we have any idea how to manage the distance.”
Marie adjusts the salt and pepper cruets in the middle of the table. “People do it, Lyd. It’s a commitment but they make it work.”
You nod slowly. “I just don’t know if that’s what I want, at this stage in my life. We see each other every day. We’re practically living together.”
Your mother fans herself in mock horror. “And not a hint of a ring on the finger, goodness!”
You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Forty-two, mother dear. But yeah. I don’t know if I could go from that to not seeing Ben for weeks or a month or more at a time. Not now.”
“So what does that mean?”
You swallow hard. “I don’t know. One of us moves. He moves for me. I move for him. But that means trying to find a permanent academic job and in both places that’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“And if there’s no job? Distance as a temporary measure?”
You bite your lip. “But what if that’s still too hard?”
“So move.”
“But that means him giving up his life for me, or me uprooting for him, and being so far from all of you and from here and…” You look up at your mother, feeling like a scared little girl again.
“I love him so much, Mom. I never thought I’d love anyone like that. Never thought I’d even meet someone like that. And for him to love me in return…fuck.”
Marie shifts closer and wraps her arm around your shoulders. “I know, love. I know. You love the bones of each other. And it’s real love. Everyone can see it.”
“What do we do?”
“Lydia, I can’t tell you what to do one way or the other. Only you know what’s right for the two of you.”
You lean your head on your mother’s shoulder and she gives your hand a squeeze. “I know. It’s just - fuck, why does it have to be hard? Don’t I deserve things to work out, for once?”
“You do, pet. Of course you do. No one deserves it more.”
“Sometimes it feels crazy, y’know? This time last year I didn’t know Ben existed, and now -”
“Now it’s like you’ve known each other forever? Like you can’t imagine life without him?”
You turn to face her, and smile. “Exactly.”
“That’s love for you.” Marie purses her lips, thinking. “I’m only going to say one more thing. Your happiness.”
“Huh?”
“Lyd, for years you prioritised someone else’s happiness over your own. I know, I know, that fucker moved for you when you got the job away, I know that. But apart from that…it was all you. All you, trying to keep someone else happy and cracking under the strain.” She inhales and exhales, trying to curb the fury that still burns in her when she remembers how you were treated.
“All I’m going to say is this: don’t worry about anyone else, Lyd. Not me, not Dad, not Kate, Marc, the girls, your job - nobody. Well, worry about Ben. But above all, prioritise your happiness. We have ours over here. It’s time for you to find yours.”
You hug her tightly. “One final question.”
She nods and waits.
“What does Dad think of Ben? I know it wouldn’t change my feelings but given everything from the shitshow, I’d like to know he doesn’t absolutely loathe him.”
She looks at her phone and pushes away from the table, walking into the living room and opening the door of the flat. “Ask him yourself, Lyd. Here he is now.”
Your father comes into the kitchen, talking about something that happened at the local football match he’d attended that afternoon and eyes already locked on the kettle, his mind focused on making a cup of tea.
“Joe? Lyd wants to ask you something.”
You roll your eyes at your mother. “It’s not a big deal.”
He turns around, tea caddy in hand. He’s been to this flat twice, you think, and he knows exactly where all the tea-making equipment is kept.
“Alright. Ask away, Lyd. Are you alright? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just - Dad, what do you think?”
“What do I think of what?”
“Ben. Me and Ben, specifically. But also just Ben.”
Joe switches on the kettle and leans against the kitchen counter. “Sure, my opinion isn’t what matters. What matters is how you feel. Isn’t that right?” He looks to your mother for backup.
“I said that to her, but she said she wanted to hear from you.”
He takes a mug out of the cupboard and drops a square teabag into it. “Lydia, is everything okay? Are you having any doubts about him, is that it?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Not a one.”
“And you don’t think he’s having any doubts about you? Because if he is I’ll fucking -“
“No, Dad. He… he’s very clear about how he feels.”
Your father nods in satisfaction. “Well, that’s reassuring. Would be strange if he wasn’t, given how he is with you. At least, what we’ve seen here.” He pours the freshly boiled water over the teabag and opens the fridge in search of milk. “But the point stands. You love each other, don’t you?”
You aren’t sure if your father has ever been so open or explicit with you in asking about a romantic relationship. Perhaps, you wonder, he regretted not being more honest about his concerns over the years of your longest one.
“We do.” Your eyes fill with tears, unexpectedly. You swallow hard. “We love each other very, very much.”
“Okay then.” He stirs his tea vigorously, the metal of the teaspoon clinking off the stoneware mug.
“But I still want to know what you think. It matters to me. Especially - especially after the last time.”
Joe pulls out a chair and settles at the table, your mother reaching automatically for a coaster and sliding it under the mug. “Lyd, you know what I’ve always said. There’s not one person walking this earth who deserves our lovely Lydia. Not one.”
Your heart sinks a little, and you nod. You’ve heard this a lot since your ex cheated and fucked off. You never really believe it.
“But.” Your father pauses and sips his tea.
“But?”
He looks at you and reaches out to touch your hand. “But - that lovely man you brought home definitely comes very close indeed.”
Right on cue, the front door opens and you can hear Ben and Marc chatting companionably and laughing together. Marc does a silly little dance into the kitchen, waving the garlic bread around like glow sticks.
“Now, please don’t destroy the garlic bread before it’s even gone into the oven, Marc!”
As your mother grabs the bread and sneaks a peek at the lasagne, now browned to perfection, Ben pulls you in for a quiet word.
“Lyddie, are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
You lean against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “I’m okay, darling. I just needed this. Needed you.” The oven timer pings and you look at him. “Time for Professor Morales to serve us his delicious lasagne. C’mon, we can plate up before my mother takes over.”
You thought goodbyes would get easier the longer you worked away from home, but the opposite turned out to be true. Your parents are doing their usual brave face routine at the airport: Joe clearly trying not to cry, Marie overdoing the levity to distract you and stave off her own sadness at seeing you go.
“Paris in the springtime, Lyd! It’ll be gorgeous. She’s a great tour guide, Ben, she knows it all.”
“She’s brilliant, Marie. But you knew that before the rest of us found out.” He reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as you start to feel the tears prickling.
He only lets go as you both embrace your parents in turn, Ben thanking them repeatedly for their kindness. Then, his fingers curl around yours again, holding you strong and steady at the entrance to departures.
“I love you both so much, you know? We’re so grateful.”
Your mother can’t hold back her tears any more, and her wet cheek presses against yours as she pulls you in for a final hug. “We love you so much. Both of you.”
She pulls away and holds your gaze. “Both of you. Remember what I said to you, Lydia. Remember that.”
You nod and give Ben’s hand a little squeeze. “We should probably head on through. Safe home - message me when you get back, okay? We’ll see you soon.”
You keep waving back with every sharp turn you take in the queue for security, until eventually your parents’ faces are obscured by the crowd behind you, and you face forward into the security area, still holding Ben’s hand.
“Paris par train ou Paris par bus?”
Ben shrugs as he pushes the luggage trolley. “You’re the expert, Lyddie. What’s easiest?”
You summon up the mental map of Parisian transport options that is always ticking over at the back of your mind. “Train is quicker but involves a change at Châtelet Les Halles - ugh - and then again at Bastille. Bus gets us to Opéra which means we can get right on to line 8.”
“Bus?”
“Bus.”
Ben stacks your bags carefully in one of the Roissybus’s luggage areas and exhales as he takes a seat beside you. “You know it’s been almost thirty years since I was in Paris?”
“Excusez-moi?”
He chuckles. “Came up on a very poorly-thought-out visit with some friends while I was on exchange in Málaga. Overnight trains, hostels, no money, cheap wine. I barely saw the Eiffel Tower, let alone anything else.”
The bus pulls out of Charles de Gaulle Airport and onto the motorway. You squeeze Ben’s thigh affectionately. “Isn’t it a good thing that you’ve come to Paris with a ready-made guide, then?”
He smirks and arches an eyebrow suggestively. “Oh, I’m really looking forward to doing some, er, exploring with her.”
“Is that so?” You move your hand ever so slightly up his thigh, smiling with satisfaction as Ben gasps a little and shifts in the seat. “I always like to try out new pleasures here, you know?”
A wiggle of your eyebrows has you both giggling, leaning against each other as the bus makes good progress towards the périphérique, the motorway that rings the city, and into Paris proper. You start to point out landmarks, locations, shifting into a stream of consciousness that spans history, personal memories, places to visit, and random observations.
Ben smiles to himself as he watches and listens, delighting in your joy and excitement as you prepare to see your old friend - to walk her streets, listen to her voice, and write another chapter in your long love story.
The advantage of Parisian connections: your friend Sophie offered you her apartment in the 11th arrondissement for the duration of your stay, as she was away in the south of France. You meet her upstairs neighbour outside the narrow, early nineteenth-century building on a quiet street just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine and collect Sophie’s key, taking note of the door codes.
“Holy shit. Look at this place!”
Ben has carried the bags up the stairs - thankfully, Sophie’s flat is on the first floor - and followed you into the little apartment. You turn and grin when you notice how entranced he looks, staring up at the wooden beams in the tiny hallway, peeking out into the communal courtyard, tilting his head this way and that to check out the books on Sophie’s shelves.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” You pick up your suitcase and lead the way into the bedroom, sitting on the end of the bed as you take off your shoes and wriggle your toes happily.
“It’s incredible. Exactly what you might imagine a Parisian apartment to be.” He drops his own bags in the corner and joins you on the bed, flopping back onto the mattress and yawning.
You lie back and turn to face him, resting a hand on his stomach. “Let’s do some exploring. I know we’re tired, but I want to show you around, get some dinner, buy some wine…”
The featherlight touch of his fingers, working their way under your denim blouse and stroking the soft skin of your waist, sends delicious shivers through you.
“We could do some exploring here, right now…?” he asks, eyes twinkling and a smile on his lips.
“You know how tempting that offer is, Benjamin, but let’s restore our energy first, hmmm?”
Dinner is Vietnamese food from a tiny restaurant just around the corner, a staple favourite from your time living in the city, followed by a walk around the neighbourhood and a stop at a nearby supermarket, to stock up on some essentials and a bottle of wine. As you climb the stairs to the apartment, the fatigue from a day of travel and the underlying, gnawing anxiety about your future starts to hit you.
You should just say it to him. Ask him outright what he wants to happen.
You push the thought down, down, as deep as it will go as you settle on Sophie’s tiny sofa and watch Ben uncork the wine in the coin cuisine, the little kitchenette tucked into a corner of the living room. You spot a portable speaker tucked on one of the bookshelves and connect it to your phone, scrolling through your playlists until you find what you want.
“Never let it be said that you don’t cultivate an atmosphere, Lyd,” he says, handing you a glass of the purple-red wine and joining you on the couch. “Let me guess: this is a Paris-specific playlist?”
You hide your face behind one hand and peek at him through your fingers as he laughs, leaning in to kiss your cheek as Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘La chanson de Prévert’ starts to play.
He rests his head on your shoulder as you listen to the song together. It’s a favourite of yours regardless, but tonight, with the man you love so deeply but still fear losing nestled in beside you, Gainbourg’s plaintive melody and lyrics about lost love are like a punch to the gut.
“Lyddie?”
Ben is sitting up, looking at you with concern. “You look so sad, all of a sudden - you okay?”
“It’s just the song, it’s so –” You halt yourself. No. Time to say it.
“I guess I’m just really feeling how close I am to the end of my time in Barrow, that’s all.”
His chocolate-brown eyes soften and he wraps you in a warm embrace. “Still got plenty of time, Lyddie.”
“And then?”
“And then…?”
“What happens? To us, I mean.”
He looks surprised at the question. “We’ll be okay, one way or the other. Right?”
But what does that mean?
You’re too tired to ask the question, you tell yourself. In truth, you’re too scared to - not because you fear his reaction, not at all. Rather, it’s because you fear that your concerns might upset him.
Ben’s head has barely hit the pillow before he’s sound asleep, one arm draped loosely around your waist. For you, though, sleep is elusive, arriving only as the dawn starts to break over the city of light.
You wake, exhausted, to the aroma of fresh coffee brewing and the sound of Ben pottering around the apartment, humming the melody of “La chanson de Prévert” to himself. With a groan, you remember you’d planned to do some research today and force yourself out of bed.
“Bonjour, la belle Lyddie! Du café?” Ben waves a little espresso mug at you and you nod weakly.
He is bright and cheerful as he moves around the kitchenette, pouring the coffee and joining you at the tiny dining table that acts as a kind of divider between the kitchen and the rest of the living area.
“Did you sleep okay?”
You look up, and his face falls when he spies the telltale redness in your eyes. “I’m taking that as a no. What’s going on, Lyd?”
A fortifying sip of the strong coffee. You sit upright and look at him, studying his beautiful face. “Darling, I meant what I said last night. About how anxious I am, how scared of what comes next, the…uncertainty of it all.”
“But we know we’re serious about each other? We talked about it,” he replies, sipping his own coffee. “You know that. Don’t you?”
“I do. I really do. And we are, but -” you pause to gather your thoughts. “But that doesn’t mean there’s an answer for what happens when I have to go home, and that’s eating away at me.”
He looks at you kindly, but you can see the confusion written all over his face. “What do you mean, exactly, Lyd? Surely we can see if circumstances change over the summer, and if not then we do distance until stuff gets figured out. Right? Things are going to be just fine.”
It’s so tempting to smile and agree, but you can’t. You owe him honesty, as much as you want clarity.
“Is that really what you want?”
“Distance? It’s not ideal, but if it comes to it I think we can make it work and - Lyd?”
You have closed your eyes, fearful of tears falling.
Say it. Say it. Be honest with him.
“I - I don’t think I want a long-distance relationship.”
Ben makes no effort to hide his shock. “You don’t want a long-distance thing?” He shakes his head in amazement. “Even if that’s the only option for the moment?”
“I just want certainty, not constantly saying everything would be okay or we’d see what happens when we don’t know that things will be okay, or what’s going to happen. I want you, love. I want a life with you, you know that. Don’t you?”
“But you don’t want long-distance with me.” His brow furrows and his jaw ticks as he stares at the floor.
“I don’t know, I mean I just want what we have now, I don’t know if I could cope with the implications of that kind of distance and -”
He exhales sharply, exasperated, and reaches for his light cotton jacket. “So it’s all or nothing. You would rather have no relationship than even try distance, is that it?”
Fury and sadness mingle and build in your chest. “Ben, that’s not what I fucking said.” Your hands fall to your sides, defeated. “I’m just - fuck, I’m not finding the words right now.”
“Well, if you find them later let me know.” He opens the door of the apartment and pauses for a moment. “See you, Lyddie.”
You sit staring into space for a good half hour at your appointed desk in the print room at the Bibliothèque nationale, before you open the grey archive box of lithographs you’d called up for the day.
The ritual of research is familiar and soothing, a useful distraction from the memory of the argument that morning. You set out your camera and prepare your customary scraps of paper inscribed with the call number of the collection, to make it easier for you to match up images with notes when you return to the materials at home. Wherever the hell “home” is supposed to be, now.
Assess each print. Study it. Immerse yourself in the details before photographing it and writing up your observations on your laptop. Repeat over and over, add to your research materials and stave off the metaphorical wolves circling in your brain.
Your stomach starts to rumble just before one o’clock. The garden courtyard outside the building that houses the print room is busy, with researchers and visitors taking an al fresco lunch and chatting over coffee. Salad consumed, you take your phone out of the transparent plastic briefcase you are required to use inside the library.
No message from him. Nothing.
You decide to make a call. She should be on her lunch now, too.
“Lyd! How are you? How’s Pareeeeee?” Kate’s voice is cheery and comforting, and exactly what you needed to hear.
“Hiya… um, can you talk for a few minutes?”
She immediately knows there’s something wrong and her tone shifts. “Of course, always… Lyd, what’s happened? Are you okay?”
Deep breaths. “Kate, I think I need to make a decision and I’m fucking terrified.”
Kate pauses, aware that she doesn’t need to ask you what this is about. “Okay. Talk to me. Let’s work through it.”
BEN: When do you think you’ll be finished for the day? We should talk. I’m so sorry about this morning x
LYDIA: Probably by 4.30 or so. Do you want me to come meet you?
BEN: I’ll come to you. You want food? It’s a nice day for a picnic dinner.
LYDIA: It is. Dinner is your choice. Meet me at the rue Vivienne exit at 4.30 or so? x
BEN: You say that as if I know where that is… I’ll find it. See you soon, Lyddie. Love you.
Ben Morales leans against the railings of the Bibliothèque nationale and looks at his watch. He’s early, so he meanders across the street and wanders into the Galerie Vivienne, admiring the fine detail of the mosaic floors and brass light fittings that adorn the nineteenth-century covered arcade. He pauses at an antiquarian bookstore and print shop, perusing the selection of vintage postcards displayed in wooden crates outside.
He’s standing at the entrance to the arcade when he looks up and sees you coming through the gates of the library, somehow managing to carry a backpack, tote bag, and small cross-body handbag all at once.
You don’t notice him at first, instead turning your head in both directions as you look for him. Ben’s heart soars when he sees you, in spite of the nagging ache he’s felt in the pit of his stomach ever since the argument you’d had that morning.
He calls out to you from across the street, raising his hand in an enthusiastic wave, and a warm, delighted smile spreads across your face when you realise he’s there, waiting for you. He’s as impossibly handsome as ever in his navy blue shirt jacket, white tshirt, and jeans, tote bag slung over one shoulder.
You keep Kate’s words from your lunchtime conversation in the forefront of your mind. “You know what you want, Lyd. You know what you need to do.”
“Sorry, I got delayed on the way out of the print room and then it always takes longer to pack up than I’d anticipated and then I thought I should pop to the bathroom before I left and then -”
Ben interrupts your explanation with a kiss and a hug. “I’m so sorry, Lyddie. I’m sorry about this morning.” He pulls away and holds out a small, flat brown paper bag. “A peace offering.”
The bag contains a selection of vintage postcards of Paris, postmarked in the early years of the twentieth century: Notre-Dame, photographed from the Left Bank; the place de la Bastille; the facade of the Bibliotheque nationale you’d just left.
“Some of your favourite places, right?”
You reach for his hand and lean in for a kiss. “You know me so well. Thank you, my love, they’re beautiful.” You spot a larger brown paper carrier bag in his other hand. “Dinner?”
Ben smiles, holding out the bag for your approval. “I ended up getting a selection of stuff from one of the Asian takeout places near here. And I picked up a bottle of chilled white wine, and some paper cups. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect. Let’s go, Benjamin - dinner at the Palais-Royal awaits.”
“I have to admit, I did wonder when you said we were going to a royal palace. Didn’t seem very…Lyddie.”
Ben quirks an eyebrow in your direction. You giggle as you reach into the bag of takeout and retrieve boxes of rice, steamed buns, gyoza, and nems.
“I mean, technically it was a royal residence. But the gardens - where we are now - were public, as were the arcades and shops.” You set the boxes of food on a green metal park chair, serving as a makeshift table in front of your bench. “And it was an important location in the revolutionary period, so…”
He grins and opens the bottle of wine. “Ah! There it is. That’s my Lyd.”
His Lyd. Affection surges in your chest, and you place a hand on Ben’s knee, giving it a light squeeze as he pours some of the white wine into a paper cup and hands it to you.
He raises his own cup in your direction. “To my clever, revolutionary girl.”
You swap stories about your respective days as you dig into the food: Ben describing his informal solo tour of literary locations on the Left Bank, you talking through your finds in the print room. He shows you photos he took of Richard Wright’s apartment building, of the original site of Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company, and a selfie of himself looking completely perplexed at the plaque on the rue du Cardinal-Lemoine that refers to James Joyce as a “British writer of Irish origin.”
You burst out laughing at that one. “I’m so glad you found that. It annoys me every time I see it.”
“I sent it to Evan. He was not impressed.” He slips his phone back into his pocket and reaches for another spring roll. “And then I went and sat in the Luxembourg Gardens for a bit, worked over a little more of the play, thought about Beckett in Paris, watched the world go by. I remembered you said it was one of your favourite places to just sit and think.”
He smiles softly, almost shyly, at you, and with a pang you remember that some serious conversation lies ahead, no matter how tempting it is to sit here forever in the Palais-Royal, eating your picnic dinner and drinking your wine surrounded by the ghosts of writers and lovers and revolutionaries long past.
Lemon-scented wipes remove the residual traces of nems and dipping sauces from your fingers, and Ben stacks the empty food containers in the brown paper bag before topping up your paper cup of wine. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you to hold you close.
He sips his wine and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to talk about earlier.”
You raise your head, turn to him, and nod. He rests a hand on your thigh, tracing circles with his index finger on your leg.
“I’m sorry if it ever felt like I was dismissing your worries, Lydia. I - well, I guess I was avoiding the issue. Like if I kept saying things would work out, they’d just… work out.”
You smile gently and reach for his hand. “Without having to make the hard call.”
He squeezes your hand and nods. “Exactly. But I did a lot of thinking about that today. About the future, about what I want - what you want.” He gives you a nervous glance.
“You were right, Lyd, long-distance couldn’t give us…I don’t want long-distance with you, either. I couldn’t, Lyd. I want what you said you want - a life, us, together. Like now.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “I can’t imagine anything else.”
You bring your hand to rest on his and close your eyes, feeling tears prickling against your eyelids.
He takes a deep breath. “Lyd, look at me.” Your eyes meet his, dark and warm and serious all at once. “Lyd, I - I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s all I want, and - fuck, I think I’ve known I wanted that for a while now.”
You open your mouth to respond and he shakes his head gently. “Lyddie - Lydia - I want to be with you, no matter what it takes.” Another deep breath. “And that’s why - if you want, of course, only if you want - I’ll move back with you at the end of the year. I’ve got some job alerts set up, I’ll find something, you know? I - I just want to be with you.”
“You can’t give up your whole life, darling.” Your voice is quiet as you take in the significance of what he’s telling you, what he’s offering. To his astonishment, you burst out laughing.
“What’s funny, Lyd?”
“I did a lot of thinking today, too. You know you’re all I want, don’t you?” You look at him expectantly, and he nods. “And I was going to tell you that - if you wanted - I would try to stay in the US, so that I could be with you. So that we could make a life together, plan our future.” You turn to him and grin. “But now it seems we’re still going to be on opposite sides of the pond, just with swapped continents.”
Laughter rises from Ben’s chest, emerging as a bright, wide smile and eyes crinkling with delight. He cups your face with his hands and kisses you, over and over, before pulling away abruptly.
“Wait. You said I couldn’t give up my life, but you want to give up yours? And you know Barrow doesn’t do partner or spousal hires…”
“I mean, it wouldn’t be giving up my life. It would be living the life I want to live, with the man I adore. That’s better, no?” You reach over to brush an errant curl off his forehead. “Anyway, I can look for a position within commuting distance, right? I’d rather that than feel I had got a job I didn’t really deserve.”
He blushes slightly and looks at you from under his lashes. “Even so. I meant it, I would follow you anywhere. I’ll go wherever you want me to be, wherever you want to be.”
“Okay. How about this?” You sit up a little straighter, hands resting on his. “We’re clearly both prepared to move. So…we both start looking for jobs, you near my place and me around Barrow, and whoever gets an appointment first - that’s where we go.”
Ben looks into the middle distance and nods, turning over the proposal in his head. “That sounds like a plan, baby.”
“Then it’s a deal?”
He grins and kisses you softly. “It’s a deal.”
The evening is bright and warm as you meander hand in hand through the narrow streets of the Marais, heading east, homeward bound.
You spot a buzzy corner café and nudge Ben. “How about a drink, darling? Something bubbly, maybe?”
He smiles, and you know his eyes are sparkling behind his sunglasses as he squeezes your hand and follows your lead towards one of the small round tables arranged outside the café. The server is typically Parisian: efficient, polite but not overly familiar, and they take your order and return promptly with two glasses of champagne and little dishes of olives and mixed nuts.
“À nous deux, Paris!” Ben clinks his glass to yours and you giggle as the first sip sends bubbles bursting on your tongue.
“Quoting Balzac in the original French?! Where were you all my life, Benjamin?”
He shrugs and smiles to himself. “Could ask you the same question.”
Long, thick fingers begin to rub circles on the flesh of your thigh, feeling the heat of your skin through the light fabric of the button down sky blue shirt dress you’re wearing. You echo the gesture, tracing patterns on the back of his hand, and your expression becomes more serious, more intense, your voice quieter.
“I love you, Ben.”
He squeezes your thigh gently. “I love you, Lyd.”
Sipping champagne and nibbling on the snacks, you watch the world go by, content and cosy in the little bubble that is just you and him. You’re checking your appearance in the bathroom mirror when a realisation sweeps through you. Your eyes widen, mouth forming into a little “o” before stretching into a happy smile as you ascend the stairs from the basement to the main café and rejoin Ben at the table.
“So something occurred to me.”
He chases the last olive around the dish with a cocktail stick. “Mmmmm?”
“We’re doing this, aren’t we? We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. That’s what we’ve said we want. Right? I didn’t imagine that?”
Ben lifts his head, puts down the cocktail stick, and looks into your eyes with a bemused smile on his face. “No, you didn’t. And yes, we are.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles broadly. “And isn’t it fucking wonderful?”
You nod excitedly and a surge of laughter erupts from both of you, quietened only by a warm, passionate kiss. You break away and run your fingers through the messy strands of hair around his forehead.
“I know people might think it’s soon, love. But… it’s not. I know.”
“I know too, Lyddie. When you know, you know.” He reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips. “And to be honest, I don’t think anyone who knows us will think it’s too soon.”
The server returns to take the empty glasses and dishes. “Autre chose?” [Something else?]
Ben winks at you mischievously and orders two more glasses of champagne.
The walk back to the apartment should have taken about twenty minutes. Or at least, it would have had you not both been tipsy, incredibly happy, and unable to keep your hands off each other.
It takes just under an hour for you to get from the Marais back into the heart of the faubourg Saint-Antoine, stopping here and there along the way to indulge in some making out in quiet side streets and passageways.
“I’m so glad there’s only one flight of stairs,” you hiss theatrically, Ben trailing a hand over your ass as you reach the landing and the door to the flat.
Once inside, you pull him tight to you and move swiftly in the direction of the small bedroom, fingers already hooked inside the waistband of his jeans as he holds your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, tongues sweeping over each other and lips pressed together so hard you swear they’ll be bruised by morning.
“Sit on the end of the bed, baby.” He nods and follows your instructions, undoing his jeans as he watches you standing before him.
You start to unbutton your dress, keeping your eyes on him as you ease it off and let it fall to the floor. Ben’s eyes roam slowly over you, mouth falling open slightly as he takes in the floral print of your panties, the light blue lace of your bra, the softness and curves of your body.
You move closer to him, standing between his legs as he wraps his arms around your lower back and buries his face against your breasts while you languidly trail your fingers through his hair.
You pull back and look at him, immediately giggling. He still has his glasses on, and those coffee-brown eyes are half-hidden behind a fog on the lenses.
“Let’s take these off, shall we, Professor Morales?”
The combination of champagne and a decision about your future together has made you joyful, more confident - and more direct.
“You’re so fucking hot, you know that, baby?”
Ben raises his eyebrows and his ears flush pink. “I don’t really think…uh…”
You kiss him, his hands moving to grab the flesh of your ass and pull you tight to his body.
“I think you’re hot as fuck, Ben Morales, and I’m going to tell you. And show you.” You wrap your arms around his neck and encourage him to move backwards a little, so that you can straddle him. “Lemme show you how gorgeous you are to me, my love. Hmmm?”
He grins, nods, and moans as his mouth passes over the velvet skin of your heavy tits. You help him out of his white T-shirt, and pause to take in the sight of him: your thighs framing his hips and waist, his hands resting on them; his tummy, somehow both broad and solid and yet soft, pressed deliciously against your own belly; his beautiful face, eyes filled with desire, and mouth begging to devour and be devoured.
The temptation is too strong, your hands moving to caress his face as your lips meet his again. You keep your forehead pressed to his as you break the kiss and whisper to him, murmuring about how his dark gaze can make you ache for him, what it feels like to have his lips pressed to your body.
Your hands move slowly across his shoulders and down his back, feeling the warmth of his golden skin, the strength underneath the surface. “This beautiful body, baby,” you murmur, placing tiny kisses to his collarbone. “When you’re above me, fucking me, or about to, and I look up and see you so fucking broad and solid…”
His breathing hitches as your mouth works its way down his chest and towards his tummy, lips and tongue picking out those little patches of freckles that you love so much, teeth sometimes scraping lightly over his warm, solid middle as you carefully move your body off his and onto the floor between his legs.
“You know how fucking sexy this tummy is, baby. Told you the first night we were together.” He looks sceptical and your hands roam over the warm softness of his skin, your cunt positively aching with need at the sensation.
“I’m serious, Ben. It’s so fucking hot, the way your body looks, the feeling of your tummy against mine…” You whine as you roll your hips and clench your thighs, and he sits up slightly to drag down his jeans and underwear, a hand wrapping around his cock as he seeks some relief of his own.
You reach for his other hand, holding it gently as you suck each finger in turn. “I love these hands, baby.” You kiss his palm and he gasps. “I love the sight of them, the feeling of them on me, in me, the things they do to me.”
His eyes are wide and dark with lust and adoration. “Fucking hell, Lyd, you’re incredible.”
And then your fingers join his, working the base of his cock and making Ben gasp with sheer pleasure. He moves his hands up to grope and caress your breasts, long fingers slipping under the lace of your bra to play with your nipples.
“Touch yourself,” he hisses, hands full as he massages the soft weight of your tits. You obey the instruction, keeping your eyes locked on him as you bring one hand to part your soaking folds while the other continues to jerk him off.
Ben watches for a moment as you rub small, firm circles over the aching bundle of nerves while pleasuring him simultaneously. “Fuck, baby, this is so fucking hot. You’re so good to me.”
You’re on your knees, now, and your mouth is actually watering at the sight before you. “Can I suck your cock, baby?”
He grunts his consent. “This…” You flick your tongue over the tip. “This is fucking gorgeous.”
“Please, Lyd.” You look up at him and he whines a little, completely turned on by the sight of you between his legs, one hand now caressing the firm muscles of his calf and the other holding his cock in place. You oblige, expertly trailing your tongue along his full length before beginning to take him, bit by bit, inside your wet mouth.
Ben cries out your name as you continue your ministrations, looking down at you with his eyes blown wide. “I‘ll come if you keep going, baby,” he hisses. “Wanna fuck you, please. Please. Need you.”
You swirl your tongue around the tip one last time before releasing him, bringing your hands to rest again on his legs, fingers massaging the muscles of his thighs as you hum in satisfaction.
“C’mon, Lyddie.” He gestures with his head and you stand. He pulls you to him with one hand, palm and fingers splayed across the small of your back as he tugs down your panties with the other. Two thick fingers slide into you with ease, and his eyebrows quirk with surprise.
“You’re fucking soaking?”
The tone of his voice makes you laugh, and he chuckles against the warm softness of your belly before kissing it, over and over, as your fingers wind through his curls.
“I told you, love, you’re so fucking hot. Don’t even have to touch me and I’m ready for you.”
Ben grins wickedly as you push him back onto the bed and straddle him again, reaching down and stroking his cock a couple of times before you ease him into you and sink down, moaning loudly as he stretches you, fills you, takes you. You’ve had each other so many times now, and yet the sensation of him inside you remains new and thrilling.
You start to move, shifting and rolling your hips in a careful, deliberate rhythm that has the two of you sighing and gasping with deep, delicious pleasure. You lean forward to come closer to him, desperate for his touch, for the warmth of his chest against yours. He eases down the straps of your bra a little and caresses your tits as he starts to fuck up into you, meeting your movements.
He lifts his head up, greedily seeking your lips. His hands trace the curve of your back down to your hips and ass as he watches your bodies moving together, and he smiles wistfully as he brings a finger to your clit. “God, I love fucking you, Lyd.”
You giggle and cry out at his touch, riding him harder still as you edge closer to coming. His finger draws firm, tight circles over the swollen bud, tracing the familiar path he has carved out in you so many times. “Fuck me, baby - gonna come, don’t fucking stop - you gonna come?”
He closes his eyes tightly as the fingers of his other hand press hard into your thigh, breath hitching and voice raw. “Mmmmhmm. I’m so fucking close. Hold on, can you?”
You nod and try to temporarily quell the orgasm that’s been building in you since you got him home, Ben slowing his finger’s steady movements over your soaking clit.
And then the pace increases again, and you’re there, and he’s there. Together.
Morning announces itself with a rustle of paper and a delicious, buttery aroma. Eyes blinking open, you become conscious of Ben’s soft lips on the nape of your neck - and aware that the enticing smell is right under your nose.
“Bonjour, Lyd.” Ben is holding an open paper bag just under your nose. “Croissant?”
You turn to face him properly and sit up in bed beside him. “Hi, darling. How long are you up?”
He reaches into the bag and takes out a croissant, before placing it on a plate and handing it to you. “Not that long. You looked so beautiful and content, I didn’t want to wake you.”
The flaky, buttery pastry melts in your mouth as you sigh with pleasure. “Jesus fucking Christ. Nothing compares.”
Ben stops just as he’s about to bite into his own croissant, throwing you a cheeky glance. “Nothing? Nothing compares? You’re sure about that?”
You rest your head on his shoulder, the cotton of his long sleeved T-shirt soft and comforting against your face.
“Nothing compares… in the world of baked goods.”
He nods, satisfied, and takes a mouthful of the golden viennoiserie.
“Oh, fuck. Maybe you’re right, Lyd.”
You giggle. “Thanks for these, love. You’re so kind.”
Ben shakes his head. “As if you wouldn’t have done the same.” He chews thoughtfully on the pastry. “Anyway, I feel like I still need to make it up to you. Yesterday morning, I mean.”
“You apologised, love, and we sorted things out. It’s fine.”
He shrugs. “I just feel bad. I shouldn’t have made you feel bad. Should have known by now that you struggle with this kind of uncertainty.” Ben reaches for your left hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’m sorry, Lyd.”
“Thank you, Ben. But we’re fine. I mean it. That’s what makes a relationship work, isn’t it? Learning about each other and knowing when we need to learn or listen more.”
He nods. “Exactly. And that’s why I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life with you. No matter where that is.”
The rest of the week is spent partly in research libraries, at least in your case, but mostly in the streets and cafés and galleries and museums of the city you love so much with the man you adore.
You watch with quiet joy as he sees Manet’s Olympia in real life for the first time, shaking his head in admiration and awe as he takes in the painting. He steps back and folds his arms.
“She’s really something.”
“She sure is. I’d be that confident too, if I was as gorgeous as her.”
He arches an eyebrow and looks at you. “You are. Much more so.”
You huff a laugh as you link his arm and wander off to see Courbet’s Burial at Ornans. “You want me to pose like one of Manet’s French girls, Ben?”
“Wouldn’t say no, Lyd.”
At Harry’s New York Bar, the legendary cocktail bar near the Opéra, you cuddle up in a cosy corner of the piano lounge in the basement, and drink French 75 cocktails while the resident pianist plays Gershwin late into the night. You follow your own tailor-made walking tours, spotting literary landmarks and movie locations. A night in a Saint-Germain bar ends with a visit to the late-night bookstore L’Écume des Pages (and an inevitable bag full of newly-purchased books). Ben oohs and aahs over the bouquinistes’ boxes that line the walls overlooking the Seine, unable to resist a quick perusal of their selection of rare books and vintage magazines. You share a Paris-Brest pastry from Angelina, moaning appreciatively as you devour the delicious dessert. Together, you drink coffee and sip wine and talk and laugh and people-watch to your heart’s content.
You could never tire of Paris. Even so, Ben’s wide-eyed excitement and enthusiasm makes everything new: the landmarks, the streetscapes, the food, the drink, the sounds and smells.
And you. He has made you new, too.
You feel it in the way he looks at you when you wave your hands and wax lyrical about god knows what painting or book or historical event. It’s in the reassuring weight of his arm around your shoulders as you wander through the narrow back streets, feeling like you’re ten feet tall. It’s there in the hundreds of little opportunities he finds during each day to touch you: the small of your back as you enter a building, the back of your hand as you sit together on the Métro, the side of your mouth as he brushes away an errant croissant flake.
It is in the moments when you stop on the street and pull him to you for a kiss, unconcerned by the Parisians tut-tutting as they have to walk around the two of you. It’s in the moans he pulls from you, and you from him, when you are tangled in bedsheets at night, or in the morning, or even - after a lunchtime trip to the movies that escalated into some heated back-row kisses - in the middle of the afternoon, languidly stretched out naked for him on the bed.
Just like one of Manet’s French girls, he joked.
Most of all, it’s there in the light that always seems to be shining in your eyes whenever you look at him, knowing that he is yours and you his.
“You’re a tolerant man, Ben Morales,” you say with a chuckle as you walk through the imposing gates of Père Lachaise cemetery one bright morning. “Willing to hang out in Parisian cemeteries with me as I fangirl over the tombs of people no one has cared about for a hundred years or more.”
Ben looks at the list of names on the cemetery map and smiles at you, squinting slightly behind his sunglasses. “I rather like your Gothic side, Lyddie. And I appreciate this too, you know - I want to find Balzac and Proust’s tombs, while we’re here.” He drapes an arm across your shoulders as you climb steadily up one of the winding paths leading through the oldest part of the cemetery, stopping here and there to look at some of the more unusual tombs and memorials.
There’s a certain part of Père Lachaise, its highest point, where you can look out and see the city unfolding below. You lead him there and sit on a bench, keen for him to take in the view. Other visitors and tourists meander past with their maps, chatting in various languages about Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison or any number of the luminaries whose remains lie alongside those of many more ordinary Parisians in this leafy enclave.
And then it’s just the two of you, side by side, contemplative. Little birds chirp and chatter in the trees, their song a moment of peaceful stillness in the bustling city.
Paris has a tendency to look particularly magical when you’re entering into the final hours of a visit. This evening, the fading spring sunlight cuts a path along the street below, gleaming off the windows and shop signs that line the ancient thoroughfare.
“My heart always breaks a little when I have to leave.”
Ben finishes combing back his hair, still damp from the shower and curls starting to form at the nape of his neck. He turns from the mirror just inside the door of the apartment, adjusting the collar of his white shirt.
“This isn’t the last time, Lyddie. Not for you, not for us.”
You nod sadly, picking up your purse and slipping into a pair of dark red patent ballet flats. “I know. I’ve been telling myself that for twenty-odd years, but it never gets easier. Stupid, huh.”
He shakes his head as he reaches for your hand. “Not stupid. You love this place, and twenty-odd years is a long time to be in love.” He looks you up and down admiringly. “You’re all fancy.”
You cock your hip and strike a pose as Ben laughs. “I like to dress up for my long-term lover, the city of Paris, Monsieur Morales. Anyway, you’re all fancy too.”
“Not like you, I’m not. You look…” He exhales as he takes you in. “You look like you walked out of a perfect French movie.”
Even you have to admit he’s got a point. Sure, the outfit had been a bit of a splurge, a treat to yourself from the BHV department store. But a classic, knee-length little black dress would never go out of style. At least, that’s how you justified it. That, and the fact that it hugged your body just so, working wonders with your curves, somehow narrowing your middle and accentuating your tits and hips in a manner that was impossibly elegant and incredibly sexy. It was a marvel.
For once, you got a flash of what Ben always told you he saw when he looked at you. It made for a pleasant change.
This evening you have accessorised with a vintage brooch and chunky brass earrings, the gold necklace Ben gave you for Valentine’s Day a permanent fixture around your neck. The spring evening is warm enough for you to get away with a dark red pashmina shawl in lieu of a jacket, though you worried bare legs might be a step too far and decided not to forego your black hold-up fishnet stockings.
Ben slips into his olive green suit jacket and you squeeze his hand. “Thank you, my love. You look beautiful, too.”
He does. But then, he always does: his beauty is easy, natural, effortless; as obvious to you when he’s bleary-eyed and bed-headed in his old t-shirts and pyjama bottoms as it is now, with him suited and booted and looking every inch the debonair Parisian intellectual in his clear-framed glasses.
For an instant you wish you could travel back to your broken-hearted self all those years before, to tell her that a better day would come, that real love would find you when and where you least expected it, and that it would arrive in the form of a man as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside.
Most people would say the two of you are a little overdressed for your dinner destination. But then, you aren’t most people.
You catch a glimpse of the two of you reflected in a shop window as you walk along boulevard Henri IV. You, black dress and red accessories; Ben, green suit with his top shirt buttons undone, hair combed back and starting to form soft waves a little as it dries. The fact that you are both wearing sunglasses only enhances the sense of slightly retro European chic.
“Look at us. Not bad, hmmm?”
Ben stops, puts down the wicker basket he’s carrying, and winds his arms around your waist, kissing the side of your neck. “Perfect.”
You stroll past a little park near the river, pointing out a reconstructed bit of the Bastille to him, and wander in the direction of the Pont Marie and onto the Île Saint-Louis. It’s a little out of the way for where you’re going, but you have a good reason. He asked you a couple of days ago what your favourite view of the city was, and you intend to show him.
The evening sky is streaked with a palette of pale blues, pinks, oranges and reds as you reach the Pont de la Tournelle and stop to lean on the parapet of the bridge.
“This is it.”
He stands beside you and rests his hands on the parapet, following your gaze westwards along the river, taking in the silhouette of Notre-Dame - still obscured by scaffolding - painted against the vibrant canvas of the sunset, and the curve of the quaysides as the Seine splits around the Île de la Cité.
“This is my spot. When I stand here I feel as though I could wrap my arms around the city and as though it wraps its arms around me.” You look at Ben, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. That’s a bit weird, I know. I am aware that it is a city and I cannot hug it, please don’t run away.”
He looks at you with affectionate bemusement. “You know how beautiful that is, to have those feelings and be able to articulate them like that?” He reaches for your hand. “It isn’t weird. It’s you, and it’s wonderful.”
You rest your head on his shoulder and squeeze his hand. “The first time I came to Paris after…everything, I came here the first night. I stood here and I looked at the cathedral and the city.” You pause as the memory resurfaces. “And then I had a massive cry. See? Weird.”
Ben shakes his head and chuckles, pulling you close to him. “Not weird. Catharsis.”
“I guess it was. I was still here. Notre-Dame was still here. Paris was still here. It gave me a sense of hope, I think, for the first time. Like, I knew things would get better.”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know?” He kisses your forehead and leans in to murmur, cheekily, in your ear: “So did things get better?”
You wrap your arm around his waist, slipping it under his jacket so you can feel the strong muscles of his back under his shirt. “Eh, I guess you could say that.”
Dinner is simple: a baguette, a selection of cheeses and charcuterie, and a bottle of champagne. But you’ve made the effort to bring proper glasses and plates from the apartment, and you can’t fault the location: watching the river from the Quai Saint-Bernard on the left bank, waving at the people on the big tourist boats - the bateaux-mouches - as they pass.
“Hell of a view,” Ben muses in between mouthfuls of baguette and Brillat-Savarin cheese.
You gaze across the river at the Île Saint-Louis and smile contentedly. “It is perfection.”
He chuckles and leans in to kiss you. “I was talking about you. But Paris isn’t too bad, either.”
