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justagalwhowrites · 8 months ago

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TikTok Trend

Beautiful decides to take part in a TikTok Trend with Joel. A New in Town drabble.

^We're borrowing Mr. Ben for a late-40s Joel, OK? I desperately need more gifs of Pedro's Joel from that era, I'm too reliant on other characters and actual Pedro gifs for these fics GIVE ME SOMETHING PLEASE

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader from New in Town

Warnings: Not much! Age gap but not the focus of the fic (reader is 36, Joel is 48). No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 1.4k

A/N: I got stuck thinking earlier how Joel would react to the "call your boyfriend your husband" trend and this is how I think it'd go. This is set about 3 months before the last chapter of New in Town. This can be read as a stand alone fic with the understanding that reader is Sarah's best friend and Joel and Reader have an established relationship of about a year.

“So what’s this for again?” Joel asked as he sat down at the picnic table in the park.

“It’s a TikTok challenge,” you said, settling in beside him. Joel opened the paper bag the two of you had just gotten from a food truck and started taking out the tacos, putting some in front of you and him.

“Right,” he said. “And… I’m sorry, baby, but what’s the point?”

You laughed as you set your phone against your water bottle so it was propped up and ready to film.

“There isn’t really one, I guess,” you said. “It’s just a fun little video you make and then share. Those interns I have until May are all about it, they were showing me some of theirs the other day. Figure if I work in marketing, I gotta keep up with the trends!”

Joel smiled a little.

“So this is the kind of shit Sarah does, huh?”

“Yeah, she does,” you laughed again. “Her and the interns made one for the company social page the other day, actually.”

“Can I see?” He asked, interest suddenly piqued.

“Sure,” you picked your phone back up and found your company’s TikTok, scrolling to the video and handing it off to Joel.

“We work in marketing, of course we over analyze every ad we see,” Sarah said through your phone, a small smile on Joel’s face as he watched.

It made you smile, too. One of the fun parts about being in the strange middle ground between your boyfriend’s and best friend’s ages was serving as a bit of a translator between them. Joel still didn’t quite get TikTok. Sarah didn’t understand why her dad refused to go all in on streaming and still had cable. You, at least, could see both sides.

But this TikTok effort had nothing to do with Sarah. You did try to keep up with the trends on social media to better craft campaigns and content - capitalizing on trends meant that you had to move quick and you couldn’t afford to be out of touch - but your personal TikTok account was mostly empty. It was pretty private, anyway, shared with only a few close friends like Sarah and Maria. All it had were a few reposts of things you liked, some montages of video snippets from you and Joel’s first vacation together, that sort of thing.

“You should do some of the trends!” Jason, one of your interns, said earlier that day.

“Just being in the loop on trends is plenty for me,” you waved him off but smiled. “I don’t need to participate.”

“But it’s fun!” Kenzie, your other intern said. “They’re not all dances and stuff, you know…”

“I know,” you said. “But it’s just not what I want to spend a lot of time doing is all.”

“Some don’t take much time,” she said, opening her phone and scrolling for a second. “Here, this one’s easy. You said you have a boyfriend, right?”

“I do…”

“Cool,” she said. “So all you do is record yourself making a video where you call your boyfriend your husband, just to see how he reacts. No crazy edits or anything, it’s super easy.”

You caved after some light convincing and came up with a plan to get Joel in front of the camera. You told him it was a spicy food challenge, just to see which of you handled the heat better and, while you knew he wouldn’t really get the point, you knew he’d be supportive. He always was.

But there was something about this trend in particular that made you a little nervous. It’s not like the two of you hadn’t discussed marriage. You’d been together a year now, you’d just moved into his house. It had definitely come up. But it had come up in the way that far off things do, something that might happen some day if things fell into place in just the right way. You didn’t want to push it, didn’t want him to feel rushed or obligated, especially since you’d only been cohabitating about a month. Bringing up marriage - even like this - made you nervous.

“OK I think I get it,” Joel handed you your phone back after watching Sarah’s video twice. “But we’re not doin’ that same thing, right?”

“Nope,” you said. “We’re going to see who handles the spice better.”

“Think we both know which one of us is gonna win that one, Beautiful,” he teased, nuzzling his nose against your temple before kissing your cheek. “Us southern men are made of sterner stuff…”

“Yeah yeah,” you rolled your eyes but smiled, leaning close to him. “We’ll just see about that.”

You set your phone up to record again, propping it against your water bottle.

“Here, you gotta get in close because the TikTok format is vertical,” you said and Joel adjusted so you were half beside and half in front of him, his arm going around your waist, hand finding your hip, thumb slipping up below your shirt to find your bare flesh above the band of your pants and brushing you slowly, sensually there. You gave him a look.

“What?” He asked, brows raised, smile barely contained.

“Don’t act all innocent,” you shook your head. “You know exactly what you’re doing…”

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s make your little TikTik video…”

“TikTok,” you rolled your eyes but adjusted yourself, your heart pounding.

“Whatever the kids are using now,” he said. “Because the sooner we’re done the sooner I can get you home…”

“Alright, I’m going to record,” you cut him off. “Behave yourself!”

“Always do, Beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes again but took a deep breath, leaned forward and pressed record.

“Hi everyone,” you smiled, watching the recording of you and Joel as it was made on the screen. “I’m here with my husband and we’re going to do the spicy food challenge…”

“Your what?” He cut you off and you turned so you could see him a little better.

“What?”

“Did…” he paused, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if you were losing it or he was. You weren’t sure if that was good or bad. “Did you just call me your husband?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, turning back to the camera. “Anyway, my husband and I both really love spicy food and…”

You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence. Joel grabbed your chin almost roughly, pulling you around to face him and all but crushed his lips against yours, clutching you close, kissing you deep and hard, like he couldn’t get enough of you. When he finally let you go, you looked at him and laughed a little, watching him.

“What was that for?” You asked.

“You wanna call me your husband?” He asked, a serious look on his face. “Beautiful, we will go to the courthouse right this damn second, don’t tempt me…”

“Joel, it’s 7 p.m.,” you laughed. “The courthouse is closed.”

“Don’t care,” he said, giving you a quicker kiss this time. “C’mon, we’ll grab Sarah on the way, see if Tommy wants to meet us…”

“That’s all it takes, hm?” You teased, heart pounding but for a good reason now. “Just me slipping up and calling you my husband and you’re ready to run down the aisle?”

“Baby, I’ve been ready to run down the aisle for about a year,” he pressed his forehead to yours. “Just been waitin’ on you to catch up.”

“Well,” you kissed him softly. “I’m more than caught up. But think I’m still gonna make you ask.”

“Good luck stopping me,” he said, kissing you again, longer this time, needier, until you pulled away with a groan. “Forget this food challenge, I gotta get you home and devour you. Let’s go, wife.”

You laughed and stopped the recording on your phone, saving the video to drafts as Joel gathered up the food. You made the mental note to edit out that last part before posting, no need for the interns or Sarah to know quite that much about your sex life.

“Sorry for ruining your little video,” he said as you started back toward the car. “We can try again later, promise to actually behave myself then…”

“That’s alright,” you smiled, lacing your fingers with his. “I already got everything I need.”

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #new in town

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pulisicsgirl · 2 years ago

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take care of yourself - mason mount

summary: the boys can tell Y/N isn't doing well while dealing with a long-term injury, and Mason confronts her about it; no established relationship, some hurt/comfort and a little bit of pining if you squint

pairing: mason mount x footballer!reader

word count: 2.7k

notes: here is my second fic, this time, one for mason! as always, let me know what you think and feel free to send any ideas or requests my way! <;3

You sighed as you collected your things from the wall of the training room. Today had been… hard, to say the very least.

You had been out of both practice and games for the last several weeks due to a persistent knee injury. Day after day of physical therapy, strength training, and rest that had been intended to get you back on the pitch had yielded only minor results. You were beginning to be discouraged with your progress. The club’s physios had originally hoped to get you back in shape before now, and every day past their original goal left you feeling more and more despair.

The rest of the women’s team had left a few days ago to attend an away game. You had elected to stay behind, training, stretching, whatever you could do to make any progress with your injury. Today was the day the rest of the girls would be playing, and you couldn’t help your mind from wandering as you trained to how badly you wished to be with them, warming up and getting ready to play. It hadn’t helped that one of the cameramen from the media department had found his way into the gym as you worked on the various exercises intended to alleviate your knee injury to record some clips for the “behind the scenes” training content on the Chelsea social pages. After all, you were the only member of the women’s team left behind to get content from, so the rest of the content would have to come from the boys. You understood the man was only trying to do his job, but you could practically feel the lens of the camera pointed at you from behind and you only felt humiliated as you worked through the exercises, feeling the tears burning your eyes as you struggled to hold them back.

You had finished the day with a light workout in the gym, avoiding any weights or activities that would put excessive pressure on your affected knee. You tried your best to forget the discouraged look on the trainers’ faces today as they noted that you hadn’t made much improvement since they last assessed you. As you finished, you dropped onto one of the weight benches, lifting your water bottle to your lips as you looked out of the windows of the Cobham Training Center. A flurry of activity on the fields outside caught your eye, and you watched as the distant figures of the boys’ team ran around on the fields.

You decided to go out and say hi to some of the guys before heading out for the day, so you grabbed your water bottle, heaving yourself up from the bench and weaving your way through the familiar halls of the building, through the locker room to the outdoors. You walked slowly, beginning to limp slightly as your knee grew sore from use throughout your training.

As you approached, you watched as the boys were competing in 5v5 matches on only half of the field. Their antics and banter brought a smile to your lips, the heavy weight you had been feeling on your shoulders the whole day feeling a little lighter already.

Soon enough, the boys are called together for a quick huddle before they wrap up practice for the day. The group begins to disperse, and you spot Ben and Mason joking with one another elbowing each other in the side as they walked off the pitch. Ben is the first to spot you standing there, raising his hand to wave at you with a soft smile. Mason follows his eyes, waving soon after.

You return the gesture, mustering up as much of a smile as you can manage after such a discouraging day. The two boys make their way over to you as the rest of the team begins the trek back inside of the facility.

“Hey, there, stranger,” Mason quipped throwing an arm around your shoulders once he reached you, pulling you into his side in a short hug. “How have you been?”

“Doing alright,” you lied, turning up the corners of your mouth in a small smile. “You all seemed like you were having fun today.”

Ben chuckled, hugging you as well after Mason had released you. “Kai was talking all sorts of smack, so we had to put him in his place.” Both of them laughed at the comment.

“How’s the knee doing?” Ben asked, gesturing slightly to the brace wrapped around your left leg.

“Eh, it’s slow moving, but it’s getting there,” you shrugged off the question. “You know how it is.” Ben truly did know, having faced a similar injury to yours and facing many setbacks in the process.

Mason and Ben share a look of concern, unbeknownst to you as you stare at your shoes. They can tell you haven’t been the same recently, and they’re both keenly aware of the effects that such a long-term setback like this can have on an athlete. Mason frowns at your demeanor.

The three of you talk for a moment about what they had been doing in training recently as they gathered their things from the sideline and begin walking back toward Cobham. Shortly after, the topic turned to the game that the rest of the Chelsea women’s team would be playing in tonight, and you tried not to let on to how badly you wished you were able to play.

“Actually, several of the guys were going to head to the pub to watch the game after we hit the showers and get out of here,” Mason stated, meeting your eyes as we walked. “Would you want to come or would that make you feel worse?” He narrowed his eyes just slightly at you, attempting to read your expression.

You ponder the invitation for a moment, eventually deciding that you would probably end up watching the game anyway if you just went home, and you could really use the company. You nod. “Sure, yeah. I’ll go.”

You parted ways with them once you reached the facility, heading into your respective locker rooms and showering the sweat (and in the guys’ case, dirt from the pitch) off from a long day of training. You sat by the exit once you had finished, playing on your phone until you spotted Mason and Ben, both with slightly damp hair, and we headed over to the pub to meet some of the other guys, sliding into a decent-sized booth just as the TV over the bar showed the game’s kickoff.

The night went on, some of the guys getting a little rowdy. No one was drinking too heavily since everyone was still in the middle of the season, but clearly it was enough for them to get a little buzzed. You remained quietly tucked in the back corner, leaning your back against the wall as you sat sideways in the booth, facing toward the TV so you could focus on it. Mason was seated across the table from you, and the couple of times you tore your eyes away from the game, you caught him watching you with a look in his eye that showed he’d caught on to more than you would have liked for him to.

The reality was, even as you cheered with the rest of the boys for your teammates as they scored, something in your chest twisted with sorrow for the fact that you weren’t there. That simple fact completely dampened the joy you felt for the goal.

After the full 90 minutes, Chelsea emerged with a 2-0 victory, and the guys began collecting their things, shouting and creating a scene on the way out of the bar, yelling about the win. You laughed at them as you slid out of the booth and made your way out of the front door with them. Everyone began parting ways, saying their goodbyes to one another. You had caught a ride with someone else on the way over, so you elected to walk back to your apartment, seeing as it wasn’t too far away.

“Y/N!” a voice called to you from the side of the road as the group began to disperse. It was Mason, standing with the door of a cab open. “You want to split a cab?”

You waved him off, shrugging your shoulders. “I only live a few blocks from here. I’m just gonna walk. Get some fresh air.” You forced a smile at him. “Thanks, though. I appreciate it.”

Waving goodbye to him, you spun on your heel and began walking in the direction of your apartment. You furrow your brow in confusion when you see the cab that Mason had just been standing in front of speed past you on the street, empty except for the driver.

You hear soft footsteps before you see Mason jog up to your side, joining you as you walked down the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?”

“You really think I’m gonna let a lady walk home alone at this hour of the night?” Mason smiles genuinely at you, and you feel your chest warm slightly at the soft look on his face.

“You don’t have to do that, really,” you looked down at the concrete as you walked together.

“Well, I’m going to. So hush,” he replies playfully. You do your best to hide the blush that you feel rushing into your cheeks, and you’re thankful in this moment for the privacy of the dark night and dim streetlights.

The two of you walk in a comfortable silence for a few moments before you hear Mason inhale deeply before speaking.

“So how are you really doing with your injury?” he asks, that same look on his face from earlier, slightly narrowing his eyes as he seems to be trying to read you. It’s the same look he was giving you when you caught him staring in the pub as well.