He looks back at the river, a smile playing on his lips, and you take a moment to admire a perfect view of your own: Ben’s handsome face in profile, hair moving gently in the breeze, the light tan he had acquired after a week of wandering in Parisian spring sunshine complementing the patches of grey-white hair at the hinge of his jaw.
You can’t help but marvel a little at how fucking gorgeous he is. Well done, Lyd. In that instant, as you take him in, you concentrate on the wonderful feeling of calm and safety that suffuses your body when you’re with him.
You’d only realised after the abrupt end of your last relationship that you’d spent a decade and a half walking on eggshells, constantly anxious and never wholly comfortable - even with someone who claimed to love you. You feared suggesting the simplest thing: a movie, a dinner, a holiday, lest it prompt a negative reaction or criticism.
With Ben, though? Even with the ongoing uncertainty about where, exactly, your future would be, you had never felt anything other than safe. With a clearer path ahead agreed together, the residual anxiety faded, too.
It was a new and marvellous feeling.
As the evening draws in, a little group of musicians set up nearby on the quay, accompanied by a cluster of couples who immediately began to dance to the band. Ben turns and smiles at the spectacle.
“They do this as soon as the weather gets warm here,” you explain, smiling widely as the dancers move around an open area on the quayside. “Sometimes it’s French classics, sometimes American big band, sometimes Latin, sometimes a more contemporary mix, like tonight.”
Ben stands up, dusts off his pants, picks up the picnic basket and extends his hand to you.
“Would you like to dance, Lyddie?”
How can you refuse, when he’s looking like that and asking you in that voice and smiling at you with such love and affection?
“I’m not good at this sort of thing, Ben, I warn you.”
He rolls his eyes affectionately. “Bullshit. Now: dance with me, Lyd.”
You get to your feet and he leads you in the direction of the makeshift dancefloor, leaving the picnic basket to one side as he brings you into a dance hold and begins to move, pulling you close to his body as the band and its female lead singer begin a cover of Mitski’s “My Love Mine All Mine”.
The rest of the city falls away as you dance with him, nuzzling against his neck as his hips sway gently, rhythmically against you in time to the slower tempo of the music. Ben’s lips press softly to the top of your head, and you hum in absolute contentment.
“I love this song, you know.”
He chuckles. “I do. You sing it very beautifully in the shower, sometimes.”
“I doubt it’s beautiful.”
“Trust me. It’s beautiful.”
You nestle against him and sing along, joining in with the lyric that always made you think of him, of how he had broken through your sturdy defences, smoothing and healing the jagged, broken pieces of your soul: “My baby, here on earth/Showed me what my heart was worth”.
You sing the words quietly against his chest, feeling the vibrations from your voice meeting the rhythm of his heartbeat in a curious music made of two lovers. As the song draws to a close, Ben tenderly lifts your chin and kisses you, enveloping you in those strong arms. Cologne, coffee, bread, paper, something that is just his: his scent, the scent of love and safety.
His big hands skim appreciatively over your figure in the new black dress as he inhales your own perfume, nose buried in the crook of your neck. “Delicious, gorgeous girl,” he murmurs against your velvet skin. “You look incredible tonight, you know?”
Ben pulls your body even tighter to his and you whine softly, the press of his broad form to yours enough to send a rush of wetness to your core.
“I think we need to get back to the apartment, my love.”
Ben sits at the end of the bed, wearing his shirt and boxers, watching as you take off your jewellery in front of the bedroom mirror. There’s something fascinating about the ritual: how you take out your earrings and put them in their box; the way you tilt your head forward as you remove your necklace.
He still can’t believe it, sometimes, the kind of love he has with you. He’s been desperate to get you home ever since you danced close and slow on the riverbank. That fucking black dress. Driving him slowly crazy all night, every time he looked at you. It’s the way it hugs your hips, accentuates the ample, full curves of your tits, and reveals just enough of your skin to make him want to ease it off your soft, welcoming body.
His cock twitches at the thought.
He stands up and crosses the floor, standing behind you. His hands gently caress you as you smile at the reflection of the two of you in the mirror.
“I love this.”
Ben kisses the top of your arm. “I love this, too.”
His lips find their way along the line of your shoulder until they reach the crook of your neck. A little tug to the zipper of the dress and his mouth moves downwards, kissing and sucking at the back of your neck, hands roaming over your body and grabbing handfuls of you as he goes.
He’s pressed against your back, murmuring your name. The extent of his desire is already very much in evidence.
“Fuck, Lyddie.” His breath is warm and urgent against your neck.
“Mmmm?”
“I’ve wanted to take this off since the minute I saw you in it.”
You chuckle. “Looks that bad, huh?”
Lips still on your neck, he caresses your breasts as he shakes his head. “Looks too good on you.”
Ben licks a stripe up the side of your neck and you whine with pleasure, closing your eyes and reaching to caress his face.
“Can I take it off, my love?” His voice is lower, smokier.
You nod, locking your eyes on his. A frisson of excitement courses through your body as Ben eases down the rest of the zipper and eases you out of your little black dress, letting it pool at your feet.
“Oh, fuck me. These new?”
When you bought the dress, you’d bought new lingerie, too. A bra in caramel and black lace whose delicacy belied its incredible construction, supporting your breasts perfectly. Matching underwear, high-waisted and full but completely sheer, made out of the same black lace that trimmed your bra.
And of course: the stockings.
You nod and close your eyes, trying to avoid seeing yourself in the mirror. You looked alright in the dress, but you still can’t quite face the body underneath it. Ben’s breath ghosts across your shoulder blades as he fondles your tits and kisses the top of your spine.
“Open your eyes, Lyd.”
You hesitate.
“Lyd. Open your eyes.”
You obey. But you keep your gaze fixed on him, afraid of your own reflection, of a body that you still cannot believe anyone like him would ever really want.
“Lyddie, please look.” Ben’s voice is firm but pleading. “Look at your beautiful face. Look at this gorgeous, sexy body.”
He trails a finger along the contours of your breasts, tracing the lace trim of the bra. He brings his hands to your waist, to your hips, pulling you back against him ever so slightly so that you can feel how hard he is.
You don’t think you’ll ever love your body. But, watching Ben drinking you in with his eyes, running his fingers over the black Parisian lace that clings to the most sensitive and sensual parts of you, you understand that you love the way he loves your body.
“This is what you do to me, Lyd, and I will tell you every day for the rest of our lives that you are the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” You turn to face him, his hands cupping your face as he kisses you deeply.
He breaks away and looks into your eyes, dark irises searching yours. There’s a vulnerability there, a hint of doubt, lingering in spite of his words.
“What is it, Lyd?”
You shrug, fingers lightly caressing the curls and waves that cluster around his ears. “I love that you think I’m beautiful. I… still don’t know if I ever will.”
He kisses you again, softer this time. “Can I at least try to convince you? Show you?”
You smile against his lips and wrap your arms around his neck. “I’d like that. Could… could you, like, take charge? For tonight?”
He quirks an eyebrow and returns your kiss, humming against your mouth. “Take charge?”
You feel embarrassment rising in your throat. You’d never really felt able to just ask for what you needed like this before. Old habits die hard.
“Ben, I never felt safe enough to ask a partner to take the lead like this…not before you.”
His expression softens. “I’d give you anything, Lyd. Anything you want.” He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to him, chin resting on your shoulder. “And I feel safe with you, too.”
You tilt your head to kiss him. “So…?”
“So, I’m going to take charge and show you exactly how fucking beautiful you are, how sexy you are, how fucking happy I am that I get to be with you.” He pauses to kiss you again. “And if I have to, like I said - I’ll do this every day for the rest of time, if necessary, until you see what a perfect goddess you are.”
Another, deeper kiss; the sensation of his broad hands on the soft skin of your tits and belly, pulling you tight to him, the press of his erection against you as he guides you to lean back against the wall and slips his fingers under the crotch of your panties, parting your folds and working your clit and pussy until you’re panting with desire and need.
For a moment, you think he’s going to fuck you. But then slowly, steadily, Ben sinks to the ground in front of you, mouth and teeth and tongue finding the softest, most yielding parts of your body as he works his way to his knees.
Ben looks up at you, eyes glittering with lust and adoration. He is a supplicant before you, ready to worship, to seek and give a pleasure as sacred as it is profane. He venerates your body with his mouth. His tongue traces the outline of your hips, his lips kiss the softness of your lower belly, his teeth scrape across the thick flesh of your upper thighs. He tugs the panties down completely, parting your legs and helping you out of the garment.
“I want you to keep the stockings on, okay?”
You nod your assent. Those perfect dark eyes find yours, a flash of mischief crossing his gaze as he gently pushes a finger inside you before placing both hands firmly on your hips, pressing into your flesh.
And then he tilts his head, just so, and you cry out as he brings his lips to your wet pussy, mouth and tongue working your entrance as his nose rubs with precision against your clit. You buck slightly against him but he holds you in place, grunting and groaning with pleasure as he goes down on you. The warmth of his breath against your core makes your cunt clench around nothing, desperate for him.
You wind your fingers through the soft waves of his hair, holding him in position and throwing your head back as you revel in every lap of his tongue, every brush of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, every nudge of that beautiful nose against your clit. He’s eating you out like you’re his last meal, your moans and writhing body seemingly only serving to spur him on.
Even so, Ben senses that you’re holding back. The position is incredible, the sight of him, the sound of him, the feel of him making you want to come harder than you’ve ever done before. But you worry about whether your legs will give way - whether you’ll hurt him if you fall forward.
“I’ve got you, Lyd,” he murmurs, face still buried between your thighs. “Let go. I’ve got you. You’re so close. Come for me. Want you to come like this.”
With his fingers fucking you and his lips sucking and licking at your clit, your body yields and you cry out as you come against his face.
He stays on his knees as you ride out the orgasm, thumbs rubbing a gentle circle against your hips, before scrambling to his feet and wrapping you in his strong arms. Your legs are still trembling as you lean in and kiss him like your lives depend on it, tasting yourself on his lips. He manoeuvres you to the bed, laying you down with the utmost care.
You look up at him as he shifts into position above you, the low light catching the traces of your release that glisten across his face and his beautiful eyes flitting greedily over your face and body. You reach up to unbutton his shirt and he shucks off his undervest. An electrical current of desire courses through you as you rake your hands over his broad shoulders and down to that soft tummy you love so much. His eyes are warm and wanting: your darling, your lover, your partner. You are safe in his hands, and you are ready to give yourself entirely to him.
A little smile quirks at his mouth as he lies down beside you, turning on his side and trailing his long fingers across the velvet skin of your tits, still enclosed in the delicate lace of your bra.
“Do you know how much I want you, Lyd?” he murmurs, mouth working hot, needy kisses across your breasts.
“Tell me.”
“Want you all the time.” You can feel his cock hard against you. “Want to have all of you, want to touch and kiss and fuck every last inch of you. I’m going to use my mouth on you now, baby, okay?”
He nips and sucks at the soft flesh of your belly as you moan, pussy aching for him. “And the more I have you, the more I want you.” He finds your soaking folds again and drags two fingers through the slick, bringing them to your lips so you can suck them clean. “I love you. And I can’t get enough of you.”
You let out a half-laugh, half-groan as he pulls you to him and quickly takes off your bra, mouth finding your breasts and tongue swirling over your nipples. You slip a hand between the two of you, tugging down his boxer briefs and wrapping your fingers around his cock as you stroke him, feeling him becoming fully hard under your careful touch.
“Do you think you have another in you, my love?”
You nod.
“Use your words, Lyd.”
“Yes. I think so…fuck, yes sir.”
He groans loudly against you and slips his fingers back through your soaking folds, chuckling a little at the whine of pleasure you let out as his warm breath ghosts against your ear. “Fucking hell, Lyd. You look so fucking beautiful. Such a beautiful woman.” He hooks his fingers against the perfect spot inside you and you buck against him, hand still working his dick. “And such a pretty pussy, so tight and so wet for me.”
He eases you into a different position, your back against his chest as his erection nudges against you. First his hands, then - with a shuffle down the bed - his mouth caresses the plump flesh of your ass, lips and teeth scraping over the sensitive skin as you whimper. He shifts your leg up and nestles himself into position.
“Can I have you, darling?”
You whine into the bed, feeling your orgasm building and building. “Please, baby, I need you inside me - fuck, baby, please…”
“I thought I was in charge?”
His voice is low, honeyed, hot as he whispers in your ear. It tips you closer and closer to the edge.
“You are… I just want you so fucking much.”
“You want me to fuck you, is that it?”
“Please. Fuck me, my love. Hard as you want to.”
“Fuck, Lyd.” With a groan and some muttered expletives, Ben sinks inside you, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sensation. “Always feels so incredible inside you, baby,” he pants, one arm holding you around your tits and the other against your belly. “Just - oh, fuck - just perfect.”
It is perfect - perfect angle, perfect feeling of him stretching you, of his hands on you. He drags himself out of your cunt slowly, steadily, making you whimper at the loss of him. A snap of his hips and he’s buried inside you again, beginning a hard rhythm that has you crying his name into the bed as he fucks you, fast and deep, the softness of your ass cushioning his thrusts as he showers you with praise. His good girl. His beautiful woman. His love.
His. His. Only his. Repeated. Possessive. Perfect.
He shifts his hand from your belly to your pussy, working tight circles over the swollen nub of your clit as you get closer and closer, mouth sucking on the delicate flesh of your neck, never letting up the rhythm until you cry out and come on his cock, the wetness audible as he fucks you through it.
“Good, baby?” He pulls out as you’re still coming down, easing you onto your back and settling himself on top of you, carefully parting your legs.
You look up at him, cockdrunk, seeing stars, and with no way to express how you feel other than a satisfied whine as you pull him to you for a hungry, sloppy kiss. Ben smiles and chuckles against your lips as he reaches down to gently hook an arm under your knee as he sinks back into you with a guttural moan.
He picks up the pace again quickly, taking you harder now, rougher, even, and gripping the headboard of the bed with his free hand. His hair is dishevelled, errant short curls falling over his brow as sweat runs in rivulets over the freckles scattered underneath the hollow of his throat and lips finding yours as you start to babble to him incoherently, surrendering to the sensation.
He drops his hand from the headboard to find yours, pressing your hand and arm into the mattress as he holds you down while he fucks you.
“Talk to me, Lyd. Tell me. See how much I want you? Tell me.”
You mutter filthily about how deep he is, how big he is, how you love having him inside of you, how much you want him - need him - to fill you up. But then you look at him - at his beautiful face, screwed up and teeth gritted as he makes love to you - and another urge takes over, displacing the dirty talk with something no less intense, but softer, all the same.
“I fucking love you, Ben - fuck, keep going, that’s so good, fuck…”
He groans and reaches for your breast, groping it as he nears his own release. “You’re mine, Lyddie. All mine.”
“Yours, Ben. Every bit of me. Yours, forever, like you’re fucking mine.”
“My woman…my - oh, fuck - my good fucking girl.” You know he’s really close. “Keep talking, Lyd. Want to hear it.”
“You’re mine, baby - oh god, Ben, that’s so fucking good - all mine. I’ll give you anything. Everything.”
Ben rests his head against your neck, panting and moaning as his rhythm falters. “I’m all yours, Lydia, always - f-fuck, I’m gonna…”
You hold him tight, hands across the breadth of his back. “You’ll never be alone again, baby - fuck, Ben! - gonna take care of you, gonna be our own little family…”
He positively growls as he comes inside you, your head knocking against the headboard as he snaps his hips against yours before collapsing against your body. You hold him tight, gentle, slow, one hand winding through his curls and the other reaching for his hand as you plant soft kisses along his hairline.
He eases himself out of you with a final kiss and flops back onto the mattress beside you, still trying to catch his breath and with the most beautifully blissed-out expression on his face.
“I’m just going to clean up and take these stockings off, my love,” you murmur, shifting your body to the edge of the bed. “You okay?”
Ben grins and giggles to himself as he looks at you. “I am fantastic. Don’t know my name or what year it is, but I am fucking fantastic.”
You pad back from the bathroom as quickly as you can, discarding your stockings and climbing back into bed beside him. He’s reaching for you before you’ve even settled your body on the mattress, broad hands gently rubbing your belly, your hips, the line of your breasts. His breath is steadier now, face and body completely relaxed in the gorgeous afterglow.
“You are such a beautiful man.”
Ben opens one eye and meets your gaze. “Hmmmph?”
“I said, you are such a beautiful man. Don’t dare deny it.”
He smiles softly, closing his eyes again as your fingertips trace the line of his nose, brush against an errant curl, find the outline of the little bare patches on the side of his jaw. Your thumb swipes gently across his lower lip, fingers seeking out the texture of his moustache.
You go to speak, and stop yourself.
“What were you going to say, Lyddie?” His voice is heavy, sleep beckoning him.
“Nothing, I was just - no, it’s stupid.”
“Nothing stupid could ever come out of your pretty mouth.”
You giggle quietly and bring yourself even closer to him, resting your hand on his chest. He reaches up to hold it.
“It’s just that… I don’t know. When I look at you like this, at all the little things that are just uniquely you, it feels like everything fits. You know?”
He opens his eyes again. “Everything fits?”
“It’s like, ‘aha. Yes. That.’ Like I was always meant to be looking at this face. Like there was a bit of me that I didn’t even know I was missing and it just was…it was you. Even if I didn’t know it.”
He smiles and leans in for a soft kiss. “And now everything fits.”
He wakes her with coffee and kisses, knowing how much she hates prising herself from the warmth of their shared bed. A little incentive, a way to help her avoid panic later in the morning, one of those tiny acts of love they perform for each other every day.
She orders a taxi for a couple of hours’ time and strips the bedsheets, casting an eye over their shared luggage waiting for departure as she joins him in the living area. Having put the sheets on a wash-dry cycle, her hands rest lightly on his broad shoulders as she quickly kisses him on the cheek and heads for the bathroom to shower. Instinctively, she gathers all but their essentials - toothbrushes and paste, shower gel - and slips them in a ziploc bag, ready to go into one of their cases.
Once he’s showered, they continue their seamless little ballet of co-operation and partnership as they prepare to depart: a reminder to empty the trash here, an almost-forgotten phone charger spotted there, last few belongings squished into their hand luggage, and a final check on their passports and tickets. She checks every drawer and cupboard one more time while he places their trash bag in the small communal dumpster in the building’s courtyard.
It is a banal ritual: unthinking, unrehearsed, instinctive. But there’s something in the way they slot together so neatly, the way they complement each other, the easy, naturalness of it all, that speaks to a sense of partnership that works as well in the routines of everyday life as it does in the bedroom.
He carries the cases down to the main hallway as she checks the apartment’s small windows and locks up, following him downstairs after she drops off the key to Sophie’s neighbour.
He’s outside, standing with the bags on the pavement outside the building. The G7 taxi pulls up almost immediately, and he can’t help but smile with pride when he hears her confidently chatting away in French to the driver as they load the trunk with their luggage.
Her hand finds his in the backseat, head resting against his shoulder. Partners. A team.
As the car heads northwards towards the edge of the city, he casts a glance at his phone. Two new job alerts, for positions at institutions in Europe.
He resolves to check them out properly once they get home. For now, though, just a squeeze of her hand, a kiss to the top of her head, and a silent resolution that he’d follow her to the ends of the earth.
*******
Further A/N: I'm going to make a separate post with more details on the music, the locations, and the food in this chapter...
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories
73 notes
·
View notes
Text
MallCop HM 2023 Harriota AU
This is an idea that me and @youngstarfishphilosopher were talking about so here's the idea so far...
-William Gracey and Allistair Crump are both rival store owners in New Orleans in this AU. I think Gracey's store would be called The Haunted Mansion Store and would sell themed products, with local legend Constance Hatchaway being a large part of it (she's pretty much the store's mascot). Crump's store would be called Hatbox Supply or something, which earns him the nickname Hattie by the townsfolk.
- Gracey's store is a lot more successful than Crump's because Gracey is just a better businessman in general, so Crump ends up trying to sabatoge the store a lot. Crump ends up paying Kent Owens, the now middle-aged, broke, estranged son of the local priest, to help him steal stuff and sabatoge the store.
- In order to combat the thieves, the rich Gracey ends up hiring Harriet Lee and Leota Curtis (yes I'm giving them both Jamie Lee Curtis references for last names, be quiet) to be the security guards. Leota is something of a local legend, retired cop and town hero, and is a MASSIVE inspiration to Harriet, aka the reason why she tried to join the police force in her 20's. She didn't pass at the academy, however, and ended up working in security.
- Ben Matthias and his adoptive father Bruce Matthias are 2 store regulars, and close friends of Harriet. Ben's wife recently died, which caused him to quit his job, so Bruce ends up spending a lot of time trying to get Ben to apply at Haunted Mansion so he can begin living a normal life again (and also stop living with Bruce, because Bruce works as a professor and can barely afford to feed himself, let alone a depressed Ben).
- Gabbie and Travis Hauss (get it because in the movie they owned the house so their last name is Hauss) are 2 other store regulars, and family friends of Gracey's. Ben is broke as hell and can't cover all his groceries when Bruce sends him out, so Gabbie helps cover some of his stuff because she's rich and nice, which is how they meet.
- Ben catches Kent screwing with the shelves and ends up calling security (Leota) on him, but when Leota starts getting really mean towards him for being, like, an idiot and a failure for being unemployed and essentially disowned by his dad (cuz yk Leota is friends with Kent's dad and also in on all the town drama), Ben steps in and defends him (cuz even though he's trying to sabatoge the place, Kent is really really bad at causing any real trouble, and he wasn't stealing stuff either, and Ben takes pity). Ben tries to clarify that he doesn't really like Kent, but Ben got him off the hook, so Kent has decided they're friends now. There is no escaping him.
- Now that Kent has chilled out, he and Ben make a promise to each other to go job hunting and get their lives back together. Crump gets really pissed that he lost Kent as a pawn and starts actually causing damage to the building.
- Long story short, the whole thing turns into an investigation (that the actual police won't touch since there's no evidence), so Leota and Harriet become an unofficial cop duo and start collecting evidence to prosecute Crump for the various crimes he's trying to commit in order to shut down The Haunted Mansion Store.
This is just a basic outline of the story, I might polish this and turn it into an actual thing later but uhh yeah :D (also yes ofc there's background Ben x Kent how could I resist...)
@creative-soul-22 thought you might be interested in my hm brainrot so enjoy
#haunted mansion 2023#disney haunted mansion#haunted mansion movie#father kent#haunted mansion#kent haunted mansion#gabbie haunted mansion#travis haunted mansion#madame leota#leota haunted mansion#harriota#harriet haunted mansion#bruce haunted mansion#william gracey#alistair crump#constance hatchaway#mall cop au#au
16 notes
·
View notes
Note
Cee! Your reverse sleepover is such a lovely idea!
🤷🏼♀️ and 🏅
Also 💎 I’m almost caught up on this wonderful series!
https://www.tumblr.com/ladamedusoif/718527163597553664/visiting-overview-and-masterlist
Thank you so much lovely Kat!
🤷🏼♀️ This or that: Marcus Pike or Joel Miller?
🏅 I know you've written several Marcus Pike fics. What are your top three Marcus looks from the show?
💎 Thank you for the rec! In case you missed it, Rose shared some insight into Visiting in this post as well!
Also sharing your own delightful masterlist:
Fuck Yeah 3k Sleepover (closed)
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Star Wars Fic Recs 💫
princessxkenobi's 1k September Celebration 🌼🍂📖
thank you to the amazing fic writers for sharing some wonderful stories with all of us ! & to the kind readers for their constant support. 💛
please be sure to check all warnings & tags before reading
nsfw & adult content will be marked with a double asterisk **
fics marked as (series) are stories with two or more parts
pairings will be listed as (gn, f, afab, m, oc, ofc, onc, ace, masc, masc gn)
everything is organized alphabetically by fandom & character to the best of my ability
(If you would like to be removed, please send me a message to let me know 🙏)
enjoy ! xo ☕
✨ Anakin Skywalker
Family by @laserbrains (f!reader)
Give Without Thought of Reward (series) by @kesskirata
Opportunity by @laserbrains (gn!reader)
✨ Ben Solo
'I've Never Felt Like This Before...' (prompt) by @forever-rogue (f!reader)
✨ Captain Rex
Stay Soft by @thefact0rygirl (f!reader)**
The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me by @obirain (gn!reader) **
✨ Finn
Home is With You by @honeymandos (gn!reader)
Into You by @laserbrains (gn!reader)
Weight In Gold by @justrunamok (gn!reader)
✨ General Hux
Echoes of the Heart (series) by @mylifeisactuallyamess (general hux, kylo ren, f!reader)**
✨ Kylo Ren
Consequence by @tlcwrites (f!reader)**
Stardust by @daydreamsofren
Sparks & Embers (series) by @paper-n-ashes (poe dameron, kylo ren) (ofc) **
✨ Luke Skywalker
Dream A Little Dream by @laserbrains (gn!reader)
The Most Beautiful Blue by @anakin-danvers (f!reader)
Princess Skywalker (series) (imperial prince luke) by @dexthtoyounglings (f!reader) **
Soft Touch by @mcu-padawan (f!reader) **
Someday by @laserbrains (gn!reader)
Your Galaxy by @laserbrains (gn!reader)
✨ Obi Wan Kenobi
A Dash of Cinnamon & Sugar (series) (bakery, cafe au) by @wickedscribbles **
All I Wanted (series) (sith!obi wan) by @strwrs (f!reader) **
Attraction, Attachment, Adoration (series) by @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories (a/b/o dynamics) (f!reader) **
A Warm Embrace by @rentskenobi **
Enigma (series) by @papercinders (f!reader)
Obi Wan AUs by @serkenobi (f!reader) **
High & Dry by @hellotherekenobi (gn!reader)
Insufferable (sith!obi wan) by @star-whores-a-new-hoe (f!reader) **
Jedi Weep by @reginasansrex
King of Hearts by @labyrinth-runner (f!reader)
Litoreous (series) (god of the sea obi wan) by @bb8sworld (f!reader)
Ne Plus Ultra (series) by @highsviolets (f!reader) **
Snowed Inn by @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi (f!reader) **
Sunlight by @stardust-kenobi (f!reader)**
The Dark Side of the Moon (series) by @spotchka (f!reader)**
We the Indelible (series) by @obirain (f!reader)**
Thief by @star-whores-a-new-hoe
Un Danse D'amour Inconscient by @mrskenobi19 (f!reader)
Yet You Whine by @justrunamok
✨ Padme Amidala
Every Little Thing She Does by @wickedscribbles (padme x ofc senator)
Stick and Poke (modern au) (tattoo au) by @wickedscribbles (padme x obi wan) **
✨ Poe Dameron
Back to You (series) (modern au) (professor poe) by @twomoonstwosuns (f!reader) **
Birds by @lightsinthedistancee
Fall to Pieces (series) (modern au) by @tlcwrites (f!reader) **
His Anchor by @mariesackler (gn!reader)
I've Been Waiting For You (series) (modern au) by @dameronsgalaxygal (f!reader) **
Mistakes & Sour Grapes (series) (modern au) (bar au) by @woakiees (f!reader) **
My Heart Will Go On (series) (titanic au) by @starryeyedstories (f!reader) **
Necklace by @stardust-kenobi (f!reader) **
On Your Skin by @lightsinthedistancee
Sing With Me? by @mylifeisactuallyamess (f!reader)
Surprise Picnic by @pumpkin-stars (gn!reader)
The Boat Ride by @mariesackler (f!reader) **
The Lonely Light of Morning by @lightsinthedistancee (gn!reader)
The Weightlessness of Safety by @lightsinthedistancee
Those Pants (series) by @tlcwrites (f!reader) **
To All The Pilots I've Loved Before (series) (to all the boys au) by @dameronology
✨ Qui Gon Jinn
With You by @reginasansrex (gn!reader)
✨ Star Wars, Clone Troopers, The Mandalorian, & Misc. Characters
Kiss Prompts by @lilhawkeye3
119 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi, hi! I love your work and wanted to ask about some of your favorite writers and fics! For spreading the love and also, selfishly, to fill up my long weekend lol
Thank you ever so much, little grey face! OK, so you haven’t said which fandom(s), so I’m going to dive right in and give you a smorgasbord of just some of my absolute favourites.... Buckle Up.
Fairy Dust by @di-kut - perhaos my favourite EVER sex pollen fic. Ezra x reader. Buckle up for this one. You’ll need a change of underwear, but it’s also touching and lyrically penned.
Perfection by @nildespirandum. Thomas Sharpe x OFC. Oh gosh. This epic fic will live in my memory forever. A fantastic OFC and Thomas is SO vivid.
Suits and Stilettos by @aims777 - Kylo Ren x Rey. Oh God. I binged this, it’s SO engrossing and amazingly told. I love the representation of the A/B/O universe here.
Traffic @just-the-hiddles. She will tell you that I have literally NOT SHUT UP about this fic since we met. Frustrated Tom, naked Tom, Tom being sexy over the phone to you. I still re-read this from time to time. Tom Hiddleston x Reader
Reckless by @keeper0fthestars - an excuse to fuck Javier on the hood of his car. Very hot, sensual, and each word chosen carefully. Sort-of roleplay as well which is HOT. Bring a change of underwear. Javier Peña x reader.
Another Man’s Shoes by @truthisademurelady. Forever TV fandom, Henry Morgan x Jo Martinez. Henry and Lucas bodyswap while having to solve a murder and trying to hide the secret from their family and friends. I was so hungry for each update of this and I still re-read it from time to time.
Daily Disasters by @concavepatterns . Darcy x Loki. Tasertricks is one of my favourite pairings and Connie is the MASTER of dialogue, fluff, snark and slow burn.
Somewhere Between by @awriterthatwrites (on AO3). Ichabod Crane x Abbie Mills, set after Abbie’s return from the catacombs. Heartbreaking and gently penned.
Look But Don’t Touch by @valdomarx. Geralt x Jaskier, filthy one shots. Valdo is the RULER of Geraskier and she does it with red-hot smut and then whacks you over the head with more feelings than you know what to do it.
Quriosity by @dr_girlfriend (on AO3). Oh God. This fic ate my life for at least three days. Q and Bond are such a good pairing in this and Q’s voice is spot on; I could constantly hear Ben Whishaw and Daniel Craig in my head.
Yes, Ma’am by @spacegayofficial. Tori is FANTASTIC at Whiskey and this is no exception. loved the dialogue and sub!Whiskey lives in my heart forever. Agent Whiskey (Kingsman) x Reader
Curriculum Vitae by @tiffdawg . Professor!Javier is EVERYTHING I WANT in a man. The story is engrossing and I binged 7 chapters before I remembered I was late for an appt.
Digging Up Bones by @songsformonkeys. I think, to date my favourite Whiskey fic. SFM’s wriitng is measured and enchanting. I would also give A LOT for Whiskey to call me Moonshine in that drawl. Whiskey x Reader.
We Were Warriors by @copperdead . THE BEST Triple Frontier fic, like, EVER. The slow burn between Pope and William is the stuff I can only dream of writing. All the boys get their moment in the sun and Pope and Will babysitting Catfish’s kids made me sigh with bliss. Santi Pope x Will Miller.
Rough Day by @no-droids. I don’t know how to put my love for this fic into words. Mando’s voice is spot on, the kid is SO ADORABLE, the FEELINGS are so intense and the smut is hotter than the sun. The world-building is DIVINE and I was sucked into this fic from chapter 1. Reader is brave and creative, and the way she and Din dance around their feelings while sexing each other raw is just... Just read this. You will not regret it ever. The dialogue is well plotted and relatable. I fell hopelessly in love with this writer’s Din Djarin when I wasn’t even halfway through this fic.
Right WELL I AM OUT OF TIME NOW but there are at least twenty other fics I didn’t get around to shouting out. May I recommend the following: @fishcustardandclintbarton @hopelessromanticspoonie @littlefreya @ly--canthrope @murdermewithbooks @fleetwoodmactshirt @dindjarindiaries and there are so many more and I love you all.
PSA: where possible when I refer to writers in the 3rd person I have checked blogs to see which pronouns are preferred but I apologise unreservedly if I have messed up.
64 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Very Bad Day
Title: A Bad Day
Pairing: Gwil x OFC!Ella
Word Count: 3.7k
Summary: Ella is having a... less than amazing day. It turns out Gwilym is just what she needed to turn it around though.
Warnings: underage drinking i know bad dont do it im sorry
[A/N]: Okay so I know this is technically before Macarons and Spoiled Surprises but it’s been bothering me for months that I never wrote the middle step between our first date and us doing... y’know, you’ve read it i hope. So yeah, this is that middle step. Half inspired by an actual shit day I had, half inspired by my better half having had a bad day the day I wrote this. Enjoy and feedback is always welcome!! Also thank you thank you thank you to my best fren Mic @o-holynight for making me another amazing header just for this fic you’re so good to me and if you haven’t yet go through her masterlist because it slaps
It was a crappy day. It was pouring, which normally I wouldn't mind—in fact I loved a good rainy day—but I had opened my window the night before and woken up to find my desk soaked in rain water and one of my notebooks with it.
"Ahhh shit," I muttered to myself as I woke up and climbed out of bed at the sound of the rain hitting the desk. I quickly latched the thing closed and looked down at the crinkling wet paper that was my notebook, picking it up by a corner and watching the water slide off the cover and off the pages. "Shhhhhit," I repeated, feeling my heart sink when I opened the cover and noticed the ink either bleeding into the other pages or sliding off along with the water. At least I didn't really use it, I thought. It was still sad to see something that I'd paid for just... Fall apart like this though.
I dropped it into the trash bin with a sigh and vowed to start getting ready to go out and buy a new one. Right after I have breakfast, I thought. As it turns out, there was no breakfast. No cereal, no pancake mix or frozen waffles. It was grocery day and Michaela had just left saying she was going to grab Joe so they could do the shopping for both at once.
Okay so I'll go out for breakfast, I decided.
Except the coffee shop was closed. Again, no big deal but... It was another block in the freezing rain to the nearest cafe. It was too close to drive, especially because there was no parking down by it. Walking it is then. The sidewalk was slick with the freezing rain and the leftovers from the last snow so I tried my best to watch my steps and still maintain a quick pace.
Needless to say I almost slipped—I didn't thankfully—but I caught myself at the last second in such a way that my umbrella swung out to the side and in an instant I felt drenched to the bone. I walked in looking like a half-drowned rat, ordered a muffin to go and tried to calm my anxious heart at the stares I was getting from the other patrons. In case you were wondering, yes, it's possible to angrily eat a muffin.
After I made it back to my car I drove to the nearest Staples and practically moaned as the warm rush of air hit my chilled face and body. I picked out a cute notebook—for sixteen fucking dollars, jesus Staples, cost more yeah?—and slapped it on the counter. The younger looking kid checking me out started at the noise but just smiled and asked if I wanted to join their rewards program.
And then I was stood under the edge of the Staples sign trying to desperately shove the notebook in my jacket against my chest because what was once pouring rain had turned into a torrential downpour. It was like a sheet of water coming down at once while thunder boomed in the distance. I held an arm across my coat-covered-notebook and took a deep breath, readying myself for the sheer force of it to pound against the top of my umbrella.
By the time I got back to the dorm my legs up to my knees were soaked even despite my rain boots, as was the back of my coat and my umbrella. The notebook somehow survived the trip thankfully. As I was pulling it out of my jacket my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text from Mic.
Hey, over at the boys' and groceries are all put away
Is Gwil home? I might head over in a bit. Having a shit day :(
Aw im sorry :( he is tho I think. I'll ask
I waited a few seconds and then waited for the three dots while she typed.
He isn't but he's coming home in like half an hour from a reading
"Nice," I whispered to myself. Finally, something good today.
Im gonna shower. When he gets home tell him I'm coming?
Yeah ofc
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, glad to finally have something to look forward to. I took off my jacket and hung it on my door to dry before walking into the bathroom and peeling off my soaked jeans and socks, letting them sit on the floor while I turned the shower to scalding hot. I hissed as it hit my back but quickly adjusted to it, letting the water pooling at the bottom thaw my toes. I picked up my razor with a little indecision. He wasn't even going to see my legs or my armpits as far as I was planning, let alone anywhere near my underwear... I shaved anyway. As a way to pass time in the warm water at the least, and at the most it would make my sheets feel nice later.
I got dressed in some loose sweats and a tank top, foregoing a bra with the assumption I was the only one home but when I came out of my room Sarah was back from her class eating at the table.
"Hey!" She said with a smile.
"Hey," I said back quietly, walking to the cupboard and pulling down a bag of chips. "How was class?"
"Ugh, don't even get me started. That dude was still trying to argue with the professor the entire class," she explained, rolling her eyes.
"Someone should keep a tally of every time he says something and then at the end of class take that many points off his latest paper or something," I offered with a small grin.
"We should, oh my god," she laughed back. "Hey, are you okay? Mic said you were having a crappy day."
I nodded, shrugging. "Yeah, I dont know it's just... A lot of little shit adding up, y'know?"
She nodded with a sad smile.
I took a deep breath and tried to stay positive though. "Good news though, I'm heading over to see the boys in a little bit. Did you wanna come with?"
"Ah, I'm going to meet Ben for lunch after his class gets out in like half an hour."
"Ah," I said in confirmation. "Okay, I'll see you later tonight? We need another girls night in, it's been too long."
She smiled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I'll see if I can pick up some stuff beforehand. It's your turn to pick right?"
I nodded, "yeah."
"Okay, cool. Nothing scary please? I like sleeping without nightmares."
I laughed, carrying the chips with me back to my room. "I'll do my best to let you keep your beauty sleep," I said over my shoulder before closing the door.
I sat down on my bed with a sigh, dropping the chips next to me and reaching for my phone.
Gwil just got home, he's in the shower rn tho
Okay tell him im omw and I dont mind waiting or something
I made sure to pull on a sports bra and a sweatshirt before I left, as well as a pair of fuzzy socks inside my rain boots. I was nearly jogging across the street to the apartment, buzzing with excitement to see Gwil.
We haven't been out on any dates since our second when he kissed me, but we had a lot of days where we walked each other to class or we'd get lunch together. Sadly, we hadn't kissed much since then but we made up for it with a lot of hand holding, or his palm on my back, or my hand on his knee and honestly... it was kind of nice just like that. Still, a day like today deserved some serious hugs at the very least.
My frozen fingers shook as I pressed the buzzer and I exhaled in relief when it buzzed again and the lock clicked open, allowing me to rush into the warm elevator and ride up to the apartment. When I got up to the door though, I hesitated.
Do I knock? Do I just walk in? Do I knock and then walk in anyways?
I pulled out my phone and texted Mic.
Im outside the door
Come in lol?
Come open it I feel weird
Between the previous cold and my embarrassment I'm sure my cheeks were tomato-red. She just smiled upon seeing me, waiting for me to take off my dripping boots and then motioning her head toward the couch.
"Gwil's probably getting out soon, you can wait with me and Joe on the couch," she explained, sitting back down next to Joe to watch whatever movie they had playing on the TV. I perched awkwardly on the edge of the cushion, trying—and failing—to control my bouncing knee while I waited for Gwil.
"Hey."
I almost jumped at the soft greeting, springing off the couch and turning to him. My heart was thumping in my chest nervously.
He was just in sweats and a t-shirt but something about it was just so… hot. I hadn't noticed how shaggy his hair was getting until now, still dripping wet and hanging over his forehead a little. I almost missed when he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"Do you wanna… my room?" He asked awkwardly.
I nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah- sure yeah."
I followed quietly behind him as he walked down the hall, stepping into the room and waiting for him to close the door. Then I was stuck just watching while he moved to sit on the edge of his bed with a bounce. I pressed my lips together to suppress an awkward smile, looking around his room. He had different playbills taped up on his wall above his bed, and his desk was covered in papers and packets and textbooks.
"So…" I started, bringing my eyes back to face him.
"So…" he mimicked back, a gentle smile growing on his face.
I breathed out a little laugh and moved to sit next to him on the edge of his mattress, copying his bounce from before and then bumping my shoulder into his.
"So how was your reading? How did it go?" I asked lightly, trying to start some sort of conversation, any conversation.
"Good! It was good," he answered back.
And then more quiet.
"Okay this is awful," I admitted before I could stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
Gwil's eyebrows shot up in surprise, like he couldn't believe I was saying it.
"Can we just like… I don't know, can we just watch something on your laptop or something? I just…" I blew out a quick breath and started to feel my eyes burn with tears I'd been holding in. "I've had a really shitty day and I was so excited to come over and see you and I don’t want it to be all... weird like it is."
He was quiet for a second, which gave me some time to calm back down a little and not actually shed tears.
"You're right," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Okay, why don't we… Do you have something in mind to watch?"
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "I mean I… what do you normally watch? What's your favorite show?"
It seemed to do the trick, the tension slowly released its grip on the room and we even managed to move back on his bed so he was positioned laying against his pillows and I was tucked neatly under his arm, half laying on his stomach. We'd agreed on Criminal Minds and somehow watched our way through two entire episodes before we forgot it all together and started talking… and then, well, kissing.
It started off innocent enough. I'd turned my head to joke about Spencer's hair in this season but instead found Gwil already looking at me with a soft smile.
"What?" I laughed.
He just gave a full smile and shook his head. "Nothing."
We were both quiet for a second, and then he leaned in and gave me a peck on the lips.
Oh.
I smiled back and leaned back into him, pressing my lips to his again but longer this time, slower, lingering…
We pulled back slowly, eyes still half closed. And then I felt the slightest squeeze of his hand on my waist and he surged forward again, lips firmly against mine, his tongue teasing across my bottom lip before biting gently.
Oh.
I hummed in appreciation, leaning further against him until my leg hooked in between his and his hand was sliding up my back into my hair and grabbing lightly.
My heart was racing in my chest. Was this it? Was I going to fuck him not 50 feet from our friends? Why am i even thinking that? Calm the hell down.
I practically had to force myself to pull away, my fist still twisted in his shirt, still breathing heavily and close enough to be tempted to go back but I made myself stop.
"We have to… we should just slow down a little," I said quietly.
Gwil nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Yeah you're right we should just… take it easy for a bit."
I nodded back.
Still, we somehow gravitated towards each other again until we were kissing again, albeit softer this time. Somehow we managed to keep it slow. Calm. Instead of dipping back into... dangerous territory. It was just… nice.
It was comforting and reassured a lot of doubts I had. It was almost like a little dance, like a conversation. He'd lean forward and catch my lip with his teeth and in return I'd slide my tongue against his lip. It was jarring when suddenly everything went quiet and we both pulled apart in question only to see Netflix asking if we were still watching.
I laughed a little which seemed to make Gwil laugh which made me laugh more and snort and then he laughed more until we were both clutching our stomachs gasping for air in between laughs. Once we'd finally calm down we were left just staring at each other, not waiting for the other to talk, just looking at each other's faces and smiles and eyes.
"Y'know I was having a pretty crappy day and you made it a hell of a lot more bearable," I said honestly.
"I'm happy I could make your day better," he answered back, his smile wide.
I paused for a minute, contemplating saying anything. "Is it… is it weird if I really like making out with you?"
He shook his head quickly, "no! No of course not. I'm glad my skills were… put to good use." His smile turned smug.
I shoved his chest jokingly, turning in his grasp like I was going to roll away. I grinned when his hand fell to my hip and pulled me back in against him so his mouth was slotted against mine.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To find someone with better lines I guess," I laughed.