You shrug at the question once more. “I mean progress is slow, but it’s getting there-“

“I’m not talking about your knee. I know how that’s coming along. I’m talking about you,” he cut you off before you could brush off the concern like you usually do. When you lift your eyes from the sidewalk, Mason is giving you a look that seems to pierce into your soul. “And don’t tell me you’re doing fine, because I watched you watch that game in there, and I could tell that you felt like a part of you was dying.”

Your heart did a little flip at his caring words, but at the same time you hated that he was able to read you so easily.

“I’m-“ you began and then sighed heavily. There was no use in telling him the same lie you told anyone else that would ask. In that moment, you’re absolutely sure he would see right through anything short of the truth. And your resolve to shut him out and pretend everything was fine was crumbling as you slowly walked in the direction of your apartment.

“I don’t know. It’s been hard lately,” you spoke softly, as if you were afraid someone else would hear, even though the sidewalks were empty at such a late hour. “I just feel like I haven’t made any progress since I first started working with the trainers last month. And this game today was the goal they had set for you to be back to normal and playing again. I guess it’s just really hitting me that today was supposed to be the day that I got to get back to playing the game that I love so much, and yet I still feel like I’m falling apart just as much as I was the day that I first got hurt.”

Your mind flashed back to the night of your injury. It was pouring rain in the stadium that day, and the team was in the 76th minute of the game. You collided hard with one of your opponents, and in the tangle of limbs, the sole of your boot had gotten firmly planted on the ground. As you had fallen on the slick rain-wetted pitch, the awkward angle had twisted your knee into a position beyond how it was meant to move. The sharp pain had shot through joint almost immediately, and you knew this wasn’t just a small bump that you could walk off, hopping back on the pitch to finish the game. As the trainers surrounded you on the pitch and began trying to stretch your leg, the adrenaline that had been flowing through your veins due to the game began to wear off, and the pain intensified. You had to have two trainers help you off the field, unable to carry yourself almost at all on your left leg.

“Well, make sure you’re taking care of yourself mentally, right now, too,” Mason spoke, pulling you from your thoughts. “Obviously the physicality of it is important, but I know the training team is already all over you for that.”

You laughed shortly at his quip about the trainers. “I guess… I’ve just felt pretty lonely lately… like I’m almost not a real part of the team anymore. I can’t do all of the training they’re doing, and when I am with them, I feel like I’m holding everyone back. And now, I feel especially separated from them when they’re preparing for and leaving for this series of away games,” you realized that you had begun rambling, trying to fix it with a short, “I dunno, it’s stupid.”

“No, no, that’s not stupid at all.” When your eyes met his, his gentle smile was reassuring. “That makes perfect sense. I’m sorry you’ve been feeling that way.” Your heart warmed at his remark, and you tried your best to hide the smile playing at your lips as butterflies erupted in your stomach.

You asked him about how the men’s team had been doing lately in order to change the subject, having had your fill of opening up for the night. He took the subject change in stride and began telling you how their recent training sessions had gone and about the strategies they had discussed for the match they had coming up within the week.

Soon after, the two of you reached your apartment building and you slowed to a stop in front of the entrance. “This is me,” you smiled at him, gesturing to the building.

“Alright, get some sleep, and I’ll see you at Cobham tomorrow, yeah?” he pulled you into a quick hug, and as soon as he let go, you missed the warmth and comfort of it.

You nodded in response, and he turned to leave, choosing not to walk you inside so he didn’t overstep any boundaries. “Hey,” you caught his attention before he could walk away. “Thanks for listening to me. I think I really needed that.”

A smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. “Anytime. Take care of yourself and let me know if you need anything, okay?” he reiterated. You only nodded in response, fearing that if you opened your mouth to speak, he’d be able to hear how nervous you felt. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“ ‘Night, Mase.”

And with that, he turned to walk down the sidewalk, away from your building. It felt like your heart was skipping beats as you let yourself into the building, walking upstairs to your apartment door. Your hands were still shaking slightly as you turned the key in the lock.

Your conversation with Mason had done wonders for lifting your mood, and you felt lighter, almost as if you were floating as you moved through your apartment, shedding your clothes for something more comfortable, washing your face, brushing your teeth, and slipping into your bed.

As you pulled your comforter over your legs, you picked up your phone to plug it into the charger on the bedside table before you went to sleep. Your heart jumped in your chest again as you read the text that had popped up on your lock screen, a text from Mason:

hey, a few of us are gonna be at the gym tomorrow afternoon, if you wanted to join? i didn’t know what you had planned for training, but i just wanted you to know you have workout buddies if you want them x :)

#mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #mason mount imagines #mason mount fics #footballer fics #footballer fic #footballer imagine #footballer imagines #football imagine #football fics #mason mount fluff #mason mount #mason mount fanfic #mason mount one shot #mason mount blurb

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candle-lamp · 3 months ago

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Rereading SBB and writing what I notice: Episode 31-40:

- phantom npc pose

- Aiden jumping off the bus, Taylor holding the ladder for Logan, Ben holding Logan’s gun

- Aiden going “oop” when Ashlyn reacts to Taylor wanting to stay put

- the rest of the gang looking awkward while Ash and Tyler are arguing

- Ashlyn decided to become the leader out of guilt and I feel like that’s underused by the fanbase

- Aiden being like “hurry up or I’m jumping the wall by myself”

- Taylor’s pep talk saves the day, honestly the group would’ve probably torn themselves apart without her there

- I love Ashlyn’s parents but what the heck were they thinking putting knives in her shoes when she was a kid

- Taylor and Ben standing together before they leave for the jeep

- Logan’s injuries fading to a scar in about a month

- party walkers!

- Aiden “I’m durable!” Clark

- the concerned faces of everyone when he jumped

- “I need a document for work and because the author needs a reason for you to grab your keys, it’s trapped in here”

- you can see the phantom that grabs Ash a few panels before

- Ashlyn coming up with “Mr Durable”

- first time we see Aiden really not smiling

- the phantom understanding Ashlyn (before getting boinked)

- Tyler carrying Ash, Ben carrying Aiden, also Taylor can drive (not well)

- Ben protecting Aiden and Ashlyn in the backseat

- Tyler getting sick (motion sickness, stress, both?)

- everything becomes more saturated as Taylor celebrates

- Aiden being the one to complement Logan’s shot (Aidlo shippers come get your juice)

- Logan previously practiced with Aiden’s airsoft gun (who let him have that?)

- happy Ashlyn (only possible when concussed)

- crane base is a warehouse somewhere in the woods

- the gang being goofy in the bg while Ashlyn hears the guy spying

- “EXAMS!! sobbing, crying, the end is near”

- the recording devices bug out in the graveyard

- bald crane is Ryan

- hooded crane refers to “both sides”, who are they talking about?

- tour guide is Jasmine

- Jasmine has takeout like she mentioned in her first appearance

- Jasmine can see the rift

- what is the crane’s “cause” they keep referring to?

- Ash’s dad “maybe we should call an exorcist?”

- still lots of questions about Ashlyn’s connection to the phantoms

- the twins telling Ash and Aiden to work things out bc they’re ruining the vibe

- Aidlyn hug <3333

- “you seemed like the type of person who wouldn’t become close to someone unless they were actually special to you” Aiden my boy do you hear yourself

- “*correct. you’re both socially inept”

- Tyler calling them cringy

- Logan comforting Ben after midterms, everyone looking depressed and Aiden just having a snack

- Ashlyn’s parents talk to Aiden’s parents

- Ash’s dad adding an extra seat to fit all the kids (he’s such a good dad I love him)

- Ashlyn that is not a safe way to sit in a car

- neither Ashlyn or Logan had ever been to an arcade

- Ashlyn plays DDR

- group study session where Tyler has given up and is just laying with a book on his face

- more Aidlyn moments

- Taylor also plays DDR

- Ashlyn giving advice on the basketball game

- Logan taking an air hockey puck to the face

- Logan destroying Ben in a shooting game

- Ben winning a ton of tickets from a strength game, Taylor clapping

- ew Barron

#sbg #sbg (webtoon)#ashlyn sbg #aiden sbg #ben sbg #taylor sbg #tyler sbg #logan sbg

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usafphantom2 · 4 months ago

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SR-71 pilot recalls when his RSO Flipped Off a French Air Force Mirage III Pilot (Then They lit their Blackbird’s Afterburners and Outran him)

The SR-71 Blackbird

The SR-71 reconnaissance aircraft was the world’s fastest jet-propelled aircraft and the most advanced member of the Blackbird family developed by Lockheed Aircraft Corporation’s clandestine “Skunk Works” division.

The Blackbird was in a different category from anything that had come before. “Everything had to be invented. Everything,” Skunk Works legendary aircraft designer Kelly Johnson recalled in an interesting article appeared on Lockheed Martin website.

The speed of the SR-71 exceeded 2,000 mph. Other planes of the era could, in theory, approximate that speed but only in short, after-burner-driven bursts. The Blackbird maintained a record-setting speed for hours at a time.

Cool Video Explains how SR-71 Blackbird’s J58 Turbo-Ramjet Engine Works

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

One of the most entertaining stories about flying the Blackbird comes from Lt. Colonel William Burk Jr., who shares about a particular mission he flew [according to SR-71 pilot Stormy Boudreaux, Tom Henichek was Burk’s RSO for that mission] over Lebanon back in 1982 in the book Skunk Works by Ben Rich.

Blackbird over Lebanon

‘In the fall of ’82, I flew from Mildenhall on a mission over Lebanon in response to the Marine barracks bombing. President Reagan ordered photo coverage of all the terrorist basis in the region. The French refused to allow us overfly, so our mission profile was to refuel off the south coast of England, a Mach 3 cruise leg down the coast of Portugal and Spain, left turn through the Straits of Gibraltar, refuel in the Western Mediterranean, right turn into Lebanon and fly right down main street Beirut, exit along the southern Mediterranean with another refueling over Malta, supersonic back out the straits, and return to England.

‘Because Syria had a Soviet SA-5 missile system just west of Damascus that we would be penetrating (we were unsure of Syria’s intentions in this conflict), we programmed to fly above 80,000 feet and at Mach 3 plus to be on the safe side, knowing that this advanced missile had the range and speed to nail us.

SR-71 pilot recalls when his RSO Flipped Off a French Air Force Mirage III Pilot (Then They lit their Blackbird’s Afterburners and Outran him)

‘As we entered Lebanon’s airspace my Recon Systems Officer in the rear cockpit informed me that our defensive systems display showed we were being tracked by that SA-5. About 15 seconds later we got a warning of active guidance signals from the SA-5 site. We couldn’t tell whether there was an actual launch or the missile was still on the rails, but they were actively tracking us. We didn’t waste any time wondering, but climbed and pushed that throttle, and said a couple of “Hail Kellys.”

SR-71 crew flipping off a French Air Force Mirage III Pilot

‘We completed our pass over Beirut and turned toward Malta, when I got a warning low-oil-pressure light on my right engine. Even though the engine was running fine I slowed down and lowered our altitude and made a direct line for England. We decided to cross France without clearance instead of going the roundabout way.

‘We made it almost across, when I looked out the left window and saw a French Mirage III sitting ten feet off my left wing. He came up on our frequency and asked us for our Diplomatic Clearance Number. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I told him to stand by. I ask my backseater, who said, “Don’t worry about it. I just gave it to him.” What he had given him was “the bird” with his middle finger: I lit the afterburners and left that Mirage standing still. Two minutes later, we were crossing the Channel.’

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71, Instagram Page SR71Habubrats and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder Habubrats for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

@Habubrats71 via X

#sr 71 blackbird #aircraft #usaf #aviation #mach3 #spy plane

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sehtoast · 1 year ago

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Pocket Pal (tiny!Homelander x OC)

18+ | 2k | tiny!Homelander, micro/macro, oral sex, he gets wild with it | Fic Directory

These stupid fucking super villains and their stupid fucking gimmicks!

Homelander is the strongest man in the world, and now? Now he’s lost inside of his own suit, tangled up somewhere between padding and fabric that won’t let even a smidge of light filter through.

It’s the sound of squeaky complaints that helps Ben figure out which sleeve he’s caught in.

The web-head arrived just as it happened. Some new villain running around calling herself Minimizer managed to pull a fast one on Homelander, completely shrinking his body.

“I’m going to ram through her fucking skull!” He shrieks, standing stark naked in Ben’s palm. His eyes burn with rage, and his fury increases tenfold when Benjamin giggles.

“Oh man,” the bug chuckles. He marvels at Homelander’s size. He runs roughly the length from the heel of Ben’s hand to the tip of his middle finger– maybe just a bit more. “You’re so tiny…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Homelander bellows, though his voice rings higher to the larger world. “It’s not fucking funny!”

Ben shakes his head, biting back a smile.

“Benjamin, I swear to fucking Christ!”

This was horrible. There was a crowd forming, and he’d fear for his real body being on every screen in the world if not for the way Ben shielded him with cupped hands. Everyone’s getting pictures and videos of his suit piled in the street, of Spidey crouched down, speaking to something in his hands. Any fucking idiot could put two and two together, and now the world will know he’s weak.

Homelander’s fury quells the slightest bit when Benjamin ruffles his hair with his thumb.

“Alright, alright,” Ben relents. He brings his hands to the neckline of his suit, allowing Homelander to crawl inside for the ride. “Look, we’ll get back home and see what the verdict on this is, yeah?”

He grumbles, but agrees. Minimizer had run off anyway, and this was only drawing out the public spectacle. Homelander watches Ben gather his suit and boots, and they take off together.

Dr. Edi, head of the medical ward, checks him over. She finds no humor in his condition, but reassures the both of them that Vought’s records indicate Minimizer’s powers are a temporary effect. Most of her victims are back to normal within five or so days, and all they had to do was wait it out.

There are no reasonable clothes that fit his tiny form, and his eyes burn a fierce red when Ben mentions those Barbie Ken dolls having stuff that might work. In the end, they both realize it’s easier if he just runs around naked.

Homelander’s entire schedule is cleared for his ‘recovery.’ Ben’s as well, especially once Homelander threatened to crawl inside Ashley’s head and piss on her brain if she didn’t free the web-head’s time.

For the duration of his recovery, Homelander rides around on either Ben’s head or shoulder wherever they go. And sure, he can fly, but he finds this much more enjoyable. It’s kind of fun seeing the world from Ben’s point of view, and he likes that he can throw himself entirely on top of his little spider and be held from head to toe. Ben has always doted on him, but he does so especially now that he’s tiny.

Homelander hangs on to Ben’s hair as the web-head makes them dinner. It’s the first time in his life he’s given a shit about cooking, and it’s almost hypnotizing to watch Ben throw everything together and make something out of nothing.

Benjamin makes him a special dish. All of his food is sliced and diced just enough to be workable for his little mouth. Sure, he doesn’t have to eat, but Ben always insists he does anyway. Now was no different, and it stirred something warm in Homelander’s angry little heart to know Ben cared enough to adapt everything for him.

They eat and conversate as if nothing is different. At the end, Homelander floats up to take his spot on Ben’s shoulder, leaning and nuzzling against the side of his neck. Ben thumbs at his tiny shoulder before seeing to the clean up.

The pair had to find a method for Homelander to take showers. Sure, he was tiny, but that didn’t mean he was going to shirk his strict hygiene routines. Flying under the stream of pelting water took more effort than it was worth, and it was far easier to let Ben hold him throughout the process. Scented products became a hell far worse than ever before, and Ben had to use only the special unscented soaps Homelander typically used on himself.

It took a whole debacle to realize Homelander was better off scooping shower product out of Ben’s palm instead of attempting a pea sized squeeze of product.

“Well, you’re definitely clean,” Ben had told him the first time they tried to pour soap into his little hands. Homelander had to be rinsed under the water after the body wash flowed too fast and drenched him. He griped about how humiliating the ordeal was for the rest of the night. If nothing else, at least Ben giving him a fully body massage as he lathered him with his thumbs was near fucking orgasmic.

Ben found that the best solution for drying Homelander after showers was to simply use a blow dryer. Initially, the two tried to just use a washcloth, but it was like attempting to dry off with a king sized blanket. Plus, the sight of Homelander pretending he wasn’t shivering from the cold was pitiful, so Ben picked the next best thing.

He liked it, too. Sitting under the current of warm air, not even caring how messed up his hair got. It felt so fucking nice to just lay back in Ben’s palm and let himself be spoiled endlessly. Lifting his legs so that the air could hit every little crevice on his body, chuckling at Ben’s own laughter at the act.

“I’m starting to think you like being small,” Ben teases as he fans the dryer back and forth.

“Maybe I just like when you spoil me.” Homelander shouts over the whir of the dryer. “Should do it more often. Like, way more often.”

He finds he enjoys sleeping curled up in Ben’s palm at night. It’s warm, and he can hug a finger or two if he’s feeling inclined. Of course, this opens the door for mischief.

It wasn’t a surprise for Ben when he woke to find Homelander humping against his middle finger. In fact, this was exactly what he expected. Wasn’t often Homelander could go a night without sex, and Ben imagined it would be no different now.

Homelander’s little groans were the cutest. They still carried that faint squeakiness that his tiny voice had, and he was certainly unashamed to let them ring free.

“Havin’ fun?” Ben asks with a sleepy smirk. “Can’t believe you got a new boyfriend already.”

“Veeery funny. Homelander leans his head back to stare at his little spider. “I dunno if he’s a keeper, though. Not a single hole on this guy to fuck.”

That earns him a sweet giggle from Ben.

“Lay back, then.” Ben instructs. He watches Homelander position himself just right, then juts out the tip of his tongue to ghost it from sack to tip. He hears Homelander hiss. “Too much?”

Homelander shakes his head and shivers. “More…”

Ben swipes his tongue a second time, laving over him with more pressure. He licks back and forth, feeling Homelander writhe beneath his tongue. It’s messy, and probably looks absolutely ridiculous, but John sings his pleasure louder than in any blowjob in the past.

“O-Oh, fuck!” He gasps, little hips thrusting up against the wet heat. “Mmph, god, so good! D-Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t–” He cries out harshly as he spills, body locking tight and hot as each pulse of pleasure ripples through him. “Don’t s-stop!” He babbles over and over again, thrusting as little spurts of come coat his lower body and Ben’s tongue until he simply lays there limp.

After that night, Ben’s tongue became his favorite thing in the world. Whether that meant his little spider would curl it up into a hole for him to fuck or just simply let him straddle and grind on it, he fucking loved it. It wasn’t uncommon for him to float up and wedge between Ben’s lips, lower body trapped inside paradise itself as he was licked to completion over and over again until Ben’s jaw would hurt.

Even better than that was the time he discovered he could return the favor. It wasn’t hard to slink down Ben’s sleeping body and find just what he was looking for. He embraced Ben’s clit, licking the head of it on one side while rubbing his palm over the other. He felt every throb, heard every little clench around his love’s gathering arousal as he worked. Once that nub was finally nice and hard, he made his way inside Benjamin’s cunt.

What a gift it was to be able to writhe around in his slick, touching his walls, licking them, grinding against them. He was snug inside and used his flight powers to fuck his body in and out of the warm canal. Each time, he rubbed his palms flat against Ben’s sweet spot.

He could hear Ben groaning and could tell he was beginning to squirm in his sleep. He planned to finish the job before the sunlight could wake Ben first. Homelander increased his pace, fucking back and forth, body utterly drenched in arousal. The glide of his body against Ben’s walls stimulated him, and he found himself coming hard when Benjamin’s cunt finally pulsed around him, squeezing him so deliciously.

A hand was there to greet him when he slipped free, lifting him like a naughty kitten to be scolded for such mischief.

Though he actually received praise instead, much to his satisfaction.

By the end of the fifth day, he was back to being upset about his stature. It must have been at least every hour that he–

“It should have fucking worn off by now!” He says with wide eyes. “What if I’m stuck like this? Jesus Christ, what if I’m like this for the rest of my life!?”

Ben shushes him, thumbing softly at the top of his head. “Worrying is just going to make it worse, Johnny.” He coos sweetly. “I’m sure things like this are gonna be case by case, y’know?”

“Bring me back to the med wing,” he orders. “She has to fix this or–”

“She can’t, babe. Remember?” Ben settles his open hand behind where Homelander sits on his chest, wordlessly offering for him to lean back. “It’s gonna have to happen naturally, okay? She said it’s always been temporary.”

“D’you have any idea how fucking humiliating this is?” He seethes.

“I mean…” Ben arches a brow. “Kinda? I guess?”

“No,” he points accusingly, “you don’t. So stop acting like this is nothing to worry about!”

Ben merely lets him continue on his tirade as they lay on the couch together. Sometimes Homelander just needs to have a tantrum, and this is no different. The TV fills the spaces between his rants until he simmers down and sits grumpily with his arms crossed.

He grumbles, but eventually drags Ben’s hand to lay overtop of him for warmth.

They end up sleeping there for the night, and it’s peaceful until, out of nowhere, Benjamin is roused from his rest by a sudden pressure on his body. His eyes open in shock, ready to deal with an attack, only to be met with relief.

There, sleeping peacefully, is John, full sized and back to normal. He seems to have not even noticed the shift in his sleep, but is certainly elated when Ben wakes him.

“Finally!” Homelander grins, still stark naked and proud as a peacock. “Now,” he says, grasping Ben’s hand, leading him toward the bedroom. “We got some lost time to make up for, and you deserve a little something for helping me out.”

Much as he was thrilled to see John back in good spirits, Ben admittedly was going to miss his pocket pal.

Ah, well. Minimizer’s still out there, right?

Who’s to say there’s never gonna be a next time?

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander smut #homelander fanfiction #cozy corner kinktober #antony starr #the boys #the benlander agenda

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onlymurdersintheafterparty · 3 months ago

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OMITB S4:E1 "Once Upon a Time in the West" Recap

The show is finally back! We no longer have to deal with Tobin, Loretta is back, and we've got a star studded cast of guest stars. I can't wait to see what's in store for this season. I'm bummed we only get one episode to kick off the season instead of two but I'm hopeful that means there's going to be a lot of twists, drama, and etc to get through in due time. Time to dive into the first episode.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Our favorite trio is recording their final episode of their newest season on Ben Glenroy when the power briefly goes out. To celebrate the end of yet another season they decide to go to Charles' place for a nightcap and Charles remembers Sazz never came back. On the way to the apartment Oliver mentions a cold case and I can't help but wonder if this is foreshadowing for next season 👀 Anyways they go into Charles' apartment and find the wine but there's no body!

Mabel being the clever woman she is spots blood spatter on the stove but I don't think she realizes yet what it is. Or does she and assumes it was a cooking accident? As the camera zooms out we realize that the trio has yet to notice the gunshot hole in the kitchen window. The fact that the body is missing is such an interesting concept because how do you solve a murder with no body or proof just the window and the stove if that?

And they don't even know it's a murder because whoever killed Sazz and haphazardly cleaned up the scene texted Charles the next day impersonating her and stating that she had to go be a double for Bakula in LA. So I think it's safe to assume the killer is one of the new characters in LA. Speaking of LA, a mysterious Bev Melon who has kept contacting the trio has invited them to come visit because Paramount wants to make a movie based off of their podcast. How convenient that "Sazz" is in LA and now the trio is as well. I'll be confused though if that whistling keeps happening to Charles even across the country.

When they get to LA and meet Bev, she's disrespectful as hell when describing their personalities. Oliver is the one she wants to strangle or hug, Charles is the un-fun uncle with a turtle face, and Mabel is a millennial with no job, no house, and basically a failure. Charles leaning across the table to give his folded note was hilarious, especially when Oliver tried to help him up only for the number to say 4 🤣 While it rolls off Charles and Oliver's backs, Mabel is offended and rightfully so. It's only one episode so far but Selena is doing a great job at showing this side of Mabel. You can really see her shrink into herself and that she's less confident than she was in the previous seasons.

Because Mabel doesn't yet want to sign away her life rights, there's a party that evening which will give her a chance to reconsider. But before then, you know the cast has to explore LA. Driven by Charles' old chauffeur in his limo, we see the trio standing in the sunroof while driving down a street lined with palm trees, In-N-Out Burger food and drinks in hand. Side note: I miss In In-N-Out Burger so bad. Their animal style fries are my favorite! But I digress.

Charles mentions that Sazz's apartment is located in one of the places on the tour so they make a detour to see if she's home. There is a stack of unopened mail and packages outside her door which is odd considering the text message said that she was in LA. How can she be in the city but her house deserted? Thankfully Charles picks up on this but tries his best not to worry and be fun to prove he's not the unfunny uncle.

The party is as awkward as you'd expect but with some fun moments. Loretta shows up and she and Oliver talk about their future and if Oliver will move to LA to be with her. It's a complex decision that I don't expect to be answered anytime soon. Charles is still worried about Sazz and Mabel just looks like she doesn't even want to be there.

We discover the actors playing the trio are Eugene Levy, Eva Longoria, and Zach Galifianakis. None of the trio vibe with their counterparts. Eva tries too hard to be young and hip with Mabel, Zach is rude and dismissive to Oliver, and Eugene bores Charles with his impressions. Plus again, the Sazz disappearance is concerning. Seeing someone in a hat and trench coat, Charles follows them and the person is revealed to be Bakula. When asked about the body double work, Bakula reveals that Sazz never showed. Now the warning signs are fully going off in Charles' head. But wait! Things get even more weird because Charles gets a call from Lester that they couldn't get the window changed out that day. The same window that no one has noticed has a whole bullet hole through it. So that's where the whistling came from.

Howard got a new dog named Gravy because he can no longer adopt cats from the shelter and this is an interesting development because Gravy used to be a working dog. We don't know what job but I assume some sort of police work because when Gravy entered the middle of the kitchen where Sazz's body was she would not stop howling. So either a cadaver dog or maybe one used to sniff out certain substances? The killer could have messed with something in Charles' apartment that is causing that ringing that he's experiencing. We'll find out soon enough by episode 9 or 10. Ok it turns out that we won't have to wait because it's not Gravy it's Gravey because she is in fact a cadaver dog! I was right!

When the trio returns to New York, Howard brings over Gravey who searches the apartment and follows the trail up to the incinerator that was labeled out of order. When they go into the incinerator room and check what was recently incinerated all they find in the ashes is the replacement joints that Sazz received in Bulgaria. And the fake Sazz finally drops the act and texts back "Not your fucking friend" meaning we're dealing with a cold killer and one with a grudge against Charles for whatever reason.

I think this is honestly the saddest death in the series because this is someone that they all knew and was a good friend to Charles. He knew something was wrong just not what, and now his fears have been confirmed in the worst way. Not only did they kill her but they incinerated her too which is just so cruel to me that they'd dispose of her like that. It also makes me wonder what she had on her body that they didn't want to be discovered because a note can be thrown away but another thing such as a birthmark or tattoo can not. All I can say is that Charles is a very good friend for not only worrying about Sazz but going out of his way to find out where she went and I'm sorry for his loss. He'll be devastated when he realizes he was the target.

They really came out swinging with this first episode and I really hope they keep the momentum going because if so, it's shaping up to be the best season yet.

#only murders in the building #only murders hulu #omitb #omitb s4 #omitb spoilers

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ladamedusoif · 1 year ago

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Visiting - Chapter Two: Bright in the Sea

(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: Lydia continues to settle in at Barrow College, developing a closer friendship with Ben as well as other colleagues. Not everything is smooth sailing, however, and things come to a head at a staff team-building away day at a New England beach.

Word Count: 6.5k (??)

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 and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; thinly-veiled racism and discrimination; accent discrimination; "anti-woke" culture war nonsense from academics; not all historians, etc; alcohol consumption; discussion of anxiety and panic disorders as well as coping methods.

A/N: This chapter is part world-building, part "dealing with academic assholes", part meet more characters - all woven through the growing friendship between Lydia and Ben. I guess this is mostly fluff but kinda angsty at times? I did warn you it was a slow burn...

Much of this chapter is set around academic administrative and 'team-building' activities. Trust me when I say that these are the norm if you work in a contemporary university or college (and that I'm jealous of the Barrow people having a cute beach house for these events).

Also trust me when I say that the views and attitudes of K. Wright Lacroix are scarily common in academia on both sides of the Atlantic, and kicking against this is vital.

The title of this chapter is taken from the lyrics to Laura Veirs' song 'Cast a Hook in Me'.

I also listened to Lisa Hannigan's Sea Sew album while writing the last scene, and 'Sea Song' from that record feels very fitting for these two.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Further, short A/N right at the end to avoid any spoilers.

Taglist: @cutesyscreenname; @lunapascal; @fuckyeahdindjarin; @julesonrecord; @tieronecrush; @perennialdoll247; @vermillionwinter ; @iamskyereads ; @love-the-abyss; @tessa-quayle; @javierisms; @imaswellkid

The universal language of twenty-first century academia is, it seems, all-faculty meetings in airless lecture theatres, fuelled by terrible coffee and slightly stale cookies.