"Are you saying you don't like my pick up lines?" He fake pouted, lips puckered out and all.
I gave him a quick kiss. "That's exactly what I'm saying." I laughed again when he dramatically flopped against the bed like he couldn't believe it. I kissed his jaw sweetly, turning it into a raspberry which made him laugh.
"Careful there, I don't need any weirdly placed hickies," he warned with a grin.
"So just for clarification, you don't want a big hickey on your cheek?" I asked, pretending to get ready to mark his cheek.
"Definitely not."
"Hmm," I hummed in mock disappointment. "And I had such plans too."
"Yeah, I'm sure," he said back, turning his head to face me and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. He slowly leaned in and gave me another peck on the lips, and then another… and then one more. "You know, I'm really glad you came over."
I smiled back at him. "Me too."
We were quiet once again, just staring at each other again, every once in a while saying some small comment or joke or compliment but otherwise quiet. After a little bit, just when I was starting to feel sleepy, there was a quiet knock on the door.
"Come in," Gwil answered.
Michaela poked her head in after a second with a small smile. "Hey, I was just going to head back, it's almost six," she said softly.
"Oh Jesus, is it really?" I asked in surprise, picking up my phone to see texts from Sarah asking when I'd be back home. "Damn," I laughed slightly.
"Yeah, Sarah said you wanted to do a night in so do you wanna go to the store before home?"
I nodded, slowly untangling myself from Gwil and sitting up, stretching out my muscles. "Yeah, I'll be out in a few minutes, I gotta get the feeling back in my legs," I chuckled.
"Okay, I'll go pull on my shoes."
I stretched out each of my arms and legs, turning awkwardly to stretch my spine before I sighed, turning back to face a very tired looking Gwilym. "Hi."
"Hi," he grinned back, briefly stretching his back before relaxing back against his pillows. "Before you go, come here."
I grinned and leaned back in, our lips connecting for a long, sweet kiss. "Was that all?" I asked after it ended.
"No, one more," he smirked, pulling me back in for another peck. "Okay one more," and then another peck, "just one more-"
"Gwil," I laughed in between kisses. "I- gotta- go- you big dork-"
He gave a big dramatic sigh after the last kiss when I stood up away from him. "Fine, if you must."
"I must," I grinned. "Sorry bub."
"No it's okay," he relented with a smile. "I'll see you on Saturday, right? You're still coming over to hang out?"
I nodded. "Of course, I can't wait." I was reluctant to leave him, looking so soft and inviting and ready for a nap… I forced myself to walk out and close the door behind me, walking out to the living room to find Mic pulling on her shoes while Joe stood by.
"Hey," I announced, making her look up at me after she had both boots on.
"Hey, ready?"
"Yep, lets go get drunk," I affirmed.
"Woah woah woah," Joe interjected, making me turn to him.
"Sorry dad, was I not supposed to tell you that?" I laughed.
"No drinking and driving young lady, be responsible," he said, pointing a faux serious finger at each of us.
"Sure, yeah, whatever you say," I dismissed with a grin. I turned to Mic, "want anything particular? I was planning on wine and some candy."
She shrugged. "Sounds good to me. Grab me some of the uhh the sour patch watermelon things though? Oh! And Reece's pieces," she grinned at the last second as I was walking out the door.
"You already know," I grinned back, shaking my head and closing the door to let her and Joe do their own little goodbyes.
When I made it back down to the front door, ready to open my umbrella and sprint to my car, I noticed it had stopped raining. It was still wet everywhere and puddles took up half the sidewalk but the once black sky was lightened to a pale gray. Michaela beat me back to the dorm, unsurprisingly and I walked in with full arms, happy to be greeted by Sarah and Mic pulling things out of my hands and already opening things.
"Yesss you got the good shit Ella," Sarah said gratefully, pulling out a bag of m&m's.
"Always," I smiled, pulling out a plastic container of cotton candy for myself.
"Okay so what are we watching?" Sarah asked, already transporting stuff to the couches.
It was obvious the two of them had moved everything for optimal TV viewing.
"I was thinking Umbrella Academy if that's cool?"
They both nodded, mouths already full of candy.
I laughed. "Okay, Umbrella Academy it is then. I'll grab the wine."
Somewhere between the third and fourth episode we'd finished the first bottle of wine and went to open the second only to find it impossible.
"Just… open it," Sarah laughed, watching me trying to use the wine bottle opener to grab the cork and failing.
"I'm trying!" I laughed back, pulling out pieces of cork instead of the entire thing. "Dammit! Mic come help us!" I called.
The TV paused as she came over and looked over the destroyed cork, pushed nearly all the way into the bottle. "Dude what did you even do?!" She chuckled.
"I tried to open it, what do you think!" I laughed back.
"Okay, gimme a spoon, I'll shove it into the bottle."
"What? No take it out!" Sarah laughed.
"I can't! This one-" Mic laughed, pointing at me, "destroyed the cork and now its not gonna come out!"
I was wheezing from laughing so hard, practically laying across the counter. "I'm sorry!"
Sarah laughed at my reaction in response, squatting next to the counter trying to catch her breath as well.
"Fine I'll find a spoon myself!" Mic declared, still laughing while she tried to push down on the cork. "Ahah!" She yelled in triumph making us laugh even harder at the pop of it dropping into the wine.
We ate our way through almost all of the candy and the two bottles of wine over five episodes before we decided to call it a night (or well, early morning but same thing).
It was nice, to go to bed feeling warm and loved and like a crap day had turned good. I fell asleep easily and without resistance, the opposite to how I'd woken up. It was a good day, I decided.
- - -
feedback is always appreciated and thank you for reading lovelies!!
#borhap#borhap cast#borhap cast au#college au#borhap boys#gwilym lee#gwilym lee x ofc#gwilym lee fluff#ayhtdifil
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Masterlist: Other
These are drabbles that I wrote, and either submitted to other blogs and reblogged for my followers once they were posted, or that don’t fit in any other category. All are character x Reader, unless marked with an asterisk (*), which are character x OFC.
Sebastian Stan / Sebby characters
TJ Hammond (Political Animals)
Happy
Dancing*
Cuddle Buddies (NSFW) *
Bucky Barnes (Marvel/Captain America) (my submissions only)
Bouncer!Bucky
Bucky in the Morning (NSFW) *
Happy Birthday, Sergeant (NSFW)*
Professor!Bucky
Bucky Barnes/Steven Rogers (Marvel/Captain America)
Threesome (1,000 Follower Celebration) (NFSW) (Mobster!AU)
Hal Carter (Picnic, Broadway 2013)
Hal & Li'l Dottie *
I Wanna Keep You (NSFW) *
Kiss me desperately
You’re Right Here
Harry (Spread, 2009)
Neighbors *
Carter Baizen (Gossip Girl)
Sweetheart (NSFW) *
Always Gonna Stay
Two Years
Make Up
A Hug
More Than A One Night Stand
I’m Sorry
In the Sand
Secret Santa
Chris Beck (The Martian)
Back & Forth *
Can’t Get Any Better
Nightmare
Lance Tucker (The Bronze)
Gimme A Chance *
A kiss out of lust
I’m Selfish
Lip Balm
Jefferson (Once Upon A Time)
I Remember You
I Have To Get Back
Like Something’s Missing
Looking For You
Are You Real?
Rhythm
Holiday Cookies & Blankets
Leo Reilly (Education of Charlie Banks)
For Ella*
I Do Care
Clay Apuzzo (I’m Dying Up Here)
A kiss lazily
Home
Chase Collins (The Covenant)
A kiss out of envy or jealousy
I’ll Tell You Everything
Chris (Destroyer)
Linger
Are You Asleep?
Heartbeat
Dayton White (Logan Lucky)
Compromise
Ben (The Apparition)
Tradition
Frank (Endings, Beginnings)
Would you just hold still?
Sebastian Stan RPF
New York After Dark (NSFW)
More Than You Could Imagine
Feel Comfortable
Chris Evans characters
Frank Adler (Gifted)
Just Knock*
“Come here, let me fix it.”
A kiss in secrecy
Good Wow
Both Ways
Dinner
Can I Kiss You?
Colin Shea (What’s Your Number?)
If You Can’t Sleep
Cold Hands
“I dreamt about you last night.”
Long Time Coming
“I love you, but please, shut up.”
You Definitely Want Me (NSFW-ish)
Neighbor
Please Don’t Say Goodbye
Nick Gant (Push)
Gimme a chance
Curtis (Snowpiercer)
We Survived
Ari Levinson (Red Sea Diving Resort)
A Glance (Smut-ish)
Through The Ups & Downs
I am trying to concentrate.
Promise Me
Nick Vaughn (Before We Go)
No Big Deal
I Can’t Breathe
Chris Evans RPF
Good Thing
#masterlist#sebastian stan#sebastian stan characters#hal carter#jefferson#jefferson ouat#bucky barnes#carter baizen#chris beck#tj hammond#chris evans#chris evans characters#frank adler#leo reilly#chase collins#colin shea#dayton white#chris#destroyer#push#nick gant#curtis#snowpiercer#ari levinson#red sea diving resort#nick vaughn#before we go#ben#the apparition
367 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Overview and Masterlist
(moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)
*cross-posted on AO3*
*Series In Progress*
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
About Lydia: A couple of years ago she'd have told you her life was over. Now, at 41, Lydia has realised the future is hers to make - even if that means never opening her heart up again.
She's an art historian and European - though this should not be taken to imply a specific appearance or ethnicity! Her family and other aspects of her background are established.
You'll notice that the physical descriptors for Lydia are deliberately loose, other than: her age, that she's fem/AFAB, her hair is starting to grey, and she's got stretch marks and a whole metric ton of issues with her own body. In other words: she can look whatever way you want her to look in your own imagination, bearing these aspects in mind, and be from wherever you want her to come from.
Rating: Explicit (18+) - individual chapters will have their own ratings (there's a lot of fluff and angst ahead) but smut will be very clearly signalled. Expect bad language throughout. If you read beyond the warnings on each chapter, you are agreeing you're 18 years or older.
Content: Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41 and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; explicit smut (eventually); discussion of infidelity and emotional abuse; discussion of self-esteem issues; references to body issues; strong language; alcohol; I'll update if I need to as the fic continues
A/N: My love for Mr Ben is well-known but I couldn't stop thinking about him as a literature professor and, well, here we are. This is my first fic, and it's written as an AU with nary a sprinkling of canon about a character who existed for five minutes in a sketch. Make it make sense, Rose.
This is going to be a multi-chapter series (I have a plan and an outline document and everything). I plan to add some headcanons for Professor Benjamin at some point, and will pop some little drabbles in amongst the full chapters.
There will be smut - but this is a slow-burner. You have been warned.
Main Series:
Chapter 1 - The Visitor
Chapter 2 - Bright in the Sea
Chapter 3 - Ghosts
Chapter 4 - Save Me
Chapter 5 - This Must Be The Place
Chapter 6 - If You'd Accept Surrender
Chapter 7 - Forget Who We Are
Chapter 8 - Sister Winter
Chapter 9 - Open Your Eyes
Chapter 10 - Something About You
Chapter 11 - My Favourite Work of Art
Chapter 12 - If I Must Have A Future
Chapter 13 - Coming Soon!
One-Shots and Drabbles:
An Inspecteur Calls: A Pedrotober One-Shot
Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a taglist!
Thanks: to the people who made me feel less bonkers for developing an entire world around Ben and Lydia - @cutesyscreenname, headcanon collaborator, moodboard creator, and Prof Benjamin E. Morales enabler supreme; the incredibly encouraging, kind, and heroic fic writers whose understanding of how to embrace the sensitive and emotional hidden side of 'canonical' characters is an inspiration - @lunapascal, @imaswellkid, @julesonrecord
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#professor ben x OFC#mr ben#pedro pascal character fanfic#mr ben x ofc#pedro pascal fanfiction#new fic announcement
224 notes
·
View notes
Text
An Inspecteur Calls
A Visiting Pedrotober One-Shot - Day 20, Merge Mansion
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Lyd is stressed and frustrated, and hit with a bad dose of Parisian nostalgia. Thankfully, Ben knows of a detective - sorry, inspecteur - Roquefort, who is free to investigate the cause of her woes, shoulder holsters included.
Word Count: 2.3k
Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)
Content (series/one-shot specific): Visiting fic one-shot; Professor Ben College AU; Ben and Lydia are contemporaries; canon is not a thing here; smut; fingering; oral sex (f receiving); safe PiV sex; enthusiastic consent; strong language; praise kink; references to stress; bad French; terrible French accents; role playing; these two are fucking dorks; extreme silliness
A/N: This is @jack-whiskey-daniels' fault. I wrote up this smutty little vignette, heavily inspired by the photo of Tim Rockford above, last night. Today, Luce informs me that it's Merge Mansion day for Pedrotober and I should post this. Well, who am I to say no?
With apologies for Ben's deliberately terrible attempts at role-playing a cliched French detective (inspecteur is the more common title). No apologies for me using Lydia to work through my love of Tim "Shoulder Holsters Tight Shirt Undervest" Rockford.
(And, seeing as it's his birthday and these two are film nerds, I had to throw in a reference to a film by the French director Jean-Pierre Melville, creator of several exceptional French crime dramas in the 1960s and 1970s. Le Cercle rouge is one of his finest, but they're all brilliant and highly recommended.)
Read the main story on the series Masterlist.
Usual Visiting taglist: @jack-whiskey-daniels , @julesonrecord , @tessa-quayle , @vermillionwinter , @iamskyereads , @tieronecrush , @perennialdoll247 , @love-the-abyss , @imaswellkid , @intheorangebedroom , @javierisms , @fuckyeahdindjarin , @littlemisspascal , @khindahra , @pedrostories , @readingiskeepingmegoing , @rhoorl , @red-red-rogue , @princessanglophile, @katareyoudrilling @survivingandenduring, @trulybetty @fictionismyreality @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @joeldjarin , @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse, @lizzie-cakes
His warm, broad hand rests lightly on your shoulder as he passes you at the dining table. You turn to look up at him, handsome face full of concern.
“You’re not yourself. What’s up?”
You sigh and stare into your coffee. “It’s dumb.”
He pulls out a chair and sits down, quirking an eyebrow. “If it’s bothering you, I doubt it’s dumb. What’s wrong, love?”
“It’s this stupid essay I’m trying to get finished. I’m missing some of the stuff that would be really useful for it, and I should have gone to see it last time I was in Paris, and I’m frustrated with myself.”
“That’s not dumb, darling. Even if you are being too hard on yourself, as usual.”
You slump forward on the table, mumbling against the wooden surface. “And then I thought about how easy it used to be to just…pop over to Paris, whenever I could, and then I started thinking about it and how much I love it.”
He pats your arm affectionately. “Still not dumb.”
“And then we watched Le Cercle rouge last night and even all those dodgy cops and inspecteurs in their trenchcoats and hats and crime were making me miss Paris. See? Dumb.”
Ben shakes his head and smiles softly. “Not dumb at all. It’s a part of you, of who you are.” He traces a circle on the back of your hand. “And anyway, didn’t you once tell me you had a thing for dodgy cops with moustaches?” He looks at you mischievously and you grin.
“You, Benjamin, are a very tolerant man.” You reach out and trace your fingers over the coarse hair on one side of his face, and he closes his eyes and hums happily.
“I love you, Lyddie. It’ll be okay.” He pushes himself away from the table and heads towards the hallway. “I gotta go for my early seminar, but keep Hemingway in mind.”
You laugh and roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course, the answer is in literature.” He pauses at the door, waiting for you to acknowledge the quotation. “‘Wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.’”
He does that half-smile that never fails to make you melt, blows you a kiss, and heads off to work.
You meet him later for lunch, having worked at home for most of the morning. In between bites of his sandwich, he excitedly talks about the graduate seminar he’d taught, and you discuss your plans for your workshop on gender and visual culture that afternoon while Ben listens attentively.
“You feeling any better?” he asks, as you brush a stray couple of crumbs from his moustache.
“A bit. I’m sorry, I just spiralled. Probably mostly stress and frustration at my own shitty work ethic and crap ideas.”
He kisses the tips of your fingers swiftly and discreetly, and you giggle. “You have to be kinder to yourself. You’re working too hard, thinking about it too much.”
You clear your table and bring your trays to the designated area, hands brushing lightly against each other as you stroll out of the cafeteria and back towards your building and your offices. You smile to yourself at how, even now, the slightest touch from him sends a current of electricity sparking through your body.
Ben opens his office door and pulls you in for a quick kiss before you have to go and teach. He pulls away reluctantly as you whine softly.
“Please be kinder to yourself, Lyd.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively as you move into the hallway. “I’m happy to help distract you, you know.”
“I’m home, love!”
You drop your bag beside the hall table and hang your coat up on the rack before kicking off your shoes and stretching upwards as you walk towards the kitchen, where you expect to find him. On days when you have a later teaching schedule, Ben likes to get home earlier, finish his work in his attic study, and then get dinner started for both of you.
Something delicious is cooking away in the CrockPot, but there’s no sign of your boyfriend. You pass into the dining room, noticing the light from the living room coming through the glass-panelled doors.
Ben is sitting on the sofa, wearing his glasses - nothing out of the ordinary there. But he’s also clad in the trenchcoat he wore for his Dave Toschi costume on Halloween, which is decidedly weird.
“Uh, baby? You okay?”
He turns to face you, arching an eyebrow and running his eyes up and down your body as if he’s appraising you.
“Ben?”
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
You scrunch your face up in absolute confusion, and wonder if you should call Jen. Maybe some kind of accident happened at work? Did he take a knock to the head?
“Ben, I’m…what the fuck is happening?”
He holds a hand up to one side of his face and does a sort of stage whisper. “Go with it, Lyd! Just an attempt at cheering you up. You want to stop, just say the word.”
You burst out laughing and shake your head. “No, I’m… I’ll see where this leads, monsieur.”
He grins in satisfaction and stands up. “Je suis Inspecteur Timothée Roquefort, and…uh, I mean, et je suis un…Parisian police homme.”
“Baby, I know your French is better than this.”
Ben holds up a hand and continues speaking in what can only be described as one of the worst comedy French accents you have ever heard. “Mademoiselle! Do not interrupt moi.”
You bite your lip, body shaking with laughter. “D’accord, monsieur.”
“I received une message at the commissariat de police that une jolie femme was…” He looks away as he thinks. “Triste parce que she is not in Pareeeeee.”
“D’accord, mais je ne sais pas pourquoi les flics doivent intervenir dans une question personnelle, en fait, et alors -” [Okay, but I don’t know why cops have to intervene in a personal matter, really, and anyway -]
Ben looks panicked, and starts to rub at one side of his moustache with his pointer finger.
“Uh… HON HON HON. OMELETTE DU FROMAGE.”
That does it. You collapse against him in a fit of laughter, eyes creased and tears rolling down your cheeks. He holds you close against him as you look up at his open, handsome face.
“You are a very goofy man, Benjamin Morales, and I love you for it. Though I don’t really understand how I want to fuck you this badly even with that accent.”
He grins. “You want to fuck moi because je suis a sexy Parisian police homme, non?”
He plants a kiss to your forehead as he hugs you tightly. “L’Inspecteur did have une question de plus, Lyddie.”
“Eh bien?”
You can see him struggling not to laugh as he makes a cheesy, cliched “sexy” face at you.
“La question, s’il vous plait.”
“Well, mademoiselle…” Ben shrugs off the trenchcoat to reveal the shoulder holsters he’d worn at Halloween. The ones that had helped show you just how beautifully broad he was. The ones you’d held onto as the two of you sat as close as it was possible for two friends to sit, both taking any opportunity to make contact with the other’s body.
The ones you’d asked him, a while back, if he’d kept. “Just because,” you’d explained. “They were kinda hot.”
You reach out and trace your fingers over the leather of the straps, biting your lip and feeling the flame of your desire building steadily into an inferno.
“La question, monsieur l’Inspecteur.”
He arches his brow and gives you his most seductive smile. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
You make it to the bedroom in record time, laughing as you race up the stairs and sit down on the bed as he stands in front of you.
“Where do you want me for the, uh, investigation, monsieur l’Inspecteur?”
Ben grins delightedly and leans forward, encouraging you to lie back on the mattress as he shifts his broad form over you, arms caging your body as you run your hands over his warm, solid chest and that tummy that makes you absolutely feral. His white shirt is perfectly snug, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, and your hips are already shifting upwards to meet his crotch, desperate for him.
You grip the shoulder holsters as Ben chuckles, bringing his head lower and whispering in your ear. “Je think that les clues are hidden dans your body.”
You both burst out laughing, but your eyes stay trained on each other, never breaking the intense intimacy and erotic power of the shared gaze.
“You should probably do some searching, then, Inspecteur.”
Ben kisses you deeply as he moves you towards the middle of the bed and loosens his tie before unbuttoning your blouse, bringing his mouth to every new area of skin exposed. “Might be here?” he murmurs, lips brushing off the velvety flesh of your breasts before sucking on your nipples through the pink lace of your bra.
Your back arches as you gasp. “No, don’t think so…sir.”
You feel his cock twitch in his pants at that and you smile wickedly. “Liked that, did we? Sir?”
Ben hides his face against your tummy and laughs. “Maybe.” His broad hands roam up to your shoulders as he helps you out of your blouse, before tracing the outline of your waist and the curves of your hips and ass as he unbuttons your dark green pants and slips his fingers into your panties.
“Fuck, Ben, fuck, that’s -”
“Maybe the clues are here? What do you think, mademoiselle?”
He shifts his body down the bed and looks up at you lasciviously, eyes burning black with lust as he pulls your pants down and discards them. He eases your legs apart and you react with a gasp and a giggle as he works his way up your thighs.
“Looking for treasure, sir?”
He laughs, low and warm, and brings his face to your core. “Found it, mademoiselle.” The heat of his mouth hits your pussy through the fabric of your panties, and you moan loudly. He hums happily as he kisses your soaking cunt, pulling the fabric aside to grant him more access before he drags them off you completely and buries his mouth between your legs. His tongue moves between your folds, flicking your clit every now and again before diving into the warm wetness of your entrance while the strong line of his nose keeps the pressure on the sensitive nub.
The first orgasm hits you hard, and your hips bear down on Ben’s face as he groans with pleasure. He slips two fingers inside you to sustain the climax a little longer, and with the other hand unbuckles his belt and undoes his zipper, slipping off his pants and boxer briefs while he continues to massage the spot inside you that he knows, having had you so many times, will deepen the orgasm and build to an even stronger one next time.
“Need you, baby,” you whine, eyes drifting to his hard cock, tip glistening with pre-come. “Need you so badly.”
You reach up as he shifts his weight over you, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his white undervest, clinging perfectly to his gorgeous, solid form. He makes as if to take off the holsters.
“Don’t you fucking dare take those off. They’re staying on, sir.”
He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Oh, mademoiselle likes them, does she?”
You giggle, feeling his warm breath against your lips, and slip your fingers under the straps around his shoulders. “She really likes them, monsieur. Liked them from the first time she saw them on you.”
He kisses you hard, one hand groping your tits while the other gives his cock a few strokes as he shifts into position. “Sometimes I wish you’d told me back then, that night,” he murmurs, sucking lightly on your neck and making you cry out.
“Think we made up for lost time, though,” you gasp, tilting your head to look at his hard length notching at the wet folds of your cunt. “Please fuck me, baby.”
He slides into you in a fluid motion, moaning long and slow as he bottoms out and the tightness of your pussy takes hold around his cock. He drags back out of you slowly, luxuriantly, savouring every bump and ridge inside you and trying to restrain himself from driving back into you too quickly.
“Jesus, baby, your pussy is fucking incredible. So warm and tight for me.”
He starts to fuck you, picking up pace quickly as you keep hold of the shoulder holsters.
“Tell me, darling.”
He closes his eyes, face a perfect expression of ecstasy. “It’s just fucking perfect. Like you’re made for me, made for my cock. Made for each other.”
You tilt your pelvis slightly so that he’s grinding a little more on your clit as he moves in and out of you, and before long the friction has you coming again. Ben groans at the sensation as your pussy clenches around him and you ride out your orgasm on his cock.
“Fuck, Lyd, I - oh, fuck.” He seems surprised at how quickly his own release comes, spilling into you while he buries his face against your neck, muttering a litany of curses and praise.
“Oh fuck fuck fuck baby, that’s fucking it, that’s - my good fucking girl, fuck.”
When he lifts his head again, his face and upper body are drenched in sweat, dripping onto your neck and chest. He kisses you slowly, deeply, before he pulls out. You whine with pleasure at the taste of yourself, of your cunt, on his lips.
He flops back onto the bed, turning to kiss you again and stroke your cheek as he whispers his love for you, over and over.
You return the gesture, nuzzling against him, sated and feeling completely loved, completely adored, completely safe.
The sight of the shoulder holster makes you giggle affectionately. This beautiful, goofy, sexy man, who would come up with something so silly and so sweet and so insanely hot, just to make you feel better.
“Can the inspecteur come by another time, baby? I think there might be more cases to solve.”
(tape warning by @cafekitsune; star dividers by @saradika)
#pedrotober2023#pedrotober#tim rockford fanfiction#timothée roquefort#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories#visiting fic one shot
74 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Chapter 11: My Favourite Work of Art
(Moodboard by @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: Work stresses and the pressures of an impending public talk threaten to derail Ben and Lyd's attempts to do Valentine's Day their way, while news spreads of their romance among the student body.
Word Count: 10k (I'm...sorry?)
Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)
Content (series and chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; Ben and Lydia are contemporaries; canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots to lovers; smut; fingering; oral sex; safe PiV sex; enthusiastic consent; strong language; alcohol consumption; praise kink; self-esteem issues; body and weight insecurity; office sex; students thinking people in their 40s are 'old' (they aren't); some references to previous emotional abuse; references to stress; some minor angst; fluff central and I'm loving it
A/N (further notes at the end of the chapter):
The title for this chapter comes from Chet Baker's 'My Funny Valentine'.
youtube
Thank you to everyone who's shown so much love for this pair so far - every comment, reblog, like, interaction, ask is just a joy to me.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Chapter 10 - Chapter 12
Cross-posting to AO3 (and if you're reading on there, too, and yelling along in the comments - I love you, thank you!)
@julesonrecord and @lunapascal - thank you, extended family members of the dorksicles.
Taglist:
@lunapascal , @julesonrecord , @tessa-quayle , @vermillionwinter , @iamskyereads , @tieronecrush , @perennialdoll247 , @love-the-abyss , @imaswellkid , @intheorangebedroom , @javierisms , @fuckyeahdindjarin , @littlemisspascal , @khindahra , @pedrostories , @readingiskeepingmegoing , @rhoorl , @red-red-rogue , @princessanglophile , @katareyoudrilling @survivingandenduring , @trulybetty @fictionismyreality @sunnywithachanceofjavi , @joeldjarin , @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse
“Okay - dirty gin martini for Lyd, whiskey sour for Evan, and for me, a negroni sbagliato -”
Ani pauses, looking expectantly at you and Evan.
In unison, you look at each other and pronounce: “with Prosecco in it”, in your sultriest tones, before giggling as Ani settles back into their dark red leather chair, drink in hand.
Evan raises his crystal-cut tumbler. “To us. And to our people.”
“Our people?” Ani arches an eyebrow.
“David, Cass…” He turns in your direction. “And of course, the other half of dorkdom’s greatest love story: Benjamin.”
You roll your eyes, raise your glass, and take a sip of the ice cold cocktail. “To our lovely people.”
Ani and Evan sip their drinks contentedly. You’d tried to meet for a drink every week or so, schedules permitting, since you came to Barrow, and Evan had been adamant that the routine would continue now that you were, in his words, “sickeningly loved-up”.
“Speaking of our lovely people,” Evan asks, reclining in his chair, “what are your V-Day plans?”
Ani scoffs audibly. “V-Day. Fuck, Ev. Me and Cass are going to a nice hotel for the weekend at the end of February, and I’m sending her one of those ridiculous heart-shaped cookies on the day, iced with the message Fuck Heteronormative Capitalism.” They trace their hand through the air, as if illustrating the inscription. Then, a little more quietly: “And, uh, a nice bouquet of her favourite flowers, obviously.”
Evan sighs happily. “I knew you were a romantic, Ani Sen. We’re sending flowers too - David said some shit about how we’re appropriating and queering the established gestures of heteronormative romance, but I know he just wants some cool blooms in his apartment.”
“Everyone loves getting flowers,” you add. “I bet even the most performatively straight dude wouldn’t say no to a really nice hand-tied arrangement.”
You become very aware that both Evan and Ani have trained their gazes on you.
“And what, pray, has love’s young dream cooked up for the great festival of lurrrrrve?” Evan rolls his rs with relish.
“Uh…” You stare at the olive in your glass and take a fortifying sip of your martini.
“We haven’t really talked about it yet. It’s just been so busy and stressful lately - for Ben especially, but for me too. I’ve got that big public talk at the end of next week, you know, and he’s got that big submission to the college board about the diversity and inclusion plan, and that’s due on 15 February, of all days, and it’s hard, because it’s all still so new and so lovely, and we’re having such a gorgeous time, and we love each other so much and we’re trying not to be stressed, but we kind of are, and yeah - yeah. I guess it just hasn’t been on our radar.”
Ani squeezes your hand gently. “Oh, babe. It’s okay, it’s not like it actually matters, right? If your relationship has to conform on one day, then you’ve got bigger problems. And you two are so happy. Even if a bit stressed. Right?”
You nod. “Really, really happy. Fuck, it’s just my overthinking shit again. Should we do something, is it bad if we don’t, is it too late to arrange something at this stage…”
Evan clears his throat. “Girl, you’re spiralling. Again. Look, I’m sorry. Please don’t feel you have to do something just because of me asking.” He sips his whiskey sour as you smile over at him.
“I am making him a gift, though.”
Evan and Ani wheel around in their seats dramatically.
“OH FUCK YOU MISS OH NO PLANS SO STRESSED OH DON’T MIND ME JUST MAKING A GIFT!” Ani shrieks.
You lean over in your seat, laughing hard, grateful for all the love in your life here: the warm, platonic love of your friends as well as the extraordinary, unique love you shared with Ben.
Deep down, though, you know you should probably ask him about Valentine’s Day. Just in case.
“Hi baby, it’s me!”
You close Ben’s front door behind you and drop the key he’d given you on the hall table. The house seems oddly quiet. It wasn’t particularly late, and you could see the lamps were on in the front room, so you assumed he was up. You take off your coat, hang it up, and wander in the direction of the living room.
Since getting together properly - becoming an “us”, as you’d said that cold Saturday morning a month before - you had not spent a night apart. Within a week, he had a drawer at your place and you had one at his; there were two toothbrushes in each of your bathrooms, now; and while you still valued having your own place, for now, you had begun to settle into a kind of loving domesticity stretched across two locations.
If you’d been twenty years younger, this would have been moving worryingly fast. Now, though, it felt right in every way. You’d both been through enough to know what you wanted, and to know how you felt about each other. Even in the midst of a stressful time, each passing day only deepened the love that was still so new. Each tiny act of love, however practical or mundane, strengthened the bond between you.
An example: Ben was astonished when, one evening at your place when you realised he’d not only removed your laundry from the dryer but carefully folded it and placed it in the basket, ready for you to put away (he still didn’t really know where everything went), you’d thrown yourself at him for a huge hug, tears in your eyes.
“I just folded your laundry, baby, it’s not a big thing! Why are you crying?”
You looked at him, slightly blurry through your tearful gaze, thinking about what you could say to explain. That you’d spent over a decade in a relationship where your partner wouldn’t even think of taking your laundry out of the dryer, let alone folding it and neatly leaving it for you to put away. That you’d become so attuned to a partner doing absolutely nothing to make your life better or easier that you had come to see even the tiniest gesture as a major one.
Instead, you’d leaned in and kissed Ben softly on the mouth. “I’m crying because I’m so happy. Because you’re the kindest, most loving man I’ve ever met. And you love me.”
You open the door into the living room now, slightly mellow after your martini, and discover Ben sitting up, asleep on the couch: glasses askew, papers and notes for the diversity initiative scattered around his sleeping form, and (somehow, miraculously) his laptop still safely on his knees, his broad hands resting lightly on the keyboard.
Your heart melts at the sight. You tiptoe carefully over towards him, afraid of startling him and sending the laptop flying.
“Ben?” you whisper, very gently stroking the crown of his head before lifting his laptop onto the coffee table. “Hey. It’s me.”
He blinks awake and his eyes pop open as he turns and sees you, smiling warmly at the sight. “Lyddie. Hi, darling. Shit… was I asleep?”
You sit beside him on the arm of the couch, not wanting to disturb the random spread of paperwork, and feel his arm wrap around your waist. “You were. Fuck, baby, you’re working too hard on this.”
He shakes his head drowsily, rummaging around for his notes and looking for his laptop. “It has to be perfect.”
You put a hand on his, to still his movements. “No such thing. And even if there was, it won’t be perfect if you’re writing it half-asleep, Ben.” You look in the direction of the kitchen. “Did you at least eat?”
He nods and smiles cheekily. “I did, but only because some sexy art historian came over last night and brought enough lasagne to feed the five thousand. Or at least, to feed two academics for a couple of nights.”
“Sexy, huh?” You lean closer to him, admiring the line of his neck as he looks up at you, eyes scanning your upper body for a moment before meeting yours again. “Well, now that I know you’re fed and watered…why don’t you put away the work for tonight and take a sexy art historian to bed?”
Ben trails his hand under your sleep shirt, gently stroking the soft flesh of your breast with his thumb as you kiss languidly, your hand reaching into his boxers.
He shifts on top of you as you tug down his shorts and hitch up your knees. You feel him resting hard and heavy on your soft belly as he continues to kiss you, one hand caressing your face with the greatest care.
But it’s pretty obvious he’s fighting sleep. His eyelids are heavy, he struggles to keep his eyes open, and when they’re closed - even as he kisses you - you feel like he might just nod off there and then. No one wants their boyfriend to fall asleep on top of them, of course - but he’s got a good excuse. And he’s trying so valiantly to stay awake that your heart swells with affection.
“Baby,” you murmur. “Baby?”
“Mmmmmfh?”
“Baby, look at me.”
His beautiful dark eyes barely peek at you from under his heavy lids, and you can’t help but giggle.
“Darling, you’re nodding off. You need to sleep, love.”
Ben looks disappointed in himself, even as he shifts his body off you and back to his side of the bed. “I’m so sorry, Lyd. I shouldn’t be falling asleep on you like that, that’s not fair.”
You turn to face him and reach for his hand. “Ben, you were asleep on the fucking couch at 9.30pm. You’re getting up really early to go to work on the project. It has nothing to do with me or you or what we feel for each other.” You kiss him softly. “You’re just really overworked.”
He trails his long fingers over your hip. “Well…maybe. But I want you, darling. You know that, right?”
You nod. “Of course I do. And you can show me tomorrow, hmmm? So get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.”
He grabs you with a growl and pulls you in to him, holding you close as you squeal delightedly. “You too, baby. I’m a man of my word.”
“And I’m a woman of mine.”
The two of you blink awake at 6am after a blissfully uninterrupted night of sleep, feeling thoroughly restored.
“My lovely girl.”
“My handsome boy.”
A lazy kiss and cuddle soon becomes more urgent: hands roaming under each other’s nightclothes, seeking to discard them as quickly as possible; soft giggles as your head gets stuck in your sleep shirt turning to gentle sighs of pleasure as he dips his clever fingers between your legs; low moans from him as you straddle his body and take him inside you; cries of mutual pleasure as you come in quick succession.
You turn your heads to face each other as you flop back onto the bed, sweating, sated, and wide awake. Ben looks at his phone.
“Not bad going for quarter to 7 in the morning, huh?”
You laugh out loud, turning to rest a hand on his tummy. “What’s that Dusty Springfield song?” You sing lightly: “Just a little lovin’/Early in the morning/Beats a cup of coffee/For starting off the day”
Ben is staring at you like you’re a marvel. “Well, shit. You really can sing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
You flash him a sceptical look. “If I start listing all those things, we’ll be here all week. But thank you.”
He reaches over and pulls you to him for another cuddle.
“Hey, Ben?” you ask, head resting on his shoulder. “Do you…do you want to, like, do something, for Valentine’s? I understand if it’s not your thing, I’m not a fan of the cheesy stuff but I thought -”
“Fuck. I got you a - no, never mind what I got you. But I completely forgot about making actual plans.” He traces a line along your shoulder. “Other than spending time with you, of course.”
“You know that’s fine with me, love.”
He shakes his head lightly. “No, we should at least go for dinner.” He kisses your forehead, nose pressing against your scalp. “It’s been a very long time since I had a Valentine.”
Later that morning, you pop your head into the faculty office, where Susan is typing rapidly and humming contentedly to herself.
“Hi, Susan. You don’t happen to know what room Ben’s in for his ten o’clock lecture, do you?”
She looks up at you and beams, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I remember this phase with Nick. Couldn’t stay away from each other.”
“Well, uh, not quite…” You hold up the dark blue hardcover notebook in your right hand. “He needs this for the session and I’m not sure if he knows he left it at home. I’d like to get there before the lecture starts, so if you know the room…?”
She gives her head a little shake, as if snapping herself out of her reverie, and with a few clicks of her mouse brings up the master timetable. “Okay… yep. Aubyn Building, room 015 - that’s the small-ish lecture theatre on the ground floor.” You thank her and are about to dash off when she calls you back.
Susan’s smile has become slightly menacing as she stares you down. “We’re all so happy for the two of you. But don’t you dare hurt that lovely man.”
You gulp audibly. “I promise I won’t. Um…yeah. See you later, Susan.”
You arrive at the lecture room with five minutes to spare, and most of the students are already sitting in the tiered rows, chattering brightly to each other as they whip out their laptops and tablets to take notes (or, let’s face it, do anything but take notes). Ben, dressed in a chartreuse green sweater with the collar of his white button-down shirt just visible, is standing at the podium and staring into his messenger bag with a puzzled expression. Though the lecture theatre is not particularly large, he’s wearing one of the radio mics available in the bigger teaching rooms, to ensure his voice will carry without strain.
You bounce quickly down the steps in your denim pinafore dress and floral-print blouse, brandishing the notebook. “Looking for something?” You keep your voice low, not wanting to make a fuss in front of Ben’s entire sophomore option class.
He raises his head and turns, smiling in surprise and delight. “I was starting to wonder if it had fallen out on the way over here this morning,” he says, taking the notebook and looking at it like it’s a Shakespeare First Folio. “I’d have been in trouble without this today.”
You shrug. “You’d have been fine, you know this stuff inside and out. But I remember you making revisions to the lecture in the notebook, so I’m glad I got it to you in time. See you later.” You turn and walk back towards the stairs to the exit.
“Thanks baby, love you.” Ben’s tone is casual, because telling you he loves you is now a kind of reflex for him, and vice versa.
Except right now, he’s got a radio mic on, and his sweet, nonchalant declaration of love has just been broadcast to the entire lecture theatre. You’ve never seen a classroom full of chatty students fall silent quite so quickly before.
You try to look back as subtly as possible. He’s flushed pink at the podium, the colour stark against the white of his collar and the green of his sweater, eyes wide and panicked behind his glasses as he stammers and stutters. All the while, the students swivel their heads looking at the two of you, whispers and giggles starting to build in their ranks.
“It’s okay!” you mouth to him. “See you later!”
The eyes of the students bore into you as you make your way towards the classroom door, trying desperately to avoid any accidental eye contact. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a handful who are also taking your class this semester - some of whom you’ll see for a seminar in just two hours’ time.
Oh, fuck.
As you walk back to your building you try to reason with yourself. It’s not like you’re hiding your relationship, even if you’re not going around broadcasting your feelings for each other to all and sundry, and it’s not inappropriate or against the rules for you to be together. The students would probably have worked it out at some point. Hell, you got the feeling some of them already thought you were together. And it’s not like Ben had uttered something graphic or overly intimate, right?
All he said was he loves you. In front of a whole class of students. Who heard every word.
You buy a coffee from the little cart outside the library and try to reassure yourself. “It’s fine,” you think to yourself. “They’ll forget it quickly and move on to the next drama.”
Your seminar with the sophomores has been reassuringly drama-free thus far, save for some knowing glances from the students who’d been in Ben’s lecture earlier that morning. The students are working in small groups on exercises you’ve set around image analysis, using iPads to zoom in on a selection of visual sources and referring back to the set text for that week as they put together their commentary.
You glance out the glass-panelled door of the classroom, just in time to make eye contact, unexpectedly, with Ben as he moves down the hallway. He grins at you, and your face immediately breaks into a smile.
“Omigoooood, they’re so fuckin cute!” It’s not clear if the student realised quite how loud they were being, or whether they meant for you to hear, but their whispered comment immediately attracts your attention. They flush and sink down a little in their seat, looking like they might be about to burst into tears. “I’m so sorry Lydia, I didn’t mean…”
You bite your lip and think for a moment, folding your arms as you bring yourself to sit on the desk at the top of the room. “Y’know what? Get it out of your systems.”
The students stare at you, open-mouthed. “You mean…?”
“I mean: get it out of your systems, in whatever way you want. Within reason and appropriate personal boundaries. But only if you promise to focus on the sources afterwards, okay?”
They nod, looking at each other as if to confirm that they’re not being set up. One girl shyly raises her hand. “Um…so are you and professor Morales…”
“We are a couple, yes. Next quest-“
The babble from the students drowns you out.
Awwwwwwww she’s so fuckin cute I mean of course he would wanna be with her dude he was never with Professor Arden what the fuck dude girl don’t get upset you were never gonna get with a professor I don’t care what you read in stories I thought they were together already do you think they’re getting married omg what if they have babies no don’t be silly they’re probably too old it’s just so nice that old people can fall in love
At the sound of “old people” you call a halt. “Alright, I think you’ve got it out of your system. Fair?”
A student near the back lifts their hand. “You’re happy, though, right? You look happy.”
You nod and smile. “Yeah, I’m happy. We’re happy. Okay, so, if we return to what Hall says he-“
Another hand. “Does this mean you’re gonna stay at Barrow?”
You feel your heart sink and you try to keep a bright expression on your face. “Haven’t got that far yet.”
A girl near the front looks panic-stricken. “Oh my god. Is Professor Ben gonna leave with you?!” Her classmates look equally stressed out by the thought, looking at you as if you’re about to take away their favourite pet.
“I… no? I don’t…uh…” You try valiantly to suppress the panic building in your own chest. “Like I said. Haven’t got that far, not for you to worry about. Okay?”
They nod, but eye you suspiciously for the rest of the session.
Ben is packing up his things when you knock on his office door later that evening, ready to go home. It’s his busiest day in the week and you haven’t even been able to meet for lunch or a quick coffee. He looks up from his bag, smiles at you, and then immediately flushes pink again.
“I’m so, so sorry about earlier, Lyddie, I completely forgot where we were and then the radio mic and oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so-“
You stop his anxious train of thought with a little kiss to the lips. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been fretting over that all day?”
He shrugs, but his eyes answer in the affirmative. You move in for a little hug.
“Darling, it’s fine. They’d have found out sooner or later, even if I wasn’t quite expecting a mass announcement to your option class.”