For you, though, attending your first proper meeting of the year at Barrow was a novelty, and the mid-September residual sunshine and warm temperatures (by your standards) meant that your new colleagues were in an upbeat mood.

Well, more or less.

“Are you ready for your first mandatory death by a thousand statistics? Fuuuuuck me, I hate this shit.”

Ani Sen stands at your office door, hip cocked, dark curls piled on top of their head to show off their freshly trimmed, back to school undercut, and impossibly funky, bright green glasses dangling from one hand.

“It can’t be as bad as an all-staff briefing I once had,” you suggest, scooping up your notebook, pen, and iPad and popping them into a tote bag. “Twenty minutes with the head of department and every slide had an animated graph, pie chart, or word art on it. I felt nauseous.”

Ani grimaces. “Okay, that does sound fucking awful. But where we lack in pointless animations, we make up for in tedium. And dick-swinging.”

The first time you met Ani, a fellow art historian and specialist in contemporary art, you’d been in awe of how cool they were. Mid-40s, smart, stylish, and highly accomplished, Ani’s coolness was positively glacial. They were also sweet, kind, and incredibly funny, their brand of sardonic (and sweary) humour chiming perfectly with your own.

Ani’s best friend in the faculty was Evan Rhys, a colleague of Ben’s in the literature department. Where Ani was dry and sardonic, Evan was bright and effervescent. He was about 40, tall and rangy, piercings dangling from one ear, and a perpetual spark of colour in the faculty corridors. When you first met him, Evan was sporting a shock of bright orange hair and a lurid green slash-necked jersey shirt, paired with white jeans and a pair of Converse exactly the same colour as his hair.

He was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a huge student favourite. Rather more surprisingly, for a college professor entering middle age, he also had an Instagram following in the tens of thousands. (Ani was completely at a loss as to why he was so popular. “It’s just photos of him in those fucking outfits!”, they whined. “Maybe it’s because he matches them to his hair.”)

Between them, Ani and Evan had wasted no time in ensuring that you were invited for lunches, coffees, and introductions to the colleagues they thought you’d like to meet. Or, as Ani put it, “I’m gonna make sure you meet the non-fuckwits first.”

There was no shortage of fuckwits, apparently. Ani had drawn up a masterlist - “in case I’ve forgotten someone is, or has been known to be, a dick.” You had scanned it casually, feeling an unexpected surge of relief when you note that Ben Morales’ name is absent.

You knew deep down that he wasn’t a fuckwit, though lord knows what he thought of you. But you had had one day to get the measure of the man - Ani had been working here, alongside him, for several years.

“I met Ben Morales on my first day,” you mentioned, trying to sound casual. “He was tasked with doing the welcome for me. Seemed really nice, actually.”

Ani closed their eyes and makes a sort of “awwwwwh!” noise, as if they’d just seen a red panda or a sea otter or some other furry creature of equivalent cuteness.

“Oh, definitely not a fuckwit. Me and Evan have coffee with him or sometimes go out with a bigger group to Murphy’s - that’s the one bar that even students usually steer clear of. Ben’s the anti-fuckwit, actually, in every sense. Just an all-round good guy.” They raised an eyebrow. “Total fucking dork, though.”

Total dork or not, Ben had continued to take his welcome duties seriously. A couple of days after your welcome meeting, he’d met you in the staff lounge yawning at the filter coffee machine while it brewed up a fresh pot.

“Are we running you ragged already?”

You turned, smiling when you realised who it was. “I swear to god, I get the worst slumps around 4pm. Trying to get ahead of this one.”

He nodded sympathetically and brandished his blue mug. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The next day, around the same time, you were about to get up from your desk in search of coffee when you noticed a familiar silhouette in the glass panel of your office door: Ben, bearing two cups of coffee (one black, one with creamer).

“I hope you don’t mind? I was getting some for myself and remembered what you said about your 4pm slump, so…”

You beckoned him into the office and to a spare seat, gladly accepting the cup and placing it on your desk. “I’m so grateful. Coffee to your door? Come on, that’s the dream.” You rummaged in your tote bag, producing a small box of cookies and shaking them in his direction. “Unfortunately these are all I can offer by way of a thank you.”

It had only been a couple of weeks since you started at Barrow, but in that time the coffee call had developed into a bit of a habit on days where you were both around in the afternoons. He’d claimed that the companionable chatting that accompanied the coffee was just to see how you were getting on and make sure you had everything you needed, but you suspected that he really just liked having someone to talk about books or movies and swap silly stories with.

And you like it, too, especially when you manage to make him laugh so hard he has to take his glasses off to wipe his eyes. You’d bonded with some of your closest work friends (of all genders) at home in a similar way. It felt easy and natural with Ben from the start, and - with Ani and Evan - you were glad to have found such welcoming people so soon.

There was no sign of him at the all-staff event, though. You slip into a row of fold-down seats alongside Ani and Evan, who’s nursing the biggest iced coffee you’ve ever seen.

“Have you prepared her?” he asks Ani, who’s retrieving a pen and notebook from their bag.

“I have. From what she’s said, this is a universal experience. She’ll be fine. Right Lydia?”

He swigs some coffee, ice cubes clattering inside the enormous plastic goblet. “Not every college has a Professor Lacroix, though”, he muses, ominously.

You are about to ask who Professor Lacroix is when you feel a brush of fabric on your right arm and detect a familiar scent: clean soap, paper, bergamot, slightly spicy cologne, and with the addition, now, of coffee.

“Okay if I sit here?” Ben is gesturing to the empty seat beside you, at the end of the row. He’s a little more formally dressed than usual: black jeans, checked shirt, and a dark red tie. Somehow he’s managing to carry a cup of coffee, his glasses, and a folder all at once, and an old conference tote bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Of course!” you nod, moving your things over to clear space. He sits down and puts on his glasses before turning to you with a smile.

“Benjamin,” Evan says, nodding and raising his enormous iced coffee in Ben’s direction. Ben reciprocates the gesture, nodding with exaggerated ceremony. Evan’s gaze shifts to focus on Ben’s tie.

“Um. Benjamin. Are those…giraffes?”

You turn to look a little closer. Sure enough, Ben’s tie features a pattern of tiny giraffes, woven into the silk fabric. He looks down and lifts up the tie.

“My brother’s kids got it for me at the San Diego Zoo,” he explains. “I promised them I’d wear it for the first talk I had to give this year.”

Evan remains sceptical, sipping on his coffee as if the tie has personally offended him. You are about to tell Ben about your eldest niece’s love of giraffes when Professor Jennifer (Jen to most, Jenny to very few) Arden walks up to the end of your row.

Jen is head of the literature department at Barrow and a formidable figure in the world of gender studies, with a publication record as long as her arm. She is petite and fine-boned, her dark bob neatly slicked down, and she always looks perfect: beautifully tailored palazzo pants, gorgeous silk blouses, and a collection of statement necklaces that you covet greatly. She’s incredibly smart, deeply charismatic and very no nonsense, but has been extremely kind and welcoming thus far, embodying the perfect blend of “do no harm, take no shit” that a role like hers requires.

She’s also close to Ben, having joined the department around the same time. One day over lunch, Ani had mentioned to you that there’d even been a student rumour about them being secretly married. “Someone in one of my classes once claimed - no, swore blind - to have met them grocery shopping in town with their kids. Their KIDS!!” Ani laughed so hard the tears ran down their face. “Her wife is a goddamn paediatric surgeon for crying out loud, and a gorgeous one at that! I mean, no offence to Ben but if they saw Rachel they’d realise how wrong they were, because she’s incredible.”

Jen checks in ahead of the staff briefing, making sure you’re okay with being introduced to the entire faculty (do you really have a choice?) and confirming that Ben’s ready for his presentation.

“It’s going to be great, promise. It’s vital work.” She pats Ben’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

Ben looks up at her, his expression uncertain. “And if there’s a backlash…?”

Jen raises an eyebrow. “Then we deal with it. Don’t let the bastards grind us down.”

When she's returned to the central podium you ask Ben about the presentation, wondering why he’s preparing for a negative reaction. This sort of trepidation was normally only seen when someone was about to announce a faculty restructure or cuts.

“It’s the next stage in the diversity and inclusivity initiative we’ve been working on,” he explains, opening his folder to retrieve some of the documents. “It’s a team effort - I’m just the person who reports back on the committee’s plans. Unfortunately, some colleagues aren’t quite so keen and -“

He’s interrupted by the loud voice of Professor Andrew Whitney, faculty dean, calling for attention as the meeting gets under way. “I’ll explain later,” Ben whispers, dark eyes serious behind his glasses, “but…well. You’ll see.”

Professor Whitney introduces you about halfway through the meeting. “…who will be with us for the entire academic year, working in Art History. Lydia?” He scans the lecture theatre. “Perhaps you could introduce yourself more fully, tell us about your expertise and plans for the year?”

Panic rises in your chest. Public speaking is literally part of your job, but something about the rows of expectant faces makes you want to sprint up the steps of the hall and run.

A gentle nudge from your right. “I think that’s your cue. You got this, don’t worry.”

You nod appreciatively at Ben as you get to your feet, introducing yourself and explaining your research interests. “So, uh, yeah. I’m really excited to be here, and thank you all for being so welcoming so far.”

You sit back down as quickly as possible, heat rising in your face. Jen stands up at the podium and leans into the main microphone. “A reminder too that, as is traditional, Lydia has two elective modules open to students on any major/minor combo in the faculty, so please do encourage your students to sign up! Lydia, would you like to tell us what these are?”

You stand up again. “Um, semester one is a course on unpacking the gaze in visual culture, focusing on the female gaze and queering the gaze; semester two is focused on readings in radical theory and applying this to visual culture studies. All welcome! No prior knowledge required!”

Jen grins at you from the podium and lightly applauds. You suddenly become conscious of a theatrically loud tut-tutting coming from the other side of the lecture theatre, where a pale man with sandy-coloured hair and dressed in a navy blazer, chinos, striped shirt and bow tie is staring directly and disapprovingly at you.

Evan leans over. “That’s Professor Lacroix. I think you’re his worst nightmare. Apart from Ani. And me. And probably Ben, after this.” He gestures towards the podium.

Ben is standing at the rostrum, loading up his PowerPoint presentation. He seems a little nervous, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck and occasionally fiddling with his tie.

When he glances around the hall and meets your eye, you can’t help but give him a little thumbs up, mouthing “you got this!” in a reciprocal act of reassurance. He half-smiles, and starts the presentation.

He’s a natural: convincing and engaging, every detail meticulously prepared and evidenced. The project, it transpires, focuses on making Barrow - historically associated with providing a liberal arts education for the “elite” (translation: rich white people) - more inclusive and diverse through a range of admission schemes, scholarships and grants, and ongoing support.

You can see why Ben is the committee’s spokesperson. His passion for the project is plain to see as he outlines the supports being introduced - monitoring progress for students who’ve entered through the new schemes, offering extra, free support services and guidance to help them throughout their degrees, and so on.

“A liberal arts education is for everyone,” he says, “A college like Barrow is for everyone. We’ve started to make this a reality, and this year - with your help - we’ll ensure every student gets the support they need.”

Applause ripples through the theatre - except from the po-faced Professor Lacroix, who exhales, rolls his eyes, and does the most half-hearted attempt at clapping imaginable.

Ani leans in to you as Ben walks back up to his seat. “Lacroix is Fuckwit Numero Uno. King Fuckwit. The Fuckwit Tzar.”

Sure enough, when you look back over in his direction you notice that Lacroix has his hand up. Andrew Whitney calls on him to ask his question, and you swear you can hear everyone around you doing a sharp intake of breath.

“Professor Whitney,” Lacroix drawls in a bizarre mid-Atlantic accent, “I suspect you know what I am about to ask. But I must once again express my concerns about the direction of travel in this faculty.” To your horror, you notice a handful of his colleagues in history nodding appreciatively.

“Fuuuuuuck offffffffff”, Ani mutters under their breath. You steal a glance at Ben, whose usually open and friendly face has fallen into a scowl, jaw ticking as if he’s biting his tongue for fear of what he might say.

Lacroix turns in your direction, and gestures to himself. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m K. Wright Lacroix, Professor of American History.”

“The K stands for Kevin,” Ben whispers in your ear. “Or Kunt”, Evan adds, draining his iced coffee and forcing Ani to suppress a giggle.

Lacroix isn’t that old. Hell, he might be younger than you, but he’s got that countenance of someone who came out of the womb clutching a copy of the National Review. He continues speaking, now addressing the entire hall.

“Over the last couple of years this college has drifted in a dangerous direction,” he pronounces, as if addressing a rally. “We have had the incursion of critical race theory, gender ideology, and now we have our visiting professor offering radical theory to our students. Meanwhile, traditional subjects and approaches - the bedrock of the liberal arts education! - are forgotten.”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. This isn’t the first time you’ve had this shit thrown at you. It won’t be the last. But the tacit acquiescence to this guy’s bullshit is mortifying.

Ben is clutching a pen in his right hand, long fingers gripping it like he’s afraid to let go.

“And of course, we have just heard the latest from Professor Morales and his comrades - pardon me, committee - in their efforts to kill off the grand Barrow tradition of high standards and academic excellence. And I ask once again - where will it end? Who will we ‘cancel’ this year?”

There’s something about the way he pronounces Ben’s surname - technically correct, if one was speaking Spanish, but with an extremely exaggerated accent intended to reiterate its “foreignness” - that makes you feel sick. Coupled with his use of “comrades”, the implication is clear. You’re appalled and surprised. This sort of thing would result in immediate action if it happened in your institution. Wouldn’t it?

The seats in the lecture theatre are close together, and as a result you can actually feel Ben’s entire body tense up. Ani is throwing their hands up in exasperation.

“Can we move on? This isn’t adding anything to the meeting, for crying out loud!”

Professor Whitney waves his hand in a call for calm. Jen Arden is rolling her eyes and shooting daggers at K. Wright Lacroix.

“Thank you, Professor Lacroix. As ever, your comments will be noted.” Professor Whitney looks at his watch. “I think that’s us done. A reminder: the annual away day is on Saturday, at the Barrow beach house! A wonderful opportunity for some team building and lobster rolls, as always!”

In your experience, an “away day” literally meant going to another room on campus to eat terrible buffet food while doing team exercises and focus groups. There was no “away” involved. It comes as a surprise, then, when the reaction to Professor Whitney’s announcement from the room is decidedly muted.

“Why does no one seem to like a beach away day?” you ask Ani as you pack up your things.

“Because they expect us to attend at weekends, because the actual beach time involves stupid shit like scavenger hunts or building a raft, because Andrew fucking Whitney thinks that’s how you build collegiality and interdisciplinary working,” they hiss. “Plus, it’s cheap - the college owns the property so they don’t have to pay venue hire.”

You turn to ask Ben if it’s really as bad as all that, but he’s already gone.

You swing by the college canteen, in search of some sustenance to bring back to the desk. Evan is still fuming from the briefing.

“Fucking historians I swear to fuck!” he hisses, assessing the selection of sandwiches on offer.

“I mean, they’re not all like that guy,” you offer, trying to defuse the tension. You’re still smarting, too - not so much from the stuff Lacroix had directed at you, as the casual racism and classism in his comments about the diversity initiatives. About Ben.

Evan exhales and reaches for a hummus and roasted vegetable wrap. “I know. Some of my best friends are historians, as they say. It’s just Lacroix. He gives them a bad name. And he’s always had it in for anyone who isn’t a cishet WASPy fucker.”

“Why doesn’t anyone do anything? I mean, he’s clearly guilty of implicit discrimination, at a minimum.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “First, he’s a bit of a nepo baby. Family of academics. Well connected, especially to the head of the college. Well off. So the college leadership doesn't really bother pursuing it when the issues are raised.”

He fills a paper cup of filter coffee for himself. “Secondly, the Barrow way is that colleagues - as in, permanent employees of the college - aren’t allowed to directly confront colleagues unless it’s specific to a class. There’s a process involving filling out forms. Supposed to stop confrontation and tensions, apparently.”

“What the fuck??”

“I know. It’s toxic.”

You fill a coffee cup for yourself, add creamer, then pour another. Black, this time. You pick up two donuts: one glazed, one powdered sugar. You walk with Evan as far as his office and then continue along the corridor.

You can see him through the glass panel in his office door, sitting at his desk. He appears to be reading something on his computer screen while absentmindedly playing with a little bobblehead figurine on his desk, lightly tapping its head so it wobbles back and forth.

You knock gently, holding up the coffee expectantly when Ben looks up. He nods, beckoning you in.

“This is very kind. Thank you.” He looks deflated. He takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and exhales.

“I’ll leave you be. I just thought you might appreciate the coffee -”

Ben shakes his head, gesturing for you to sit down. “No, no. Just a bit of a headache. I probably need caffeine. Stay. Please stay?”

You sit down in the chair facing his desk, opening the bag of donuts. “Glazed or powdered sugar?”

His eyes widen and his mouth forms a little “o” shape. “Ooh. I think I’ll go with powdered sugar.” He smiles as you hand him the donut on a serviette.

Ben’s office is, well, very him, inasmuch as you know what “him” is after a couple of weeks : a substantial desk with an anglepoise lamp stands in front of the tall windows, covered in piles of papers and books; a mid-century armchair sits in one corner with a low table beside it and a floor lamp behind, also stacked with books; and there’s a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all heaving with texts of various shapes and sizes (and in several languages, you’d noticed). Family photos and framed prints are dotted here and there, and you’ve been meaning to ask him about some of the trinkets that you can see on some of the shelves.

“I was really impressed by what you said today about the diversity and inclusion initiative, you know,” you say, sipping your coffee. “It’s such important work, and the plans are great. Like Jen said, it’s vital.”

He shrugs and chews thoughtfully on his donut, powdered sugar lightly dusting his moustache. “You saw what I meant about some colleagues not being keen.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I know I've only been here a few weeks, and it may not be my place to say it, but… that guy’s just one asshole. One asshole on the wrong side of history, ironically for a historian. And he shouldn’t be allowed to treat colleagues like that. Especially not the way he…well, how he referred to you.”

Ben sighs, resigned. “It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last. It’s not that simple here, unfortunately. There’s a rule -”

“Evan mentioned it to me. And - again, might be speaking out of turn - in this case it’s fucking stupid. Anyway, more importantly - the scheme sounds fantastic, and I’d be glad to talk over some of the equivalent stuff we do at my place sometime. Maybe share some best practice and swap ideas?”

Ben tilts his head and smiles. “I’d like that.”

You scrunch up the paper bag. “Before I go, I’ve got two questions.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“One. Is the beach away day really that bad, and what’s the dress code? Because I’m not sure I want to do bathing suit chic in front of the entire faculty.”

He huffs a laugh. “It’s not that bad. Just be prepared to help academics who’ve never as much as changed a lightbulb complete a scavenger hunt or assemble a raft from a selection of junk. And shorts are about as far as anyone goes. Thankfully.”

You feign wiping sweat from your brow. “Phew. Okay, question two. Can I see who that bobble head is?”

He turns the figurine around. “It’s our old pal Indy. I know you’ve probably never seen a professor with a bobble head in their office before. Please don’t judge me.”

“Judge you?!” Your grin is wide and genuine. “Just wait until you see my historical figures Playmobil collection. I love this! He’s got a PhD and everything. Didn’t you say he’d given you a misleading expectation of what it would be like to be an academic, though?”

He smiles at the figure, sending Indy’s head bobbing in its Panama hat. “I did. Not so much the fighting Nazis thing. More so that he never had to do any admin. And that he could climb out of his office to escape students.”

“That said… some might argue that you’re fighting oppressive and would-be dictatorial individuals, just at work rather than in the field? Wait - I didn’t say that. You never heard anything.” You mime locking your mouth and throwing away the key.

Ben gasps before collapsing in a fit of laughter. “Holy shit, Lydia, you’re the only one who could get away with that.” He rests his hands on the desk and tries to recover his composure. “Fuck. I really needed a laugh.”

You nod your head as you open the door to leave. “At your service.”

“Has everyone found their teams and their colour-coded sticker?”

Andrew Whitney is trying to corral an entire faculty’s worth of humanities academics into five teams for his grand team-building exercise - as Ani predicted, this year it involves building a raft. To promote interdisciplinary communication (per Professor Whitney’s introductory talk, delivered that morning), the teams are mixed, with people from various departments working together. To your relief, K. Wright Lacroix is on a different team, one primarily made up of other historians. Ben is on a team with Evan, and you and Ani are working together with a mixed group of musicologists and literature colleagues.

Though most of your colleagues remain cynical - Evan, for example, is wearing huge sunglasses, an enormous black hoodie emblazoned with the word NOPE, and a brightly-patterned pair of board shorts - you’re enjoying the relatively warm mid-September weather, stiff ocean breeze notwithstanding, and appreciating the novelty of seeing the New England coastline. Not having banked on a professional visit to the beach so soon, you’ve rustled up your most beach-appropriate and practical attire from your limited wardrobe: a pair of dark green cropped linen culottes and a long-sleeved Breton striped top, with a trusty pair of vintage-style leather sandals.

Ani stamps their Teva-clad feet on the sand and pulls up the hood on their tie-dye oversized sweatshirt, wrapping their arms around themselves to warm up. “You know the drill, right? We just have to make something that’s going to stay afloat for like, a minute.”

You nod. “And we can use the pile of beach trash in the middle as our source for components, and the aim is to work together to decide on a design and execute it. Is there a prize?”

Ani looks at you with a pitying glare. “Two guesses, girl. I’m motivated by spite. I just wanna beat the shit out of fucking Master and Commander over there.” They flick their head towards Lacroix and the historians, who seem to be assessing wind speed and direction by holding up fingers and tossing paper handkerchiefs into the air.

The building process is less an example of teamwork and more a sociological case study in group project dynamics, where one or two people take the lead and do most of the work while the rest kick back. Ani’s desperation to triumph over Kevin Lacroix and his crew has them going hell for leather in designing a simple but lightweight structure, dispatching you to gather plastic bottles and twine for the other team members to bind together.

You wander over to see how Evan and Ben are getting on. Evan is literally motionless, sitting in a lotus position on the sand with his hood up and shades on. Ben, clad in a pair of dark red shorts, a navy zip-up hoodie, and a grey, well-worn Wilco Yankee Hotel Foxtrot T-shirt, is constructing a mast and sail of some sort from a long twig and an empty plastic bag. The ocean breeze has left his hair a tousled mess and he appears to be squinting against the glare despite wearing his sunglasses, but he looks like he’s in his element.

He notices you and waves, and you move a little closer. Your culottes flap against your legs in the wind, and you have to rest a hand on your brow to shield the sun enough to see him properly.

“I think you’re enjoying this, Professor Morales.”

Ben stands up, leaning forward to brush the sand from his knees and thighs. The gesture draws your attention, unconsciously, to the strong, lean muscles of his legs.

Your brain immediately remembers, unbidden, that he cycles to work.

He shrugs but his smile says it all. “Transferable skills!” he admits. “Building Lego taught me everything I know.”

A roar from Ani jolts you. “Lydia get your ass over here we have like ten minutes I swear to fuck!”

“They want to beat Lacroix,” you explain. Ben lowers his sunglasses and looks at you conspiratorially.

“Who doesn’t?”

And then he winks at you.

Ani is a pretty good raft-builder when they’re out for blood. Your team's haphazard construction bobs around in the surf while its captain whoops and cheers it on from the shore. The musicologists have long absconded to the beach house, hoping to steal an early march on the lobster rolls, so it’s just you, Ani, and a couple of the literature people left to witness the triumph of the SS Fork This Shirt.

“I thought you hated this stuff?” you ask Ani while they jump up and down in the sand.

“I love it when I’m winning and Fuckwit Tzar over there is not.” They gesture to where Lacroix is hastily trying to fix the mast on the overly elaborate ship his team had constructed out of an old plastic barrel. “Hey, historians!" Ani roars. "Oceans are battlefieeeeeeelds!”

Lacroix’s raft is the only one not to successfully set sail, which makes Ani even happier. Evan embraces them in a hug as you all stroll up to the beach house for the long-awaited lobster rolls.

The beach house, which was left to the college by a former professor, is an early twentieth-century building with shiplap cladding painted a pale blue with white accents, accessed from the beach via a white wooden staircase. Two white Adirondack chairs sit in a small garden facing the ocean, perfectly placed to admire the view.

You fall into step with Jen Arden and Ben as you join the rest of your colleagues inside. You’re all ready to dive in for a lobster roll when Andrew Whitney puts himself between you and the food. Never a wise move, but this is technically the boss, after all.

“So tell me, Lydia, are you settling in okay? What made you want to come to us for the year?”

You have your responses down pat. Professor Whitney seems impressed enough, moving on to ask about your plans for your elective classes.

You’re in the middle of explaining the concept of “queering the gaze” when a familiar but unwelcome face appears alongside the faculty dean. K. Wright Lacroix sips his white wine as he tries to insert himself into the conversation, and you feel deeply uncomfortable.

The next time there’s a natural lull, he pounces.

“I’m not here to critique your ideology this time, my dear. I am here to offer some friendly, constructive advice. Your accent, it's…difficult to follow. Impenetrable, at times. You speak very quickly, you know, and not all of us are used to having colleagues or tutors with an accent.”

You silently try to draw on some of the grounding techniques you’d learned for anxiety, willing yourself to stay calm.

“Technically, everyone’s got an accent,” you say quietly.

He understood that, alright. “Be that as it may - think about your new surroundings.” He speaks to you as if you are from another planet. “Speak more slooooowly. Enunciate. Yes?”

Your eyes are starting to prickle with tears but fury is rising in your chest. Fuckwit Numero Uno, indeed.

“There’s nothing wrong with how Lydia speaks, Kevin.” Ben, behind you, has overheard the last part of the conversation. “No one else has trouble understanding. Do you, Andrew?”

Professor Whitney is flustered, eyes darting between the three of you. “I…do not.”

Kevin Lacroix looks like he’s sucking a lemon. “Another bit of friendly advice, Lydia.” He flicks a glance at Ben before returning to stare at you. “Choose your friends here carefully. Though, admittedly, it looks like Morales here has already won you over.”

That fucking exaggerated pronunciation, again.

The red mist descends.

“Oh, okay. Enough. There you go again. I know your colleagues can’t say this - but I can. I’m not a permanent colleague, am I?” You’re trying not to raise your voice, but it’s taking every ounce of self-control you have not to let this creep have it.

Lacroix looks startled, clearly unused to someone letting rip.

“I don’t know exactly what your problem is, but I can take a pretty good guess. And if this is the stuff you throw out in public about someone like Ben - I mean, about Professor Morales - then I can only imagine what you say in private about your colleagues. And it’s disgraceful. No wonder you can’t abide the work being done to make this a more diverse and inclusive institution.”

You do not notice that the hum of conversation in the rest of the room has died down, as your colleagues turn their ears and eyes towards you.

“I genuinely don’t care if you think I speak quickly or not, but I do care that I’m about to spend a year in a working environment where someone can undermine their colleagues on the basis of their ethnicity or identity or gender or their first language or even just what they teach. That is not the image this college should want going out into the world.” You glance over at Andrew Whitney, who shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t need your advice on how I speak, Professor Lacroix, and I certainly don’t need your advice on choosing friends. I think I’ve done pretty well so far on that front, you know?”

It’s only when you turn to meet Ben’s gaze that you realise everyone has been watching and listening to you tearing strips off K. Wright Lacroix. There’s a note of concern in Ben’s eyes, and when you look for Ani you see them mouth the words “Fuck, Lyd”.

You fucked up. This isn’t how they do things. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Fuck.

“Um, Professor Whitney? I will follow the official complaints procedure, just to keep everything above board, and…yeah. Excuse me.”

You walk as quickly as you can out of the house, settling on one of the wooden chairs out front as you try to quell the panic starting to grip your whole body.

Deep breaths, and the sound of the sea. Eyes closed, you concentrate on your breathing and on the waves lapping at the shore.

“Hey.”

Ben is standing beside you, a plate with a lobster roll in one hand and a glass of what looks like lemonade in the other. “I don’t think you managed to get a lobster roll in there, did you?”

You shake your head, and he hands you the food and drink, tilting his head as if he’s trying to read your mood.

“I wouldn’t mind some company, if you’d like?” You gesture to the other chair, placed just to the right of yours. He does that little half-smile of his and sits down, looking out to sea as you tuck into your food.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck me!”

Ben turns, startled. You swallow the bite of your lobster roll.