“I know, but… fuck. You know what students are like.” He closes the flap on his bag and reaches for his woollen coat and sky-blue scarf, hanging on the coatstand. “Evan told me that - and I quote - our ‘shenans’ had completely derailed his queer theory workshop group, because they wouldn’t - and I quote again - ‘shut the fuck up about it’.”
He switches off his desk lamp and you both move into the hallway, Ben turning back to lock his door. You stroll down the corridor and around the corner towards the stairs that lead to the main entrance.
“I should probably warn you,” you offer, “that you might hear some rumours about you leaving.”
He turns abruptly, looking completely lost.
“Remember you walked past my classroom today? Well, my seminar group asked me if I was staying, because of us. I said I didn’t know…and then one of them asked if you were going to leave when my year was done.”
His eyes widen.
“And you said…?”
You have no idea if your answer is what he would have wanted you to say to them.
“And I said no, I don’t know, haven’t got there yet, etc.” You exhale. “I just worried that you might hear it back once it’s been filtered through the student rumour mill a few times.”
Ben reaches for your hand as you reach the door of the building, giving it a squeeze. He’s quieter, not saying much but continuing to hold your hand as you walk with him towards the staff secure bike shelter, where he unlocks his bicycle and pops his messenger bag in one of the panniers on the back.
“Oh!” he exclaims as he finishes affixing his bike lights, “I do have some good news.”
You raise your eyebrows expectantly.
“Lino’s had ONE table left on Valentine’s Day. Now, admittedly it’s at 5pm but if you’re okay with an early dinner…”
“Early dinner means more time at home with you for, um, dessert?”
He rolls his eyes, smiles, and gives you a soft kiss before putting on his bike helmet. Errant curls stick up here and there through the vents in the blue plastic and you melt all over again.
“I’ll see you at your place? Hope you’re ready for my famous enchiladas!”
You nod and wave before turning in the opposite direction towards the pedestrian route, leading off campus and towards your street.
As you walk, you find it difficult to shake off the memory of how quiet he had become after you told him about the students and their questions. Would he have answered them differently?
Regardless of how happy and comfortable and forever your relationship feels right now, you know deep down it’s far too early to talk about the future in that much detail. You don’t want him to think you’re asking him to make a call - make a commitment - that he’s probably still a long way off even thinking about.
You also know, though, that there’s an invisible countdown to the day you’ll need to have the conversation, and that it started running the moment you first kissed.
“Lyddie? You ready? Gotta go, my love.”
Ben calls to you from your living room. You’re standing in front of the full length mirror in your bedroom, stomach twisting with nerves ahead of your public lecture, and you wish to God you looked…well, better.
Your slides are prepped. Your notes are ready. You’ve run through the talk’s outline with Ani as well as Ben. “You got this,” you murmur to yourself, and try to suppress the voice that wants to chime in with a jibe about your body, your grey hairs, your wrinkles.
You blot your lipstick and emerge into the living room. “Okay, let’s go.”
Ben turns, mouth slightly open, and raises his eyebrows as his gaze takes you in from head to toe.
You tend to wear skirts and dresses when you teach. But for this talk, for whatever reason, you’ve pulled out a scarlet red pantsuit, high-waisted pants cut slim to the leg and tapering to end just above the ankle, jacket with wide lapels and long enough to end just below your ass. Underneath, a vintage-style cream satin blouse, buttoned to the neck and a black velvet ribbon tied under the collar in place of a necktie.
Black velvet pumps on your feet, oversized brass earrings, a vintage brooch your grandmother had given you on your lapel, and a slick of Lady Danger across your mouth.
He runs a thumb over his lower lip.
“Oh, god, it’s shit, isn’t it? I should have known I couldn’t get away with this, not with my fat arse and stupid tummy and ugh, it’s like I don’t realise how shit I actually look until -”
“LYD!”
You take a step back. Ben didn’t yell, exactly, but you’ve never heard him speak so firmly to you.
His face softens and he moves to hug you. “Aw, god, Lyd, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just - please stop picking holes in yourself. Please. You do it so often, it’s like an involuntary response.”
He kisses the top of your head. “I’d never lie to you, Lydia. So believe me when I say: you look fucking incredible in that.”
You giggle, head resting against his chest. “You’re just saying that.”
He breaks away, meets your gaze, and sighs. “I said I don’t lie. And I say you look…” his eyes flit up and down your body appreciatively. “You look perfect. Smart, and stylish, and so goddamned sexy I don’t know how I’m going to get through watching you in that for an hour.”
You burst out laughing. “Alright, darling man. You’ve convinced me. ALLONS-Y!”
You steal a glance at your watch as you reach the last paragraph of your paper. For once in your life, you’ve got your timing spot on.
“To bring this talk to a close, let’s situate these visual representations of revolutionary military masculinities across painting and print can help to shift our understanding of what it meant to literally embody the values of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic empire.”
The final slide. The final points. A confident “Thank you.” And, to your delight, sustained applause in the packed lecture theatre. You look up towards the back rows, dead centre, where Ben, Ani, Evan, Jen, and David had said they’d be sitting - far enough away from the front so that you won’t see them and get distracted, but within a clear line of sight from the podium in case you panic and need some reassurance.
Ani is pumping their fist in the air, whooping and hollering. Evan is applauding hard, mouthing “YES, GIRL!”
Ben isn’t taking his eyes off you, a huge smile on his face as he applauds and applauds, not showing any intention of stopping. He looks…proud. You look up at him, shrugging and mouthing the words “Was it okay?”
He nods enthusiastically, and mouths back: “You’re fucking amazing.”
When the questions and discussion are over, and the majority of the audience have filed out of the theatre, Ani and Evan come down to the rostrum to invite you and Ben for drinks to celebrate what Evan was calling “your triumph.”
“I’ll even buy you champagne,” he promises, hugging you tightly. “Well. Maybe one glass. Or two glasses. I’m not made of money.”
“I am there. I can think of nothing better than a glass of champagne right now.”
Ani grins. “Hey, Lyd? We’ll be at the Lake Bar in the hotel. You guys can just follow us whenever, you probably need to leave stuff in your office anyway. Sound good?”
You turn back to Ani and nod. “Sounds very good. The Lake Bar! Fancy pants.”
The Lake Bar is tiny but formal, the only bar in Barrow’s only hotel and certainly not your usual haunt for drinks with friends. It’s also probably the only place you could get champagne for many miles.
“Text me when you guys are heading out, okay?”
You nod as they walk up the steps of the lecture theatre and begin to pack up your notes. It’s just the two of you, at last.
“You okay there, Benjamin? I’m just going to leave this stuff in my office, and then we can -“
Before you can finish your sentence, he’s cupping your face in his big hands and kissing you like a man off to war. You reciprocate, opening your lips gladly when his tongue sweeps over them and moaning softly into his mouth. You can feel the shiver of pleasure that runs through him.
You break away, his hand stroking your cheek affectionately. You reach out to wipe the traces of your lipstick off his mouth.
“So it was okay, then?”
“Yeah, it was okay, I guess.” He laughs, warm and deep, and takes hold of your hand, leading the way quickly up and out of the theatre and in the direction of your office. You giggle as you try to keep up, Ben looking back at you every so often with a huge smile on his face.
You turn on your desk lamp, shuck off your tote bag full of notes, and exhale, stretching your arms and rolling your shoulders. “Fuck, I’m so relieved that’s done. Can I have a congratulatory hug?”
Ben drops his coat on the spare chair and wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly. Your hands feel the stretch of the cotton plaid of his shirt against his broad back, and the sensation goes straight to your core.
“I’m so proud of you, Lyddie,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking amazing. Watching you do your thing up there, so smart and funny and bright and engaging and -”
You can feel his cock hardening against you, even through his dark jeans. You raise an eyebrow and lean back to look at Ben.
“Um… does the sight of me in full academic flow do it for you, Professor?”
He blushes a little and gives you a flash of his most puppy-dog expression, brown eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Y’know, I think it does. Especially in this outfit. Fuck, you look so good.”
He tilts his head, and the sensation of his soft mouth and coarse beard against the delicate skin of your neck makes you sigh with pleasure.
“Tell me.”
He chuckles lightly as he continues to ghost kisses against your throat. “It’s fucking sexy watching your mind work like that,” he says, voice low and warm, as your hands move up his chest to start loosening his tie. “Such an intelligent, gorgeous girl.”
His praise makes your cunt ache for him. You perch on the edge of your desk, the position so familiar from the night of the holiday party a couple of months before, and grab a tissue to wipe off what remains of your lipstick before kissing him hard as you reach for his waistband. He holds you up with one broad hand at your back, as he hastily works your blouse open with the other.
Ben’s about to slip his fingers under your waistband when this fantasy scenario made real is abruptly interrupted by a cheery, southern English voice greeting you.
“Hiya!”
“What the FUCK?” Ben swivels around, holding an arm across your chest in a chivalrous attempt at giving you privacy, while trying to buckle his belt with the other. You do up your blouse as best you can and thank the universe that you hadn’t got as far as shedding your pants yet.
“I thought you’d locked the door,” you mutter, as you stand up and Ben shifts behind you so he can do up his waistband.
“I thought YOU had locked the door.”
To your astonishment, though, the owner of the cheery English voice doesn’t seem to have realised that he’s interrupted anything, or noticed your hasty efforts to make yourselves decent.
In fact, he’s kept up a stream of consciousness chatter since he came into your office, oblivious to your and Ben’s panic. When you finally direct your attention to him he’s saying something about Napoleon and pyramids while searching for something in the brown satchel he’s wearing across his body.
“I…hi?” He pulls out an iPad covered in what look like stickers depicting Egyptian deities and looks up at you, mouth slightly open.
“Hi. I’m sorry, can you repeat all that, please? We…I mean, I didn’t catch a lot of it. Who - who are you, again?”
The man gives you a lopsided smile. He’s small, angular, and dark, wavy hair parted at the side and falling untidily over his eyes. There’s what can only be described as an aura of chaos surrounding him.
“I’m Steven!” He seems surprised that he’s having to introduce himself. “I’m a postdoctoral fellow in archaeology - well, now, actually I’m an Egyptologist by trade, in point of fact, but you don’t have an Egyptology department so I’m in archaeology, haha.” He steps towards you, flipping open the cover of his iPad. “I was at your talk just now - really good by the way, really liked some of the paintings you had in the slides - and I thought blimey, wonder if she’s got thoughts on Denon’s Description of Egypt, and then I thought oh well Steven you’ve got it on your iPad don’t you? And I said right well I bet she’d like to talk about that and I looked up your office and-”
Ben has moved to the door of your office and looks pointedly at you over Steven’s head as the postdoc swipes frantically through his files, trying to locate the book in question. “Professor? I’ll be in my office, whenever you’re finished with, um, Steven.”
“Aha! Here it is in all its glory.” Steven has found the digitised copy of the huge, early nineteenth-century study of Egypt, undertaken to document the expedition led by Napoleon in the late 1790s. You smile politely and shrug in Ben’s direction as he sighs and heads in the direction of his office.
You’d managed to keep your chat to a minimum, in part by promising to meet Steven during your office hours that coming week. A familiar silhouette appears at your open door.
“You finished talking Egyptology, Lyd?” Ben leans against the doorframe.
“I am. He’s a sweet kid, really. I mean, I don’t think he’s that young, but…” You give your head a little shake, as if resetting yourself. “Anyway. Let’s go. I’m surprised Evan hasn’t left us some furious voice notes.”
Ben steps into your office, shutting the door very carefully behind him and swiping the air to dismiss the idea as he strides towards you. “Pfffft. They’ll be alright, they’re in a bar.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, twirling the curls at the nape of his neck around your fingers. “Darling, we’re already running very late…”
“So?” He guides you back to sit on the edge of your desk and resumes his trail of kisses down the side of your neck.
“So…” You pull him close to you, fingers hooked inside his waistband, and moan as his hands rove up your body, grabbing handfuls of you through the silk of your blouse.
He quirks an eyebrow and smiles, looking down at your fingers already working to undo his belt buckle. “You want to stop, Lyd, and we’ll stop. Do you want to stop?”
You lean in and kiss him as you discard your suit jacket, push yourself further back on the desk, and guide his hands under your own waistband.
“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
“How many drinks have we had now? Two?!” Jen looks at her phone and shakes her head. “I’m starting to worry.”
“I’m not,” Evan mutters darkly over the rim of his glass. “I’m gonna win our bet, Jennykins.” He shifts his gaze towards the door of the hotel bar. “Aha! Right on cue.”
He leads the group in a slow, sardonic hand-clap as you and Ben walk sheepishly over to your table, apologising profusely as you take off your coats and hats.
“Guys, I’m so sorry!” You settle into a cosy leather chair beside Jen. “A postdoc called to my office to talk about the Egyptian campaign and…”
Jen looks at you, then at Ani, who looks at David, who looks at Evan, who casts an appraising eye over Ben.
“Well, I’ll take that twenty bucks now, Jennifer. And Benjamin? You owe each of us a drink.”
“Me?” Ben looks incredulous. “Why?!”
Jen pats her old friend’s arm and shakes her head sympathetically. “Hon, your shirt isn't tucked in properly and Lydia seems to have lost her little necktie. Be real.”
Ben’s ears turn a deep pink as he stands up and fishes for his wallet.
He’s up very early on Valentine’s Day, the looming deadline for his report and funding application pulling him, reluctantly, out of your arms and your bed.
You stir under the comforter, propping yourself up to watch him dress. You bite your lip as he pulls on his white undervest, admiring the way the ribbed cotton fabric fits so beautifully over the solid breadth of his torso and tummy. He slips on a pale blue shirt, leaving it open as he looks for his pants.
You can’t help yourself. “Ooof.”
Ben turns around as he grabs his pants, and quirks a smile at you. “Ooof?”
“Just like what I see, that’s all. Ooof.”
He grins as he sits down on the edge of the bed. “I look forward to hearing more about this later, Lyddie.”
You reach around and wrap your arms around his middle, kissing the back of his neck. “Happy Valentine’s, darling.”
In truth, you didn’t mind the extra couple of early morning hours on your own, as it gave you time to finish and wrap Ben’s gift before heading to work. You’re brushing your teeth when you hear your door buzzer sound.
“Delivery for, uh, Lydia?” It’s barely 9am on Valentine’s Day and the delivery guy already sounds like he’s in the throes of an existential crisis.
You run down to the main door and sign for your delivery: a perfect bouquet of palest pink camellias, wrapped in brown paper. You smile as you inhale their scent, and immediately put them in a vase.
LYDIA: Thank you for the flowers, love. They’re perfect. And camellias! You really didn’t have to.
BEN: No flowers for my girl on Valentine’s? Who do you think I am?!😉
BEN: (I read an article about how environmentally-unfriendly roses are at this time of year and they suggested camellias. I’m so glad you like them.)
LYDIA: I love them. And I love you.
Before you leave for work, you take one camellia bloom from the vase and cut it slightly shorter. You wrap the stem in moist paper towels, then in plastic wrap, and place it carefully in a ziploc bag to bring to your office.
“Check her out. Fuck, I love her.”
Over coffee, Ani is showing you photos they’ve got from Cass, who received her enormous Fuck Heteronormative Capitalism cookie bright and early that morning. In one, she’s holding up the heart-shaped biscuit triumphantly; in another, she’s snapped it in half with a raging expression; and finally, there’s one of her eating an enormous chunk of it, face slightly smeared with half-melted chocolate chips and frosting.
“Aww!”
Ani stares at you. “What?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever actually said that in front of me.” You smile gently. “I’m so happy for you two. Looks like Valentine’s really is changing you, huh…”
“You shut the fuck up right now or I will lick that ridiculous cupcake you’ve got.”
They’re pointing aggressively at the college canteen’s special baked offering for the big day, a red velvet cupcake topped with an extraordinary amount of frosting and covered in edible red glitter.
You chuckle and stick a finger in the frosting, picking up a generous amount before popping it in your mouth. “Aha! Touché.” Your phone lights up with an incoming call from Ben, and you swipe to answer with your clean hand.
“Hi, love! You okay? You must be really up against it if you can’t even come for coffee…”
“Uh… yeah. It’s…yeah.”
You get up from your seat, mouthing to Ani that you’ll be back, and move into the hallway. “Ben? What’s wrong?”
He exhales. “They’ve asked for another section to be added to the proposal by tomorrow. I thought I could get it out of the way quickly but then I realised it needed more data and I’m trying to find that and put the details in and it’s just complicated and I dunno it’s not really hanging together and -”
“Ben? Breathe.”
He inhales and exhales slowly. His voice is quiet and hesitant.
“I don’t think I can get it done by five, Lyd. I’m - fuck. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so disappointed in myself, and I’ll try so hard to make this up to you, I promise.”
You lean against the wall as a group of chattering students ambles past. “Darling. There’s nothing to make up to me, nothing at all. We’ll have dinner at the weekend or something, I’ll see you later tonight, it’ll be perfect.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you can almost feel his disappointment through the phone.
“Ben? Honestly, I don’t mind.”
He sighs. “Okay. I love you very much, you know?”
“I do. And I love you very much too. I’ll pop by with some coffee later, okay?”
You hang up and rejoin Ani in the staff lounge.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah…” You’re thinking, trying to formulate a plan. “Hey - what are you doing around five this evening?”
The desk light is on in Ben’s office when you call by later that evening, but there’s no sign of him. You peer through the glass panel, and there he is: sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of his desk, printed-out drafts of the various sections of the proposal spread out in front of him and a pot of coloured highlighter markers to hand.
His tie is loosened, top collar buttons undone, and his brown-framed glasses have fallen forward on his nose. From the looks of things, he’s been running his hands through his hair a lot, curls standing on end and falling this way and that, the light catching the streaks of silver that pepper his dark hair.
He looks tired, but he breaks into a wide smile when he sees you and pushes himself up to standing as you enter the room. You place the large insulated bag and jute grocery tote you’ve been carrying on a chair and he wraps you in a warm, tight hug.
“Is it weird that I really needed this hug?” he mumbles into the crown of your head.
You smile and breathe in his familiar scent: more top notes of coffee today, the spicy undertone of his cologne, the clean smell of his shower gel - your shower gel, actually - and the hints of paper and pencils that seem to be part of his olfactory essence.
“Not weird at all.” You pull away and look at him, gently caressing the side of his face. “I hope you’re hungry, by the way.”
Ben looks puzzled as you reach for the two bags, unzipping the insulated carrier and flooding the office with the delicious scent of good Italian food.
“Lyddie, what the fuck is going on?”
You reach into the jute bag and retrieve two plates, two tumblers, some cutlery, and a bottle of red wine, placing them on Ben’s desk.
“If Ben Morales can’t come to Lino’s, then Lino’s will come to Ben Morales. Okay if I move some of these papers, love?”
He nods, brow furrowed as he tries to make his overworked brain understand. You shift his work materials out of the way and lay out two table settings on one side of the desk.
“Mixed mushroom fettucine, right?” Ben nods again, and you place the takeaway container on one of the plates. “And the carbonara for me, and some sides of green salad and that gorgeous focaccia they do… Okay! Sit.”
Ben pulls a chair up to the desk and opens the container of pasta, sighing happily at the aroma. You open the wine and pour a small glass each, and are ready to settle down to your own meal when you realise you’ve forgotten something.
“Shit! Wait. Hold on.” You reach again into the tote bag and pull out two of your vintage candlesticks, cheap finds from thrift stores over the years, as well as a pack of tall white candles and some matches. Their soft light flickers against the walls of books, illuminating the lines and contours of your faces as you share this most idiosyncratic and intimate of Valentine’s dinners.
Ben raises his glass, and you clink yours off it. “How… how?”
You shrug, twirling some linguine around your fork. “I promised Ani I’d cover for them at the next open day if they drove me over to Lino’s. The guys over there were only too glad to box up the food as a takeout - especially when they heard who it was for.”
Ben sips his wine. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you. And I still feel bad that our first Valentine’s Day plans were a bust.”
You reach for his hand, rubbing your thumb over his tattoo. “You deserve everything good because you’re you. Our plans weren’t a bust - we’re still having dinner, aren’t we?” He smiles as he concedes the point.
“And… first Valentine’s Day, hmmm?” You raise your eyebrows.
Ben looks into your eyes as he turns your hand over to hold it in his broad palm. There’s a voice inside him that wants to tell you straight out, here and now, that he wants this for the rest of his life, the rest of your lives: you, him, an “us”, forever.
But there’s another, louder voice that tells him it’s still a bit too early for that. He doesn’t want to spook you, or make you think he’s asking for some kind of commitment so soon.
So he just raises his eyebrows and grins at you. “First of many, I hope?”
His key turns in the door at about 10pm. You pop your head round the door of the living room as he’s walking down his hallway, coat and bag already discarded near the front door.
“Is it…?”
“It is…done. And sent.” He does a series of air punches as he saunters towards you, and you wave your arms in the air with delight before leaning in for a kiss, taking his hands, and pulling him gently towards the living room.
“So - there are about two hours of Valentine’s Day left. Not that expressing and celebrating love is a one-day affair, of course.”
“Of course!” he nods with exaggerated seriousness, before his expression shifts to one of surprised delight when he sees the candles flickering around his living room, the bright fire that’s burning in the small stove, and the champagne on the table.
The soft light catches his sparkling eyes. “Oh, you’re too cute, Lyddie.”
“But if you’re too tired…”
He pulls you to him and kisses you hard, hands gliding down the silk fabric of the vintage robe you’re wearing and seeking out handfuls of you along the way.
“I will take that as a ‘no, I am not too tired, Lyd’.”
He arches an eyebrow and takes off his glasses, the lenses already a little fogged up. “Definitely not too tired.” He looks you up and down, admiring the loose folds of the printed silk. “That’s a beautiful thing.”
“Picked it up for next to nothing in a second-hand shop years ago.” You preen a little to show it off. “You sure you’re not too tired?”
He nods solemnly, and you undo the belt of the robe, letting it fall open as you stand in front of him.
“Oh, my god.” Ben moves close to you, slipping his long fingers under the edge of the robe to reveal the soft flesh of your bare shoulders and the full, plush outline of your naked breasts. “Oh, fuck me.”
“That is indeed the plan, love.”
He pauses and chuckles, then eases the rest of the robe off you and places it on the armchair before exploring the contours and creases and folds of your bare form with his gentle fingertips. His mouth is open a little, as if he’s astonished by the sight of you: illuminated in candlelight. Soft. Warm. Curvy. Inviting.
“You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to bed.”
You tilt your head in the direction of the fireplace and the cosy fire burning in the stove. He sees the soft blankets and pillows laid out on the rug in front of the hearth, and he smiles and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. You start to undress him, loosening his tie and helping him out of his shirt and pants.
He moves as if to take off his undervest and boxer briefs and you still his hands. “Uh… maybe keep the vest. For the moment.”
The light from the stove casts shadows over you, body writhing on the blankets as Ben works another orgasm from you with a quirk of his thick, talented fingers.
He’s focused his attention on you, on your pleasure, since you’d stretched out together in front of the hearth. “It’s only fair,” he’d whispered, kissing your neck and collarbones, his warm, solid frame resting above you. “Want to show you how much I love you - all of you.”
With his mouth and fingers leading the way, he had taken you on a kind of guided tour of your own body, praising every bit of you as he went. The curve of your hips. The specific shape of your mouth. The softness of your belly. The strength of your thighs. The line of your neck. The velvet weight of your breasts when he holds them in his big hands.
He sucked lightly on your nipples, tracing his thumb over the pebbled skin. “These are spectacular tits, Lyd. Better than I’d ever imagined.”
You’d laughed and wound your fingers through his hair. “Did you often imagine what my tits were like before you actually got to see them, or…”
He groaned in embarrassment, burying his head against your chest. “Maybe a little.” He lifted his face slightly and looked up at you. “I was admiring respectfully. You can’t blame me, they’re fucking amazing.”
He quickly worked his way down your body, running his mouth and tongue over the soft flesh of your middle and settling himself between your thighs before reaching his hand up to part the wet folds of your pussy, sighing happily as he did so.
“And this is…so beautiful.”
He trailed two fingers along the wet seam, slipping the tips into your cunt, before they were replaced by his lips and tongue.
One orgasm. Two. And now, what was this - three?
You whine with need. “Please, baby. Want you now.”
He shifts his body on top of yours and kisses you deeply as you wrap your legs around him, then leans in to whisper in your ear.
“Can I roll you over and take you from behind?”
You kiss him again before shifting onto your front, enjoying the sensation of the soft blankets against your naked breasts and belly. Ben grabs another pillow and places it under your head. His weight on top of you is warm and grounding, the broad span of his shoulders eclipsing yours.
He brings his lips to the back of your neck as he gently slips inside with a long, low moan, feeling the plush flesh of your ass against him as he bottoms out. Even as he starts to move, even as he picks up the pace and fucks you harder, he’s ever the conscientious, considerate lover. Every now and then he leans in to ask if you’re okay, if it feels good for you, to tell you how beautiful you are, and to remind you how much he loves you.
You can tell he’s close, and you know another peak is building in you. You reach up and pull one of the cushions from under your head.
“Can you pull back just for a second? Wanna lift my hips up and…”
He does as he’s asked and you slip the cushion under your hips, adjusting yourself until you hear him groan with pleasure and you know it’s just the right angle for the two of you. Ben slips a hand under you to cup your breast as he fucks you hard, pulling one final climax from you just as he cries out your name and spills inside you.
He pulls out and reaches to turn you round, bringing your bodies flush together and covering your face with soft kisses as you run your fingers through his damp hair. You drag up one of the blankets to cover your bodies, and you lie there, entwined together exchanging gentle kisses in the glow of the fire.
Disentangled and cleaned up, the two of you nestle together on the couch to drink some champagne: you back in your robe, Ben in a soft old t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants.
“I’m sorry this isn’t more glamorous, Ben.”
He cuddles you closer. “Best night ever, and it’s all down to you.”
He puts his glass on the side table and reaches beside the couch to retrieve a small gift bag. “Happy Valentine’s, my love. I only wish I could give you everything.”
You smile and shake your head. “I’ve got everything I need.”
The gift bag contains a rectangular jewellery box and what feels like a gift-wrapped book. “I should explain why there’s no card,” Ben says, looking a little anxious. “They were all just a bit… cringey. Is that the word? They just weren’t you. So… the book is a gift but also a card. Kind of. If that makes sense. Does that make sense?”
You kiss him lightly and open the paper to reveal what looks like a mid twentieth-century hardback book, wrapped in a bright blue dust jacket. You laugh when you look at the author’s name and title:
H.E. BATES
LOVE FOR LYDIA
“You know I’ve never actually read this?”
Ben smiles broadly, his eyes crinkling. “Neither have I, but… well. It’s self-explanatory.”
You open the book and read the inscription on the inside.
To Lyddie, for whom my love would fill countless volumes. B x
Tú
que ayer sólo eras toda la hermosura
eres tambien todo el amor, ahora.
You
who were merely all beauty yesterday
are today all love, as well
J.L. Borges, ‘Sabados’ (1923)
“I know it’s a little bit soppy.”
“Soppy?” You’re wiping away tears with the sleeve of your robe. “Ben, this is - I don’t have words, it’s beautiful. Perfect, in fact.”
“Do you want to open the other one?” He gestures towards the jewellery box, resting on your lap.
“Ohh, baby.” Inside is a fine gold chain with a little gold disc hanging from it, no more than a centimetre and a half in diameter. It’s delicately engraved with your initials, arranged in a sort of cypher design.
It is elegant, beautiful, and you can’t quite believe that someone would love you enough to even think of a gift like this, let alone give it to you. The inner doubts about whether you ‘deserve’ this kind of love are mostly under control these days, but never too far from the surface.
“It’s so perfect, darling, it’s… It’s…it’s too much, Ben, I don’t -“
“Don’t you dare say you don’t deserve this.” He looks deadly serious. “Do you want to try it on?”
The gold feels warm against your skin, and you admire the way it reflects the candlelight as you lean in and kiss him before standing up and fetching a gift box that you’d hidden behind the TV.
“Okay, now it’s your turn, Benjamin.” He takes the gift box and carefully takes off the lid to reveal something neatly wrapped in tissue paper underneath.
You settle back beside him on the couch. “I really hope you like this, and that you don’t think it’s inappropriate. But - tell me if it is, okay?”
He nods, a slightly suspicious look in his eyes, and begins to fold back the layers of tissue paper to reveal a crisp, white cotton poplin shirt with a camp-style collar decorated with red embroidery. His initial uncertainty rapidly gives way to recognition as he lifts the shirt out of the box.
A little while ago, not long after you had officially got together, you had been chatting one evening about the family photographs on display in his living room. Your gaze had settled again on the photo of his father as a young man, so uncannily similar to his son.
“Other than the hair and the fact that your eyes are exactly the same as your mother’s, you’re a carbon copy of him. You just need a similar shirt and you could recreate the image.”
Ben had picked up the photo so you could look at it in more detail together. “He had this shirt for years. It’s a traditional style, but they come in all sorts of variations. His was gorgeous, though - that embroidery was like a dark red, I think. I loved it when I was a kid and he wore it, he just looked so cool.” He’d smiled warmly at the image of Diego Morales, captured forever in his youthful prime. “Fuck, I miss him so much.”
You leaned in and cuddled him. “Do you have one? Of the shirts, I mean”, you’d asked, and Ben had shook his head.
“Never found one that was as nice as Dad’s.”
It is a relatively simple design - short sleeved, button-up, with four pockets, two on each side - but you have added embroidered details to each of the pockets, to match the collar. The shirt itself was an easy enough job - after doing your research on the exact style and its history, you’d made it one Saturday when Ben was doing an open day at the college and you could lock yourself away in your apartment. The embroidery had been more challenging, especially as you were trying to approximate what you could make out of the pattern on Diego’s shirt.
Like Ben, you were unable to find a Valentine’s card that didn’t make you want to vomit. So you have, instead, stitched a tiny message along the fabric facing just inside the collar - his initials, your initials, and the year.
Every stitch and every seam was, in its own way, a tangible expression of how much he meant to you.
Ben is silent as he looks at the shirt, taking in the details. He runs his fingers along the hand embroidery and feels the small pearl buttons. You worry that this might actually be too much - too intimate a gift for so early in a relationship, too close to the grief he felt for his father - and that you have got this horribly, desperately wrong.
“B-Ben?”
He turns slowly to you, tears in his eyes, the shirt still in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Ben, I just -“
He places the shirt back in the box and pulls you close to him. He struggles to get the words out. “Thank you. Thank you, Lyd, this is - wow.” He looks at the shirt again and bites his lip. “It’s the most beautiful gift I think I’ve ever been given.”
He notices the tiny lettering inside the collar. “Oh, fuck me. You made this?!”
You bury your head against him, mumbling into his chest. “Yes is that weird oh god is it weird?”
He laughs and wraps an arm around you. “How could you making me a version of my dad’s guayabera be weird? It’s… fuck. I love it. And I love you. So fucking much.”
“I’m so glad you like it, darling.”
His gaze is earnest as he reaches for your hand. “It means the world to me. You mean the world to me.”
You take the box and place it on the coffee table so that you can cuddle in against his broad, warm chest, bringing an arm around his middle as he enfolds you in his strong, safe embrace.
You mean the world to him. He means the world to you. Isn’t that all that matters?
The countdown to the hard decisions might be rapidly running out, but for tonight, at least, they could wait. You close your eyes and focus on the reassuring rhythm of Ben’s heartbeat.
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)
Further A/N:
The song Lydia sings a line of to Ben after their morning exertions is 'Just A Little Lovin'', by Dusty Springfield.
youtube
The shirt Ben's dad is wearing, and that Lydia recreates for Ben as his Valentine's gift, is inspired by the traditional guayabera summer shirt that is thought to have originated in either Mexico or Cuba, but is worn throughout Central and parts of South America in the summer months.
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories#Youtube
83 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Chapter 10: Something About You
(Moodboard by @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: Reunited and resolved on what they both want, Ben and Lydia finally get to spend some quality time together. Of course, their friends (and siblings) will want to know what, exactly, happened on the night of Jen's party.
Word Count: 7.7k
Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)
Content (series and chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; Ben and Lydia are firmly contemporaries; canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; lots of smut; fingering; oral sex (F and M receiving); safe PiV sex; this pair are consent champions; praise kink; strong language; weight and body insecurity; self-esteem issues; fluff; the love was requited, they're just idiots; and yes - SMUT.
A/N: If you've wanted Ben and Lydia to finally spend some, er, quality time together - you're in luck, as that's the main focus of this chapter.
The title of this chapter comes from Kate Bush's song 'Snowed In At Wheeler Street', which came to mind when I was thinking about Ben and Lydia getting caught in the snow on their way to her flat in Chapter 9. The song is also fitting for these two, as it evokes a sort of soulmate relationship through time.
youtube
They have established they love each other, but there's still some way to go for Ben and Lydia to get what they want and deserve, and to find a way to make things work when Lydia has to go 'home'.
Thank you to everyone who's shown so much love for this pair so far - every comment, reblog, like, interaction, ask is just a joy to me.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Cross-posting to AO3 (and if you're reading on there, too, and yelling along in the comments - I love you, thank you!)
Chapter 9 - Chapter 11
@lunapascal and @julesonrecord - as ever, thank you for loving these dorksicles like your own.
Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @princessanglophile, @katareyoudrilling, @survivingandenduring, @trulybetty, @fictionismyreality, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @joeldjarin
She’s refilling the industrial-sized filter coffee machine when they walk back into the Brunswick Café. Even in the bustle of the Saturday lunchtime rush, she recognises them: the sweet, clever man who had been a regular visitor for coffee and pie over the last eight years, and with him the same woman as last time.
On Thanksgiving, she’d commented (innocently, she’d insist) on the obvious affection between the pair, sparking flustered gestures and insistent explanations that they were not, in fact, a couple.
“I never said you were a couple, Benjamin. I said it was nice to see people in love.”
They were a couple now, though. She’d bet her life on it. It would be imperceptible to the less astute observer, but decades of diner work equips you with the sort of wide-angle vision and ability to pick up on the things experienced investigative officers could only dream of spotting.
It’s all in the gestures: their hands separating reluctantly as they enter the Café, his big hand tracing ever so slightly over her lower back as he guides her towards a booth in the window; the way she’s looking at him, as if she can’t quite believe he exists; the telltale touches of knees and thighs under the table.
Most of all, though, what signalled a change in the dynamic between the two was an intangible glow: one that had nothing to do with the brisk January air outside. It was like they existed only in their own, self-contained bubble, lit from within by their smiles and bright expressions.
She snaps the lid back onto the huge tub of coffee and stashes it in its usual cupboard, smiling with satisfaction. Of course she was right. She was just glad they’d worked it out for themselves.
She decides not to let on, at least for a bit. She has to acknowledge them while she takes the order, of course. But she does her usual friendly shtick with Ben and pretends she can’t quite remember the woman’s name (“Olivia, is that it? Oh, Lydia! See? Close enough”). No questions about their status as she serves up their orders (they were starving. Must have worked up an appetite, she notes with a cheeky smile) and refills their coffee.
Instead, she quietly observes them at intervals while she works. She notes the little brushes from his hand to hers, and vice versa; the way her hand reaches to stroke crumbs of toast from his beard with such care and affection; the kisses they steal over plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries. Their whispered confidences and peals of laughter speak of easy intimacy and warmth.
She takes satisfaction in knowing she was right. But she also feels a quasi-maternal surge of happiness for the man she always thought of as ‘a sweet boy’, who had been a pleasant presence on his regular visits to the diner since he first arrived at Barrow. At last, it looked like he’d found his person.
When they’ve cleared their plates, she crosses to the booth, coffee pot in hand. The dishes and cutlery are quickly cleared and held in the crook of one arm while she tops up their mugs, offering a benevolent smile to each of them in turn.
“Can I get you two some dessert?”
They exchange glances for a moment, until Olivia - no, wait, it’s Lydia - declines the offer. As she returns to the counter, she can hear them speaking in hushed voices.
“I have, uh, dessert at home. You know. Dessert.”
This elicits a bashful giggle from him.
She rolls her eyes as she adds another couple of old checks to the spike at the register. It’s not long before the broad figure of Ben Morales is standing in front of her in his dark winter coat and soft knitted watchcap, wallet at the ready, to settle the bill.
“I’m glad you finally paid attention to what I was saying, Benjamin.”
He furrows and then raises his eyebrows quizzically. “What you were…saying?”
She hands him his receipt. “I told you two idiots you were in love at Thanksgiving. Just glad the two of you finally caught up to it.”
He grins as he shoves the receipt in his coat pocket, but his smile falters when he notes the stony expression on her face.
“That girl really likes you. Don’t fuck with her, or you’ll never get a slice of pie in this establishment again.”
He nods seriously. “Don’t worry, Emma.” He turns and looks over at the woman pulling her knitted hat and scarf on before edging her way carefully out of the booth, and a huge smile appears on his face. “I really, really like her, too.”
Ben twines his glove-clad fingers through yours as you walk down Main Street and turn in the direction of his house. You’d asked him over breakfast if he would like to spend the weekend with you; he wants to pick up some fresh clothes and his laptop from home.
You squeeze his hand and smile up at him. It feels vaguely surreal, walking hand in hand with him along the streets of your little town, knowing he loves you and that he knows you love him.
“Is there anything we need to do, in terms of work?”
He looks a little confused. “Work?”
“Yeah, like - do we need to notify anyone that we’re together, or…?”
He thinks for a moment. “I think that only applies if it’s a relationship with your boss or a direct superior or someone you are in charge of - you know, that sort of thing. I can check with Jen if there’s a formal parchment declaration of romance that needs to be completed and affixed with a wax seal.” He chuckles warmly as you roll your eyes affectionately. “Though I’m sure she’d have told me about that already if there was.”
“Jen knows?”
He smiles. “I think she knew I liked you before even I did. She’s a big fan of yours.” You smile softly. “She literally kicked me out of her house last night to go find you.”
“Literally?!”
“Literally. Ani was no holds barred, and then Jen poked me in the ass with the toe of her boot and told me if I didn’t go find you, she’d never speak to me again.”
Your smile turns somewhat satisfied. “I like her a lot.”
“Anyway, I’ll find out. But I think we’re good, baby.”
The endearment makes you lean against his shoulder, feeling the brush of his woollen coat against your cheek and the solidness of the man underneath. He gives your hand a little squeeze and turns to plant a little kiss to the crown of your head, cosy under your warm, knitted cap.
Ben offers to drive the two of you back to your place after he’s grabbed what he needs to and changed his clothes. As you settle into the passenger seat, watching his hands on the wheel, you are reminded of the very first day you met him, of sitting in this car, chatting and listening to music as he drove to Lino’s for dinner. You smile at the memory, at how it felt like both yesterday and forever ago.
You close your front door and he places his tote bag on the couch before taking off his coat and hanging it up alongside yours. He’s changed into a beautiful flannel button-up in shades of green, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms slightly. He turns to face you, smiling shyly.
For an instant you forget that you can touch him - and then you remember, delighted, and trace your fingers across his chest before tugging playfully on the waistband of his jeans and bringing his body flush to yours. You look up at him, a smile dancing around your lips as he puts his arms around your waist.
“Bed?” He almost whispers the word.
“Bed.”
In contrast to the desperate need of the night before, the pace this time is much slower. You lie together on your bed, still clothed, and gently undress each other, planting kisses on each new area of skin revealed. It’s difficult to resist the urge to go straight back to fucking: you can feel your wetness already soaking your panties as your clit throbs with need, while his cock is straining at his boxers.
But you keep on taking your time. Ben trails a line of kisses along the line of your bra, the contrast between his soft lips and the bristle of his moustache making your skin tingle. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, as you wind your fingers through his hair.
“The bra, or the tits?”
He laughs, the vibration resonating through your chest. “Both. But this is a pretty thing.” The bra is almost exactly the same colour as your skin, the cups made of a mesh fabric decorated with bright, embroidered flowers. “Almost looks like there’s nothing here but these flowers.” He puts his mouth over your nipple and sucks it through the fabric, pulling a moan from you.
“Pretty though it is -“ he reaches behind you and unhooks the bra - “nothing’s as pretty as you.” He sighs with delight at the sight of your soft tits, sucking each nipple in turn, while you gently pull down his boxers and lightly stroke at his hard length.
You trace a line up the side of his neck, interspersing kisses with little bites and nibbles that have him moaning with pleasure as you work your way up to kiss every inch of the scruff along his jaw.
“You’re very fucking pretty too, you know.”
He opens his eyes and looks into yours, dark and soft. He’s blushing.
“Pretty? Can a man this old with wrinkles and grey hair and back trouble really be pretty?”
“You aren’t fucking old, Ben. But I’m 42 and have wrinkles and grey hair and stretch marks and sag everywhere and you think I’m pretty.”
You caress the side of his face, planting a kiss to the furrows between his brows that always remind you, stupidly, of quotation marks. “Pretty.”
Another kiss, to the laugh lines beside his eyes. “So pretty.”
One for the grey patch at the hinge of his jaw. “The prettiest.”
And one more, long and lingering, to his mouth. “My beautiful, pretty, love.”
Ben’s eyes are simultaneously soft in adoration and dark with lust. He runs a thumb along your cheek.
“I’d like to take care of you for a while, my love. Is that okay?”
You nod, tilting your chin upwards so you can kiss his forehead, and he carefully encourages you to lie back as he works his way across and down your body.
He starts with a deep kiss, his tongue meeting yours deliciously before he starts to suck lightly at your neck and across your collarbones. Ben is nothing if not meticulous. Every inch of your body is kissed, licked, or ever so gently nibbled or bitten as he descends ever closer to the heat of your core.
At times you feel like this worship of your body might be enough to get you off, even without the slightest contact with your pussy. The sensation is electric, pleasure coursing through every fibre of your being as Ben’s mouth moves over your skin. Your hips buck upwards as you moan his name, and you feel his large palm lightly holding you down as he slowly drags himself down the bed, ready to move back upwards, inch by inch.
He nibbles and kisses the insides of your legs, humming happily to himself as he palms the soft flesh of your thighs and sucks at your skin. You notice that he has taken his hard cock in his hand, stroking it intermittently as his mouth gets ever closer to your wet pussy.
You feel like you will go insane if he does not eat you out immediately. He’s so close now that you can feel the bristle of his moustache against the curls that cover your mound, the scratch of his beard against the inside of your upper thighs.
“Please, Ben, please. Please. I need you. Need to feel you.”
For a moment you open your eyes and look down, and the sight of that man - that gorgeous, wonderful, sexy man - with his head between your legs is enough to make you moan unexpectedly loudly. He looks up and meets your eyes, a divinely wicked look in his.
“I haven’t even started yet, Lyddie.” A grin, and then - oh. There he is.
He is so deliberate, so slow, so caring, so loving with the way he’s exploring you with his mouth, seeing what you respond to and trying out different approaches. He’s in no rush, and he intends to enjoy making you feel good. Hell, if the intermittent moaning is anything to go by, he’s making himself feel good too.
You aren’t going to last very long, you fear, as his nose traces a line up your soaking folds before his tongue dips into your cunt. You come for the first time as Ben is sucking your clit, occasionally flicking the tip of his tongue over the sensitive, swollen bud until eventually you cry out and find release, gasping his name.
“That’s it, darling,” he murmurs, marvelling at the way your body reacts when you come. “That’s it. Come for me. I love taking care of you, I love it, I - I love you.”