“M’sorry. It’s just so good. I didn’t realise how hungry I was. Or hangry, maybe.”

“You didn’t have to say that, you know? Inside.” He looks back out towards the Atlantic, brow slightly furrowed.

“I’m really sorry, Ben. I just…me and my big mouth. I am so sorry if I’ve caused trouble for you, and - fuck. Not even been here a month and I’m a troublemaker. Typical.”

“You’re not a troublemaker, Lydia. I meant that you didn’t have to feel it was on you to take Lacroix to task like that.” He turns slightly towards you and a smile creeps over his face. “But I’m kind of glad you did. Dropping that ‘international reputation’ thing with Andrew Whitney there? Fuck, Lyd. It was…pretty badass.”

“I just hate that fucking gatekeeping shit from people like…him. It’s hard enough making it in this job without connections and family prestige or whatever he’s got.” You shrug. “And anyway, you stuck up for me and my accent, too.”

He hums thoughtfully as he watches the surf breaking on the sand. “It’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

You study his profile for a moment. The art historian in you is somewhat tickled by its near-classical proportions, noting the strong curve of his aquiline nose. You’d never noticed the little heart-shaped patch of bare skin in his beard before, either.

“It’s really beautiful here, isn’t it?” you say quietly, turning your gaze back to the water. “Maybe they’ll let me just move out here for the duration of the visiting role, keep me in lobster rolls all year.”

He chuckles. “It is beautiful. It’s nice to have the ocean relatively close. And hey, if you do stay here and need help eating the lobster rolls, well…”

A crunch on the gravel of the front yard interrupts the conversation. Ani has come to find the two of you.

“They’re loading us back on the buses to campus now, dudes. You okay, Lyd?”

You pop the last of the lobster roll into your mouth and give them a thumbs up.

“More than okay. Apparently, I’m a badass now.”

This time, you wink at him.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

Further A/N: Kevin Lacroix's comments to Lydia about how she speaks and her 'having an accent' are, believe it or not, based on actual stuff that was said to me by a colleague at a conference in the US.

Reminder: everyone has an accent.

Thanks, as ever, to the Visiting headcanons and sounding board: @cutesyscreenname, @julesonrecord, @lunapascal, @imaswellkid

#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 #Spotify

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count-a-w-k · 4 months ago

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Going through my mind before setting off, I felt like Bilbo Baggins going on adventure. Jumping up and down getting ready, warming up for the ride, while waiting for my friends to come outside and see me off. On my phone I was getting likes and good luck messages from friends on twitter. I knew the encouragement from them was sending positive vibes through me. I then set up a playlist of music, which would help me on my first leg.

Then at 11pm my friends came out, with her boyfriend; I went over to them, and they gave me their blessings. I hugged my friend goodbye, and her boyfriend went with me to film me starting off on my journey. He started the recording, and I said, “see you all in Portsmouth”. Then off I went, into the dark heading west. I started iTunes, ready to press play on playlist. What I didn’t realise was that I had forgotten to save the playlist, so I stopped and picked out a couple of songs. The music kicked in and off I went, knowing I wouldn’t be home till later the next day.

Receiving comments on my phone from friends on twitter still wishing me luck inspired me as I was going at my own pace. The progress along the A13 was going fine, first came the railway bridge nice and easy to get over and once over I could freewheel for a bit. Then onto the second, this time a bit steeper as it crosses the River Rodin. As I was freewheeling down and made sharp ‘S’ turn, off the main road and onto a dedicated cycle path. Halfway down the path I noticed a four-legged animal standing there on the cycle lane. So, I came to a complete stop so as not to disturb it. To my surprise, three more appeared - it was a family of foxes foraging around for food. I kept still and watched, thinking ’just don’t disturb them’. So, for ten minutes I waited.

Then a nutter on an electric bike whizzed by me, giving me a shock, and straight into the path of the foxes. I thought ‘Mad sod!’. The foxes noticed what was coming towards them and quickly scarpered. So, I took off, pedalling slowly to see if they were still around, but the family were gone. Oh well I thought and carried on, knowing I knew was pushed for time as I wanted to get Westminster and be within sight of the tower as Big Ben struck midnight. However, that wasn’t meant to be, because it took me thirty minutes just to reach the edge of the City of London, 2 �� miles from the tower. I kept looking at the time on my phone. Could I get to Big Ben before midnight? I had five minutes. So, I sped up doing my best.

Then, cycling down Castle Baynard Street, I saw three men on publicly rentable ‘Boris bikes’ up ahead in a narrow tunnel. They were cycling erratically and there was way to overtake them. I thought ‘Great people who can’t ride a safely.’ Looking at the time on my phone, I realised there was now no chance of making it in time, so slowed down waiting for the opportunity to pass them.

After a couple of minutes, where the Embankment passes under Waterloo bridge, the cycle lane widened and I went into high gear flying past them, ringing my bell to warn people on the side pavement that I was about to pass them. When I finally reached Big Ben, it had already chimed midnight, so I pulled over outside the main gates to the Houses of Parliament.

I took the opportunity to look at the notifications on my phone, then took a photo of the clock, showing the ‘ten past twelve’ on its face. ‘Maybe next time I will get here in time,’ I thought.

Five minutes later I was back on the road, for the next leg, heading for the Thames path at Richmond bridge, where I intended to take a break. My usual route to Richmond takes about an hour. The warm night air was making my throat dry, and I was sweating like mad so, about half-an-hour, passing a pub next to Parsons Green, I decided to stop. Unfortunately for me, the pub was closed, and the staff were cleaning up ready to go home. Seeing a woman sweeping up outside, I explained what I was doing and asked if I was too late to get a drink. She said that I was too late, but kindly she went back inside and got me a full pint of water. I drank most of it and poured the rest over my head to cool me down. After thanking her, I got talking to these young gentlemen, who must have drunk the pub dry as they looked totally paralytic. We chatted for about fifteen minutes. I told who I was and explained to them what I was doing. They thought it was a kind act and after that I was back on the road, heading over Putney bridge and along Putney High Street, before turning right at the lights for Richmond.

The travel-time between Putney and Richmond didn’t feel as long as it had done in the past. The roads were very quiet, mostly people walking along the street after a good night out. Then I finally made it, pulling off the main road into a small park then down the ramp onto the Thames path.

Making my way to the park bench I usually sit on, I stopped and got off the bike. Sitting down, I got my food and drink out of my bag and tucked in. I thought it was going to be quiet, however the sound of people still enjoying themselves filled the air. After finishing, I recorded an update video for twitter, stating were I was. Then I decided to move to a different park bench and try and get thirty minutes shut eye.

I called my mother to let her know where I was and after a few minutes, this random stranger approached me. But you will find out more about what happened next in part two…

#cycling #adventure #charity #blog

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artdecosupernova-writing · 9 months ago

Text

OC Kiss Week Day 1: Almost

WIP: Partners Pairing: Ben x Reagan Timeline: non-canon, but 1969 (the time of the majority of PIII) CW: none Rating: T Words: 1,776 (🤙🏽)

***

"Alright, Reagan, let's try it once more from the top of the scene..."

Ben watched Reagan push himself off of the couch in the rehearsal room, pressing his thumbs into his eyebrows with a weary sigh. His scene partner, however—gorgeous Hollywood "It girl" and rising star Favra Violetta—glided off the couch to eagerly await him on the blocking tape beside the false door standing in for the real, eventual movie set.

As he crossed to her, Reagan threw a glance at his director to verify if that's what he meant by "from the top" before swiping his palms together. "You don't think I've got this acting thing figured out by now, Jimothy?"

"Shut up," grumbled Academy Award-winning director James Fernando as he took exactly two long steps to position himself at a prime angle to best view the scene. "Okay, you're back in the house, you're casting aside the horrible day, you're in your coat and soaking wet from the rain." James gestured to Favra. "Your beautiful wife has music on, and you smell dinner in the kitchen, and the only thing you can think to do despite all the bleakness and the misery is dance with this amazing woman. It's not difficult."

Ben crossed his arms in the spot where James once stood, an unregistered smirk on his face at the promise of watching Reagan have to dance again. "I'm so sorry this is the direction your career decided to take you."

Reagan shot him a third of a glare that melted into a boyish grin the moment his fingers wrapped around the doorknob.

"Right," James said, clapping his hands. "Action!"

A record started from the other side of the room, a kicky tune that likely would be replaced for filming. Reagan shut the door behind him, his shoulders heavy, eyes cast to the floor, and in the way he carried himself, he looked soaked to the bone from a nonexistent downpour. He stepped forward but stopped, recognizing the music, and his vacant gaze fell on Favra's Sadie bustling about the simulated living room.

She turned and smiled at him, smoothing down the waistband of her trousers. "Hey there, Mitchie."

What Reagan was supposed to do, here, was wait a beat, and then sweep Favra into a mid-tempo dance that carried them joyfully around the living room. Instead, he frowned and bit his lip.

James looked at Ben over his shoulder with a huff of desperation.

Ben shrugged. "He's got the yips."

"And how in the hell do I fix that?"

Ben swiped a thumb across his nose, taking in Favra's olive skin and endless brown eyes. He shook his head. "He lacks chemistry with Favra. It's kinda weird for him not to click instantly with...well, anyone, and it's probably nothing against you, Favra...but until he's able to find that spark there, I don't really see this working out the way you want it to."

"Yeah," James sighed. "Wonderful."

Favra dropped character and pulled her dark hair over one shoulder, motioning toward Ben. "Why doesn't he try the scene with Mr. Murray? Maybe going through the motions with someone he's comfortable with will help loosen him up?"

"I'm also standing right here in case one or all of you decide to consult me on the matter," Reagan said.

James nodded and waved impatiently. "Sure, sure, if Reagan's good with it, we'll do it that way. I would like to be confident in this scene sometime before I fall down dead of old age." He punctuated his sentence with a dramatic flop of the hand and a raspberry sound effect.

Favra graciously allowed Ben to take her place, and he did, with much apprehension. He'd been on the big screen a few times—once in a major way with Reagan—but he'd still never gotten used to the practice and found himself a bit nervous even though it was only rehearsal.

Since he was a temporary substitute, he went the comedic route with his miming, pretending to use a vacuum that started to suck up the toe of one of his socks as Reagan's Mitchie walked into the house.

"Good, good!" James said. "Music cue's late, but roll with it!"

Ben glanced up as the music hastily kicked on, and he smiled at Reagan much like he'd watched Favra do several times leading up to this. "Hey there, Mitchie."

Reagan stood where Ben imagined there'd be a step leading down into a sunken living room. He didn't know how long had passed since Reagan shut the door, but it was long enough to affect a wistful, bittersweet stare right into Ben's face.

He dragged himself, "wet" and "tired," into the living room and started to bounce a bit to the beat of the music. He acted out setting the vacuum cleaner aside and took Ben's hands.

"What're you doin'?" Ben asked, still on script and pulling his smile as far as it could go. He stopped needing to try when Reagan began to guide him in earnest, swinging his hips into a gradually more enthusiastic partnered Watusi.

Ben met him with every move, spinning with him, letting the music and the laughter sweep him into another mindset entirely. He remembered almost too late that the script then called for Sadie to break away and for Mitchie to chase her around the living room until he caught up to her by the couch and they shared a passionate kiss.

He would've brought the rehearsal to an end had he not clocked the mischievous sparkle in Reagan's eye as they danced fairly close to one another.

"Sadie, go!" James barked cheerfully.

Without another thought, Ben took off, a strange giggle bubbling out of him, fueled in part by adrenaline and mostly by the years that sloughed off of him just by being silly with Reagan. It brought him back to their school dances, their respective weddings, the time on the secluded beach before Reagan moved back to Ireland...

Ben screeched to a sudden halt in front of the couch and whipped around to Reagan, his heart slamming into his chest and a bolt of thrilled fear shooting through every extremity of his body as Reagan bore down on him like a beast of prey.

Like a movie reel flashing before his eyes, he recalled Reagan's twenty-first birthday, their rough and wasted first kiss against the brick wall in the alleyway he still wasn't sure some twenty-seven years later that he didn't yearn to remember in full...the drunken, highly charged striptease Reagan gave as a parting gift when they went to the beach alone...every time they'd give each other a quick kiss because they just loved one another that much and didn't care who knew it—

Reagan grabbed Ben around the waist, fervently cupped his face, and kissed him.

Ben did not expect that.

For comedic purposes? Sure. But to put his heart into it, his soul into it, to pull Ben closer and dig his fingers into his hair, to zap his knees of strength, to splay his other hand against the small of Ben's back? To take a man in his forties still recovering from a mental breakdown nearly a decade ago, a man who still couldn't fully admit to himself that his mind made up the rest of what happened on that beach, and whittle him down to a trembling mess sinking into his arms as the kiss became more and more meaningful?

When Reagan pulled away, Ben didn't even notice at first. Ben pried his eyes open and he was slammed with Reagan's beauty, his incredible smile, his blown pupils, and the sneaky dart of his tongue across his own bottom lip.

Why was Ben not able to do this all the time? Why was he wherever he was right now, whatever they were doing, whatever was going on, and not enjoying this every minute of every day? Why was he so pressured, so stupid, so restrained, so sad, why wasn't he running away to live with Reagan in blissful devotion and adoration for the rest of their lives...?

...Faye.

"Son of a fuckin' dumbass," he breathed sharply, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Right, excellent!" James clapped once again, laughing boisterously and scaring the daylights out of Ben. "That's great! Favra, whenever you're ready, dear. We'll run through it one more time to make sure we're in a good place."

Ben's eyes had gone wide as soon as his wife's name entered his mind. He swallowed slowly, making the mistake of dropping his face toward the ground. Reagan hadn't let go of him yet, and Ben felt an almost imperceptible squeeze around his midsection, an apology, a clutch of barely concealed terror. Reagan pressed his lips to the side of Ben's head, and then it was over.

Favra smiled at Ben as the actors reset the scene. Ben finally looked back to Reagan, spotting the regret veiling his face prior to getting into character again.

Standing to the side to watch the scene again, Ben could see the added frustration, the added fire in Reagan's performance that had definitely not been there mere moments ago. Reagan chased Favra around the couch, caught up with her, pulled her into a kiss that made Ben's lungs feel as if they were being squeezed.

Ben's forehead creased. James called it a night on that day's rehearsals.

Reagan drove Ben home from the studio in silence. Sometimes, most of the time, their silences meant nothing. They could endure an entire car ride without a word and be quite comfortable. But this time was different, and it made Ben's entire head hot. Even the crisp air exposed to them via the Capri convertible did not help.

Halfway to Ben's house, Reagan switched on the radio. Serendipity or a happy coincidence, he'd tuned into the last seconds of one of their songs from their Gilmore and Murray days.

Ben carefully looked over to Reagan, who broke into a warm smile and caught his eye while maintaining focus on the road.

"'Sendin' me into a tailspin...'" Reagan sang along, his voice soft and pillowy against the chaos of the L.A. streets. "'No matter what kinda mood I'm in...'"

"Forgetting everything I know,'" Ben joined in, "'I'd wanna see you again before I go...'"

Reagan led them into the crescendo, "'But I'm not goin' yet, I'd be a fool to put down a losin' bet...'"

Ben threw his arms up into the air. "'So we're on! Our! Way!'"

Reagan laid down some jazzy vocal runs behind Ben's sustained final note, and things went almost back to normal...

#ockiss24 #Partners #PIII #I promise the books aren't all in Ben's POV lol #also I'm a little high so I'm not really in a place to do last-minute edits whoops

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toxicanonymity · 1 year ago

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The Hardware Store. Ben's Hardware Ch. 2

4050 words / Ben Solo x Rey / ch 1, ch 3

Warnings: I8+ mdni. Sexual tension, dubcon via inappropriate use of the force, masturbation kind of, voice kink. Hardware Store AU but more than meets the eye. special thanks to @dark-scape

Rey thinks of him constantly, but the next few nights are dreamless. She returns to the hardware store on her next day off. Her cheeks are burning as soon as she walks through the sliding doors. She grabs a hand basket. She’s wearing a wool hat, even though it's not that cold. She feels less exposed this way. She heads for Aisle 39 as if he just hangs out there all the time. Her eyes dart around, unsure whether she’s hoping to see him. Her heart is racing. She reminds herself it was just a dream. It wasn't real. He hasn't tasted my skin or seen my tits. I have no idea what he sounds like when he comes.

Oof. Now she's all hot and bothered. Rey squares her chin. She's at the store to get a part and finish her project. Maybe she'll see the same worker, maybe she won't. Her heart aches to think she might not. She hasn't felt this irrational over a stranger since she was a teenager. She doesn't even know his name.

Aisle 39. He's not around. She sighs silently in a mix of relief and disappointment. She lazily browses, biding her time. She's looking for the whole dimmer, not just the knob after all. The whole package. When other workers walk by, she puts on an air of confidence so they won't help her and thereby ruin her excuse for talking to him.

She holds a dimmer in her hand and nods in approval as she pretends to read the back. After ten minutes of various versions of this, she tires and pulls out her phone, searching "LED dimmer." She locates a match and puts it in her basket. She has no idea what to do, installation-wise. She starts googling. She's going to need a screwdriver for the panel, and a voltage tester.

She wanders through the store with this list in mind, even though Poe and Finn surely have the tools at home. The screwdriver will depend on the screws. She finds herself in the nail and screw aisle and stares at the little bins on the shelf, thinking about the other night’s lucid dream. It was impossibly vivid. His skin was hot and soft. She wants to feel it again, feel it more. Feel *him* more. Feel him inside her. It wasn't real.

A voice like a bassline snaps her out of it. "What kind of screw do you need?"

Her heart catches in her throat. She turns. "Um, Hi. . . I hadn't given it much thought." She smiles with just a hint of sauciness. She must be emboldened by the illusion of having seen him naked…ish.

She sees him now: flannel shirt, black and yellow. Jeans. Radio clipped to his belt. No apron, no hoodie. Charcoal work jacket, collar erect . She likes it. She wonders if he's doing a different job today or if the new management is ditching the aprons. He steps a little closer and stands by her side, looking at the shelf with her. His arm brushes hers, and arousal moistens her panties. "Oh, I hadn't thought about it either," he reassures her, almost demurely. Is he teasing her? She smiles up at him. He’s so tall. He spreads his feet a little, just like he did when he was thumbing through the records. It wasn't real.

He surveys the shelf, then turns back to her. "So, you want to think about it, or want a hand figuring that out?" He could read her the tool catalog and it would sound sexy, but he's also asking a logical question. He follows it with, "What do you want to do?" And steps into her space. Interesting. The other night he made her make all the moves. It wasn't real.

"I, um-"

"Install this?" He leans closer, grabs the dimmer out of her basket, and turns the package over to read. God, he smells good.

She enjoys the intimacy of this. Surely he doesn't reach into just anyone's basket. She watches him brush his hair behind his ears and gives a small nod, captivated. She wets her lips.

"Oh yeah," he looks up in recognition. She wonders if he knew it was her when he came over. She reminds herself she might be just another customer to him. "You want to install this dimmer," he concludes, nodding with a contemplative pout.

His voice is like ASMR. It penetrates her skin. She inhales his scent. It's not cologne. It's more like a luxury shampoo. A masculine one. It really compliments the sawdust aroma of the store. She lets out a little sigh as he waits patiently. Feeling self-conscious, she explains her sigh. "I really haven't the faintest clue what I'm doing."

He drops his head a little, which only emphasizes his height when he’s this close to her. "Oh, don't sell yourself short," he says, letting that hang. He sweeps a few strands of hair behind his ear. His hand brushes the jacket collar and he doesn't put it down. He gazes absently at the screws.

She breaks the silence. "I mean really, how does it work?" Ugh, she thinks. Why did she ask that? She's certain he doesn't know a thing about hardware. She hopes this doesn't end the conversation. She should have waited to see where he took it.

The radio on his belt hisses with static a few times. Bleep, bloop. "Hux to Solo." A burst of static. "Solo, come in. Do you copy? Solo. Code 66. North port." He reaches to his hip and turns a knob to silence the intrusion with a clenched jaw. Her eyes follow his hand to his pants. His jeans are not exactly baggy. She shakes herself back to reality. What's code 66, she wonders.

"Hey. I'll be honest with you," he says. "This isn't really my department." No shit.

Rey nods, "yeah," wondering what his department is. Wood? There's a moment of silence.

"That obvious?" he glances down, then at her. No smile, but his eyes are warm. Almost hot. Before she can ask about his department, he adds, "Buuuut." The low hum of his voice gives her goosebumps and she tugs her sleeves down. He continues, "if you figure out what kind of screw you need. . ." her cheeks burn under her freckles, and her nipples harden. She crosses her arms. "I'm pretty good at reading the shelves, so I could help you find it," he finishes, straight faced. "The screw might depend on the outer panel on your wall at home," he suggests with a shrug.

Rey thinks about what kind of screw she *really* needs, and the left side of her bottom lip slides under her top teeth. The right side of his mouth breaks into a little smile and he searches her face. His eyes sparkle and his eyebrows raise like he's about to offer something. Rey hopes it's his number or at least his name.

An apron-clad worker arrives and receives somewhat of a glare for interrupting. "Sorry,” they look down nervously, “Hux needs you." They step back a little. Rey wonders if she should excuse herself.

His plush lips disappear into a straight line, and he jams his large hands into his pockets. He closes his eyes and his nose takes in a slow breath, like he’s calming himself. She wants to feel his nose on her neck, his breath against her mouth. He nods his head downward as he exhales, then reverses and stares straight up at the ceiling for a beat and blinks as he inhales.

With his neck outstretched, Rey sees a red mark on it. Her breath hitches, remembering what she did. It wasn't real. It's at the exact right spot. She feels naked. Her hand comes up to her own neck and her fingertips feel her heart racing. She studies the mark. It's two smaller marks, really. A perfect match with her teeth. She can still feel his skin between her lips. Now she can't even remember what they were talking about.

His deep voice sharpens, and he turns to the worker. "Tell him I'm with a customer.” He rises to the tips of his toes then rocks back down. The heels of his work boots land with a soft rubber thud and he looks at the worker expectantly.

The worker looks hesitant, but replies "Of course," and scurries off. Rey wonders if Hux is his boss. Bold response, if so. She stares again at his neck, though she can't see the mark as well in the shadow of his hair and collar. His hand follows her gaze, and his finger traces his red skin. Shit. He noticed. Rey wants to crawl into her wool hat.

"Sorry," she blurts out.

"Oh. . ." he says, dropping his head a little. His hair falls into the far side of his face, forming a private curtain for them. "Don't be. It didn't hurt," he adds, almost reassuringly. She's frozen. Her mouth is dry. She swallows. He quickly corrects himself, "Doesn't. It doesn't hurt." He brushes the curtain of hair back.

Rey lingers on his words, with her lips slightly parted, then apologizes again, clarifying, "I didn't mean to stare." He shrugs and picks up a screw to examine. She wants that red mark to be hers so badly. Her panties throb. Then it hits her that the mark might be someone else's. Her temples feel weak, but she tries to brush it off for now.

"Occupational hazard," he says, dropping the screw back into its bin.

Rey's eyes drift to his jeans again, and she yanks them back up. She abruptly changes the subject, forgetting to ask which department is his. "Where's the apron?"

"Oh, I just haven't put it on yet," he answers.

"I liked your doodle," she explains, not wanting to sound like a Karen.

"You liked my. . ."

"Um, the death star."

"Ah, yeah.” He lights up. “Well, I'm glad to hear that. You know, not everyone-"

A stern voice comes over the intercom: "Benjamin to Greenery. Benjamin to Greenery. Please ."

His nostrils flare and his eyes widen as though to say, how dare he . He must be getting called back to his department. "Sorry, I have to go."

"Okay. . . Benjamin," Rey smiles brightly, adding an inquisitive raise of her eyebrows.

"Ben," he chuckles, and doesn’t ask her name. She's holding the hand basket with both hands. He gives her arm an affectionate squeeze as he turns to leave. "See you later, Rey."

Rey feels the blood leave her face at the sound of her name. "Sorry, what?"

He turns back. "See you later, I hope."

Maybe she heard what she wanted to hear the first time – her name sounds so safe in his mouth. But, he hopes. She smiles as he walks away with a swift, long stride.

Rey hopes she doesn't look too giddy. She feels observed. She adjusts her hat and clears her throat, then checks out and pays. She makes sure she has her keys and looks at her receipt on her way out. She reads it again, Ben's Hardware . . .she pines for his hardware. Maybe the Ben is his dad, and that's how he gets away with defying his manager. She feels a little bad for thinking it. He doesn't have a nepotism vibe. Common name, most likely a coincidence. "Ben," she whispers to herself, approaching her car. It really suits him. Masculine. Humble. She puts the receipt in her pocket.

As she reaches her car door, there’s a loud boom near the store. She looks back to see a white tractor trailer docked near the greenhouse. Men in pale jumpsuits appear to be loading crates *into* the truck. Maybe they're remodeling?

She sees Ben's silhouette mount the truck, his hair catching up to him in a bounce. He’s talking to someone. His hands are on his hips, his jacket pushed back behind him. He points with his thumb over his shoulder toward the store, then points with both hands into the truck. He drops an arm and pauses, as though waiting for an answer. He twists toward the parking lot, gesturing with both hands. He does a double take in her direction before pivoting back toward the inside of the truck. He steps further into the truck. As she gets in her car, she hears something clang – from inside the truck, she thinks. She wonders briefly if Ben has a temper, but she can’t picture it.

Rey doesn’t have any other plans today, aside from stopping home to water her own plants. She thinks about finding out what kind of screw she needs and coming back to the store. She wonders if it would be too much to come twice in one day. Hey, that’s the kind of screw I need. Her mind drifts to his climax, and hers. It wasn't real.

Before she turns on her car, she looks in his direction one last time. Through the nursery, she can just barely see Ben hop down out of the truck. She can't pull herself away just yet. It's like a magnetic force. She feels it in her whole body. Being in the same parking lot as him is enough to make her tingle. Her stomach growls.

Outside the Café

It's another rare weekday off, so Rey decides to visit Chalmun's Café next door before she leaves. When she comes out with her soup, she notices the white tractor trailer has moved out of view. She sits on the patio. It's still bright for December. She finds her sunglasses. She kind of feels like a creep sitting there, but she's been going there for years and even worked for Chalmun in high school. Granted, she's never eaten outside.

Rey will feel less creepy if she doesn’t stare at the store. She scoots her chair, metal screaming on the concrete, to face the parking lot instead. As she situates herself, out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees Ben round the corner outside the nursery. Her heart races. She can’t help but glance. It’s him, and he seems to be in a heated argument with a slender, serious-looking man with red hair and pale skin. They pause at the corner.

Ben is facing the hardware store, but his voice is booming. “My customers need it. Find another way.” His customers? Rey smiles with a bit of second-hand embarrassment, but it's charming.

“Your customers, Ben?” The redhead raises his voice, incredulous, then reigns himself in. “Respectfully. We have one customer.” He's the voice from the intercom.

“Yes, my customers. My customers here ." He moves both hands in unison like he's explaining a logical sequence that should be common sense: "There’s no store without the customers, and there are no customers without inventory. Tell them the rest is staying here.”

The redhead looks distressed. “If we don’t deliv-”

Unmoved, Ben points at the truck. “Unload those last two crates, too.”

The redhead is exasperated. “I tried to call y-”

Ben continues, “You should have made a bigger order. Don’t they give you a list?”

“We can’t–there’s no–it’s the supply chain-"

“If I hear another word about the supply chain,” Ben warns him with a finger, and pauses. “Get another supplier." He shrugs with his arms raised, then tries to move on. "What the hell are they building now, anyway? Why could they possibly need so mu-”

“- What other suppliers?”

“I don’t know; Mitaka got new suppliers all the time!”

“Not in this business model,” the redhead responds. “That was before.” Their heads seem to be cooling. Rey can just barely hear.

“Suppliers are suppliers,” Ben insists. “And now, you’re ordering from a local hardware store. If anything, more of them should be willing to work with you. That was the whole point,” he sighs.

The redhead thinks for a moment, and seems to sour. He snaps, “Well I can’t exactly ask Mitaka where to find new suppliers. Maybe if you hadn’t-” She can’t hear the rest, or he stops.

Ben's hands ball into fists at his sides. He watches the redhead shrink. “If I hadn’t what?”

The redhead is coughing. He catches his breath and tries to rephrase. “I mean, if Mitaka was still-” He coughs again and starts over more gently. "If we hadn’t-”

“If HE hadn't. We had no choice. Figure it out, Hux," Ben commands. "And put on the apron.” Ben shoves a cloth bundle into his chest. As Hux raises a hand to receive it, Ben gives him an appreciative pat to soften the blow. Ben steps around him and through a back door to the store. Hux lingers there for a moment, his head bowed, the strings dangling from the apron. He scoffs and brings a radio to his mouth as he walks off.