Once you’ve ridden out your first orgasm he looks into your eyes before returning to the task at hand, this time carefully inserting first one, then two fingers into your cunt. He starts to work your clit again with his tongue. You grip the sheets, mewling with pleasure at the sensation of having him inside you again.
It has never, ever been this good with anyone else.
“You’re so fucking good at this, baby. So good at eating my pussy, making me come -” you pause, moaning as he starts to hook the fingers buried inside you in order to hit the spot even more powerfully and pull another orgasm out of you. You can feel him responding to your praise, humming against your warm core and slowly increasing the pace as he feels you tightening around his fingers.
You’re so close now, again. “Gonna come again, baby,” you pant, the words becoming harder to find as you near the edge, “never - never come like this before…fuck…you’re so good to me, making me come like thi-“
The silken thread that has been twisting up in your core snaps once more and you come so hard you feel like you might actually tear the sheets, so tight is your grip on the sage green fabric.
As you’re coming down, breath slowing, you open your eyes and look down between your legs.
It’s a glorious sight: Ben, his mouth, beard and moustache glistening with your slick, lightly pressing his lips to the soft flesh of your inner thighs. He looks up and meets your gaze, his eyes sparkling as he catches his breath, and he grins. “You look fucking beautiful, Lyd.”
“C’mere,” you murmur, still hazy in the afterglow. You widen your legs, hitching up your knees. “Need you inside me, now.”
He’s on top of you in what feels like the blink of an eye, propping himself on one forearm while he runs his other hand over his hard cock, tip already glistening.
“Lyddie, I don’t think I’m going to last very long this time -“
You still him with a giggle and a finger on his lips. “I’ve just had two of the best orgasms of my life. You did that. Do whatever you want to me.”
His eyes close, accompanied by a needy groan, and he kisses you deeply as he slowly enters you. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue, and the sensation makes you feel like you might come again.
He keeps a close eye on you, making sure you are okay, but has taken your words to heart. He started off fucking you slowly, but your wetness is begging for something harder and he picks up the pace seamlessly as he tries to find his own high.
He’s driving harder and faster into you, feeling your wet pussy already starting to tighten again around him. He grips the back of your knee and pushes your leg up so he can fuck you even deeper.
Time to use your words.
You mouth his name as he continues to fuck you, and shower him with praise. “You feel so good inside me,” you hiss, “gonna come for you again if you keep fucking me like this.”
He opens his eyes and looks into yours, his dark, chocolatey irises somehow both blissed out and determined. “Jesus, darling, you’re so tight and wet for me,” he pants, sweat glistening on his brow. “T-take it so well in your p-perfect…pussy.”
As you cry out he slips a hand between your bodies and finds your swollen clit, rubbing a finger over it while he continues to fuck you.
“C-come on, baby. Come on now. One more?”
And there it is again, your entire body tingling and shuddering with pleasure under his as you come apart. Once you’ve worked through your orgasm, you pepper his chest with soft kisses, trailing the tip of your tongue lightly across his damp skin.
He sighs with pleasure in response, bringing his head down slightly to your tits to suck intently on each of your pebbled nipples in turn. He leaves gleaming wet traces on your skin as he pulls his mouth away and looks up at you through his dark lashes.
“Can I turn you over, my love?”
You nod enthusiastically and shift yourself onto your front, Ben helping you turn over and get into position. He massages the ample flesh of your ass for a moment, almost growling as he does so.
“You like it, huh?” you ask, turning your head slightly.
“It’s fucking beautiful, baby. I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”
“Please, love.”
He slips back inside you quickly, the new angle making the two of you groan with pleasure. He was right; he doesn’t last much longer. He moans your name as he comes, bringing his head round to kiss you.
“I love you, Lyddie.”
The taste of his mouth, the feeling of his broad, beautiful body, of the soft, warm skin of his chest and tummy on your back, of him, still buried deep inside you. The sensations are both devastatingly erotic and incredibly comforting.
You are safe. You are loved. You are home.
You cuddle together on your couch later that evening, watching Seinfeld reruns after sharing some Chinese takeout. Save for your excursion to the café, and getting up for dinner, you’ve been in bed together all day: kissing and touching and fucking and talking and laughing.
Ben is resting his head in your lap. Both of you are far more interested in each other than what’s on the TV: you playing with his curls and occasionally lightly stroking at his beard, he reaching a hand up to caress your cheek or press his fingers to your mouth.
You bend your head forward and kiss the top of his head. “You are so lovely-looking, Benjamin Morales.”
He flushes, ears pinking up a little. “Thanks, darling.”
He pauses a moment, then brings himself back up to a sitting position. “Can I - can I ask you something, Lyddie?”
“Of course, love. Is…is everything okay?”
He smiles softly. “It’s wonderful, Lyd, but I was just wondering. When did you know?”
“When did I know?”
He looks a little embarrassed. “When did you know that, uh, you liked me? More than just as a friend, I mean.”
“Ohhhhh. Well, I was wondering the same.”
“I did ask first…” His gaze is flirtatious and cheeky, and you melt a little inside.
“Well, I guess - no, I know exactly when. The day of my birthday. You’d come with the coffee, you laughed so hard at one of my stupid stories that your glasses shot off your face, then you said you’d made Aeropress coffee for my birthday.” You smile at the memory. “And then I watched you walk back down the corridor and - yeah. I knew.”
He raises his eyebrows and gives you a little smile. “That coffee really did it for you, huh.”
“Yeah, it was definitely the coffee.” You look away. “There were little things that had been happening in the weeks before that made me feel - well, different. But I…I guess that was the first time I admitted it to myself. If that makes sense?”
He nods, gently, reaching for your hand.
“Your turn.”
He gives that low, sweet laugh you adore. “Funny thing is, it was kind of around the same time. And yeah, I think I hadn’t wanted to admit it either.” He moves close to you and kisses you on the forehead. “But then I was buying your birthday gifts and your card and - well. Sorta knew I was ‘down bad’, as I once heard one of my nephews saying.”
You giggle. “Never thought I’d hear the phrase ‘down bad’ from your gorgeous lips, Benjamin.”
He grins. “I mean, I thought you were great from day one.”
You nod in agreement. “Same. I felt like I’d known you for years. Fuck. I wish I had met you years ago.”
He wraps an arm around you, bringing you in for a cuddle. “I know, baby. I feel the same, but - maybe this is the exact right time? For the two of us?”
You sigh. “Except I’m not here forever.”
He squeezes you a little tighter. “Cross that bridge when we come to it, Lyd.”
“I love you so much, Ben.” You lift your head and kiss him, hands roaming over his body and pulling him closer still. He reciprocates, tongue swiping at your lips before gaining entrance to your mouth, a hand groping at your breast through your soft, old Sorbonne sweatshirt.
You make out like teenagers, hands slipping under clothes to feel the bare skin underneath and Ben breaking away from the kiss to start working his mouth down your neck. It’s always been a sensitive spot for you, and once he realised this he took every opportunity to go to town on it.
You ease him back and move yourself over to straddle him. You quickly slip off your leggings and panties before climbing onto his lap, your inner thighs clenched around his upper legs as you begin to ride the erection that’s clearly visible through his sweats.
He looks you up and down, a huge smile on his face. “Jesus, fuck, Lyd. Look at you.”
You laugh, and bring your fingers to his waistband. “Can I take these off, baby?”
He nods in agreement, lifting himself up and helping you quickly get his pants off. He strokes his hard length as you move your hips into position above him, ready to take him inside you. You sink onto his cock, moaning with pleasure at the stretch and feeling of fullness. Ben nibbles and bites at your neck as you roll your hips and try to find just the right angle, hands moving to lift off your shirt.
He hums happily as you pull the sweatshirt over your head and fling it behind you.
You lean in to whisper in his ear. “I want to make you come like this, love.”
He gasps and cries out your name as you begin to fuck him harder, bringing his mouth to suck on your nipples.
“You like that?”
“Yeah I fucking do, baby, you’re so good to me. So good.”
He trails a line with his tongue across the soft skin of one of your breasts as you throw your head back and moan with pleasure.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Lyddie. So beautiful. The most beautiful.”
You slow it down a little, though it’s no less intense, and keep that pace until you’ve both come, looking into each other’s eyes as you reach your highs, murmuring words of love and affection into each other’s ears.
Sunday morning is strangely silent, save for the gentle, reassuring sound of Ben breathing beside you. You carefully get out of bed and peek out the window.
It has snowed heavily overnight, and it’s still falling, the fat flakes dropping noiselessly onto the existing deep blanket below. You love the quiet of the early morning on snow days, as the snowfall provides a kind of soundproofing for an otherwise raucous world.
Behind you, you hear the sheets and comforter rustling as Ben stirs. “Lyd?” His voice is thick and sleepy.
You turn and cross back to bed, climbing back in and nuzzling against his warm body. He wraps an arm around you and caresses your back.
“We’re not going anywhere today. Snow day.”
Ben hums contentedly. “Very important we stay in bed then, to keep warm.”
You nod, kissing his chest softly through the fabric of the old T-shirt he’d worn to sleep. “Extremely important. And will have to do things to keep warm in bed.”
He opens one eye and arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Any suggestions?”
You grin mischievously, slipping your hands under his shirt and lifting it up. “Well…there’s something I’ve wanted to do to you all weekend…”
You start to work your way across his chest with your mouth, echoing the way he had kissed your entire body the day before. When you start to move down, bringing your lips and tongue to his belly, he realises what you have in mind.
“Is this okay, Ben?” You look up at him through your lashes. He nods quickly.
“K-keep going, Lyd, I want it. Want your pretty mouth, so much.”
You push down the comforter so he can see you, and return to your ministrations, experimentally trailing your teeth lightly across his tummy and humming with satisfaction as you realise he likes it when you do that.
File that one away for future reference.
You’ve slipped your hand into the loose boxers he wears to bed and are palming his cock, already getting hard under your touch and at the promise of your mouth.
He slips the boxers off and you trace a line with your tongue from his hip to the trail of dark hair leading from his navel.
“Fuck, please, Lyd, need you -“
You survey him for a moment, sucking in your breath as you admire the length and thickness of his erection. You swipe your tongue over your lips, drawing a low moan from Ben in response.
With one hand lightly holding his balls, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock and guide it between your wet lips and into your mouth. The sensation makes him groan with pleasure, and he puts a hand on the back of your head as you begin to take him as deep as possible into the warmth of your mouth and throat.
“Touch yourself, baby, please?” he hisses, and you follow the instruction gladly, groaning on his cock as you play with your pussy.
You intersperse deep throating with almost completely pulling him out, with only the head still in your mouth. The air hits his shaft and he gasps as you suddenly take him back into the heat of your mouth, moaning your name and pushing his hips up to make you take even more of him. You hollow your cheeks and trail your tongue around the head of his cock, before moving a hand from his balls to begin stroking the sensitive patch just behind.
“Fuck, baby! You’re so - so good at this - so fucking good taking me like this.”
The tip of your tongue traces along the underside of his cock and flicks lightly over the tip. Ben positively whines at the sensation, hips bucking slightly. He opens his eyes to watch the sight of his length, coated in your saliva, disappearing in and out of your mouth. You increase the pace a little and feel his balls start to tighten.
You ease him out of your mouth and pause to catch your breath, taking in the gorgeous, sexy sight above. His jaw is a little slack, his eyes half open, his chest and tummy rising and falling as he pants with need and arousal.
You continue to stroke him with one hand. “What do you want, my love?”
He’s almost sobbing as he struggles to string his words together. “You, baby, want…fuck, I’m really close, think I’m gonna -”
The feeling of your warm, wet mouth taking him again tips Ben over the edge and he comes hard, emitting a deep cry as he fills your mouth and throat, his hand still resting on the back of your head.
You crawl back up the bed and nestle into his arms as he pulls you in for a soft kiss. “Was it okay, then?”
He closes his eyes tightly and groans. “It was fucking incredible. You’re really…good at…that. You’re so…fuck. You’re just so good. In every way.” He cuddles you against his chest. “I love you so much.”
You chuckle and kiss his forehead as you pull away. “I love you too, darling. I like it, y’know - making you feel good like that.” You bring yourself to the edge of the bed and put on your slippers. “Just going to get a drink of water, darling.”
When you come back to bed, carrying two glasses of water, Ben is already fast asleep. He’s got a soft smile on his lips and a look of pure contentment on his face. You slip back in beside him and watch him for a couple of minutes: the little twitches in his eyebrows, the way his mouth is slightly open, revealing a glimpse of his teeth below that soft lower lip, the way his dark lashes rest on his cheeks when his eyes are closed. Slowly, surely, you drift off again.
The buzzing of your phone wakes you for the second time. Half asleep, and cuddled into Ben, you fumble for the phone and look at the screen through bleary eyes.
Kate
You swipe to answer the call and prop the phone up on your pillow so you can talk to your sister without getting up properly.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lyd! Why the fuck are you whispering? Where are you? All I can see is a bed, some of your hair…OH MY GOD?!”
“What?! And what do you mean, you can see a bed?”
“Lyd, are you in bed with some - oh. Ohhhh. I see. Hey, Lyd?”
“Mmmmmfff, what?”
“You’re on a video call. Now - is that him?”
Ben is rudely awoken by the sound of you yelling and swearing as you scramble to sit up in bed. He lifts his head from the pillow, hair sticking up and eyes full of sleep.
“Lyddie? Wha’ happened? Everything okay?”
Kate raises her voice so he can hear her. “Well, hello there!”
“Oh, fuck off, Obi-Wan,” you mutter, panicking at the decidedly unplanned introduction.
Kate rolls her eyes and huffs. “Ben, right? I’m Kate. I’m Lyd’s sister. Lyd, turn me around - if he’s decent, that is.”
You groan and bury yourself in the pillow as you tilt your phone so Kate can see Ben, and vice versa. “That’s my little sister. That’s Kate, with her impeccable fucking timing and inability to warn me she’s doing a video call.”
Ben sits up and reaches for his glasses so he can see properly. “Mmmmm. Hello, Kate. It’s nice to, uh, meet you. And who’s that there with you?”
“HI AUNTIE LYD! LOOK, NEW BOOK!”
Could this get any more awkward? At least you’re both wearing something.
You put on a brave face and smile.
“Hi, Cora! That’s such a cool book. Can you show me the cover?”
Your niece, book completely forgotten, peers closely at the screen, tiny face looming on camera. “Who’s that man in bed?”
You can hear Kate laughing like a drain. “That’s Auntie Lyd’s…special friend, Ben. Ben, this is my eldest, Cora.”
Ben, a little sheepish, waves at the camera and smiles. “Hi, Cora. I’m so happy to meet you!”
You try not to think too much about how adorable he is with kids.
Cora stares at Ben, nonplussed. “What’s your whole big name?”
“She means your full name,” Kate explains. “She’s obsessed. They started learning about them in nursery.”
Ben chuckles lightly. “Well, my whole big name would be Benjamin Ernesto Morales.” He enunciates his name carefully and clearly for the little girl. “Or just Benjamin Morales. But please, you can call me Ben.”
Cora appraises him and tries to repeat Ben’s name. “Benjaman? Benjamoraless?” She nods to herself, satisfied she got it right. “I like your smile, Benjamoraless.”
Ben beams. “Thank you, Cora. I like your smile, too.”
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt your little sleepover any longer,” Kate says, a smug smile on her face. “Lyd, I’ll talk to you later, if you aren’t too busy.” She collapses in giggles. “Ben, seriously - I’m really happy to meet you, even if it’s via a screen. That one is crazy about you.”
You moan in embarrassment and pull the comforter over your face.
“Nice to meet you too, Kate, and Cora, of course. And I’m crazy about this one, too.”
You peek from under the comforter and catch his eye. He winks and smiles softly.
“BYE AUNTIE LYD BYE BYE BEN” - Cora pauses, trying to replicate Ben’s whole big name as she says goodbye - “BENJA- BENJAMOO!”
The call ends and you emerge from under the comforter and bury your face in your hands. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Ben wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “What are you apologising for? You should see what TJ sent me - message after message asking if I’d talked to you, and then, when I said I was staying with you this weekend, well…”
Ben reaches for his phone and finds the message. It’s a video of a sweet-faced, dark haired man you recognise from photos in Ben’s house, dancing and whooping in delight with a smiling woman with a head of purple curls and bright, striking eyes.
“Eyyyyyyyyyyy! Get it, hermano! We told you! We love you!!”
“And that is TJ and his wife, Lucy.”
You giggle. “They’re happy for you. For us, I guess? They look really sweet.”
“They are, truly. And you know, I was glad to meet your sister and your niece. You talk about them all the time, I know you miss them.”
“I know, but - it’s not the classiest way to meet your, uh…I mean, my family.”
He pulls back slightly and looks at you, quirking his mouth. “Your what?”
“Well…what am I? Please don’t say special friend.”
He smiles, though still looks a little confused. “Girlfriend, surely? Unless you have another preferred term. Partner? Lover? Lady friend?” He lowers his voice and wiggles his eyebrows. “Paramour?”
You laugh out loud. “Are we in a mad medieval fantasy novel? I’m very, very happy to be your girlfriend.” A broad smile creeps across your face. “As long as you’re happy to be my boyfriend, of course.”
He looks in your eyes, expression soft and intent. “It’s a fucking honour.”
Ani Sen likes to get in early on a Monday morning, especially near the start of the semester when things are particularly busy. The buildings are usually quiet, and they can have free rein over the copier and the coffee machine in the staff lounge. There’s an added incentive this week, though - Cass is staying with Ani for a few days this week, and they’re keen to free up their evenings as much as possible so they can enjoy the time together.
Ani has their suspicions about what transpired on Friday night after Ben went after you. They wanted to give you some space, though, simply sending a quick text on Saturday morning:
ANI: You good?
LYDIA: All good 😍
ANI: Fuckin’ finally 😏
They’re enjoying the silence of the staff lounge and the rare pleasure of a fresh cup of coffee from the machine, leafing through their weekly planner and making a mental note to pop in to your office later, when the calm is interrupted by the sound of a man humming what sounds like ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’. The humming gets louder until, finally, Ani looks up and sees Ben literally dancing into the staff lounge.
He seems completely oblivious to their presence as he reaches into the cupboard, retrieves two mugs, and pours the coffee while bobbing his head, still humming happily.
“And a very good morning to you, Benjamin.”
Ben turns, slightly startled. “ANI!” He grins. “It is a good morning. Did you have a nice weekend?”
Ani rolls their eyes. “I did, but more importantly - did you?” They lower their glasses and look at Ben, accusingly arching an eyebrow.
He blushes a little, pursing his lips before giving in and smiling broadly. “Uh…”
Ani can’t help but smile in turn, shaking their head exasperatedly. “I’ll take that as a yes.” They gesture as if shooing him out of the room. “I guess the two of you might need some extra caffeine today, huh? Go on, get!”
You grin at the sight of the familiar silhouette at your door. Everything is different - and yet, just as it was.
“Hi. Got you some coffee, Lyddie.”
Ben places the two mugs on your desk before walking around to your side and kissing you quickly, but tenderly. You let out a little sigh of pure joy and squeeze his hand before he heads back towards the door.
“Thank you, love. You’ve got a 9am, don’t you?”
He nods, sipping his coffee. “Yup. The least popular teaching slot in human history: Mondays at 9.”
“Pffft. Your students love you, you’ll probably have a full house. Hey - lunch later?”
He smiles. “Let’s grab some of the nice sandwiches from the place on Main Street. What time suits - 12.30?”
“Sounds perfect.”
He stops and takes you in for a moment, before closing the door and walking back down the corridor to his office.
At mid-morning, you’re cracking through your to-do list with unusual speed, headphones on and your favourite playlist turned up loud to keep out any distractions.
You’re entering student marks from the end-of-semester assignments when the bassy, bluesy riff of Heart’s ‘Magic Man’ kicks in. Lost in your own happy little world, you start to dance in your desk chair, hips moving and head bobbing in time to the rhythm as you sing along enthusiastically.
I could not run away, it seemed
We’d seen each other in a dream
Seemed like he knew me
He looked right through me, yeah
By the first chorus, the marks entry is forgotten as you give the performance your all, for your audience of books and paperwork.
Eyes closed, you can’t help but giggle knowingly to yourself as you sing:
Ooooooh
You’ve got the magic hands
“Yeah, you do, baby,” you murmur to yourself as the guitar solo kicks in and you spin in your chair.
“Enjoying yourself, Professor?”
“FUCK, Ani!” You grip the arms of your chair to steady yourself as Ani stands, perfectly poised, in the doorframe.
“How…how fucking long have you been there?”
“Since you were singing about trying to get your mama to understand he’s a magic man. Good weekend, then?” They sidle into your office and sit in the armchair in the corner. “Not that I needed to know about his ‘magic hands’.”
You slump forward. “Oh, god.”
Ani laughs, and you detect the kindness in their voice. “Fuck, Lyd, I’m sorry. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re just…well. You’re happy. Right?”
You lift your head tentatively. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. We are.”
Ani smiles and nods. “We? It’s a we, is it?”
You sit back up as a smile spreads across your face. “Yeah, I guess it is. Hey - thanks for Friday night.”
“Should be Benjamin you’re thanking, no?”
“Wouldn’t have anything to thank him for if you and Jen hadn’t been complete and utter legends and read him the riot act.”
They shrug and make a satisfied little pout. “Just doing my job, ma’am. Right, I’m gonna get back to prepping for the afternoon seminars.” They stand up and adjust their perfectly-mismatched statement jewellery. “I’m fucking thrilled for you guys, Lyd. Even if you are two of the biggest idiots in love I’ve ever seen in my fuckin’ life.”
Evan Rhys doesn’t teach on a Monday this semester, so he usually works from home. But he goes a bit stir crazy if he doesn’t leave the house at least once, so he usually walks into the centre of town to grab a coffee after eating lunch.
He’s standing in the queue of the Barrow branch of the big-name coffee chain, oversized long-line cardigan and padded jacket wrapped around himself, foot tapping, keys jangling, and lanyard (with his staff ID and coffee shop loyalty card) dangling from his hand. Evan is sailing into the new semester with a shock of scarlet hair, inspired by him and David bingeing on Good Omens over the holidays. (Evan considers himself very much a Crowley.)
“Can I take your order and a name, sir?”
He spits it out like machine-gun fire, with practiced ease. “Yeah that’s a venti five shot half-caf iced espresso with hazelnut syrup and a DROP - a DROP - of heavy cream for Evan to go please thanks”
The staff member nods and prints out the coffee order label, affixing it to Evan’s rainbow glitter reusable tumbler, purchased during the chain’s most recent Pride campaign.
Evan moves down the counter to wait for his order, gazing aimlessly out the window of the store at the passing traffic on Main Street. A couple, wrapped up warm in winter coats and soft, knitted hats, emerges hand in hand from the good sandwich place just across the street, looking completely besotted with each other.
“Awwww,” Evan says to himself. He’s a sucker for that kind of Hallmark Channel holiday small-town romance movie shit. And then something gives him pause, and he reaches into the pocket of his coat and retrieves his oversized, clear-framed glasses.
“WHAT in the FUCK?!” He turns to the barista. “Is that gonna be much longer?”
They shrug. “You want half-caf, it takes longer, sir.”
Evan grits his teeth. “FINE. I will be back. I need to speak to those people urgently.”
You lean in for another kiss, arms wrapped snugly around Ben’s waist as he holds you close. “I probably taste all garlicky after the sandwich, love.”
He laughs and shrugs. “Meh, so do I. Better kiss you again just to see, though. Just to be sure.”
You kiss again with a smile on both your faces, oblivious to the world around you - until a voice jolts you back to reality.
“EX-FUCKING-CUSE ME?”
Evan’s gaze flits from you to Ben and back again, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.
“Aw, hi Evan! I didn’t see you in work today, I -“
“I work from HOME on a MONDAY this SEMESTER, LYDIA now WHAT THE FUCK? Are you - is this…?” He scrabbles for his phone, hastily swiping at the screen.
Ben looks at you, a little concerned. “Evan, what are you doing?”
“Hold it, Benjamin.” You hear David’s voice as he picks up the call. “Hiiiiii baby how are you miss you! LOOK AT THIS! LOOK at this sneaky, sneaky pair!” He turns the phone round so you and Ben are visible to David, who smiles and waves.
“Hey, Ben, Lydia! I’m guessing you let the light in, huh.”
You blush and lean into Ben’s chest. “Yeah. Thank you, David.”
“You KNEW??” Evan turns the phone back round, staring indignantly at his boyfriend.
“Not that they had actually got together, but…”
David is interrupted by the barista emerging from the coffee shop with Evan’s iced coffee. Evan thanks them profusely before turning his attention back to you, Ben, and - via FaceTime - David.
“Well, I cannot believe this is how I find out. I mean we all knew you were madly in dork love or whatever but I thought I would have been informed of this.”
“Ani didn’t really know exactly what had happened until this morning, Ev. I’m really sorry, you were away for the weekend and we…” You look up at Ben, who’s clearly chewing on the inside of his cheek in order to stop himself laughing. “We were pretty busy, um, catching up.”
Evan sighs, takes a deep sip of his coffee, and closes his eyes. “Fine. Fine. But I expect to be kept abreast of any further developments.” He looks at his phone and ends the call. “Babe, I’ll call you later.”
You nod and reach out to give him a hug.
“It’s just…” Evan’s expression changes, softening as he looks at the two of you. “It’s just that I fucking care about the two of you. And I’m so fucking happy that you worked your stupid nerd shit out and realised you were crazy about each other. Truly.” He embraces the two of you, before standing back as if he’s waving you off on a long journey. “I love you guys. Now go forth and be dorks together forever, or whatever.”
You and Ben turn in the direction of campus, hand in hand, leaving Evan and his mind-bogglingly complex coffee watching after you like a proud mother.
Evan reaches into his pocket and digs out his phone again, tapping out a message at high speed.
EVAN: The love was requited…
ANI: …They were just fucking idiots.
“Were we meant to tell everyone?” Ben asks as you near the college.
You laugh. “No, I think they were just really invested. Hence Evan and his ‘go forth and be dorks’ thing.”
Ben smiles. “‘Be dorks together forever’, you mean.”
You smile and nod, squeezing his hand to try to dispel the worry that creeps into your brain when you think about the future and about what happens when you have to return to your ‘real’ job, to your ‘real’ home. Even if, in this moment, the thing that feels most real and true to you is the handsome, kind, loving man holding your hand in the crisp January cold.
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)
Further A/N: It's such a bop and felt like the perfect song for Lyd to be singing along to 'alone'. Thanks, @julesonrecord, for pointing out the line about his 'magic hands'. 😉
youtube
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories#Youtube
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Chapter 8: Sister Winter
(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: The morning after brings complicated feelings as Ben and Lydia return to their respective families for the holiday season.
Word Count: 7.7k
Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)
Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia is 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; references to PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; serious self-esteem issues; references to panic attacks and anxiety disorders; references to the holidays; both Ben and Lydia come from families that mark Christmas; angst central.
A/N: The title of this chapter is inspired by Sufjan Stevens' eponymous song, which is one of my go-to Melancholy Winter Tracks. And yes, it was really weird writing Christmas in July.
youtube
I'm so grateful for all the love I've had for this story and for this pair. Every comment and reblog and ask is a little lift to my soul!
This chapter introduces Lydia and Ben's extended families. In addition to their chosen and found families, both in work and in their friendship groups, this pair are from closely-knit families of origin - though of course, that brings with it its own challenges.
Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Cross-posting to AO3.
Chapter 7 - Chapter 9
@lunapascal and @julesonrecord - thank you for cheering me on and offering wise and practical advice with this difficult chapter. @tessa-quayle - I am always so touched by your enthusiasm for these idiot dorksicles (a term I am appropriating from Jules).
Taglist:
@lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl
Ben is a deep sleeper - or maybe he was just completely worn out after your exploits that night.
Either way, he doesn’t even move a muscle as you shift towards the edge of the mattress, fumbling your way out of bed and carefully tip-toeing across the floor, gathering your underwear and dress as you come across them on the floor.
The panic hit you when you woke around 5am, eyes flicking open suddenly in the dark stillness of Ben’s bedroom. The only sound was his soft, steady breathing, interspersed with the occasional tiny snore. In slumber, he somehow appeared even more handsome, more beautiful, snugly nestled into his pillow and hair sticking up at all angles. Fragments of light peeked around the edges of the blinds, picking out some of his features.
Whereas a couple of hours before his lovely face had felt like a comfort, in the wee small hours of the morning it triggered doubt. Your brain promptly forgot everything he had said about how beautiful he thought you were, how much he’d wanted you. Instead, it struck up a familiar, repetitive chorus.
He couldn’t really want you. He’s so gorgeous. You don’t deserve him. He’s sexy and kind and good and you’re a mess. Even if he thinks he wants you now, eventually he’ll realise he’s made a mistake.
In the light of day, you might have been able to muster the little tricks you’d learned in therapy to quiet the voice of your inner bully. In the early hours, vulnerable and anxious in Ben’s bed, the chorus simply grew more insistent.
So you carefully get out of bed and pick up your clothes. You pad out of the bedroom and find the bathroom, hoping that a splash of cold water might reset your thinking.
Instead, the sight of yourself in the mirror just serves as further evidence for the case against you. Your makeup is smudged, settling into every line and wrinkle. You look jowly and heavy: matronly, even, and certainly not worthy of the handsome, good man whose bed you’d shared.
You feel the defences around your heart building themselves back up again.
You shouldn’t have let them down in the first place.
Still, you seem to want to somehow change your own mind. You tip-toe back across the hallway and peer around the door into the bedroom, as if maybe seeing Ben might quell the panic that’s beating a frantic, jolting rhythm in your chest.
He’s still in the same position, his back to you as you stand at the door. There’s not a lot of him that’s visible, save for the tufts of messy hair and the outline of his broad form under the comforter.
The panic eases momentarily as you feel a surge of affection and want. For an instant, you allow yourself to remember how good it felt to make love with him, to laugh and kiss and hold and touch and fuck together.
You have to leave in a few months. It would have to end one way or another. You couldn’t face that. You couldn’t go through the pain. And what if you hurt him, too? Better to get out now.
You return to the bathroom to dress quickly and quietly. In the semi-darkness, you pad down the stairs and retrieve your shoes, bag, and coat from the hallway.
What the fuck are you doing?
“I’m getting out before he has the chance to reject me. Before we get too deep. Before I have to go home. Before it has to end. Before I hurt him.”
Before I fuck it up, like I always do. I always ruin everything.
You remember from Thanksgiving that there’s a little notepad in the kitchen, for shopping lists and reminders. You think for a few moments before writing a note to Ben, folding it over and affixing it to the front of his fridge with a magnet.
You know this is going to hurt him.
“Better than really hurting him further down the line, even if I’d never want to. I don’t deserve him.”
You try to block out the memory of the evening before, urgent declarations of want and your bodies pushed together against the hallway wall, as you quietly open the front door and leave.
His immediate instinct as he blinks awake and stretches his long arms is to reach for you, to find your soft, warm body and pull you to him for another kiss, another cuddle; another chance to feel you, so wet and tight and perfect, as he sinks back into you.
“Mmmmm. Morning, baby.” Nothing.
Ben sits up and realises he’s on his own. He wanders around the upper floor of his home, calling your name, as if he’ll summon you out of the ether by repeating it.
He moves down the stairs and into the hallway, now filled with the crisp morning light of midwinter. Still nothing.
His final hope is that you’re in the kitchen. Maybe you couldn’t sleep. Maybe you were hungry, or thirsty.
“Lyddie?”
No you. Just a note.
“What the fuck, Lyddie. What the fuck are you doing?”
He leans back against the countertop, staring at the folded piece of paper - at his name, carefully inscribed in your neat, flowing script.
Dear Ben,
Thank you for last night - it was great, really. I thought it would be easier if I just headed out. I didn’t want to wake you. Safe travels west. Happy holidays. See you soon. - L.
“Fuck.”
The thing that really drove you out of the safe warmth of Ben Morales’ arms and bed and out into the half-light of a December morning, walking home to your empty apartment alone and afraid, wasn’t your fear of fucking up - at least, not really. It was part of it, true, but what tipped the balance was not just fear, but feelings.
You pack the last of your things for the journey home for the holidays and try to ignore that simple fact. You had kept your defences up so sturdily and so dutifully for a long time, until he came along. Until you had to go catching feelings for a man who lived an entire ocean away from you.
You were frightened of fucking up because what you had - the friendship, whatever situation you entered into when he pressed his lips to yours and took you into his bed - meant the world to you. You were scared of hurting him, and of being hurt, because you cared about him so much.
It was a strange paradox: you had done something that hurt the two of you now, in order to avoid the potential for greater pain further down the line. You’d always had a natural inclination to run from things that scared or overwhelmed you, after all. In your own, tortured logic, it made sense to run from the sheer force of your feelings for Ben.
As you checked and double-checked the apartment while waiting for your cab to the airport, you remembered David’s words and felt a little guilty. You’d tried, though. You’d tried to let the light in. You just hadn’t expected it to blind you.
You’ve been avoiding your phone, save for sending a message to your family group chat to let them know you were safely en route to the airport. When your mother’s name pops up, you open the message.
MOM: Good woman, Lyd, you’re there good and early! Time to have a nice coffee and a bite to eat. Can’t wait to see you!
Your mother was always thrilled when you got to the airport ahead of schedule, knowing your propensity for last-minute panic. You had no idea how to explain to her why you were sitting, red-eyed and heartbroken, in an airside coffee shop three whole hours early.
You still hadn’t opened the two voice notes from Ben. A missed call on the phone, which you spotted after you got through security, then the two notes. Part of you had hoped that if you just ignored them long enough, they’d go away. Typical Lyd.
You take a deep breath and a sip of your enormous festive coffee, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles and reeking of peppermint syrup. You pop in your earbuds and press play.
The sound of his voice is like a knife to the heart. You’d feared anger, but instead Ben sounds like he’s aching.
“Hi, Lyddie - Lydia. I, uh, I got your note. Um. I guess I thought we were on the same page, about… about last night. Maybe not. Sorry if I got the wrong idea. I… anyway. I guess you’re on your way home now, or about to be. I’ll, um - I’ll talk to you. Happy holidays. Safe travels.”
It’s all you can do not to run out of that airport and hop into a cab back to his place, to hold him, to tell him how sorry you are, to beg him to forgive you for being a fucking idiot.
You’ve fucked it up. Told you you would.
You press play on the second voice note. His voice, still cracking a little, sounds stronger, steadier, more determined.
“Hi, just wanted to say - I don’t regret it. I don’t regret that we spent the night together. I’ll never regret that, no matter what. It meant something to me. I don’t want you to regret it, Lyd. Please.”
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press ‘call’. He doesn’t answer.
Ben listens to your voice note again while he’s sitting in the departures lounge, a day after you’d passed through. He hasn’t slept very much in the last day and a half. This morning, when he was washing his face and trimming his beard and moustache, he was sure he’d aged a decade in the space of less than 48 hours. The delay to his flight gives him plenty of time to nurse an enormous black coffee, though he wishes it was something even stronger.
“Hi. I’m at the airport. I tried calling, but - I guess you’re busy. Or maybe you just don’t want to talk. I understand why you - listen, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know what - I can explain, it’s just - it’s hard not being able to do that face to face. I promise, I can explain. I can. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ben.”
Your voice catches at that point in the voice note, and he can hear you trying not to completely break down. It breaks his heart every time he listens to the message.
“I guess I will see you in the new year, then? I promise I’ll explain then. Safe travels west. Okay, then. Bye.”
Jet lag is a bitch. But you summon the strength and focus to slip in your earbuds in the privacy of your childhood bedroom at home, and press play on the next voice note he sent you.
You might be imagining it, but his tone is softer. He still sounds hurt, but calmer, somehow.
“Hey there. I’m just about to fly out. I got your message and - yeah. Probably best to see how things are in January. Maybe it’ll be good to have some space, clear our heads. Anyway.” He pauses, his voice quieter. “It’s good to hear your voice, Lyd.”
Oh, fuck. He wants space. Fuck. That’s not good.
You take three attempts at your response before you manage to record a coherent message.
“Hey. I hope the flights are okay, and that you get there safely. Yeah - um, yeah. Space, clear our heads. So, guess I’ll give you your space, until I see you and can explain. And it’s so good to hear your voice, too.”
You press send, your eyes glancing over the little round picture of Ben at the top of the screen. You say the words you’d left unsaid at the end of your message.
“God, I miss you, darling.”
TJ Morales waits inside the arrivals hall at San Francisco International with his twelve year old twin sons, Dylan and Carlos. There’s only eighteen months between TJ - Thomas Juan, to give him his full name - and his older brother, and despite living on opposite sides of the country for a decade, they’re very close. It’s become an annual tradition, when Ben returns for the holidays, for TJ and the boys to pick him up.
This year, the three are decked out in an array of Star Wars-themed Christmas shirts to welcome Ben home: Dylan’s printed with a pattern of C3PO in a Santa hat, Carlos wearing a shirt emblazoned with Chewbacca wrapped in fairy lights, and their father wearing a pattern rather sweetly titled ‘We Wish You A Merry Sithmas’.
The running joke in the family was that TJ was the ‘cool brother’, a title he’d given himself when they were in middle school, much to the amusement of their parents. In many ways, that dynamic held fast to the present day. TJ, with his laidback personality, his long dark locks and neat beard, his array of plaid shirts, band T-shirts, and casual hoodies, still seemed to embody West Coast cool in a way that his more serious, anxious brother didn’t. His job certainly helped - a sound engineer for a video game studio, the kind of job both boys could have only dreamed of as they hid their shared Game Boy from their younger sister, Teresa.
Even so, as Ana Morales liked to remind people when she spoke about her sons, when she’d asked a three year old TJ what he wanted to be when he grew up, his answer was clear: “I wanna be like Ben.”
The sliding doors open and passengers begin to stream out, excitedly greeted by their families and friends. The two boys keep watch at the barrier, their dark curls bobbing up and down as they compete to spot their beloved tío first.
“Tío Ben!!”
Carlos wins this year, waving frantically to his uncle as he pushes his luggage trolley through the doors.
Ben grins widely as he wraps an arm around each of his nephews, ruffling their hair as they show off their new holiday shirts. TJ throws his arms around his big brother, embracing him tightly. “Welcome home, hermano. We missed you.”
As he pulls away, TJ notices how tired Ben looks. His smile, genuine as it is, doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You okay, Ben?” he asks in a low voice as they follow the boys out of the terminal and in the direction of the parking lot.
Ben nods, putting his arm around his brother as they walk. “I’m okay. Just tired. It’s been a long semester. I’m so glad to be home with you guys - it’s been forever.”
“Can I ask you something, Lyd?”
Your younger - only - sibling, Kate, is bouncing her one year old daughter Evie on her lap while Cora, her older girl, dances around the room and sings along to Encanto.
“We don’t talk about Bru- sure, of course. What’s up?”
“Are you alright? You’re normally full of energy when you’re home for the holidays and you just seem - I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like someone’s turned down your brightness.”
You haven’t said anything to Kate about Ben - well, nothing more than acknowledging him as part of the wider group of friends you’d established at Barrow. You certainly haven’t told her about your growing closeness, or what had happened, or - god forbid - your feelings for him.
It wasn’t that you two weren’t close enough for sharing that kind of confidence. You’d been brought even closer together since your ex-partner had cheated and left. You just felt like if you actually articulated the words, it would make it too real. Too much. Too fragile, too likely to disappear like every other crush or love affair you’d ever had.
“I’m just tired, I think. It was a lot in a few months - moving there, adjusting to a new environment, meeting all those new people, doing new classes. You know I’m always wrecked at the end of the semester.”
Kate raises an eyebrow sceptically while Evie chews on a giraffe-shaped teething toy. “There’s something off.”
You exhale, frustrated. “I’m fine.”
“Did you meet someone?”
Your eyes widen. How the FUCK does she know?
“I don’t know what the hell you’re on about. What gives you that idea?”
“You were happy when we’d talk and FaceTime. You were always so excited going out with your new friends. And now you’re back here you’re tired and gloomy. It just makes me wonder, you know - was there more than intellectual stimulation going on over there. If you know what I mean.”
You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Kate.”
“They’re working you too hard, Benjamin. Doesn’t your poor brother look tired, Thomas?”
TJ exhales and takes a sip of his coffee. He was used to the annual routine - their mother fussing over Ben like he’d been thoroughly neglected since the last time he was home.
“I asked him earlier and he said he was fine. Didn’t you, B?”
Ben nods. “I’m fine, mom.”
Ana Morales does not seem convinced. “Well, you’ve got a couple of weeks now to rest up. We’ll take care of you.”
TJ shoots a look at the twins, who giggle conspiratorially.
The door into the kitchen opens and Lucy, TJ’s wife, staggers in carrying a precarious stack of lilac-coloured cake boxes printed with the logo for Pun in the Oven, her bakery and coffee shop in the city. Ben and TJ immediately stand up to relieve her of the burden, placing the boxes on the kitchen table as Lucy - or as she’s more usually called, Luce - wipes her brow and grins in the direction of her brother-in-law.
“BENJAMIIIIIIIIN!” She grabs Ben and pulls him in for a hug, smiling widely. “Missed you, man!”
Ben smiles softly at her in turn. “You look great, Luce. Any new tattoos since I saw you last?”
Luce arches an eyebrow and holds out her left hand, revealing a simple outline of a heart in purple ink in the space between her index finger and thumb.
“Hope you don’t mind, dude. Took some inspiration from your bullseye for this one, just because I always thought the placement was cool.”
Ben spreads the fingers on his left hand, flexing his thumb slightly as he looks at the small bullseye tattoo he had done during his junior year abroad.
“I’m honoured. Any chance your husband might get a matching one, eh?”
Luce giggles and wraps an arm around TJ. “You know he hates needles. He got our initials done, that was enough for me. He was so brave.” She plants a kiss to TJ’s cheek, triggering dry-heaving noises from their sons.
Ana surveys the stack of cake boxes on her table. “You didn’t need to, Luce. This is far too much.”
Luce shakes her head and holds up her hands. “Nonsense. Just a couple of the leftovers from today and a few extra batches of the holiday specials I threw in this morning. Plus, for the homecoming…”
She lifts the lid on one of the boxes and pushes it in Ben’s direction.
“Coffee and walnut - your favourite.”
Ben’s eyes light up and he hugs his sister-in-law. “This is the best gift I could ask for. Thanks, Luce.”
“Don’t you think he looks tired, Luce? He needs to rest, poor boy.” Ana tilts her head at Ben, who is already searching for a knife to cut a slice of the cake.
Luce does think Ben looks tired, but there’s something else that’s just not quite right. A sadness, somewhere, or a resurgence of his anxiety. You can see it in his eyes. Maybe her husband knows more.
“We’ll look after him.”
There’s always been something special about Christmas Eve. As a child it was the anticipation and excitement for the day to come, desperate to go to bed but too excited to sleep. As an adult, drafted in to help prep the food for the next day’s dinner, you peeled potatoes, sliced carrots, and monitored the turkey slowly cooking in the oven while listening to carols and Christmas songs on the radio.
More than that, there was something in the air - maybe not ‘magic’, contrary to the message pushed in every TV ad since November. But possibility: of transformation, of newness, of togetherness, whether with blood family, found family, or whatever community you chose for yourself.
Or, just maybe, you’d completely internalised A Christmas Carol. Never mind Charles Dickens, that was mostly the Muppets’ fault.
The arrival of your little nieces in recent years has brought back some of the old traditions from your own childhood. You’d been followed around for most of the day by Cora, who had turned three a few months before.
“How does Santa bring all the things, Auntie Lyd?”
You smile and continue peeling potatoes. “I think he has some magic that lets him have a really big sleigh that just carries all the toys for everyone.”
“But then it’s too big and won’t fly.”
“No, it will. Because it’s magic.”
“But then he has’ta come down the chimley.” She gazes up at you, narrowing her eyes. “Should just use the magic to put the presents down.”
You’re stuck there. Thankfully, your brother-in-law Marc arrives in search of another slice of cake, and you palm her off on her daddy.
With Cora and Evie safely in bed and asleep, you and your parents help your sister and her husband set up the living room, carefully setting out the Santa gifts and filling the little stockings embroidered with each girl’s name.
Marc takes a careful bite out of the slice of cake and drains the glass of port left at the fireplace. “I don’t know how he isn’t absolutely rat-arsed, with all the port and whiskey and that being left out for him. No wonder he’s falling down chimneys.”
With your parents gone to bed, and Marc watching Die Hard on a random movie channel, you and your sister unwind for a bit with tea and Christmas cookies. She eyes you up, as if steeling herself to make a confession. Or, as it turns out, to encourage you to make one.
“So, who is he?” Kate poses the question at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her gigantic Christmas mug of tea.
You put down your own mug and sigh.
One of Cora’s favourite questions about Santa Claus is how he does it all in one night. Apart from magic, which even at three she seems sceptical about, you tend to cite time zones as an explanation.
After all, how else could Cora and Evie be already starting to wake up to their gifts on one side of the world, while Santa hasn’t yet visited the extended Morales clan on the other?
With Luce and TJ hosting Christmas this year, they extended an invitation to Ben and Ana to stay with them on Christmas Eve. In truth, they hoped being roped in for an 80s Christmas movie marathon with his nephews would help distract Ben a little. Maybe even get him in the holiday mood.
By 11pm, Lucy has finished the prep for tomorrow’s meal and is shooing her sons to their beds. Their grandmother retired a couple of hours before to the guest bedroom, carrying a dog-eared copy of A Christmas Carol - she likes to read the last couple of chapters every Christmas Eve, even if Tiny Tim always makes her cry.
“I’m going to head up, babe - don’t stay up too late. You have all the stuff for the sofa bed, Ben?”
Ben turns to acknowledge his sister-in-law, nodding. “All here. Thanks, Luce, it’s really nice spending Christmas Eve with you guys.”
She smiles warmly. “It’s our pleasure. Teej, I’ll see you in a bit? G’night, Ben. Merry Christmas.”
The Morales boys are sitting on TJ’s couch, each drinking a beer while Scrooged plays, quietly, on the TV.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” TJ runs a finger along the condensation on his bottle of beer, sleeves rolled up on his blue flannel.
Ben fiddles with the cuff of his own, pine-green checked shirt. “As in…?”
His younger brother fixes him with a glare.
“As in what - or should I say, who’s - on your mind?”
“He’s called Ben. He’s a literature professor at Barrow.”
“Her name is Lyddie - I mean, Lydia. She’s a visiting professor. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her?”
“I met him on the very first day. He was my - what did he call himself? - my ‘welcome wagon’.”
“We went to dinner, as we normally do with the visiting people. And we just…man. Clicked. As friends.”
“I mean, I made a Big Night reference and he got it? Honestly, I hadn’t had such a good time in…I can’t remember. I told him about what happened - the shit hitting the fan, and all that.”
“I guess we just started hanging out. Having coffee, talking - just friendly stuff, you know? She was new, we had a lot in common. I - I liked having her around.”
“He was so sweet to me when I was settling in. Like, I have made some really good friends over there. But sometimes he’d bring me coffee in the afternoon, and - I dunno, I started to look forward to it.”
“She’s unbelievably smart, TJ. Doesn’t think it. Always puts herself down. Same as when you try to tell her she’s pretty. But she’s so fucking bright, I swear to god. And she has the best taste in movies and music. And she is pretty. More than pretty.”
“And he’s so kind and giving. He’s running this whole diversity programme to try to make Barrow less white and wealthy and he’s had so much shit about it from fucking dickheads who think Ben’s not as good as them because he’s Latino and because his parents had to fucking work hard for a living. Assholes. All that and he’s really goddamn handsome.”
“And she’s a bit of a firecracker when she wants to be. You know that culture war idiot Lacroix? She just went for him at the away day because he was giving me shit.”
“He’s so fucking funny. The biggest dork you’ve ever seen. Actually did a ‘reeling you in’ dance at my birthday drinks to get me on the dancefloor. Once, he laughed so hard in my office that his glasses flew off his face. Hanging out with him is - was - so great.”
“She’s got this knack of knowing how to lift my spirits. I said to her one day that I’ve never laughed as much in work before - I meant before her.”
“I was the only person to get who he’d dressed up as for Halloween. That was a fun night - at Evan’s. You know Evan. You’re mutuals with Evan on Instagram, right? We were a little bit merry. Well, a lot merry. It sounds so fucking dumb but we touched and I swear I could feel electricity going off in my brain, and I…I hadn’t experienced that in years. Years.”
“Had her on my lap on the ride home from Evan’s. I put it down to being a bit drunk on Spooky Margs but honestly, I didn’t want to let her go when we got to her place. I’ll explain the Spooky Marg another time, man, you do not want to know.”
“We do - did - a lot of movie nerding out together. Did I show you the gifts he got me for my birthday? And the card? He got me a Hitchhiker’s Guide card. Y’know, because -”
“42. The answer to the ultimate question. She’s 42. I don’t think I said that to you. I guess I should have known there was something there the day I ordered that card, huh.”
“I knew there was something there on my birthday, for sure. And dancing with him, to that song - fuck. For a couple of minutes I just let myself pretend, you know? But he never did anything more, not that night.”
“I wasn’t drinking when we went out for her birthday, but she was. So I didn’t want to make a move, in case she wasn’t interested and felt I was trying to take advantage. But I wish I had.”
“He ended up alone in Barrow for Thanksgiving, so he invited me to come over. I’m sure I told you about this? The parade, the movie? Well, it was - it was really nice. God, that’s such a shit way of explaining it. It was just -”
“Mom did a video call, remember? And she saw her and she was all nice as pie and then she was giving me shit about whether Lydia was my girlfriend, and why wasn’t she my girlfriend because she was so pretty and so funny, and - god. You know what she’s like.”
“And all day I kept thinking ‘I wish I could tell you how I feel’, and then I’d remember I was just fucking visiting. I’m temporary. It’s temporary, by default. And he couldn’t want someone like me. And you know I can’t go through that hurt again. You know, Kate. You saw me at my lowest.”
“I did think about asking her out that evening, TJ. I did. But she’d said some stuff about being ‘good friends’ or something, and I just thought it was safer not to. I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. You know? She probably wasn’t interested, that’s what I thought.”
“I went to give him a kiss on the cheek to say thank you.”
“I turned to meet her. I wanted it, wanted to kiss her.”
“And we kissed, accidentally. For a couple of seconds. At least, I thought it was accidental. Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t long.”
“I wasn’t brave enough to kiss her like she ought to be kissed. She panicked and I thought she didn’t want it.”
“I should have kept kissing him.”
“We didn’t see each other for a couple of weeks, between conferences and travel. And fuck it, I missed her.”
“We messaged all the time and I still missed him. We didn’t talk about Thanksgiving. Not until - well.”
“So I told her I meant it. Meant to kiss her.”
“I don’t know what it is but tying a man’s tie is so intimate and so hot and - yep. We kissed properly.”
“We ended up back at my place the night before she went home.”
“We…we were together, the night before I came back over here.”
“I’m not being ‘coy’, TJ. I - okay, we slept together. Happy now?”
“Yes, okay, yes, we slept together that night, at his place.”
“And I asked her to stay. I wanted her to stay over. I was ready to drive her home and get her stuff. I would have gone to the fucking airport with her. Anything.”
“I woke up in the early hours and I just - fuck. I just lost it. I flipped. All the dark shit just came roaring back up.”
“She left a note. I couldn’t believe it.”
“The sex was not bad, fuck off! I can’t believe I’m about to say these words to my baby sister but - best sex I’ve ever had. Four times. Four fucking times.”
“I know I’m blushing, dude. It was really, really fucking good. Really good.”
“Who am I, Kate? A fucking cliché? I left him a fucking note? All because I couldn’t handle having real fucking feelings, because I knew I’d fuck it up. Like I always do. And oh look - SHE FUCKED IT UP. Again.”
“I really thought we were on the same page, you know?”
“He left me a voice note. Here, listen.”
“I tried calling her, but she was already at the airport.”
“I called him back. No answer.”
“I don’t think I would have been able to speak to her. She left me a voice note, too.”
“It would be easier to explain in person, right? Wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe we needed the space and time apart, anyway. Especially if she regrets it.”
“He said we could do with the space. He said he hopes I don’t regret it. How could I ever regret that, with him? I’ve fucked it up, Kate. I know it would have been pointless anyway with the temporary visiting stupid situation, but - still. I ruined everything.”
Kate reaches over to pat the back of your hand, her festive, red and green manicure glittering as the light bounces off her nails.
“You probably didn’t, love. You always think you did. Can I - can I see a picture of him, if you have one? Want to see this nerdy sex god for myself.”
You open your phone and swipe through your pictures, finding one you’d taken of Ben on Thanksgiving. He’s holding his plate stacked with blueberry pancakes, smiling and bespectacled on the couch as you watch the Macy’s parade.
“Here he is.”
Kate studies the image carefully, eyebrows raised. She zooms in and out a couple of times.
“Well, hello, gorgeous! He’s handsome. Really handsome. Look at that smile, whew. And those eyes!” She zooms in and out again.
“May I remind you that you are a married mother of two?”
“I can look and appreciate, can’t I?” She swats the air as if brushing your comment away. “Fuck, it’s like someone engineered him in a lab for you. He even kinda looks like a mature version of those imaginary boyfriends you used to draw in your diary when you were thirteen.”
“He is fucking handsome, isn’t he? He’s so - wait, what? How did you know about those?”
Your sister rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Bitch, I read that thing cover to cover. You were so dramatic. Still are. You got any of the two of you together?”
You open your photos and pull up the photos Ani took of you and Ben dancing the night of your birthday drinks. “These are probably the best.”
Kate’s expression changes when she swipes through the set of pictures, zooming in every so often to look at your and Ben’s expressions more carefully. She looks up at you, hands you back the phone, and looks like she might cry.
“You okay?”
“Fucking hell, Lyd, you’ve got it bad. Both of you - I mean, look at the two of you! I know they’re just pictures but on top of everything you’ve said? I don’t think he’s just got a ‘thing’ for you, I think he’s really into you.” She chews on a cookie. “Remind me what you said in the note again.”
You recount the contents of the missive.
“It’s just… you clearly have serious feelings for him. You’ve told me all these things about this wonderful guy. You told me it was the best sex you’ve ever had. And then you say ‘it was great’ to him in a shitty note?! I can understand why he’s pissed off.”
“I screwed this up, didn’t I?”
Kate throws her head back in frustration. “Still dramatic. You screwed it up a bit, but - surely he’s not that much of an asshole that he wouldn’t hear you out?” She drains the last of her tea from the mug. “Admittedly if it wasn’t Christmas, I’d be putting you on a flight to San Fran. However - talk when you get back. Explain face to face. Don’t assume the worst. I don’t think he can turn off his feelings that easily.”
“You don’t know that she regrets it. You don’t even know why she left without saying goodbye. You said she’d had some rough shit in the last couple of years. She said the night together was great in the note, didn’t she? And she’s been in touch, so… I dunno, man. I wouldn’t write her off.”
TJ takes the last swig from his bottle of beer and slaps his brother on the thigh.
“Can I see a photo of this Lydia, then?”
Ben sighs and digs around in his jeans pocket for his phone. He chooses the one he’d taken of you on Thanksgiving, sitting in the diner with your grilled cheese sandwich and basket of fries. You’re still wearing your glasses after the movie, smiling at him in your thick cable-knit sweater.
“That’s Lyddie - I mean, Lydia on Thanksgiving. She made that sweater herself, you know. She’s a talented woman.”
TJ smiles as he studies your features, zooming in a little on your bright, happy face.
“She’s a pretty woman, too. Beautiful smile, gorgeous eyes - kind-looking, and you just know she’s smart and funny as hell.” He turns to his older brother, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”
Ben smiles and huffs a laugh at the reference. “Quoting The Way We Were at me? Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, Ana Morales has good taste in movies! Remember the VHS copy she always used to put on and cry at?”
Ben smiles at the memory. He turns to TJ, eyes full of emotion - worry, sadness, and affection. For his little brother, of course - but for you, too.
“I mean it, Ben. She is lovely. She sounds lovely - disappearing act aside, of course. And the way she’s looking at you in that picture - fuck, man. You can just see how much she likes you. You’ve every right to be hurt and angry, but - maybe don’t give up on her. You’re both too fucking old to let a chance like this slide, bro. Don’t let her go.”
Christmas Day is a chaotic whirlwind of overexcited nieces, a family dinner delivered like a military operation, and fighting over what to watch on TV. Same as it ever was.
It’s nice. It’s comforting. But you’re impossibly lonely, embrace of a loving (if stress-inducing) family unit aside.
Since you’d cut and run a few days before, the steady stream of communication back and forth between you and Ben had essentially ceased, save for the voice notes. It’s become such second nature to you, the constant contact, and the rupture is all the more brutal as a result.
In the early hours of Christmas morning, lying wide awake in your old bed, you remember that during the Apollo missions to the moon they had a thing called LOS, or Loss of Signal. When orbit took the craft to the dark side of the moon, all communication between Mission Control and the astronauts became impossible for a time.
LOS was nerve-wracking, particularly in the first attempts at lunar orbit. What if they never re-established contact? What if something happened on the dark side, leaving the crew lost forever while the rest of the world carried on? You have heard the recordings, the hiss of static fraying the nerves of those on the ground awaiting the return of the signal, the sound of a voice spinning through the vastness of space.
You’re in extended LOS, you realise. In spite of yourself, you smile, thinking how in any other circumstances Ben - with his Saturn V model and his Apollo 11 sweatshirt - would love the analogy.
“Did you send him a happy Christmas message yet?”
Kate doesn’t even look at you as she says it, all casual. She’s too busy scraping the remains of the Christmas dinner off the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.
“The fuck?” Her ability to read your mind is starting to become disturbing.
She swivels. “Did you send Ben a message wishing him a happy Christmas? If I was you I’d take a nice picture and send it. You look cute in that dress.”
“Do you think he wants a Christmas message from me? I doubt it. He wants space.”
Kate closes the dishwasher and presses the start button.
“I don’t think he knows what he wants, probably. Other than you. I’m sure he wants you, going on the way he looked at you in those pictures.”
You make a whining noise. “That was before.”
“You and your apocalyptic thinking. Unfortunately, Lyd, if you want to fix this you’re going to have to be the one leading the fixing. Start with a message.”
She sidles over to the kitchen counter, where your phone is safely tucked away to avoid doom-scrolling, picking it up and waving it menacingly.
“If you don’t, I will.”
“FINE. But I’m not sending him a cute selfie, that’s ludicrous.”
You retreat to your room. It takes you a full half-hour to pick a photo and compose a message.
A notification appears at the top of your screen.
KATE: SEND THAT FUCKING MESSAGE
Breathe. Send. Run away.
Ben sneaks another buñuelo from the pile made by his mother earlier that Christmas morning. The sweet, spicy kick of the cinnamon sugar with the fried dough lifts his spirits - as does the sight of his three niblings side by side on the couch, engrossed in a game on Dylan and Carlos’s Nintendo Switch. A twin sits on either side of their youngest cousin, Julia - Jules to all - and helps her manoeuvre the controller and work her way through the game.
Newly-turned seven, and the daughter of Teresa Morales and her Irish husband Pádraig, Jules might be the youngest in the family but is a tiny force of nature. Though he didn’t have favourites among the three, Ben had a special connection with Jules, who routinely mailed him letters and drawings every couple of weeks. He would diligently respond with a hand-written letter, usually enclosing a couple of packs of stickers or a new book for her to read.
“I’M BORED NOW.” Jules hops off the couch and saunters over to her tío Ben, who’s sitting at the table in the dining room off Luce and TJ’s living room. “Can I have a buñuelo?”
He brushes cinnamon sugar out of his moustache and off his dark red sweater, and looks over at his sister, who rolls her eyes and nods in resignation. “Your mom says yes, so…” He holds out the plate.
Jules scrunches her nose up in delight as she takes a bite, then cocks her head as she studies her uncle. “I think you might be sad.”
This is a perceptive kid, Ben thinks.
“I’m okay, Jules. Just a little tired.”
She chews another bite of her snack and shakes her head. “No. I think you’re sad. I can make you happy, though!” She makes a serious face. “Wait here, okay?”
She returns carrying a bundle of brightly-coloured hair clips and what looks suspiciously like a couple of bottles of nail polish.
“Mama always says she feels happier when she gets her hair done. And has her pretty nails.”
The little girl perches herself on a chair, sets out her equipment, and gets to work, tongue peeking out as she concentrates on painting Ben’s nails (she adds a glittery topcoat for extra effect) and carefully placing hair clips in his hair.
“Everyone, tell tío he looks pretty!”
The rest of the extended Morales clan turn to look at Ben. Dylan and Carlos immediately grab their phones to take photos. TJ raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly.
“That makeover stays put for the rest of the day, Ben.” Teresa is deadly serious, not wanting her little girl to see her handiwork undone.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Jules. I feel much better.”
You allow yourself a glance at your phone later that evening, a glass of champagne lending you some extra courage.
Still nothing.
You cast a glance at the contents of the little gift box Ben had left for you before leaving Barrow. A beautiful, dark red notebook, subtly personalised with your initials in embossed lettering - and a set of Nouvelle Vague-themed film button badges.
“Stupendous as always, Luce!”
Ben and TJ carry stacks of empty dinner plates into the kitchen, the family well-fed and content after their Christmas meal of beef and a seemingly endless selection of side dishes.
Lucy is preparing dessert, which mostly consists of the cakes and cookies left over at Pun in the Oven when they closed for the holiday the day before, served with ice cream and fresh fruit.
“Your mom did a lot of the work, guys. Can’t take all the credit. Hey, TJ, can you carry this cake stand in with you? Thanks, babe.”
She notices that Ben has a somewhat wistful expression on his face as he sorts out the dirty dishes.
“Hey, I just wanted to say - I asked TJ if he knew what was going on with you, and…”
Ben nods and smiles. “He told you.”
“I’m with him, Benjamin. From what you told TJ, I think this is worth fighting for. Or at least, it’s worth giving her a chance to explain properly.”
He casts his gaze downwards. “You know, when I saw those photos the boys took of my ‘makeover’, the first thing that popped into my mind was ‘I better send these to Lyd’.”
“You miss her.” Luce pats him on the back. “So why don’t you? Send them, I mean.”
Ben turns to her in astonishment. “Seriously? We said we were giving each other space, time… and I’m still not sure what she wants.”
His sister-in-law rolls her eyes. “If you don’t send her a happy holidays message with one of those pictures - I will. And you know I don’t fuck around.”
He stands with one hand on his hip, bringing the other up to cover his face. “I know you don’t. Shit. Okay. I’ll do it. But only so you - or worse, TJ - don’t.”
Luce does a tiny dance for joy as Ben turns to leave. She spots - and recognises - a baby pink no-crease hair clip sticking out of his dark hair at the back of his head.
“JULES, have you been in our room??”
Ben settles himself at the desk in his brother’s home office, where he’d deliberately left his phone all day. He’s still not convinced that Luce is right about sending this, but she’s a woman of her word.
He holds your gift to him, unopened, in his hands. He unwraps it quickly.
A pair of brightly-coloured socks, patterned with books and pens. And a soft, hand-knitted, merino watchcap in a Prussian blue, with a little tag stitched inside: Hand Knitted by Me.
He didn’t expect your name to be there, waiting for him, when he turned over his phone.
You had chosen a slightly chaotic photo of yourself that your brother-in-law had taken, of Cora bopping you in the face while trying to stick a huge bow on you. It would at least, you hoped, make him smile.
Happy Christmas, Ben. I was injured in a gifting incident earlier today. - L.
He selects a photo of himself showing off his painted nails, his hair festooned with coloured clips, while Jules beams in the background at her handiwork.
Merry Christmas, Lyd. I got a holiday makeover courtesy of Jules. - B.
You each hope that the other will somehow be able to read, in the gaps, the words left invisible:
I’m so sorry.
I don’t know why you did it.
I care so much about you.
I really miss you.
I think about you all the time.
I want you.
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)
Further A/N: TJ's 'Your girl's lovely, Hubbell' is, of course, a reference to The Way We Were.
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories#Youtube
70 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Chapter One: The Visitor
(moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter Summary: It's late August, and Lydia has arrived in the US from Europe to take up her position as visiting professor of art history at Barrow College. Enter Prof. Benjamin E. Morales, literature scholar and (as he puts it) 'your very own welcome wagon'.
Word Count: 5.2k
Rating: Mature; will become Explicit in later chapters.
Content: Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41 and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; discussion of infidelity and emotional abuse; discussion of self-esteem issues and body insecurity; strong language.
A/N: Meet Lydia as she meets Ben. See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background. Pure, nerdy fluff as dork meets dork in a New England college town.
(One for the Big Night nerds, as it's referenced in the chapter: I literally only realised the name of the rival restaurant when I went to check that I'd got the descriptions right for this chapter... IYKYK.
A complete and utter coincidence, I promise.)
Taglist: @cutesyscreenname; @lunapascal; @fuckyeahdindjarin; @julesonrecord; @tieronecrush; @perennialdoll247; @vermillionwinter; @iamskyereads; @imaswellkid
The large, red-brick building is quiet, walls freshly painted and linoleum gleaming in the late August sunshine in anticipation of the impending start of the academic year at Barrow College. In the administration office for the Faculty of Arts, the faculty secretary - Susan, a woman in her late fifties, and the very image of seasoned efficiency - is preparing your new staff ID card, office key, and a plastic folder full of welcome documents and essential information.
While you wait, you survey the gallery of staff photographs on the wall, trying to quell the nerves in the pit of your stomach. The first day anywhere was never easy. First day as a visiting professor in a liberal arts college on the other side of the Atlantic? Ramp that difficulty level all the way up to eleven.
Susan emerges from behind the counter and hands you your ID card, ensconced in a dark green Barrow-branded lanyard, and the pack of documents. “Okay, Lydia. Normally this is the point where I’d bring you to see the head of the Literature Department,” she explains. “I know you’re an art historian, but Literature runs the visiting program. Always have, always will.” She shrugs and rolls her eyes. “This is the Barrow way.”
“So you’re not bringing me to see the head of the Literature Department?” you ask.
“Professor Arden is at a conference, unfortunately. But you’ll meet her next week,” Susan gestures towards the door, and you dutifully move into the main corridor. “In her absence, Professor Morales is going to run through the essentials with you. Don’t worry - Ben’s great, you’re in good hands. Can’t work a copier for love nor money, of course, but a real sweetheart.”
She points out some of the main teaching rooms in the building occupied by the various departments in the faculty, and you can’t help but be amused at how it all feels like a TV or movie set to your eyes. You’d grown up watching American high school and college shows and movies, and now, here you were: Green chalkboards! Those seats with the folding armrests! All that was missing were the standard-issue yellow pencils and those yellow legal pads everyone seemed to use.
Susan leads the way into a classroom, encouraging you to take a seat. Whereas the other rooms had been notable for their pristine uniformity, this seemed to be in use as a kind of temporary office. A laptop sits on the main desk unit, surrounded by piles of books and papers, covered in coloured tabs.
“This isn’t Professor Morales’ usual office, of course,” Susan explains, pointing to the ceiling. “Leak. His ceiling is being repaired so he’s working here for the moment. Usually he’s just round the corner in 315 - a couple of doors down from your office, in fact. Anyway: he’s running a little behind schedule, though that’s nothing unusual with Ben…I’ll go remind him you have an appointment!”
Her voice fades with her footsteps as you take in your surroundings. You notice the chunky volume on the desk: War and Peace. You roll your eyes, thinking about all the times over the years that you’d seen Tolstoy’s masterpiece “casually” left in full view by academics keen to impress, not to mention the assholes you’d encountered as a graduate student, keen to get you into bed by convincing you of their intellectual ability. Whereas their copies were always a little too clean, though, this one was a bit dog-eared and worn at the corners. Maybe Ben Morales was that rare thing: someone who’d actually read it.
You never thought you were the kind of person who would even apply for a year-long visiting professorship at a New England liberal arts college thousands of miles from home, let alone actually take it up. A combination of impostor syndrome and pressure from your then-partner to stay put - “but baby, what about my career?” - had conspired to convince you such a thing would be impossible.
That was then. This was now. Things had changed, and so had you.
You couldn’t not be changed by the brutal end, a couple of years before, to a fifteen-year relationship: a sudden departure, revelations of infidelity, endless days and nights of tears and numbness, feelings of worthlessness compounding a lifelong lack of self-esteem. It was bad enough without the various accusatory “explanations” offered by your ex-partner for their actions, all designed to make you feel like this was your fault, the consequence of your having been “too much”, too dull, too unattractive now, too stressed-out (never mind that you carried the can for everything).
Time and many, many hours of therapy helped you to move on. You knew now that you now had a kind of freedom and joy that had never been fully present in your relationship. You were proud to embrace your authentic self. Your friends and family remarked on how happy you seemed, how bright, how confident. They praised your achievements and growing academic profile, even as you never felt quite good enough - professionally or personally.
What they couldn’t see were the metaphorical defences you had built up around yourself: treacherous ramparts surrounding a huge wall of emotional stone, protecting the broken heart and fragile soul within. Your friends and family were enough, as were occasional hook-ups and one night stands as and when the opportunity arose. Even as you left the past for dust, you refused to countenance anything more.
You believed that you didn’t need anything more - and in a lot of ways, that was true. You liked your life now. You could do as you pleased. Better to have freedom and self-preservation than exposing yourself to the risks that come with emotional connections. You were nearing forty-two. Who’d want a forty-something art historian with too much baggage - emotional and physical, bearing in mind the body you’d come to feel increasingly unhappy with, all scars and stretch marks and aching joints and general discomfort?
More than that, and to your grim fascination, you never really…felt anything for anyone anymore. At times, you wondered if that part of your brain had been switched off. Sex without attachment or meaning was one thing; real attraction and feelings another thing entirely. Hell, you never even crushed on musicians or actors any more. You’d kind of made peace with it. Maybe this was your destiny.
You were ‘living your best life’, as your best friend put it. You were hailed for your strength and your optimism. You knew you were better off in this not-so-brave new world, unexpectedly single as you stared down the barrel of middle age. You embraced new opportunities. “You’re still young,” your mother had counselled. “Take the chances life presents, Lyd. See the world! Share that big beautiful brain of yours.”
Now you actually had to do it. Visiting Professor of Art History in a small college with a great reputation. A whole year at Barrow in which to try new things, expand your horizons, and enjoy your freedom.
Bring it on.
Nervous energy had kept you awake prior to your long-haul flight, and the time difference was starting to kick your ass. You were just on the verge of going in search of a weapons-grade energy drink when he sauntered into the room, wrangling a messy pile of freshly-printed course handbooks.
You suppress a giggle at the sight of him: not because he looked funny, but because he could have walked straight from the pages of a cheesy teen magazine story about unrequited love for a favourite professor. He’s tall, broad, dark, dressed in a pale blue Oxford button-down worn untucked over slightly faded black jeans, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. A pair of well-loved but evidently well cared-for black Doc Marten shoes. You guessed he might be a couple of years older than you, but not very many. Wavy dark hair that looks like it would turn into curls if left to grow out, streaked through with silver. Moustache, and what you guess you might call a sort-of beard - more of a scruff, really, and greying in places. Glasses - but of course! - and behind them what looked (because you were never great with direct eye contact, especially when first meeting) to be dark brown eyes. You’d almost think an unseen costume director had added the pencil he was gripping with his teeth as a final touch, for maximum Hot Professor Cliché effect.
He plonks the pile of handbooks on the desk and does an exaggerated exhalation of breath as he turns to face you, removing the pencil from his mouth and offering a wide smile. He advances towards you, hand outstretched, and you stand up to shake his (rather large, you notice) hand.
“Welcome to the department! I’m Ben Morales, comparative literature prof and your very own welcome wagon.” He smiles brightly, eyes crinkling. “You must be Lydia.”
You return his smile, albeit shyly. “That’s me - though most people usually end up just calling me Lyd after a while. On rare occasions it becomes Lyddie, though that’s not much shorter than my actual name. My sister used to call me Lydularity but thankfully that didn’t stick.”
Shuuuuuut up, Lydia.
He grins. “Lydia, Lyd,” he turns your name over, as if becoming accustomed to saying it. “Your mom a Jane Austen fan?”
You huff a laugh and shake your head. “I wish it was that cultured, but sadly no. As my mother never fails to remind me: I’m named after a 1970s pop song. And not a very good one, at that. My view - not hers.”
“Well, at least it’s a nice name,” he laughs. “I’m guessing Susan has covered almost everything but I should make sure you have all the essential information you need before school starts - timetables, IT stuff, where the only drinkable coffee on campus is - actually, wait.” He picks up a blue coffee mug from the desk. “You want some coffee?”
You’d take anything at this stage to keep you even a little perkier. “Uh, sure. Yes please. With milk - I mean, creamer. Whatever it is. Half and half, is that what it’s called?”
He nods as he heads out of the classroom in search of coffee. “I normally take mine black, so I’m not up to speed on the creamer situation. It might just be some off-brand stuff. But hopefully you aren’t a connoisseur. Yet.”
You shake your head with a smile, watching him jog lightly out the door, mug in hand.
He has what your friends would describe as ‘chaotic energy’ - somehow both put-together and messy, with a million different thoughts presumably bouncing around in his head at any given moment. It was a relief. From what you’d read on the college website - there was no profile photo, you remembered - he had an exceptional track record as a scholar of European literature, recognised with any number of awards from peers and students alike. You’d even made a mental note to read some of his articles on magical realism and adaptation.
Because of his impressive profile, you were prepared for the possibility of him being in the mode of some of the more obnoxious men you’d worked with over your years in academia: intimidating, serious, keen to remind you that they were a ‘genius’, and rather vain. Ben, at least judging by your first impressions, seemed to be the complete opposite.
He swings back into the room with a mug in each hand: his own blue one and, to your surprise, a retro Sesame Street mug for you. You take the coffee from him at the desk, settling back into a front-row seat and smiling with bemusement at the beaming faces of characters you’d loved since childhood. As he sits down on the desk he notices your reaction and looks sheepish.
“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind the choice of mug-”
“My mom always says these guys taught me to read and count. Feels right to have my first real American college coffee in a Sesame Street mug”, you say quickly, raising the mug.
He grins. “Well, that’s a relief. That’s my favourite one.” He raises his own mug, reciprocating your gesture. “Uh… to the Children’s Television Workshop?”
You’ve sat through enough briefings and orientation sessions in your time to know how dull they could be. This, though, is less like a meeting and more like an overdue catch-up between old pals. The conversation takes various turns and digressions as Ben explains Barrow’s various quirks, traditions, and regulations. He’s expressive and demonstrative: a match for you in both talking with your hands and in unintentionally pulling silly faces. The longer you talk, the more relaxed you feel: here was one of your hosts, warm and funny, and already like a friend. Your residual anxiety about the visiting post fades.
It’s going to be a good year.
“And, in conclusion, that’s why you don’t buy filter coffee from the cafeteria after midday,” Ben says. “I think that’s everything? I’ll walk you to your new office. Oh, and - dinner at seven thirty?”
His invitation takes you by surprise, and it shows on your face. Ben looks a little confused. “I mean, if you want to have dinner with me. We normally take the new visiting professor out, just as a welcome gesture - you’re stuck with just me this evening, though.”
He shrugs apologetically. “Of course, maybe you’ve got plans with your family or partn-“
“Dinner would be great!” you interrupt, keen to avoid any discussion of partners and inevitable explanations. “Shall I just meet you here, or…?”
He begins to scoop up the course handbooks. “I can pick you up, if you want? The restaurant is in the next town over. Unless you’d rather I not pick you up. Because-“
You come up to the desk to help him gather the print-outs, shuffling them quickly into orderly piles. “No, that would be great. I mean, I still think it’s Tuesday of last week, I wouldn’t trust myself with following out-of-town directions just yet.”
He beams and leans over to pick up the rest of the handbooks, and you get a slight, sweet hint of his scent: clean soap, a cologne with top notes of bergamot, and an underlying warmth. Maybe even a touch of paper, of all things.
He smells good.
You step back and your eyes meet for a moment. Unthinkingly, you breathe in sharply as you look properly into his dark eyes for the first time.
Holy moly, those are quite something.
And that’s when it happens. A tiny flicker of electricity crackling across your brain. It’s so fleeting that you don’t even register it, not immediately. It’s only much later on, alone and thinking about the first time you met, that you find yourself conjuring up the memory of his scent and of those beautiful brown eyes.
“They just love the colouring books you left for them, Lyddie!” Your mother is talking to you via FaceTime, recounting the latest adventures of your little nieces in loving detail.
You aren’t really listening. It’s past 7.30 and you’re deeply conscious of not being late for your dinner invitation, keen to hide your usual chaotic inability to be ready on time for anything from your new colleagues for as long as possible.
You crane your head to look out the front window of your apartment, just in time to see a car pull up outside. Your mother is still narrating exactly what your older niece drew at preschool in the 48 hours since you’d left for the US.
“I gotta go, Mom! The dinner, remember? I love you -“
“Call me when you get in!”
“I won’t, because time zones? Okay I have to go byebyebye -“ and you end the FaceTime call as you close your front door and skip lightly down the stairs to the entrance hall of the building.
It was difficult to know what to wear to something like this. Academic welcome dinners and events were often relatively informal, and Ben had not struck you as the kind of man who’d be gravely offended if you turned up in jeans and a long-sleeved tee. But you didn’t know a lot about the restaurant, so you erred on the side of caution: a mid-length, indigo chambray button-down dress that you’d made yourself, fitted around the waist with a v-shaped neckline; rose gold vintage-style flat sandals in the late summer heat; and - just in case it got chilly - a red cropped cardigan that was another of your creations, hand knitted a couple of years before.
Ben is leaning against his car when you appear at the main door of the apartment building. He’s changed, too: a soft-looking white shirt has replaced the blue Oxford he was wearing earlier. His sleeves are rolled up, and this time the shirt is tucked into his dark jeans. He’s wearing light-coloured suede desert boots and sunglasses. He gives you a little wave as you walk down the path to meet him, moving to open the passenger door for you before settling in on the driver’s side.
“Hope the apartment is okay?” he asks as you adjust your seatbelt and tuck your purse at your feet. “I think they’ve been putting visiting profs there for years. God knows what secrets it holds by now,” he adds dramatically.
You put on your own pair of sunglasses to shield your eyes from the evening sun. “It’s pretty nice, honestly. I’m still waiting on a lot of stuff to arrive, but I’ve got the essentials and working wifi. What more could you want?”
He smiles as he pulls away from the kerb. “Good to hear. So you’re on your own, or is your-”
“Just me!!” you chirrup, slightly too enthusiastically. “Free and easy.”
Uh, cringe much, Lydia?
It’s quiet for a few moments and you start to wonder if you should start talking again before it gets even more awkward. You’re just about to open your mouth when he starts tapping the touchscreen on the dash.
“Do you mind if I put on some music? Not to halt conversation, don’t worry! I just usually have a soundtrack for most things: driving, writing, grading…”
You grin. “Music would be great - I’m a fellow playlist curator. My writing ones are fickle, though.”
At the next red light he taps and swipes before selecting a playlist. “Hope you are okay with middle-aged dad tracks for driving.”
Ah, he’s a dad. You hadn’t noticed a ring but that obviously didn’t mean anything.
“How old do you think I am? I’m middle-aged, I’ll have you know. And my musical tastes have been middle-aged since I was a teenager.” You feign being affronted and he huffs a laugh.
“In that case, I can subject you to the full rigours of the playlist.” He taps play, and a smile spreads across your face as you recognise the steady opening bass riff of ‘Fortunate Son’ and start to nod along.
“Oh, man - Creedence? Okay, I see what you mean about the dad tracks,” you admit, bobbing your head to the rhythm as John Fogerty’s voice rasps through the speakers. “In a good way, though!”
Ben taps the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel as he drives. “Plenty more where that came from. Unfortunately, this is only a twenty minute trip, and this playlist is at least five hours long, but I can email you over the link if you’d like?” You nod, watching the surroundings change as you travel out of town, trying to take it all in: the neat houses, the tall trees and woodland that line either side of the route, the road signs pointing out local tourist spots.
You’re heading for the next town over - a bit larger than Barrow and, as Ben explained on the drive, better appointed when it came to options for a nice dinner out.
“Perils of a college town,” he’d added, “we have a great diner, a couple of good cafés and takeout places, but the main clientele are students looking for a sort of Man Vs Food experience. And we usually don’t want to hit the visiting prof with that right away.”
You chuckle, watching as the green of the trees gives way to painted timber houses, brick, and stone as you enter the town. It’s not long before Ben is pulling up near a small restaurant whose hand-painted sign reads LINO - RISTORANTE.
“This place is always worth the drive over,” he explains as you step into the restaurant’s small porch and open the door. Lino’s is small but beautiful: dark, vintage-style wooden furniture and white linen tablecloths; wood panelling on the walls; a candle in those old-style chianti bottles with the little wicker baskets on each table. It’s almost full on that weeknight evening, the gentle hum of conversation and cutlery accompanied by a soft soundtrack of Italian classics.
It’s weirdly familiar, and it takes you a moment to realise why. Settled at your table, you look around with a grin. Ben raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“This place, it’s - it’s just like the restaurant in…”
“Big Night.” He chimes in with you and does a little air punch, unable to hide his delight at the reference. “Someone else gets it! Finally!!”
You laugh and take a sip of your water. “I’m pleased. But clearly more people need to be introduced to that movie, huh?”
“Fuck yeah!” He looks a little embarrassed at how excited he is, pinking around the ears and dropping his head to look at the menu. “Sorry, I’m getting carried away. Just so thrilled that someone else had that reaction, too. You’re the first to get it!” He looks back up at you and offers a shy smile.
Here’s the thing about notionally professional academic dinners, especially with people you don’t know that well: they are almost always like an hours-long conference presentation, with the added complication of having to eat while discussing your current research. You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d ended up aimlessly stirring your coffee after several hours listening to other people drone on about their praxis and theoretical grounding late into the evening, sure that they’d written you off when you tried to swerve the conversation around to lowbrow topics like music or (heaven forfend) television. Because serious intellectuals don’t watch television, unless it’s important and worthy programming (in other words: dull).
Ben had left a good impression from earlier in the day, but you were still a little nervous in case dinner was where you were expected to ‘prove yourself’. As it turned out, you didn’t really talk about work at all. Instead, you’d spent the best part of two hours eating astonishingly good Italian food while letting your inner film and music nerd run riot, in the company of a man who had rapidly revealed himself to be just as much of a geek as you were. The topics of conversation shifted organically as you ate, changing as if scheduled to coincide with each course.
Antipasti: favourite movies. Top fives compared and debated across various categories. You’d established a shared love of international cinema, Close Encounters of the Third Kind (“You have to read Bob Balaban’s book about being on set with Truffaut!” you’d exclaimed, sending chunks of tomato flying off your bruschetta in your enthusiasm), and Indiana Jones (“I do feel increasingly icky about Temple of Doom”, he’d confided). And unanimously agreed that the Muppet Christmas Carol is, in fact, the best adaptation of Dickens’ story yet made.
Main courses: music. He talks about his collection of vinyl records, built around a core of albums that had belonged to his dad. You swap tales of favourite live music experiences, from stadiums to tiny basement venues. He is far too impressed when you let slip that you can play guitar and sing. (Of course he’s impressed now. After all, he hasn’t heard you yet.)
It’s been a while since you felt so at ease with someone you’d only just met, and the sense of safety reassures you that coming here was the right thing to do. As you finish your tiramisu and sip on espresso to round out the meal, you chat casually about yourselves and your careers.
“So what made you go for the visiting gig?”
You thoughtfully sucked the last bit of mascarpone cream off your spoon. “I’ve never lived in the US - I was here for a couple of conferences but only for a few days, and I always wanted to spend more time here. And I needed a change of scenery and a new challenge. I guess I’d needed it for a while, but then after everything that went down it felt much more urgent, you know?”
He looks a little puzzled. “Everything that went down?”
“What I mean is, it’s been a shitty couple of years,” you clarify. A deep breath. It’s still weird telling people about this. “Long story short: my partner basically walked out on me, they were having an affair, blah blah blah. Fifteen years together, I never saw it coming, left on my own. But that’s done now. In the past.” You wave your hand lightly through the air, as if swatting away a particularly irritating insect.
He looks genuinely sorry for you. You brace yourself for the inevitable expression of sympathy, the “plenty more fish” lines, or just the awkward silence that comes when you’ve shared too much, too soon.
“And how are you, now?” he asks. That’s all he says. Emphasis on the “you”.
“I’m… well, I’m a lot happier, I guess? I think I’m much more myself. I don’t want to ladle more of this on you but I’ve realised there were things there that weren’t right. And that I carried a lot of, well, stuff that I shouldn’t have. So I feel…free?”
You do not tell him about the ramparts and solid walls that you’ve built around your emotional core, the crumbled blocks and shards of your past all too ready to trip and pierce anyone who tries to get too close.
“And I’m free to do cool shit like come here for a year, and watch whatever the hell I want on TV and not be judged for it.” You grin and pull a silly face, hoping an injection of levity into proceedings will help move the conversation on.
He leans in conspiratorially, a cheeky smile dancing across his lips. “So we should be grateful to them for being a dick, because we got you here as a result?”
You arch an eyebrow and look at him in mock seriousness. “Let’s not give them any credit, shall we?”
He laughs and drains the last of his coffee. “On a nicer topic,” he proposes, “is there anything you really want to do while you’re here? And I don’t mean courses or sections you want to teach. Stuff you want to do while you’ve got your year on this side of the pond.”
“Once I’ve settled in a bit, I want to explore. See some places. Add to my tacky snowglobe collection from places I’ve been,” you grin. “There’s so much, though - New York, Boston, DC…” You suck on the inside of your cheek as you think. “What I really want, though, is to go west. Even just for a week.”
He nods, raising his eyebrows. “Some kind of manifest destiny thing, or…?”
You roll your eyes. “Thankfully, no. A combination of my own film nerdery and growing up on a regular diet of old-school Westerns on rotation in the house, thanks to my dad. It’s got this allure, you know? The West. Especially California. So yeah, that’s on my bucket list for next summer, before I go back.”
“I’ll give you some recommendations, if you’d like?” Ben looks a little shy. “That’s where I’m from - the Bay Area, specifically.”
“No way! Tell me everything. So how did a Bay Area boy end up in the dreaming spires of a New England college town?”
This is how you find out that Ben Morales is 47, came to work at Barrow over a decade ago after a couple of postdocs and short-term posts, and is the eldest of three siblings. His younger brother and sister both live in their hometown, close to their mother who has lived alone since his father died a few years ago. You get a sense that their proximity helps alleviate some of his eldest child guilt about being on the other side of the country. He dotes on his niblings, showing you photos of them from time spent out west during the summer and speaking about them with evident pride and amusement.
He is not, as it turns out, a dad.
He listens attentively as you talk about your family: your parents, your little nieces, your sister and her partner, and the relatively tight-knit little unit that exists between you. “It’s not like we see each other all the time, not since I had to move for my job,” you explain. “But I don’t know how I would have got through everything without them. And being so close helped me be independent, on some level.”
He nods. “I get that. I mean, when I went on my year abroad to Málaga I was the first person in the family to go anywhere outside the US or parts of Mexico, and this was huge.” He smiles at the memory. “I know that my mom was freaking out. The whole neighbourhood knew she was freaking out. Until I moved to the east coast the furthest she’d ever been was to visit her family in Texas or just over the border.” His expression shifts, more thoughtful. “But she and my dad never wanted to let me feel I couldn’t do it. You know?”
He’s so genuine and earnest. It makes perfect sense why he would be such a good professor, and why his students have been so keen to nominate him for award after award.
The server comes over to take the empty dessert plates and espresso cups, and Ben asks for the check.
You fire off a message to your mom as you’re heading to bed:
Just letting you know I’m home. Dinner was great. Made the right choice coming here - already met some lovely people and they’re so welcoming. Talk to you over the next couple of days. Love to Dad x
You plug your phone in to charge and lie back on the pillows, feeling content and excited for the year ahead. You’re on the cusp of sleep when your screen lights up again, and you reach for your phone. If it’s your mom, it’s a weird time to be replying.
It’s not your mom. It’s a message from Ben Morales.
You’d asked to swap numbers when he dropped you home earlier. After all, he was the only colleague you’d met, and if you had some sort of major emergency it couldn’t hurt to have someone to call.
BEN MORALES: Hi Lydia, it’s Ben. Just wanted to say it was really great to meet you and we’re so lucky to have you with us for the year. And thank you for the book recommendation! Just give me a yell if you need anything. See you tomorrow - get some sleep! B
There’s a picture attached - a screenshot of the order he’d just placed for a second-hand copy of Bob Balaban’s Spielberg, Truffaut and Me, his diary from the making of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
You can’t help but smile.
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#professor ben x OFC#mr ben#pedro pascal character fanfic#mr ben x ofc#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal
118 notes
·
View notes
Text
Books (Professor!Ben x OFC Lydia)
A Merry Fic-Mas - December 14
Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.
Follow @ladameecrit for my writing updates!
Pairing: Professor!Ben x OFC!Lydia (part of the Visiting universe)
Word count: 848
Warnings: Language, angst, pining
Rating: Teen
Summary: What’s the harm of imagining an alternative future, when you’re lonely this Christmas?
This Fic-Mas story can be read as an add-on/deleted scene to Chapter 8 of Visiting, 'Sister Winter'.
Iceland has this thing called Jolabokaflod - literally, “book flood”. It can mean the rush of new books published for Christmas gifts, or it can mean the tradition associated with them.
Put simply, the idea is that on Christmas Eve, you exchange books with your nearest and dearest. And then everyone snuggles up in bed, armed with hot chocolate and candy, and reads their new book.
It sounds like heaven.
The book flood tradition pops into your mind as you place a neatly-wrapped selection of books under the tree at your parents’ house on Christmas Eve. And with it, a pang, and another thought.
Ben would love that.
“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, trying to fend off the thoughts of him. “I think it’s time for bed.”
You creep up the stairs, last one to turn in for the night, and nestle in with your hot water bottle.
You wish he was keeping you warm, girl.
“Fuck.”
Sleep doesn’t come easy. And you begin to imagine, to let yourself daydream (if one can call it that) about an alternative reality, an alternative future, if only for the night.
It is Christmas, after all. It’s canonically a time for what might have beens, for counter-factuals. What was A Christmas Carol, if not that? And - even more obviously - what of It’s A Wonderful Life?
Alright, you think, maybe it’s not quite the same. Clarence the Angel had to show George Bailey how much better he made the world, and how wonderful his life actually was. And Dickens showed Scrooge terrible things, to help him change - a far cry from the cosy scene you were about to conjure up.
Still, the point stands. What if things were different? What if things could be different?
You close your eyes and let your mind wander, telling yourself it’s just idle fantasy. It’s not hurting anyone. Right?
So indulge. Find comfort in thinking about how it might be, could have been. Imagine the comfort of books, of warmth, of him.
You had thought for a long time about the book for Ben. Eventually, you settled on a personal favourite, one that reflected your personality, your interests, yourself: The Belly of Paris, by Émile Zola. You knew he hadn’t read it - “just Thérèse Raquin and Germinal”, he’d told you as you raved about Zola’s books - and you wanted to see what he thought.
The edition is a recent translation, a handsome paperback, and you wrap it up in brown paper and add a length of dark red ribbon, placing it under the tree to await Christmas Eve.
The next day, it’s joined by a matching book-shaped gift: this time wrapped in dark green paper, your name written in his distinctive handwriting on an old-fashioned gift tag.
Christmas Eve is idyllic: mulled wine, old movies, talking and preparing food for the next day’s meal as the snow falls softly outside. By about 8 that evening, you’re settled cosily on the couch and your eyes land on the little packages.
“Time for book flood, I think.”
Ben smiles as you reach under the tree and retrieve the gifts. “You want to open them here?”
“I’d rather do it in bed, baby. C’mon, grab some hot chocolate.”
He follows you upstairs to bed, making you giggle as he purrs in your ear: “Gonna make you read soooooo much, Lyd. We’re gonna read so hard.”
You wiggle your eyebrows at him as you join in the suggestive jokes, pulling him close to you. “Well, you know I can keep reading for hours, Benjamin.”
You can. And you do.
Ben’s book gift to you is a gorgeous vintage copy of Love in the Time of Cholera, which you clutch to your chest in delight. He opens his parcel carefully, a wide smile spreading across his face as he recognises the title.
“Émile. Of course.”
And now it’s just the two of you, side by side in bed, the only sounds the occasional crackle from the tall candles you’d lit in the bedroom, one or both of you sipping your hot cocoa, and the turning of the pages.
Without lifting his eyes from Zola, Ben’s left hand finds your right, and holds it: safe, secure. Your thumb traces over his tattoo, making him hum quietly with pleasure.
“Imagine if we hadn’t figured things out”, you muse, eyes still fixed on Garcia Marquez.
Ben turns and looks at you, eyes warm and expression most serious. “Not figuring things out was never an option.”
When you wake in the grey light of Christmas morning, it takes a moment for you to remember.
The pain hits you all over again. The fantasy - simplistic and all as it might have been - had been too convincing, and facing reality feels even harder.
You can hear your family already waking and pottering about the house, little nieces stampeding out of the spare room they’re sharing with your sister and brother-in-law for the holidays.
Craving the warmth of a familiar hand on yours, you turn over and cry into the pillow.
#a merry fic-mas#holiday fic calendar#mr ben snl#mr ben au#professor!ben#professor ben x OFC#visiting fic#visiting inspo#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal#pedrostories
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting: Chapter Three - Ghosts
(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter Summary: The gorgeous New England fall settles in - and so does Lydia, feeling more at home among her friends and colleagues at Barrow than ever. And then comes Evan’s Halloween party, with costumes, cocktails, and closeness on a couch…
Word Count: 5.7k
Rating: Mature; will become Explicit in later chapters.
Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41, about to turn 42, and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; reference to relationship breakdown; reference to chronic pain and implied autoimmune-related pain; references to serial killers in a Halloween costume context; briefly illegal shenanigans in the back of a car if you're liable to be concerned about this.
A/N: This is fluff. After the horrors of Kevin Lacroix last chapter, it was nice to write our gang in a more relaxed and fun setting (even if, as you’ll see, you could cut the tension with a knife).
This was originally one long chapter but will now appear as chapters 3 and 4.
(A subtitle for this chapter might have been: In Which Rose Works Out Her Tim Rockford Feelings. You'll see what I mean.)
The title of this chapter is taken from Laura Marling's song 'Ghosts', which resonates really perfectly with Lydia’s own back story: The ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.
I've included links to more thematic/featured songs in Further Author's Notes at the end, to avoid spoilers.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal
“I’m giving you two weeks - that’s plenty of advance warning here. I need to make sure you two understand the assignment.”
Evan exhales and pushes his seat back from the round table in the staff lounge, where you are eating lunch with Ben on a random Tuesday in mid-October. Evan’s expression is one of deep concern.
Ben puts down his sandwich and brushes a couple of crumbs from his dark green pullover.
“Do we understand the assignment? For your Halloween thing? At your house?”
“For the Halloween party, yes. Are we clear on the theme? This is important.”
“Is this because David is coming?” Ben asks mischievously. Evan has been involved in an on-off “thing” (his term, not yours) with David, a drama professor based in Boston, for the last six months, and this party would mark his introduction to the Barrow circle.
Evan ignores Ben’s question. You stifle a giggle and stir your noodle soup. He’s spent the last twenty minutes issuing your invites to a Halloween party at his apartment, accompanied by detailed explanations on the importance of sticking to the theme.
“Cinematic Horror And/Or Serial Killers. It’s pretty broad, I think we’ll be okay.”
Evan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Ben catches your eye and gives you a knowing look. “I have some questions, Evan. When you say ‘serial killers’, is that exclusively the killers themselves or are associated characters from the films an option?”
“Associated characters are fine. One of my friends from Boston is already dressing as Gale Weathers from Scream, though, so cross that one off your lists.”
Ben briefly looks confused, before returning to his lunch with a shrug.
“I also have a question, Evan,” you say, innocently. You can see Ben trying not to laugh as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “Fiction or non-fiction?”
Evan rolls his eyes. “What?”
“Well, do the characters have to be fictional, or can they be cinematic representations of real people as depicted in horror or serial killer movies?”
“Just stick to the theme. And you” - he points at Ben - “no niche literary or historical costumes.” He picks up his can of sparkling water and walks off.
You lean in, whispering. “I didn’t know this was so serious. I knew Halloween was a big deal here, but…”
Ben looks pensive as he finishes his lunch. “I’m still not entirely sure I understand what he means by ‘understand the assignment’.”
As the glorious New England fall settles in, making the Barrow campus a riot of copper and gold, you have that curious sensation of having been here forever while feeling like no time at all has passed. Your little community of friends and colleagues have, for the most part, made you feel like you were at home, not just “visiting”.
After the shenanigans at the beach away-day in September, you prove you can walk the walk as well as talking the talk. As soon as you got into work on the following Monday, you’d knocked on Ben’s door to volunteer as a tutor for one of the additional support workshops he was organising as part of the diversity and inclusion project across the faculty.
He seemed to appreciate your outsider perspective, regularly seeking out advice or feedback on how best to look after the students involved. You’ve never seen anyone look as pleased as he did to receive a printed and bound copy of the hundred-page report your institution had compiled a couple of years ago on support strategies.
He shrugged when you mentioned this, having watched him leaf excitedly through the document. “I’m just a nerd for this stuff.” You shook your head. “You care. They’re lucky to have you.”
You shouldn’t have favourites, really, not when you’re teaching such a range of classes, but the students in that particular workshop group are a joy: hard-working, insightful, kind, and funny. They have no sense of entitlement or expectation based on privilege. They come into each group meeting spilling over with things they want to tell you and the rest of the class: books read, movies watched, artworks discovered, songs played on repeat. Their intelligence and perceptiveness only underlines how toxic the attitudes of, ahem, certain colleagues are.
They seem to like you, too - though not as much as they like Ben, who is clearly a bit of a cult favourite. You overhear a group in your support workshop talking excitedly one morning about seeing him coming onto campus on his black-framed bicycle, two pannier bags attached to the back.
“He’s just so cute on his little bike, ohmygoooooood!” The other students had scrunched up their faces and made high-pitched noises to signal their agreement. “Protect this man at aaalllllll costs,” agrees another. “Did you see his little space tie at orientation?? He’s so baby and so old man at the same time, I just cannot with him.”
You daren't ask what they say about you.
Outside of work, the arrival of more of the belongings you’d had shipped over has helped make the once-spartan apartment into a home. The crocheted blanket you made sits on the back of your small sofa, ready to be pulled over you as you read or watch TV. The living area is dotted with trinkets from your travels and photographs, especially of your little nieces. A bright green Japanese kintsugi bowl, a gift from your sister a year after your ex-partner had left, takes pride of place on the low coffee table.
It might only be home for a year, but you’ve tried to make the apartment feel like you. Your framed print of a Raoul Dufy painting of Paris hangs on one wall, comforting pinks and blues in the abstract but familiar depiction of the city. You treated yourself to two small Diptyque candles at the airport duty free on your way to the US, and their scent acts as a reassuring comfort whenever you walk back through the door after a day at work. As has been the case everywhere you’ve ever lived, there are books and magazines everywhere, some neatly shelved, far more in random piles. You’d even managed to track down a cheap second-hand sewing machine at a local thrift store, and had convinced Ani to drive you to the nearest large craft store to stock up on fabric and patterns.
It’s become somewhat of a running joke that you are obsessed with the fall. You tried to explain that it was, in part, because it was so different to what you were used to.
“We just get meh.”
“Meh?” Evan repeated, sipping his coffee in the staff lounge one day, as you explain. “Meh?”
“Yes, meh. It gets dark too quickly. It’s kind of always…damp, and it makes my stupid fucked-up joints and body hurt. And we don’t get those crisp, gorgeous colours in the landscape. More like fog and sludge and rotting leaves and just: meh. Here, though! Campus is just like a picture book.”
“If you think this is good, you should see the lakeside trail just outside town,” Ben adds. “Best way to see it is by bike. Could be fun if you wanted to hire one and explore it?”
A week later, and you’re back on a bike for the first time in a long time, trying to keep your focus on staying upright while taking time to admire the incredible surroundings. The colours of a New England fall are spread across the landscape like an extraordinary patchwork quilt, all oranges and golds and reds and the occasional evergreen, and the blue of the lake provides a perfect contrast. You stop pedalling for a moment, resting your feet on the ground as you take it all in.
“Wow.”
Ben, a little further ahead, slows and comes to a halt before walking his bike back to you. He follows your gaze to look at the picture-perfect scene in front of you, as nature offers a final performance of spectacular colour before the winter snows arrive.
“It’s really something, isn’t it? Fall does not look like this where I’m from.”
You nod, awestruck. “Sometimes I just can’t believe I get to be here.”
Two weeks after Evan’s micro-managed invitation to his Halloween party, and you think - no, make that hope - you’ve created a costume that fits the brief. Ani is coming over to meet up before you head over together, and you put out a bowl of candy corn (a revelation to you, even if Evan never fails to remind you that “it tastes like crayons.”)
You’re adjusting your curly blonde wig, carefully teasing out some of the curls around the ends, and checking your drawn-on moustache in the mirror when your phone lights up.
ANI: SEE ME. SEE ME NOW.
You raise an eyebrow and go to the intercom panel near your front door. Someone is standing at the door of the building in a top hat and morning suit, curly dark hair carefully arranged around their shoulders and a pair of tiny dark glasses perched on their nose.
The curious figure is carrying a Barrow Farmers Market tote bag.
“Fucking hell.” You press the button to let Ani in, and leave your front door ajar. They swish into your apartment a few moments later, a vision in a dove-grey morning suit they’d found at a local Goodwill and a top hat borrowed from the student drama society. Ani had asked you to pin some grey fabric around the hat a few days earlier, but hadn’t revealed any more about their costume plans.
“Well?? Do you see me now?” They twirl around for your approval.
“That’s genuinely incredible. Vampirism really suits you.”
Ani grins, admiring themselves in the mirror that hangs near the front door before taking a seat on the arm of your sofa. “I look fucking fantastic, even if I shouldn’t be able to see my reflection. Any Mina Harkers at this party better watch out.” They look you up and down. “And you’re…?”
You stand up. In addition to the wig and pencil moustache, you’re dressed in a three-piece tweed suit (another Goodwill find, which you’d been able to easily tailor to fit with your trusty sewing machine) with a shirt and tie, topped with a white lab coat.
Ani still looks confused. You tap a name badge you’d made for exactly this eventuality. They peer at it, reading it aloud, and finally join the dots:
Dr F. Frankenstein (Fronk-en-STEEN)
“Oh, wow.” Ani shakes their head. “You must be the first person in Halloween costume party history to go dressed as Young Frankenstein before he becomes the crazy scientist. Evan is gonna have notes.”
You shove your hands in the pockets of the lab coat and make a haughty face. “It’s pronounced Fronk-en-STEEN.”
Ani laughs and stands up, picking up their bag (which contains two bottles of wine). “Okay, Fronk-en-Steen, let’s go see if anyone can outdo you for niche costume choice of the night. That pencil moustache is kinda hot, by the way.”
Evan opens the door dressed in a truly horrible dress, a messy grey wig styled in a bun, and wielding a toy knife. He looks in a foul mood, even discounting the Norman Bates-as-Mother costume.
Ani wheels around, ready to do their Dracula routine. “SEE ME. SEE ME - fuck! Are you okay, man?”
Evan scowls, stepping back to let you in. “I’ve got to take meds to get rid of that bastard chest thing I’ve had, and they specifically state no alcohol or other drugs to be consumed while taking them. So I’m stone-cold sober at my own party, while everyone else is enjoying my spooky margs.” He jerks his head in the direction of the crowd of guests.
You step over the threshold, both curious and reluctant to find out what a “spooky marg” involves. Ani remains outside.
“You gotta invite me in, dude.”
Evan rolls his eyes and brandishes the plastic knife. “Would you like to come in, vampire? You’re so lucky this is a toy.”
Ani winks behind their little glasses. “Nuh-uh! Stakes only!”
Evan’s apartment is a decently-sized mid-century two bed, and most of the party guests are milling around the open-plan living and dining area. In addition to the select group of colleagues who made the list, he’s invited a few of his friends from Boston and New York to come up for the night. You scan the room, hoping to spy the elusive David.
“Spooky Margs and a selection of other beverages are in the kitchen with some snacks. Help yourselves. And make sure to remind someone all night that they did not understand the assignment.” Evan points with his toy knife towards a familiar figure clad in a beige mac, who’s talking to some of Evan’s friends.
Ben wheels around at the sound of Evan’s voice. He’s wearing a white shirt, a 1970s-style striped tie, and a pair of vaguely vintage-looking grey dress pants. There’s what looks like a toy police badge clipped to his belt.
He’s hearing Evan’s admonition for what is evidently the millionth time since he arrived, and rolls his eyes. “I keep telling you, I did understand! Cinematic horror or serial killers!” He looks pleadingly in your direction. “Lydia was there. We asked Evan some clarifying questions, didn’t we?”
You nod, but Ani pulls a face. “Not convinced Columbo fits the brief, my guy. Did he get many serial killers?”
Evan nods enthusiastically. “See? SEE? Ani gets it. Fuckin’ Columbo, Ben.”
In the time they’ve been upbraiding him, you’ve been studying Ben’s costume more carefully, a smile of growing recognition dancing around your mouth. You clear your throat, and all three look directly at you.
“He’s not Columbo.”
“So who is he, then?” Evan asks, irritated. Clearly, the lack of spooky margs is having an effect on his mood.
You move beside Ben. “Mind if I show them the evidence, Detective?”
“Not at all, Doctor.”
The white lab coat must be imbuing you with some sort of scientific spirit. You begin to jokingly lecture Ani and Evan, pointing out parts of Ben’s outfit like he’s a specimen on display. Some of the other party guests turn to watch.
“To the untrained eye, Professor Morales’ costume may well look like a typical Columbo effort. But there are some vital clues that prove he is, in fact, not Columbo and is completely appropriately dressed for the theme. Exhibit A: the side parting in his hair, and the way it is styled - or, sorry to say this Ben, the way he’s tried to style it. Exhibit B: no cigar. Exhibit C: the contents of his pockets. Could you show these to the group, Professor?”
Ben nods with exaggerated formality and reaches into his coat pockets.
“An old street map of San Francisco. A pocket guide to codes and codebreaking. A pair of glasses - pretty sure these are not part of the costume. Colleagues, this is in fact Detective Dave Tosche, one of the leading figures in the Zodiac case.” You look to Ben for confirmation, your eyebrows raised expectantly.
“You’re so close.”
You chew on your lower lip before it hits you. “Ah! An important distinction. You’re Mark Ruffalo playing Dave Tosche in David Fincher’s 2007 based on a true story serial killer masterpiece, Zodiac. Serial killer, cinematic, he’s entirely on theme, he’s even from the Bay Area.”
You do a neat little bow. Ben laughs hard. “I knew you’d get it, Dr Fronk-en-steen!”
Ani rolls their eyes. Evan pinches his nose. “I swear to god, on your first day in graduate school they should warn you that if you become an academic you’ll end up working with fucking nerds for the rest of your life.”
The host’s irritation at his enforced sobriety aside, the party is relaxed and enjoyable. Evan has compiled an exceptionally well-curated playlist that mixes Halloween-themed songs and party bangers with random tracks from a ‘Spooky Sound Effects Vol. 1-5’ album he’d found in a thrift store. Evan’s friends are a fascinating and entertaining group of people: friends from college; former colleagues; people who work in fashion; writers, artists, and people who run tiny community theatres.
You’re swapping Paris stories with Drew, a 6’4” Boston-based art teacher dressed up as Shelley Duvall in The Shining, while finishing off a vodka and tonic (you are still building up to trying a Spooky Marg, disarmed by their lurid green colour).
Drew points to your now-empty glass. “Think it’s time for you to try Evan’s concoction, babe. Would you believe me if I told you it was actually pretty good?” he offers, raising his own glass of the icy green beverage.
You pull a face. “I guess I can’t know until I try it. Okay. Here goes nothing.” You cross to the kitchen in search of the green nectar, bopping gently to the strains of ‘Cuff It’ pumping out of Evan’s speakers. En route, you spot Ani in the open-plan living area, flirting outrageously with someone dressed as Tippi Hedren in The Birds, enormous fake bird sticking out at a rakish angle from their blonde wig.
Ben has had the same idea as you. When you enter Evan’s tiny kitchen, he’s standing by the counter - still wearing his overcoat - and pouring himself a glass of the frosty green goo from a large jug.
“Ohhhh, yes. Yes. This is good. You can try it first.”
“I thought you were a scientist, Dr Fronk-en-Steen? Scared of an experimental substance?”
You join him at the counter and give him a sceptical look. “As a good scientist, I’d at least like to know what’s in the experimental substance.”
Ben sips the drink cautiously and narrows his eyes. “There’s definitely tequila. Lots of tequila. And triple sec. And something…minty? And then an extra booze layer that I can’t quite place.” He coughs suddenly, eyes watering. “Yep. Pretty…pretty potent.”
You scan the counter and spot a bottle of crème de menthe and one of vodka tucked alongside the tequila and triple sec. “Detective, I think we have our answer. Oh well. I guess it’s designed to make us merry. Or spooky. Or just really, really unwell.”
You pour yourself a glass, clink it off Ben’s, and lean against Evan’s countertop. You’ve taken off your lab coat and jacket. Ben gestures towards your outfit.
“That’s a great costume, by the way. Inspired choice not to go for the obvious ‘mad scientist’ version.” He peers closer. “And that is an excellent drawn-on moustache.”
You beam, delighting in the fact that he’s so impressed by your efforts. “It’s weird, I’ve kind of always wanted to go to a costume party where I had a drawn-on moustache. Maybe I want to feel like an early Hollywood villain.”
He laughs. “Or is it because of Jeanne Moreau with the fake moustache and cap in Jules et Jim?”
Your mouth drops open. “Shit! That’s it. God, that would have been a good costume. Easy to do, as well.”
Ben nods in agreement. “But I think Evan would have actually tried to kill you for not - what was the phrase? - not understanding the assignment.” He takes another sip of his Spooky Marg, wincing slightly. “And thank you, by the way, for proving that I did what I was told.”
You look him up and down, taking in his costume. “It’s so obviously not Columbo. Where did you get all the bits of the outfit?”
“Coat and pants are from a bigger branch of Goodwill in the next town over. Shirt is just a white shirt. Nothing exciting there. Got the badge in a toy store. The map and code book are my own.”
Of course they are.
He holds up his tie. “This belonged to my dad. Authentic 70s size and stripes.”
You smile softly at that detail. “It is an excellent tie and no mistake. I’m just wondering about how far you took the attention to detail, though - didn’t Tosche have one of those shoulder holster things on for pretty much the entire movie?”
Ben blushes. “Uh…well. You know I believe in the details. And the accuracy.”
You tilt your head quizzically. “In what sense?”
“In the sense that I do care about the attention to detail, so I, uh…”
He moves to take off his overcoat. And there they are: a pair of brown leather shoulder holsters, albeit without any handguns (real or fake). Insane green drink aside, he really looks the part as an old-school hard bitten TV detective.
It’s also impossible to ignore the way the combination of the snugly-fitted shirt and holsters seems to exaggerate (or maybe emphasise?) just how broad Ben’s shoulders are.
Have they always looked like…that?
Either way, you’re impressed. “Wow. I mean…wow. It’s the whole package. No toy pistols, though?”
He furrows his brow. “I was struggling a bit with whether this fed into the more problematic aspects of how policing is presented in popular culture - what do they call it, ‘copaganda’? - , and guns for me are just…no.” He shakes his head. “Felt weird enough getting the holsters but, like I said - attention to detail.”
You nod. “You could just use yours to store snacks, or something. Might get a bit, um, melted, though. Body heat, and all.”
Ben laughs, and nods his head towards the living room. “Come on. Grab your Spooky Marg and let’s go see if Tippi Hedren’s been turned vampiric yet.”
Three Spooky Margs later, and you’re buzzed. Thankfully, so is pretty much everyone else - with the exception of Evan, of course, and a lone guest dressed as the Babadook who’s been sitting, motionless, at the dining table all night.
Wig off, you’re chatting and eating pumpkin spiced cookies in the tiny kitchen with David, who has proven to be charm personified (and gorgeous to boot). Hair neatly styled and wearing a simple outfit of slacks, shirt, and jacket, it took you a moment before you realised he was dressed as Norman Bates.
That’s one way to do couples’ costumes.
In solidarity with Evan, David has limited himself to one Spooky Marg for the evening, and is sipping on tonic water and lime. Evan sticks his bewigged head into the kitchen and beckons you and David to join the rest of the party in the living area. “Come on! It’s Spooky Lip Sync for your Afterlife time.”
You glance sideways at David, who grins. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any death drops.”
“Lyyyyyyyydiiiaaaaa!” Ben beams and waves frantically at you from the smaller sofa, gesturing for you to join him. You realise why he seems so eager to have you join him when you see what’s happening on the couch.
He’s pinned against one end, holding his head at an awkward angle to avoid getting hit in the face by the fake bird stuck in Tippi Hedren’s hair as they throw their head back and laugh while Ani whispers sweet nothings into their ear.
All the Spooky Margs in the world couldn’t make Ben Morales comfortable in this scenario.
Even so, he’s definitely merry, albeit in an extremely smiley, benevolent kind of way. He’s got a beatific smile on his face as you approach. “Lyddie, sit. Sit. Sit in the seat.” He motions as if he’s about to stand and give you his space on the couch.
You laugh and put a hand on one of his shoulders, gently pushing him back into his spot. “Absolutely the fuck not. I’m not sitting beside someone getting turned into a vampire, Benjamin.” You settle onto the padded arm of the couch on his left, leaning ever so slightly into him as you do so. “M’sitting on the arm of this sofa right here.”
“Mmmmkay.” He sips his lurid green drink and hums with satisfaction. Drew, his Shelley Duvall wig swapped for a longer, darker one, emerges from the hallway clad in a wafty, bright red dress.
“Pssssst. Lyd. Lyd.” Ben leans in to whisper theatrically in your ear. “What’s a Spooky Sync Afterlife anyway?”
Evan glares at him and fiddles with his phone until a tinkly piano melody emerges from the speakers and Drew starts to dance, lip syncing along to ‘Wuthering Heights’:
Out on the wily, windy moors
We’d roll and fall in green
He’s uncannily good, nailing each of Kate Bush’s dance moves as he mouths along. From your spot on the arm of the couch, you fling your arms in the air, waving along in time to the music and matching Drew word for word in a perfect lip sync.
When the song reaches the middle eight, Drew advances towards you and pulls you up to join him. Ordinarily you’d run for cover, but the Spooky Margs have relaxed your inhibitions just enough and you join in, widening your eyes and extending your arms as you beg Heathcliff to let you in at his window. As the song’s closing guitar riff starts, Drew wraps his long arms around you, playfully pretending to drag you off to some uneasy underworld before embracing you in a delighted hug as the other guests whoop and cheer.
You hastily retreat back to your seat as Drew takes his bow. Ben breaks off his applause and raises a hand to high five you as you settle back onto the arm of the couch.
You’re not quite ready for it, your centre of gravity thrown off by the slightly awkward seating position and the effect of the drinks. To your horror, you begin to topple ungracefully off the couch in the direction of Evan’s living room floor, closing your eyes and bracing for impact.
Strong arms catch you gently around the waist mid-fall and pull you back to an upright position. A slightly slurred, but reassuring voice: “I’ve got you.”
This is mortifying.
You open your eyes and turn to face him, wanting to cringe yourself out of existence.
“Um…whoops?” If the ground could open you up and swallow you now, that would be most helpful.
But Ben’s wearing that contented smile again, evidently trying not to laugh but with a look in his eyes that reassures you he’s not making fun of you. Not in the slightest.
You crack in unison, giggling like misbehaving children.
You look down to where your left hand is still resting on his bare forearm, his shirt sleeves rolled up and exposing the warm, lightly golden skin below.
He has arm freckles.
Lowered inhibitions or not, reality kicks back in. You move your hand away, concerned you’ve overstepped a mark.
“Sorry. Thanks for catching me. Sorry.”
His smile fades and he reciprocates, pulling back and blushing as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I… Just didn’t want you falling.”
Another tiny crackle of electricity goes off in your brain, as if an unseen force is soldering together synapses that have long been out of use.
The signal, this time, is a little stronger, amplified no doubt by physical proximity and Spooky Margs.
You angle your body and reach behind you, catching hold of his left arm and moving it back into position so that it’s lightly bracing you, forearm against your back and hand holding you at the waist.
“’S just in case I fall again. Safety is paramount.”
Ani, left alone for a moment while Tippi Hedren goes to the bathroom, leans round and looks at you both.
“Could use a sholster holder for better counterbalance or some shit? Hold on to a sholster holder.” They start laughing at their malapropism. “Sholster holder. No wait, that’s not it. Sholster. Holder. No. Oh, fuck it.”
Ben looks up at you, coffee-brown eyes twinkling.
“I am kinda curious about the sholster holder,” you say. “Never seen one before.”
“Oh, well in that case…” He motions with his head and taps the holster strap on his right. You extend your right arm, stretching across his shoulders to rest your fingers against the leather.
The electrical current in your brain continues to pulse.
Evan introduces a lipsync by “Musty Springheeled”, who performs ‘Spooky’. Musty had been introduced to you earlier in the evening as a mild-mannered poet called Dani. They’re transformed now, enormous backcombed blonde wig and layers of black eyeliner complementing their long black vintage-style dress.
You sway gently to the music, careful not to overreach again. Not that you’d be likely to fall. Not with a large, warm hand at your waist and your fingers resting lightly on his shoulder. For better balance, as Ani suggested.
Musty extends their elegant arms in front of them as they mouth the words, hands passing back and forth in front of their face:
Just like a ghost
You’ve been a-haunting my dreams
But now I know
You’re not what you seem
You feel the caress of soft, wavy hair against your neck as Ben rests his head on your shoulder. Instinctively, you reciprocate, lightly shifting your head to lean against his.
Evan keeps an eagle eye on Musty Springheeled. Tippi Hedren has rejoined Ani on the couch, and they’re wrapped around each other and swaying along to the song, caught up in their own little world.
It’s only David, alert and observant, who notices just how contented the detective and scientist seem to be, nestled into one end of the sofa.
“Fuck it. I’ll drive you guys. Come on, nerds. Party’s over.”
Evan, still in his Mother Bates dress but wig discarded, is jangling his keys at Ben, who yawns and offers a thumbs up in acknowledgment before grabbing his mac.
There isn’t a cab to be had in Barrow, but Evan is determined to get the local guests home so that he - and everyone else staying with him - can go to bed. Some of the visiting contingent have already left, decamping to an AirBnB the next block over. Others are staying in Evan’s guest room or on his couch and sofabed.
Evan starts a head count. “Okay. So… that’s Lydia, Ben, Ani in the back, Dani up front. Right?”
Dani, still in their Musty Springheeled dress, nods. Ani appears from the kitchen, Tippi following close behind. “And Cass. Cass is, uh, coming with me.”
Who the fuck is Cass?
Tippi Hedren waves a tiny wave. “Hiiiii. I’m Cass,” they say in a quiet, sweet British accent.
Evan cocks an eyebrow at Ani, then realises the numbers don’t add up. “Lydia, Ben, Ani, Cass, Dani up front… fuck. Fuck.”
You pull on your lab coat and knee-length wool overcoat, eyes half-closed with sleep and Spooky Margs. “I can just walk, y’know? Not too far.”
“The fuck you aren’t,” Ben mutters. “I’ll walk. It’s fine.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “You live further away, Benjamin! Fuck. Make it make sense.”
David’s eyes flit between you, Ben, and Evan. “Who would be getting out first?”
Ani and Evan point at you in unison. You raise a hand, sheepishly. “I mean it, it’s close.”
“I mean, desperate times etc. So,” David sets out his proposal, “Ben, Ani, and Cass go in the back. Lydia sits on Ben’s lap for the short journey. You drop Lydia off, you’re good for the rest of the journey.”
Your eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s legal!”
Evan rolls his eyes. “Of course it fucking isn’t legal. But I want you fuckers to go home.”
David turns to Ben. “And you don’t mind having Lydia on your lap for a few minutes?”
Your face heats. A side effect of all those Spooky Margs, you think. Ben’s ears have turned pink, too. Definitely something in the drinks. Crème de menthe has a weird effect.
“Sure. Sure! Mmmhmm.” Ben nods quickly. “But only if that’s okay with you?” He turns to you.
There’s something endearing to you about the fact that, even with several extremely strong cocktails on board, even being more buzzed than you’ve ever seen him, and having spent most of the night holding you steady on the couch, he still wants to check that you’ll be comfortable.
You nod. “Just a bit worried I’ll be too heavy, is all.”
Ben scoffs gently and shakes his head to assuage your concerns.
“Oh, thank FUCK.” Evan exhales with relief. “Nerds! Come on!”
It must be twenty years since you’ve been in a car like this, perched on your friend’s lap on your way home from a party. You try to hold yourself up slightly, worried despite yourself about what Ben might think if he had to feel all of your body weight on his (strong-feeling) thighs.
You’ve never been small, not as an adult. As a student you envied those tiny, petite friends who always seemed to appeal to men and women alike, their compact, light frame fitting perfectly on the lap of whatever lucky person they were flirting with at the party. They never had to worry about stuff like this, right? Too busy being picked up and carried around by boys desperate to assert some kind of masculinity, who never cast a second glance at the unappealing, taller, serious-faced friend.
That said, even if he did think you were disturbingly heavy, Ben hadn’t given you the slightest indication since you’d clambered into the back of the car and settled yourself around him carefully, balancing yourself by resting an arm over the back seat. He arranges his arms firmly around you.
“Like a human seatbelt, Lyddie.” You giggle sleepily.
He murmurs. "I've got you."
Evan drives carefully, the Barrow streets mostly deserted save for occasional groups of student revellers in costume. Ani is leaning into Cass, ostensibly examining the fake bird still sticking out of their carefully-coiffed hair, but in truth taking the opportunity to rest a hand on Cass’s knee.
In the relatively cramped confines of the back seat, you have to lean your head on Ben’s shoulder to avoid thwacking your skull off the car roof. The scruff on his jaw brushes lightly against the top of your forehead. His breathing is steady, and oddly calming, but there’s this…frisson running through your body at the same time.
It’s been so long since you’d been this physically close to another person, the odd hook-up aside. No wonder it feels so good. Anyone would feel the same if they’d been a bit touch-starved.
Right?
“So I guess this experience is fairly standard for the visiting professor?” you ask. He laughs, and you can feel it resonating against you from his chest.
“Ohhh, yeah.” He pauses. “For the nice ones, anyway.”
Evan pulls up at the kerb outside your building. You open the door and unfold yourself carefully from your position on Ben’s lap, until you’re eventually upright. You wave cheerily and turn to walk to the main door of the building, smiling happily.
You’re only a couple of steps away when the car door opens again. You look over your shoulder, instinctively.
He’s standing on the pavement, hands in his coat pockets, looking down at the ground for an instant before meeting your eye.
“Hey, Lydia?”
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)
Further A/N:
Huge thanks to lovely @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for thoughts, excited responses, and reading parts of this in draft! And for introducing the word "frisson" into the equation... sigh.
The idea of Lydia on Ben’s lap in the car came from @cutesyscreenname, and this got me thinking A LOT about physical proximity for these two nerds and what it might unleash…
Costume references: Ani as Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992).
Lydia as Gene Wilder as Dr Frederick Frankenstein in the earlier parts of Young Frankenstein (1974). "It's pronounced Fronk-en-Steen."
Ben as Mark Ruffalo as Dave Tosche in Zodiac (2007) (that's him on the left, obviously). (Bonus: SHOULDER HOLSTER SUPREMACY)
Evan as Norman as Mother Bates in Psycho (1960)
Cass as Tippi Hedren in The Birds (1963)
This is the specific performance of 'Wuthering Heights' Drew does at Evan's party (this is one of my absolute favourite songs, ever, and I would have been just as into this as Lydia is):
youtube
'Spooky' by Dusty Springfield, lip synced by Musty Springheeled/Dani:
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#professor ben x OFC#mr ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal character fanfic#professor!ben#mr ben x ofc#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#Spotify
78 notes
·
View notes
Text
Visiting - Chapter 9: Open Your Eyes
(Moodboard by @cutesyscreenname)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
Chapter summary: It's the new year and the new semester. Reunited in Barrow for the first time since her hasty departure, Lydia and Ben have some talking to do.
Word Count: 10.2k (they have a lot to get through!)
Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)
Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia is 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; smut; fingering; PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; serious self-esteem issues; references to panic attacks and anxiety disorders; references to past infidelity (not by Ben or Lydia); angst central.
A/N: The title of this chapter is inspired by something Ben says to Lydia, which then made me think of this song by Snow Patrol. The video is a slightly edited version of C'était un rendez-vous, a 1976 short by the French director Claude Lelouch, so I feel that it fits this pair of idiots on multiple levels. (I frickin' love this film and I think it works gorgeously for the song.)
youtube
Thank you to everyone who's shown so much love for this pair so far - every comment, reblog, like, interaction, ask is just a joy to me.
Further A/N at the end of the chapter.
See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.
Cross-posting to AO3.
Chapter 8 - Chapter 10
@lunapascal and @julesonrecord - this has been a tough chapter, again, and I've needed the guidance and encouragement along the way. Thank you, as always, for your love for the dorksicles as well as your incredibly wise and insightful suggestions and editorial eyes. Bendie are forever thankful. You may well spot some of your specific suggestions in this chapter...
Taglist:
@lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @princessanglophile, @katareyoudrilling
Your father interpreted your tears at the airport in January as homesickness.
“Just think, Lyd, it’s only a few more months, really.” He pats your arm, reassuring you as he always has. “And then you’ll be back over this side of the pond again and back to your real job and your normal life. And not so far away from all of us!”
You cried into his shoulder as you hovered near the entrance to the security screening area.
A final hug, a wipe of your tears, a brave face, and a wave goodbye.
You were homesick, or something like it. In this case, though, you were homesick for someone, not somewhere; homesick for him, for his smile, his kindness, his eyes, his careful embrace, his humour, his gentle strength.
And you were sick to your stomach with the constant, nagging fear that you had already destroyed that new and fragile home, all by yourself.
You knew he wouldn’t be back in Barrow until just before teaching resumed for the new semester - a long-standing plan to make additional use of his time on the west coast by getting some research done in specialist libraries.
You are torn between relief at not having to see him yet, not having to deliver your promised explanation, and feeling deeply anxious about the impact of the prolonged separation on Ben’s feelings towards you. He had suggested before Christmas that space was needed, and you’d agreed. The more significant that space became, however, the more you worried.
It wasn’t as if you were back in normal contact. Save for an exchange on New Year’s Eve, when you’d received a message from him sent at exactly midnight your time (and you reciprocated, setting your alarm so that you would wake just before midnight California time to send the message), there’d been next to no communication.
Kate reassures you via FaceTime. “Lyd, calm down. Like I said at Christmas, if this is all it takes to change his feelings then it’s a doomed enterprise.”
“I think it might be a doomed enterprise anyway, what with me having to go back to my job over there in September.”
She rolls her eyes. “Alright, Apocalypse Lyd. Go on, catastrophise all you want. Not like anyone ever did a long-distance relationship or anything. Have you seen him yet?”
You shake your head. “He’s on research in California - pre-planned. Not back until next week.”
“You ready to talk it out?”
You pause, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. “Honestly? I won’t know until I see him again.”
“Happy New Year, Lydia!”
No such thing as January blues as far as Susan is concerned. You reach into your tote bag to retrieve a box of candies you’d picked up as a gift for her. “How were the holidays? I hope you got a well-deserved rest.”
You can hear her sincere expressions of gratitude and surprise as she starts to answer your question, but your mind is elsewhere. You cast your eyes along the rows of wooden cubby holes, each labelled with a staff member’s name.
B.E. MORALES
The sight of his full name makes your heart hurt.
“…and that is why Nick’s mother is never doing the holidays with us again, so help me.” Susan pauses. “Lydia, are you okay? Don’t take this personally, but you look terrible.”
Hard not to take that personally, Susan.
You try to rearrange your features into something resembling a smile. “It’s probably just jet lag or something. And I had my hands full at home with the niblings - they’re both under four so…” you make a goofy face and shrug your shoulders, hoping to distract from the bags under your eyes and your worn-out complexion.
Susan studies you for a moment and then beams. “Been there, done that! Nothing a cup of coffee won’t fix.”
Shit. The mention of coffee conjures up a mental image of Ben at your office door, armed with the two mugs. When you remember the smile on his face that last day you scrunch up your eyes, as if in pain.
You fucked it up, Lyd.
The rest of the week passes in a grey haze. You oscillate between anxiety and profound sadness, cortisol rushing through your veins as you try to work out how you can fix it, and then a feeling of absolute exhaustion as you realise you probably can’t. Your to-do list mounts, unable even to distract yourself with work.
The worst part is the knowledge that you did this. You’ve got no one else to blame. You freaked out. You ran away. You wrote your stupid note and you left him, all because you didn’t want to give in to the reality of your feelings - and the risk of loss that always comes with that.
Of course you fucked it up. You always do. You’re broken. Who would ever want you?
With a week to go before teaching, you lock into preparation mode. It’s a useful distraction, checking reading lists, planning seminar and workshop outlines, and catching up with some of your students who’ve already returned to campus.
You arrange a tutorial with Nia, one of the students in the additional workshop groups run as part of Ben’s equality and diversity initiative, to discuss her initial plans for an “un-essay” assignment - a form of assessment that allows the student to respond to the brief in any number of creative ways.
Her un-essay ideas include a reflective piece on food in poetry by Black women writers - with accompanying dishes. She’s a bright, smart girl, keen to tell you all the books she read over the break and compare notes on your choice of holiday movies.
Just before she leaves your office, she picks up her tote bag and rummages inside, producing a pretty, round tin and placing it on your desk.
“Made you some of my peanut butter cookies. I noticed you like Reese’s, so I assumed you might like these, too.”
You beam at Nia, heart swelling at the sweet thoughtfulness of her gesture. “You’re so kind! I can’t wait to try these.”
She reciprocates your smile as she heads to the door. “There’s plenty there for you and Professor Ben to share. See you in class!”
Wait. What? Did the students think… shit. Maybe she just said that because he ran the programme. That was probably it.
You open the tin, take out a cookie, and try not to think about it.
ANI: Hey Lyd! I’m just in the neighbourhood, you home?
LYDIA: Yep, just putting away some laundry. You want to pop by?
ANI: Great! See you soon.
You buzz Ani in, leaving your front door open as usual once you hear their steps on the stairs. “Hey, Lyd. Just thought I’d call round to say hi,” Ani explains, taking off their big winter coat and hanging it on the coat rack in the hallway.
“You want some tea? Or something stronger?”
Ani nods, settling themselves on your couch. “Tea would be amazing.”
“Sure thing.” You continue the conversation from your tiny kitchen. Ani reminds you of the drinks party at Jen’s house on Friday night, in two days’ time - it’s her wife, Rachel’s, birthday, and she’s invited some faculty colleagues.
Given how close she is to Ben, having joined the faculty at the same time, he’ll almost certainly be there - assuming he’s back by then. You feel nauseous.
Ani gratefully takes their cup of hot tea - made strong, as they prefer - crosses their legs, and looks at you with what you suspect is concern. “Lyd, are you doing okay?”
“Why’d you ask?”
They sigh, placing the steaming cup down on the coffee table as you join them on the couch. “Lyd, you’ve been completely out of sorts since you came back. And I’m pretty sure it’s not just homesickness, as you claimed when Evan asked you if you were okay earlier this week.”
You open your mouth, ready to protest, but Ani shakes their head and places a hand on your knee to still you.
“We’re worried about you, Lyd. Obviously, it’s up to you what you do or don’t want to tell me, but just know that I am here for you. That we’re here for you.”
You sip your tea and nod, averting your eyes.
Ani purses their lips, hands wrapped around their cup. “I could be way off with this, and yell at me if I am. But - Lyd, is there - was there - something happening between you and Ben?”
You stare at the floor, afraid you’ll give too much away in your expression if you look at them directly.
“Lydia? If I’ve got this wrong, tell me. If it’s something else…”
Your voice is almost inaudible. “It’s not. I mean, you’re not wrong. That is… yeah. How did you know?”
Ani sips their tea, allowing themselves a little smile. “I mean I didn’t know know, I just had a feeling. I knew you guys were close but it’s academia, y’know? That’s not unusual, and he really wanted to help you settle in. But then we went out for your birthday, that’s what made me really wonder.”
You raise your eyebrows, still hunched up staring at the floor. They take their phone out of their bag, swiping through their photo album back through the weeks and months to your birthday weekend. “Look, we’re academics - we love the evidence, we search for proof. So here’s my source.”
Ani presses play on a video that, at first glance, is a selfie of them dancing at the bar with Evan, making faces into the camera.
“Lyd, look at the action in the background.”
Even the slightly out-of-focus footage has captured the huge smiles on both your faces as Ben reaches for you and you move together in time with the music. He beams at you, eyes crinkling as he laughs when you throw in an extra move. Your eyes are shining. Your joy is so obvious, so beautiful after so many years of numbness and hurt, and so painful knowing what you would do to him just a few weeks later.
Ani breaks the silence and tries to lighten the mood. “Basically, since then I’ve been waiting for you guys to finally wise up and just fuck. It took ages to convince Ev, for some reason. I think he was pissed that I saw it first. And then it turned out that David was on the ball first. Evan was furious.” You huff a laugh, covering your face with your free hand.
“When I heard you’d spent Thanksgiving together, I thought the Eagle had landed. Wrong, of course.”
“We, um - we did kiss on Thanksgiving. But we thought it was by mistake.”
Ani rolls their eyes. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Fucking dorks. Fucking idiots, in fact.”
You giggle in spite of yourself. “And - David. He saw it in how we were together. He - he told me he thought Ben had feelings for me a couple of days before I went home for the holidays, and -”
“And I think he might have told Ben the same, to help you two realise. Or at least, to help you act on what you already knew.” Their voice is gentle and kind. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I…shit.” You stammer, tripping over your words and trying not to cry. “I did something really fucking stupid. I ruined it, like I always do, and now I can’t fix it and -“
The tears start to fall.
“I don’t know what to do. I… he’s really hurt. I hurt him, Ani. I care about him so much and I fucking hurt him. I don’t think I can make it right.”
Ani wraps an arm around you, pulling you in for a hug.
“Start at the beginning, Lyd. And whatever happened, you probably can fix this, you know?”
Ani puts their hands on your shoulders as you stand on Jen and Rachel’s doorstep. Their dark eyes are serious but kind, their face framed by an enormous black faux fur Cossack hat.
“What do you got, Lyd?”
You bite your lip. “I…I got this.”
“You got this. Let’s go, girl.”
At first, you think he didn’t come. You move through the hallway into Jen and Rachel’s spacious, open-plan living and dining room, scanning the clusters of guests for a familiar face. A mixture of relief and disappointment floods your brain. You can relax now, right? In search of a drink, you head for the kitchen, and -
He’s talking animatedly to a couple of colleagues from literature, those kind eyes crinkling behind his glasses as he smiles and laughs. He’s wearing a plaid Henley shirt in a sort of blue and purple flannel, with a dark blue cardigan over it. Hair neat, but long enough to brush the top of his shirt collar. As gorgeous as you remembered - more so, even.
Your heart races and your stomach leaps at the sight of him. Sure, you’re nervous. But it’s not just that. The physical symptoms of anxiety have much in common with the physiological manifestations of sexual and romantic attraction, after all, and a quick glance at him is enough to confirm just how bad you have it.
You reach for a glass of red wine from the selection of drinks set out on the kitchen island, and you beat a hasty retreat before he spots you.
He saw you, of course. He’s been watching and waiting for you, observing the other guests just as you’d done, simultaneously hoping and fearing he would look up and meet your gaze across the room.
Now that you’re there, he’s not entirely sure what he should do. Like you, he’s wary of confrontation, of taking action and getting it ‘wrong’, without knowing the consequences ahead of time.
But, despite the slight thaw caused by your sporadic contact over the break, he’s also hurt and more than a little stubborn. You left with just a note. You casually brushed off the night you spent together, in spite of everything he tried to show you about how he felt about you. Surely you needed to make the first move now?
Even so, his heart lifts when he sees you across the room. Photos on his phone don’t do you justice, don’t capture the way you move, the way your eyes catch the light, the essential you-ness that he has been so enamoured with.
He decides not to let on that he’s noticed you.
Ani catches up with you near one of the floor-to-ceiling fitted bookshelves that line the living room. “I know it’s easier to just hide here feigning interest in their book collection, Lyd, but -”
“I’m not feigning interest! I’m curious about other people’s books.” You tilt your head and continue reading the titles from the spines, until Ani moves their body between you and the books.
“Lydia. I swear to fucking God. He’s right fucking there,” Ani hisses, jerking their head in the direction of the kitchen. “I will march you in there and I will make you talk to each other.”
You can feel your palms getting clammy, and you place your wine glass down on a coaster in case it slips from your nervous grasp. “And what do I say, Ani? How do I do this? It’s not exactly private…”
They nod over at Rachel, who’s just come into the room, smiling and mouthing birthday wishes before turning back to you. “You’re a forty-two year old woman with a PhD, Lyd. It’s not beyond your capabilities to ask him to speak to you outside, or in their guest bathroom, or bedroom, or wherever.” Their tone is irritated, and you close your eyes as if shielding yourself from further hurt.
“Lyd, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be harsh. It’s just - come on. We talked about this. I know exactly what you feel for him. I have a hunch he feels the same for you - everything you said suggests it. You fucking care so much about each other.” They inhale deeply, lightly reaching for your hand. “Why not just tell him? From what you said about that night, you made it pretty clear you were into him, and vice versa.”
You open your eyes and meet Ani’s kind expression. “And if it’s what I fear? What if all the space we’ve had has convinced him nothing more can happen?”
They squeeze your hand. “Neither of us know what he’s going to say. But you’ve been through so much worse, Lyd. You survived the kind of shit that could destroy some people. So, if it’s bad now - well, you’ll survive again. And if it’s good -”
“Then I have to leave it all behind in a few months, when the fellowship is done.”
Ani cocks an eyebrow. “Now you’re just making fucking excuses. Come on,” they take your hand and usher you towards the dining table, laid out with snacks, “let’s get some chips and dip first. Call it sustenance for the campaign ahead.”
Ani’s strategy, it transpires, is to take one of the vintage Chip n’ Dip dishes and to saunter into the kitchen with it, moving steadily towards the cluster of literature professors as you trail behind.
They greet your colleagues enthusiastically and starts passing around the food. You can feel your face starting to burn as you try to cast a glance at Ben, to gauge his mood from the look on his face. You furtively take in his expression, and it breaks your heart. From the smiling, talkative man you’d seen when you arrived, his eyes have darkened and his lips are set in a firm line.
Ani quietly nudges you, encouraging you to make the first move and break through the invisible shield he’s placing between the two of you.
Your mouth is dry and your palms are clammy as you start to speak to him. You try not to think about the last time you’d seen him. “H-h-hi. D-did you enjoy the holidays?”
He turns slightly towards you, still avoiding looking at you directly. “They were good. Nice to be with family.” He sighs and takes a large sip of his wine.
Silence. It’s all you can do to avoid your natural tendency to fill the gap with rambling chit-chat. You nudge him slightly out of the group to avoid being overheard.
“Could we talk, just for a few minutes? I need to -“
At this, he finally makes eye contact with you, and the hurt in his brown eyes is almost more than you can bear. He responds quietly but firmly.
“You want to talk? You want to talk, here? Now? At a party?” He sounds incredulous.
“I told you I’d explain, and I told you it would be easier to do that face to face. So, here we are.” You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from starting to cry or lashing out, channeling your anxiety and irritation into sarcasm. “Forgive me for taking this rare opportunity to have a very important conversation with you,” you hiss.
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what you really need to say, anyway,” he mutters quietly, “you made your feelings clear.” His expression is hard as he steps away and moves to walk out of the kitchen. In a reflex action, you reach out and lightly touch his wrist. He turns back for a moment.
“I told you I was sorry and that I could explain. That note… that’s not my feelings.” You drop your head to stare at the floor, before lifting it back to meet his gaze. “If you want to talk to me, I’ll be out at the front porch, okay? I need some fresh air, anyway. But I also really want a chance to talk. Please.”
And he’s gone.
You didn’t think through the whole ‘outdoor chat’ thing. New England January nights are colder than anything you’ve regularly experienced before, and you have been sitting on the front steps of Jen and Rachel’s home for what feels like forever. In truth, it’s been about ten minutes - but the more time that goes by without any sign of Ben, the more you despair. Although you’re snuggled into your bulky winter coat, face barely visible underneath your warm, red cable-knit hat and scarf set, the cold is starting to bite.
You tug off a glove and reach into your pocket for your phone, composing a message for Ani:
Hey. I asked him to come out and talk but he doesn’t want to. I’m going home - just can’t be in there. I’m sorry - please apologise to Rachel and Jen for me, say I’m sick or something. x
You start off down the path from the front door to the pavement, double-checking the route on your phone. The house isn’t too far away from your apartment building, and a walk might help clear your head.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
The snowflakes cling to your coat and hat, the flurries intensifying quickly. You swipe open the app on your phone, fingers stiff in the freezing weather. No cabs.
“Fuck this.”
As you round the block and head for home, the tears start to fall, soaking into the woollen scarf wrapped around your mouth.
“Where’s Lyd? Did you talk to her?”
Ani finds Ben sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the shelves displaying Rachel’s substantial record collection, flipping through the vinyls as if he’s looking for something in particular.
He isn’t. He just can’t bear trying to be normal and socialise with everyone else again, not after seeing you. There’s an ache in his chest as he thinks about the pleading look in your eyes when you asked him to come and hear what you had to say.
His stomach churns as he wonders if you’re still waiting for him.
He feigns interest in a copy of Blonde on Blonde, staring at the liner notes like he’s never seen the record before in his life. “She said she wanted to talk, that she’d meet me outside, but I - I couldn’t.”
Ani looks murderous and runs a hand over their dark curls.
“You couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”
“Does it matter? Given that you’re asking about this, I’m assuming you know what happened.”
Ani scoots down to sit beside Ben on the floor. Their voice is low but intense. They are not mincing their words.
“I know what happened. I know that she messed up. I have told her she messed up. She knows she messed up. But I also know why she messed up and that you need to hear her out. If not for your sake or her sake, then for all our sakes. I can’t take much more of the two of you moping around like this.”
He shrugs. Ani rolls their eyes.
“So help me, Benjamin Morales, you can be a stubborn fucking asshole.”
Ben furrows his brow and sucks his teeth.
Jen appears, her attention caught by the sight of Ani visibly berating Ben from their spot on the floor. “Have you spoken to Lydia, Ben?”
Ani raises their brows. “How did you know?”
Jen waves her hand, as if exasperated by her old friend. “I had my suspicions, eventually got it out of him earlier this week, now he’s being an idiot because he’s not doing what I told him and going to speak to Lyd.” She looks around her living room. “Where is Lyd?”
“Outside,” Ben mutters.
Jen, face like thunder, pokes him in the back with the toe of her block-heeled boot. “I love you like a brother but if you don’t get the fuck out and find that woman, I will never speak to you again.”
You wrap your scarf tighter around your face, trying to shield yourself from the increasingly heavy snowfall. You have never been so grateful for the solid strength and warmth of your dark red Dr Martens.
Thank fuck I wore jeans and a blouse, you think. Could have been the wrap dress.
You pause for a moment to give your face a break from the onslaught of the snow and wind, turning your back to the persistent flurries.
“LYD?”
At first, you think you’re imagining it. It’s a noise on the wind, whipping snow at your face and burying your heart cold and deep.
“LYDDIE?”
That is definitely not a noise on the wind.
You turn around to see Ben steadily walking towards you, his black Dr Martens shoes crunching through the fresh snow that’s already covering your footprints.
He’s wearing the merino wool watchcap you made him for Christmas, the Prussian blue perfectly complementing the navy wool of his pea coat. A little voice inside you pipes up that he couldn’t hate you, at least, if he was wearing something you’d made for him with your own two hands.
“What the hell, Lyd?” He’s beside you, now, covered in a dusting of snow, big dark eyes staring intently into yours from behind his slightly fogged-up spectacles. “What are you doing out here?”
You are physically shaking with nerves and cold. “I wanted to talk to you, I wanted to explain, I told you where I would be, and…” you sniffle, glad of the snow as an excuse for your tears and red eyes, “And you didn’t even want to hear it. You didn’t even want to talk to me.” Your teeth chatter. “So…so I d-d-decided to g-g-go h-h-h-home.”
You wipe at your eyes with your gloved hands. “Stupid snow makes m-m-me cry,” you offer, by way of an explanation.
He doesn’t quite know why he does it. Maybe it’s his own need for reassurance, his instinctive urge to give you comfort, or maybe it’s the fact that, deep down, he’s missed you.
Ben steps closer to you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you to him for a hug.
“I’m so sorry, Lyd.” He holds you tightly for a moment before pulling away. “I was being a dick. I do want to talk.”
“I’m g-g-going home. Come with me if you want, and hear m-me out.”
“Okay. Fuck, it’s freezing.” He reaches into his coat pocket for his phone.
“No cabs. It’s not that far.”
He nods. You reach over, instinctively, doing up the top button on his coat and pulling the knitted hat a little more firmly over his ears.
He brings a gloved hand to meet yours, and for a moment you think he’s going to push you away. Instead, he gives your hand a little squeeze.
“Let’s go.”
“Okay, heating is on, thermostat’s up, kettle is boiling to make some coffee - um, I know this is going to sound weird, but are you hungry? I think I had a single tortilla chip to eat at Jen’s.”
Ben is standing at the door of your tiny kitchen, an old, baggy hoodie of yours over his shirt and cardigan as an extra layer of heat, arms crossed over his chest and hands rubbing his upper arms as he tries to warm up.
“I’m fucking s-s-starving.”
You have an urge to wrap your arms around him and get warm by sharing your body heat. But you haven’t even talked about it, yet.
“Okay, well…” You poke your head into the fridge and freezer in succession. “I’ve got a frozen pizza.”
“F-f-fucking perfect.”
It all feels a little too normal as you sit in the living area with your coffees, waiting for the pizza to cook. You’ve wrapped yourself in your crocheted blanket while you warm up, legs tucked under you on the couch and hands gripping your mug for warmth.
“I feel like I should be starting to explain,” you say, glancing down at your coffee.
Ben shakes his head. “Let’s eat, first, and then we can talk. Better not to do that hungry.”
There’s still a few minutes before the pizza will be done. You try to make the most of these moments of “normality”, before you have to try to explain your actions to him and hope that he feels the same as you.
“I did love your holiday makeover, by the way.”
He turns to look at you, a little smile creeping across his lips.
“You know I only got the polish off two days before I came back? Glitter is resilient.” He laughs to himself. “I think Jules liked doing it, though. How’s your gift-wrap injury?”
“Healed up. More worrying is the fact I don’t think I’ve located all of the stickers Cora put on my person over the break. I’m concerned one will turn up in some strange part of my body.”
Ben raises his eyebrows. “If I spot any unexpectedly I’ll be sure to signal it.”
“You had a good time at home, though?”
He nods. “It was great to be with them all. You?”
“Same. Good to be home.”
You are reminded of the tears you shed at the airport, homesick not for your family but for him.
“Thing is, I was glad to come back.” He looks up at you, eyes curious. “Because this feels like home, too.”
You eat the pizza companionably on the couch, washed down with cans of soda. Ben offers to stack the plates in the dishwasher. As he returns to the couch, you broach the subject.
“Can we talk?”
He nods and settles beside you. Your stomach does backflips at the prospect of having to finally say the words you’ve been mentally rehearsing since the day you left.
“I want to explain, and I want to - well, I want to try to make things right, because I did something wrong.” You look up at him, his dark eyes meeting yours, and it’s all you can do not to ditch the speech and try to show him what you feel in ways beyond words.
“I’m so, so sorry, Ben. I…”
And then he’s bridging the gap between your two bodies; gently caressing your face with his hands; tilting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes ask the question, and before you’ve finished nodding your assent his mouth is on yours and he’s kissing you like he’ll never get the chance again: hungry but tender, urgent but loving.
He brings his hands to wrap around your body, gently encouraging you to lie back on the couch and quickly pulling a cushion into position behind your head.
Your brain is shouting at you about how you need to do this properly, to talk first and then act, if you both want to.
Your body is responding rather differently. It couldn’t be any smoother if you’d rehearsed this: your legs opening wide to accommodate Ben’s gorgeous broadness, knees hitching around him as you try to pull him closer, hands tugging at the old hoodie, easing it off over his head, and fingers fumbling to undo the buttons on his flannel shirt.
He breaks away from the kiss, moving his mouth to the side of your neck and working his way down to your chest with a succession of kisses, gentle nibbles, and light sucking, interspersed with little moans and whispers of your name. You can feel his hands roving under your blouse, loosening your tank from the waistband of your jeans so he can feel your soft, warm flesh in his hands.
You gasp at the sensation. Your body is silently screaming for Ben, begging wordlessly for him to unzip your jeans and slip his hand between your soaking folds. Even so, your brain still wants to have a say.
“Ben…Ben… wait.” He pulls away but remains close to your body, looking up at you.
“You want me to stop, Lyd?”
You shake your head. “No, never, but… we were supposed to talk and -”
“We will.” He places a soft kiss to your exposed décolletage, and you moan.
You pull him towards you and kiss him firmly on the mouth, lifting your hips towards his and feeling the friction of him, already hard in his dark jeans.
“Fuck, Lyd…”
“Fuck it, we can talk later.” You encourage him to move off you and wriggle yourself off the couch, taking him by the hand. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”
You’re lying on your bed, Ben’s solid, comforting weight on top of you, both of you working urgently, desperately, to undress each other. You’d eased him out of his flannel shirt as soon as you got into the bedroom, pausing for a moment to admire his beautiful body in the slim-fit grey T-shirt he was wearing underneath before peeling it off him as you fell onto the bed.
He’s murmuring into your ear and trailing his lips down the line of your neck as his fingers undo the buttons on your blouse. “Fucking missed you so fucking much, Lyd,” he mutters, sucking so perfectly at your neck that you feel like your entire body is arching off the mattress. He sits you up slightly so he can tug away the blouse and peel off your tank top, tossing it aside as he reaches around to unhook your bra.
His big hands grope your tits, fingers gently pinching your nipples before his tongue swirls over them, triggering a cry of pleasure from you.
“FUCK, Ben, I really missed you, too…need you, baby.”
He moves his hands down to undo your jeans, slipping his long fingers inside. You’ve already unbuttoned his jeans and you pull down the zipper before sitting up to tug them - and his boxer briefs - down. His cock springs free, already hard and weeping, and you grip it gently before giving it a few strokes.
Ben groans loudly as he looks down, wanting to see your fingers working his cock. He pulls off your jeans and panties and meets your gaze again as you open your legs wide.
“This okay?”
You nod frantically. “It’s fucking perfect.”
He smiles and reaches between your legs to drag two long fingers over your folds. The look on his face is one of surprise and arousal.
“Fuck, you’re so wet, Lyd. So wet for me already.” He looks down to watch his fingers working through your slick, occasionally dipping his fingertips into your cunt and making you cry out with need and desire. “What do you want, baby?”
He keeps fucking you with his fingers as he looks into your eyes. It seems that’s what triggers your first orgasm: his big eyes gazing at you, so warm and so kind, while his thick fingers are pushing in and out of your pussy, making lewd, wet noises.
“Oh, fuck!” You come on his fingers, a wicked little smile on his face. “You, Ben, I want you. Want you to fuck me hard. Need you.”
He pulls his fingers out of you and sucks them clean, closing his eyes as he feels your taste on his lips and tongue. The sight makes your pussy throb, but you need more.
“You ready for me, Lyddie?”
You nod and spread your legs as he quickly lines himself up, pushing inside you in a single, fluid motion that seems to knock the air clean out of your lungs. You reach up and take his head in your hands, pulling him down for a kiss as he starts to move. He drags his cock in and out, slowly, deliberately; dark eyes watching you writhe and mewl under his broad body.
“Please, Ben -”
He begins to fuck you harder, deeper, rarely taking his eyes off you. Despite the urgency it’s imbued with a tenderness and a desperate need that matches your own. Your body responds intuitively as you hitch up your knees and shift your hips slightly to meet his firm thrusts and take him even more deeply.
You fuck each other as though you’re trying to fuse yourselves irrevocably together, using your bodies to take the first step towards overcoming the rift and separation. The sensation of soft, warm skin, of fingertips trailing over a breast, a bicep, a thigh, begins to say the words you still don’t quite know how to articulate.
Your hips are moving quicker now, fucking him as much as he is fucking you, and Ben leans back a little to look down at where your bodies are joined. He looks up at you from under his lashes, half-smiling as he admires the way your body moves in perfect sync with his. You reach for his strong forearms, fingers gripping his firm, lightly golden flesh to give you greater purchase as your hips roll upwards, trying to sate your longing and your frustration. Ben lets out a deep, guttural cry.
“Fucking hell, Lyd!”
“Want to fuck you, baby,” you murmur, not letting up the rhythm. “Please. Want to get on top.”
He rolls carefully onto his back, holding you in position around your hips as you shift your knees and brace your core. The change in position has his cock hitting you at a different angle, grazing against that perfect, spongy spot just inside your cunt, and you take a moment to savour the feeling before beginning to ride him.
You move with intention, purpose, determination, trying to let your body speak for you before you use your words, later. The sight of his beautiful face, eyes screwed up in pleasure and mouth slightly open, sends a pulse thrumming through you and almost gets you off again. You want more. You want to give him more. You want to give him everything.
Your hands reach down your body, seeking his broad palms and thick, gentle fingers; you place one hand over your left breast and encourage him to use the other to start massaging the slick-soaked pearl of your clit.
You cry out his name as you come, rhythm faltering a little. Ben encourages you to lift yourself off his cock for a moment, pushing himself up to a sitting position against your headboard before you straddle him again, taking his hard length deep into your warm, wet cunt and making him groan loudly.
The two of you, again. You and him, him and you, clinging to each other in mutual desire and reassurance. Bodies pressed together, the heavy weight of your tits pushed against the broadness of his chest, the warm softness of his tummy grazing against yours. You kiss, his tongue swiping at your lips and exploring your mouth: two as one.
He breaks away as he fucks up into you, arms still wrapped around you. You close your eyes, keening with pleasure.
“Open your eyes, Lydia.”
You blink, meeting his coffee-brown gaze. He smiles and caresses your face, slowing down the pace as he does so. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Just slowing down a little or I won’t last, baby.”
You pepper his neck and shoulders with tiny kisses, seeking out the little freckles and marks you love. Each press of your lips to his skin is a silent apology, an unspoken explanation, an attempt to convey through touch what you feel for him, how much he means to you.
I am so sorry. I missed you so very much. I need you. I care about you. I hate that I hurt you. Please forgive me.
And I love you.
“I’m close, baby. Gonna lie you back down, is that okay?”
You nod, kissing Ben as he eases you onto the bed. He pulls out for a moment as you change positions, and you whine a little at the loss of his cock inside you.
“Hey, it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, planting a soft kiss to your breast as he slides back inside you, “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
You twine your hands around his neck and reach to run your fingers through his dark curls, listening to the obscene sound of your wetness against him as he fucks you. You hitch up your legs and slip down a hand to grip his ass as he drives in and out of you.
“Fuck-fucking hell, baby - jesus, that feels so good. You feel so fucking perfect, so fucking wet. Taking me like this -”
He stutters as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting harder and faster as he gets closer. You wrap your arms around his broad back, finding arousal and reassurance in the warm softness of his body.
“I love having you inside me, y’know,” you whisper in his ear. “I love taking you, all of you, feeling the stretch in my cunt when you fuck me.”
Your dirty talk has the desired effect and you watch as his body stiffens and expression changes. He groans as he comes hard, continuing to fuck into you as you feel him fill you, hot and deep.
He doesn’t pull out immediately, pausing while he’s still on top of you to plant a lingering kiss to your lips. He takes in your fucked-out expression. His own is similarly wrecked, eyes hooded and pussydrunk, perspiration glistening on his face and body.
“Fuck, baby, that was…”
“Fucking incredible.”
You trace your hand over his jaw, gently feeling the scratchy hair underneath as you move your fingers to his lips.
“I missed you so fucking much, Ben. I’m so sorry.”
He takes your hand in his and kisses your fingertips, then pulls out and lies back beside you on the bed, still holding your hand.
“I missed you so, so much, Lyddie.” He looks up at the ceiling, suddenly puzzled. “How did we end up at this end of the bed?”
You giggle. “I didn’t keep track of the logistics but we covered a lot of ground tonight.” You kiss the firm skin of his shoulder and sit up. “I’m going to freshen up. Be back in a minute.”
When you return, Ben is under the comforter, lying back on the pillows at the head of the bed. You stop for a moment to take in the image. You had forgotten this was the first time he’d ever been over to your place, and he looks right at home.
He smiles warmly as you climb back into bed, shivering a little as you discard your robe. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close to his side, tucking the comforter around you to keep you warm. You nuzzle into his chest, humming contentedly to yourself.
“Lyd?” His voice is quiet and soft and it makes your heart sing to hear it like this, in bed, naked and sated and cuddled together.
“Mmmhmm?”
“You - you framed my card.”
You had framed his birthday card, and it had sat on your nightstand since November. And you forgot he would see it.
Shit.
You look up at him, a little panicked. The look on his face immediately reassures you, and you reach up to trace a finger along the grey patches on his jaw.
“I just really loved it, the card, the message. And it…it meant so much.”
He blushes a little. “That’s really…it’s great.”
He holds you a little closer.
“Ben?”
“Mmmm?”
“I’m going to explain.”
He brings his other arm around you and plants a kiss to the crown of your head. “Okay, Lyd. I’m here.”
You take a deep breath and lightly rest your hand on his chest, trying to ground yourself with the rhythm of his heartbeat and the feeling of his warm skin.
“I left the way I did because I was scared.” You tilt your head up to look at him. “Not scared of you, I’d never be scared of you. Scared of - well, scared of a lot of things. And I’m not even sure if I can explain them all properly, but I’ll do my best.”
You nuzzle a little more into the warmth of his side, cheek pressed lightly to his chest.
“I had such a wonderful time with you that night. It was amazing. You know that, right?”
Ben looks down at you. “I do.”
“But then I woke early, and it was like the little bully that lives in my brain decided it was going to do its worst. I panicked, Ben. All I could think was that you would realise it was a mistake, eventually, and see how I was old and unattractive and broken, and…” You pause for a moment, trying not to let the tears fall. “And that I didn’t deserve someone like you.”
“Oh, Lyddie. No, Lyd.” Ben squeezes you gently, planting another kiss to the crown of your head.
“I tried to talk myself down, I really did. But it’s one thing doing that in the light of day, it’s another altogether at five in the morning. So it was like the defences just went back up.”
“Defences?”
“Like… I dunno. Defences against feelings, or wanting someone properly? Shit. I’m not explaining this very well.”
He shakes his head. “You’re doing perfectly fine. If you want to stop, just say.”
Another deep breath. “It’s not the only reason. But…the way everything fell apart with my last relationship, it - it made me harden myself because…I don’t know, I convinced myself if I kept up defences around my heart and soul I wouldn’t get hurt again? Something like that. It was fine to have hookups or one night stands, but anything more serious - couldn’t happen.”
“So you pulled up the drawbridge.”
You nod. “And it wasn’t just about protecting me from getting hurt again, it was about protecting others from me fucking everything up, like I always do. Ruining things, like I always have. And then there’s the visiting thing.”
“You don’t fuck everything up, Lyd, you don’t ruin things, and it’s so sad that you think you do, because - well, have you ever considered how much you make things better?” You look up at him, eyes disbelieving but filled with emotion at his words.
“And what do you mean, visiting thing?”
“Me being a visiting professor, me having to go home to my permanent job… the way I was feeling that morning, all I could think was how this would have to end, and how - how I couldn’t handle the thoughts of not having this, because of the way I felt - the way I feel - about you.”
You trace patterns on his chest with your fingertips, trying to quell the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you.
“I didn’t come here looking for anyone. I was happy with my life the way it was - I wasn’t wandering around lost and lonely, desperate for a partner. My life was great, really. And then I met you, and I realised what I felt for you. I was starting to open myself up again, and I’d never, ever thought I’d do that. I never thought I’d have those feelings again, let alone…fall for someone. And certainly not someone as wonderful as you.”
“Lyd, you…”
You shake your head, wanting to get the words out while they’re flowing freely. “Over the holidays I realised that’s what was really scaring me. That’s what was at the root of it all, all the fear and panic - the way I feel about you, the way I care so much about you. It was so big, you know? The realisation of what I felt, of how much I cared, the knowledge that you had feelings for me, too. Sleeping with you, knowing how good that was, feeling like I wanted to stay with you like that forever.”
You pause for a moment. “And then my stupid, stupid brain kicks in, because it’s wired to run from things that feel like they’re going to overwhelm me.”
He gives you another cuddle. “That is not a stupid brain and you know it.”
“It feels like it is. It’s ironic, I thought I had to run so I didn’t ruin things. But turns out I might have ruined them anyway.” You pull away a little, still keeping a hand on his chest but propping yourself up so you can see his face properly. “I hate that I hurt you. I hurt you. And I feel so terrible that my own issues - my past - made me feel like I needed to do something stupid and in the process to hurt the man I…care so much for.”
You shake your head ruefully. “I don’t want to be scared any more. I don’t need to be scared. And I don’t need the past to affect my life now, I won’t let it. I just hope that, regardless of what you want to happen with us, that you can -”
You’ve been really good with the tears so far. You’ve managed to keep them at bay. But they’re prickling, gathering in your eyes and clouding your vision of Ben’s kind face and broad shoulders, and they won’t stay put much longer. You tilt your head upwards, trying to stave them off.
“Forgive me.”
Ben reaches up to wipe away the fat tear that’s rolling down your cheek, his thumb stroking softly across your face. He sits up in bed and wraps his arms around you.
He doesn’t say it to you, but he was ready to forgive you as soon as he looked into your eyes at Jen’s house.
“Of course, Lyddie. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt - still hurts a little - though, and that’s important too.”
You pull back slightly and take his left hand in yours, tracing your thumb over his tattoo.
“I know, Ben, and I’m so, so sorry.”
He takes a deep breath. “Thing is, you’re not the only one who was scared. Is scared. Love is scary, y’know?” He meets your gaze, his eyes and expression perhaps more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen them. “Especially when it’s new love. It’s exciting but it’s terrifying because… well, because it’s fragile, and it can be lost. And that feels even more of a risk when you - when you have lost love.”
“I mean it, I don’t want my past -”
He shakes his head. “I don’t mean your past, I mean mine. You’re not the only one who’s scared, and you’re not the only one who was fucked over.”
Oh, shit.
You nuzzle against his shoulder. “You can tell me, if you want.”
He rests his head against yours. “Shit. It’s…it’s a long time ago. But it fucks you up, doesn’t it?” You nod silently. “I met the person I thought I’d be with for the rest of my life during my doctoral programme. Six years, all fine, and then one day - that was it, out of the blue. The usual explanations: unhappy for a long time, we grew apart, all that kind of thing.”
“Sounds familiar,” you say wearily. You heard it all the day your ex left. It was like a script had been pre-circulated.
“You can guess what’s coming next, then.”
“Someone else?”
“There was someone else. Like I said, it’s a long time ago, Lyd. A lot longer than yours. It’s all in the distant past now, and therapy helped a lot early on.” He sighs. “But I guess I did something similar to you. Put up the defences, wasn’t looking for anyone, kept everything very casual, on the rare occasions it happened.”
You bring an arm around his torso, holding him close.
“And I was happy. I was really happy: I had wonderful friends, eventually I got a job I love, I have my family, my siblings, their kids. I was fine.” He pauses, jaw ticking. “I was fine, and then - then you came along.”
You pull back. His tone is confusing.
Ben turns to look at you, takes in your worried expression, and kisses the top of your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean ‘you came along and ruined things’, please don’t worry.” You visibly relax and squeeze his hand.
“What I mean is - you came along, and you changed things. You changed everything. You think you ruin things, Lyd, and that just couldn’t be further from the truth. I… fuck. You changed my life, changed the way I thought about the future, about what I wanted, about opening up again.”
Tears threaten at your eyes again. “So when you woke up and I wasn’t there…”
He looks up, and his eyes are red-rimmed. “I thought it was happening again. And it just felt like I shouldn’t have opened up and let you in.”
You swallow, trying to stop yourself from crying. “Fuck, Ben. I’m so fucking sorry, I’m just such a fucking broken mess.”
“Lyd, for fuck’s sake.” His tone is firmer, more stern. You look at him, a little surprised. “You’re not a broken mess. You - fuck it, you just weren’t loved the way you should have been. The way you deserve to be.”
“Jesus, Ben, I -” You pause, and he looks at you expectantly. “Well, that makes two of us. You weren’t loved like you deserve to be either, based on what you’ve said.”
He smiles softly, looking at you from under his lashes. “We’re quite a pair.”
You caress his face, reaching up to gently bring your fingers through his hair, and place a tiny, soft kiss to the beautiful curve of his nose.
“I think we are quite a pair, actually.”
You blink awake in the wee small hours, eyes adjusting in the darkness as you take in the handsome sight of Ben’s sleeping face. The last time you woke up with him, you panicked and fled. This time, you smile softly, noticing that his hand is resting lightly on your hip, and lean in to gently kiss his warm, broad chest.
His hand shifts and he smiles, eyes still closed, as he traces the curve of your body over your hip, your waist, and onto the heavy fullness of your breasts. He seeks out your nipples with his fingertips and you sigh with pleasure, reaching down to take his cock, already stiffening, in your hand. He kisses you, moaning as you stroke him a few times, and then carefully rolls you onto your back, positions himself on top of you, and uses his knee to open your legs a little wider for him.
“’M still wet, baby,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. “Fuck me.”
He lines himself up to take you: slowly, gently, still drowsy. You feel every inch of him as he fucks you to a slow, steady rhythm. Between the drag of his cock working in and out, and the silence punctured only by the sounds of you and Ben panting, your bodies moving against each other, you’re close to the edge before long.
He gets you there with a well-timed thumb to your clit, gently circling it until you fall apart again and he lets go inside you, kissing your neck and mouth as he pulls out before helping you clean up, moving in for some cuddles, and falling asleep again with you in his arms.
It’s definitely not the kind of sex that cheesy novels are made of, but it makes you happy because of that. It’s soft, intimate, settled - domestic, even, like you’ve been together a long time. You still need to talk about what you both actually want, of course, but - if this is anything to go by - it feels like you might well be on the same page.
He’s not there when you reach for him in the morning. You sit bolt upright, suddenly paranoid that Ben might have done to you what you did to him.
But then your eyes adjust to the morning light filtering through the blinds, and you can hear clattering and humming coming from the direction of the kitchen. You reach for a pair of pyjama pants and an old sweatshirt, and pad from the bedroom into the living and dining room and through the door into the tiny kitchen.
Ben is standing at the main counter, his back to you, measuring out coffee for your filter machine while humming random melodies to himself. He’s wearing the big, old Paris Review hoodie you’d loaned him when he came home with you the evening before, as well as his boxers and a strangely familiar-looking pair of brightly-coloured socks, covered with a pattern of books and pens and -
Oh, fuck. Those socks. Your Christmas present to him. He’d worn them to Jen’s party.
You take a few short steps across the kitchen floor and wrap your arms around him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder blade and inhaling deeply.
“Hi, Lyddie.”
He turns and shifts his body so he can see you properly. He’s got his glasses on, his hair is tousled, curls sticking up in every direction, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.
“You look a lot better in that hoodie than I do.”
He looks down at the magazine logo on the sweatshirt. “Were you a subscriber?”
“It was a gift from a friend years and years ago. We had a running joke about the idea of a magazine reviewing Paris, she saw it and ordered it for me. It’s cosy, isn’t it?”
He beams and puts an arm around you, gently pulling you to his side as the coffee machine splutters into life. “Very cosy, baby.”
“It’s nice, here.” Ben looks around the apartment as he sips the coffee, sitting beside you at the small dining table. “It’s very…”
“Basic?”
He arches an eyebrow over the rim of his mug. “I was going to say it’s very you. You’ve made it your own, even if it is basic.”
You reach for his hand and squeeze it, marvelling at the butterflies you feel at the simple sensation of the touch of his hand, even after having slept with him twice.
“Ben?”
He looks at you, eyes soft and warm.
“I want this. Whatever this is, right now, I want it. I want to try it, anyway. I want you. I want you and me, I want there to be an ‘us’. I meant what I said last night, I’m not scared. Well, I am, because I still don’t know what happens when I have to leave and what if that ruins everything and then -”
He squeezes your hand in return. “Lyddie, you’re spiralling.”
You laugh and take a deep breath. “I guess what I’m asking is - if I wasn’t a broken weirdo who ran out on you, what would you want? What do you want?”
“Lyd, please. You’re not a weirdo, and you’re not fucking broken. You’re strong, and smart, and funny, and beautiful, and - fuck, you’re a fucking goddess, Lyd, and I’ll tell you that every goddamn day.” He looks at you, expression deadly serious before softening into a smile. “Surely you know I want this, too? You, me, an ‘us’? How could I not?”
You put your hands to his face and pull him in for a kiss. No more fear, even if this was scary, in its own way.
And you remember something he said last night.
“Ben, can I ask you about something you said last night?”
He smiles beatifically and nods.
“When I was explaining about being scared, you said something like ‘love is scary’. I… I’m just wondering about your word choice.” Your mouth feels dry and you take another sip of coffee. “Was ‘love’ generic, or…specific?”
Ben’s eyes widen for a moment, a tiny flash of panic passing through.
“It was specific.”
You nod. “So…”
He rubs his hands together, one of his nervous ‘tells’. “So, I said ‘love is scary’ because - I love you.” The look in his eyes is cautious but warm, hopeful.
“I love you, Lydia. I love you very much. I hope that’s okay.”
You gently place your hand on top of his, quelling his anxious gesture.
“I love you too, Ben. Very much. So, yeah, that’s okay.”
The two of you burst out laughing for a moment before leaning in for a soft kiss. It felt so normal, so comfortable: both of you still with your bed-heads, dressed in random loungewear, sitting at your dining table in your little apartment, saying you loved each other for the first time.
Ben twines his fingers through yours, smiling. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be able to say those words to you, Lyd.” He blushes a little. “Came close to saying it a few times before.”
You arch an eyebrow exaggeratedly and grin at him. “Oh, really? Well, that makes two of us.”
You lean over to rest your head on his shoulder. “And you know we said last night that neither of us had been loved the way we deserved?” He hums and nods in agreement, planting a kiss to the top of your head.
“Maybe we can try loving each other like that?”
“I’d like that very much, Lyd.” Another kiss, another squeeze of your hand - and, out of nowhere, his tummy rumbles audibly, triggering another fit of giggles.
“Think you and me deserve to have a nice breakfast, too.” He pushes himself back from the table and stands up, still holding your hand. He holds you closely. “And then…”
“And then - we come home and make up for lost time.”
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)
Further A/N: Like many of us, I'm sure, I have spent much of the last week listening back to the work of the extraordinary, late, great Sinéad O'Connor. This song, from her 2014 album I'm Not Bossy, I'm The Boss, leapt out as a perfect fit for Lydia - in general, but especially in this chapter. Rest in power, Sinéad. (And if you haven't yet read her memoir, Rememberings, do it - it's brilliant.)
youtube
#visiting fic#visiting masterlist#mr ben snl#mr ben au#mr ben x ofc#mr ben fanfic#professor ben x ofc#professor!ben#professor!ben x ofc#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedrostories#Youtube
83 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
gelmemeyegidenkadinnnsblog
yineyeniden
charlottesvillebankruptcysolutio
Untitled
cryptid-creations
Piper Thibodeau's Artwork
cryptid-creations
Piper Thibodeau's Artwork
interiorelevation
Interior & Elevation Lab