Rey feels guilty for spying, but it was kind of sexy to see him dress Hux down like that, only because Hux seemed to deserve it. Hux must not be his manager after all. Is Ben the Ben? Or maybe he’s a logistics guy? She’ll learn more about him in due time, she thinks. She finishes her meal and leaves.

Today was the most Rey's ever spoken to Ben. The closest she's ever stood. The most he’s ever touched her in real life . Hopefully that won’t hold true for long. Her arm is still vibrating from his little squeeze. And his aroma – goodness. She wants to figure out what it is so she can inhale it before she sleeps. Anything to see him again. Citrus and eucalyptus? She scolds herself. She has to find some kind of release. Her gym bag is in the hatch, she remembers. She can make the next boxing class before she goes home.

The Gym

Rey braids her hair into pigtails to keep it out of her face. The first third of class is on the bags, mostly kicking, then she stretches. It feels good to limber up her groin. It’s been holding a lot of tension. Next, they use handheld strike pads, rotating match-ups with class members. “Damn, who pissed you off today?” the instructor remarks. “Pair up.” Time to spar.

There are no other women to spar with today, so she pairs off with the smallest guy. It’s not the first time she's fought him. He once decked her in the mouth, even though heads are off-limits in class. She didn't blame him - reflexes are reflexes - but she doesn’t hold back as much now. By the end of the match, he looks dejected and embarrassed, and she's finally worn out. She gives him an apologetic pat on the back on her way to the locker room. She feels kind of bad but also satisfied. He returns the gesture and as he raises his arm, she catches a whiff of her victory. There’s something about the smell of men, she admits. Even men that don’t interest her.

***

Rey peels off her sports bra and leggings, which are already cold with sweat, and grabs two towels to hit the sauna. She steps in and feels the warm floor under her feet. She wraps a towel around herself and puts another down on the wood bench. She takes a seat, sinking back into the wood. The sauna is dimly lit with a salt lamp. She undoes her pigtails then leans her head back again.

Her mind and body are humming with the afterglow of seeing (and hearing) Ben. Her mind replays things he said to her today, conjuring his voice as best she can. “. . . want my help figuring that out?” She smiles and bites her lip. It was so hard to pull herself away from him. He seemed just as reluctant to leave her presence, she realizes: "Tell him I'm with a customer."

She remembers Ben's confrontation with Hux in the parking lot. She wants to focus on Ben’s booming voice, but the echo of Hux creeps in. “We have one customer.” She can’t help but dwell on it and wonder if there’s something else at play. It’s none of her business, she tells herself. She doesn't want to know. She tries to release Hux from her mind. The sight of him is killing the mood, too.

Suddenly she hears Ben’s voice out loud, gentle and clear as a bell: “You heard nothing. It’s just a hardware store." It stops her breath and startles her eyes open. Her skin is gooseflesh and her nipples are pebbles. How did she do that, she wonders. It was like he was there. She breathes to slow her heart rate. Once she can relax again, she tries to hear him say something a little sexier. "If you figure out what kind of screw you need . . ." but she doesn’t hear it out loud. It doesn't echo or send a prickle up her neck.

She can't remember what she was thinking about just before. Her thoughts turn to the dream, Ben's arms moving her up and down, the shine of cum on his shredded torso. She rewinds to the beginning of the dream and tries to hear him say “you can sit anywhere you want." She doesn’t hear it out loud, but the memory is enough to stir something between her legs. She clenches her thighs together firmly. Now this sauna is getting hot. She adjusts her towel at the top.

“Lower,” the voice says out loud. “As low as you want,” it encourages. Oh . She remembers the towel around her chest. Okay, she’ll play this game with herself. She tugs the towel a little lower and a nipple peeks out. There were no other women in class, so no one will barge in.

“How do you feel,” Ben’s voice says. Her heart swells, and her eyelids feel heavy.

Relaxed, she thinks. This is incredibly realistic. How is she doing it? Incapacitating lust is a hell of a drug, she thinks. Extreme fatigue doesn’t hurt, either. She relaxes her shoulders. She tingles all over. She closes her eyes gently. “Say something else,” she whispers to no one.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” his voice asks.

No, Rey thinks, startled. At the same time, she reaches to massage the muscle that connects her pec to her armpit, which aches from striking. She lets her palm rest on her nipple and grazes it lightly. Wetness seeps into the towel she's sitting on as she recalls how his lips felt on her breasts. She breathes in through her mouth. It wasn’t real.

“Where else?” Ben’s voice asks. She clenches her thighs again, tighter. “Don’t be shy,” it encourages. She lets her other hand part the towel and find its way to the apex of her entrance. She holds her hand there, but doesn’t press down. She can feel the energy there. She thinks about his hard cock against her. Ben's hard cock. It’s the only thing she wants to feel.

“How?” she whispers, wondering how this works.

“Fuck me,” his voice answers.

“How?” she thinks silently

“Just ask.”

She relaxes, releasing everything but her memories. Her fingers are resting gently, practically hovering, right near her sensitive bud. She feels his cock pressing against her. She begins to move her middle and ring fingers in a come hither motion, without physically touching her own skin. Truly, all she wants to feel is Ben.

Gradually, she feels his cock sliding against her to the rhythm of her fingers. He feels amazing. She hears him breathing. She slows her hand, and his cock slows with it. He softly moans. It's an exhilarating sensation. It’s like she's pulling on invisible strings, operating him as her personal toy. She speeds up again. The sauna begins to smell like bergamot and eucalyptus. She wants him desperately. Needs him.

“Take it.”

A pang of pleasure in her core begins to pulse outward. She clenches her legs desperately, and she comes. In public. Her face contorts into a grimace, her head turns to the ceiling, her aching muscles jolt, her feet lift off the warm ground, her back off the bench.

She catches her breath and wipes sweat off her face. It’s the relief she needed. She sinks back into the wood bench, wishing it was his chest. She hears him breathing so clearly that it could be someone else. She panics to close her towel as she opens her eyes and is relieved she's still alone.

Thank you for reading and engaging!!

Chapter 3

#adam driver character #ben solo fanfic #ben solo smut #kylo ren smut #ben solo x rey #kylo ren #kylo ren x rey #toxicanonymity ☠️#reylo fanfic #reylo smut #reylo #inappropriate use of the force #wrong use of the force #tw dubcon #star wars fanfiction

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ninjigma · 1 year ago

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RexObi Week Part 7/7 - First / Previous

Day 7: Wedding Invitation Track: 'Share Your Address' - Ben Platt (Spotify / YouTube)

Rex didn't always wake up first. Though it was rare enough that when he didn't find Obi-Wan's warm side to tuck into that morning, he was wide awake in seconds, eyes blinking any remnants of sleep away as easily as any clone trooper could.

Quick eyes covered the room, noted things at record speed. Nothing was broken or out of place, the patio door was open, but not any further then Rex had been opening it in the mornings, and Obi-Wan's clothes were still tossed on the floor from the night before. The biggest things out of place were that one, it was still dark out, and two, the door to the attached fresher was slightly open with light spilling out, but their was no noise beyond.

As loath as Rex was to leave the warmth of the bed, he was also as curious as any clone could be, and with how silent it was he couldn't help but wonder what had woken the Jedi. There was even a hint of worry beginning to grow the more time passed, Rex all to familiar with the things that could wake and haunt a Jedi, especially Obi-Wan. So, with only a mild huff, he slid from the blankets, pulled on the oversized sweater their barely reached past the curve of his backside, and made his way over to the door.

"Kenobi?"

And though Rex had made no effort to be quiet, had pulled the sweater over his naked form with a mumble at being up and wasn't shielding his presence at all, the word sparked a very sudden reaction out of Obi-Wan. He had his back to Rex, standing almost eerily still, and Rex did not like the completely unfocused look he could see on Obi-Wan's face in the mirror. He appeared freshly showered and was dressed except for a folded blue dress shirt on the counter, but something just seemed off as rex's eyes flickered over the scars and marks he had come to know so well. There was also a hair buzzer, shaving cream, a towel, and Rex could guess what was supposed to be happening. But with the lack of movement he had been prompted to say the mans name, only instead of turning or answering or anything Rex had expected, Obi-Wan flinched hard, dropped the razor, and then hissed while clamping a hand to the left side of his neck.

"Rex!" The surprise in Obi-Wan's voice was enough to make Rex blink in confusion, but him whirling toward Rex with a look the clone would normally have described as fear was much worse. "I- I'm sorry I woke you I was just, er, woke up and figured I'd clean up, of sorts."

Rex shook his head a bit in bewilderment. "You didn't really wake me, sir, just woke up," Rex then took a further step forward, reaching out towards where Obi-Wan was still clutching at his neck. "You were really quiet Obi-Wan, are you-"

Obi-Wan caught Rex's wrist in his free hand, the movement fast but the grip gentle. "I'm okay, really my dear," at this ever so convincing statement Obi-Wan stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to Rex's palm, which Rex normally would have been happy about, but now had doubts as his Jedi continued to move forward, crowding Rex back the few steps out of the fresher. "I'll be done in a moment, promise. If you'd like, I had the morning cart sent up early, it should be outside now so you can help yourself well I finish, all right?"

Rex only had time to nod absently, eyes flicking to where a drop of dark crimson had escaped down the side of Obi-Wan's throat before they were parted, and the door slid shut between them.

And Rex felt... lonely. It was a hard contrast to what must have been only hours ago, the evening before when Obi-Wan had so clearly reminded Rex of how much he loved him, fought for him the way Rex craved. Now he felt he was missing something very important, important to Obi-Wan. And if he was important enough to know about such things in the Jedi's life, then... well, Rex hadn't exactly been in a lot of relationships, but he did truly believe they were meant to share such things. That if something had Obi-Wan acting like this, then something must be wrong, and that meant something was wrong for Rex too, because the clone saw their worries together now, their hopes and wants intertwined. To fight back to back, never seeing but always trusting the other to be there. Not against, and not even side by side. The blind faith that your most vulnerable could be trusted wholeheartedly to someone. That was love right? Which means no, Rex shouldn't let Obi-Wan face whatever was obviously worrying him, hurting him. He should be in there with him, helping with the cut on his neck, weaving through the usual brand of nervous Jedi Obi-Wan still sometimes slipped into.

But when Rex raised his hand to the controls he thought of that moment again and froze.

Because maybe what was wrong was Rex.

The clones mind suddenly went a mile a minute, tracing over the last few minutes, days, weeks. Trying to find the change, the moment. But he had answers for everything that seemed out of place besides just now. And what could have happened between Obi-Wan pushing Rex down into their bed and Rex waking up alone in it?

Rex lowered his hand.

On the autopilot of past mornings Rex moved back to the kitchen and retrieved the cart from the hall. He noted how it had a few extra things today, a variety of treats like small pastries with powdered sugar dusted on them, and braided bite sized ones Rex discovered were filled with a type of strawberry jam. Sadly though he found he it hard to enjoy them the way they were probably intended. His mind kept blinking back, unsure whether to settle in the thoughts of what is wrong, or that he was somehow wrong. He didn't have any reason to really think such things, had been with Kenobi long enough to build a trust between them that if there really was something wrong and Rex was responsible for it, then Kenobi would come to him with it. In fact, he had already done so a few times, including opening up just nights ago with how he had been worried about not knowing how to give Rex a proper vacation. So, surely, it couldn't be Rex.

But what else could it be? What would prompt Obi-Wan not to share his worries now; what else could there be that Kenobi apparently did not trust Rex with?

It was just starting to gnaw at him properly when the Jedi came into the room, now with his shirt on and a small shimmery patch just below his beard where a pink line was healing. Rex expected something then, an admission of what was happening now that Kenobi had time to process, or even an apology ready as he still had a habit of doing. But he didn't do any of that, instead seeming to be only smiles again. In fact, he seemed near giddy now, slowly lifting the sweater and running broad hands up over Rex's sides. It was somewhat reassuring, the touch calming a part of Rex as it stayed rather innocent and exploratory, pulling away only ever long enough to sip caf or grab a fruit to share; but no talk of what had happened in the fresher came up. And before Rex knew it, the General had suggested a walk and he was holding his hand, quietly following the Jedi's lead.

Which brought him to the beach. Rex loved the beach, loved the water, the feeling, the sound, the smell. This early, with the sun just breaking above the waves, there weren't many people at all, mostly just a few workers here and there setting up morning stalls and activities. And the further down the beach they went the less there were, until it was just them and the waves biting at their feet.

"Rex?"

Rex came to a halt, the hand in General Kenobi's being pulled slightly behind him as the Jedi stopped walking. And when he looked back and found the concern so plainly written on the Jedi's face, Rex couldn't help sighing quietly in his head.

"Yes General?"

He watched as lips pursed tightly, and a decision was apparently made. "You've been rather quiet my love. I know you asked if I was okay earlier, and I promise again I am, but-"

"No."

The snap of the General's mouth was almost audible, everything about him going still at Rex's clipped tone. The hand still entwined with Rex's barely seemed to even have a pulse, everything frozen despite the quickly warming air.

"I didn't ask," Rex continued. "You said you were okay before I got to ask the question."

There was a bob to that freshly shaven throat, eyes that widened and an almost palpable upset easing out around them.

"Rex I... I'm so sorry. I had just- just..."

"Just what sir?"

The formal titles seemed to be getting to the Jedi now, who's eyes continued to try and flicker away. He was fighting something, Rex definitely knew the signs of that, but the clone couldn't honestly tell what. And the more time that ticked by, the more the sun rose and the waves began hitting against their shins, the more Rex wanted to wade into the water and disappear.

"If you really don't trust me enough to tell me what happened, what is wrong-" Rex started.

"That isn't-"

"Or if I have done something to upset you somehow that I am incapable of correcting-"

"No, Rex-"

"Then why are we here?"

His tone was level, Rex was good at that. Clear and straight cut. He wasn't letting anything play through his words, wasn't stating anything other then the words themselves. He kept his eyes up, locked on General Kenobi's forehead for the illusion of contact without ever actually making any. So he was able to note the true flash of emotions play across the General's face. Micro flinches Rex had long since catalogued, surprise turned to hurt before morphing to distress and hints of panic. Obviously Rex had been right, that something was wrong. Something was worrying General Kenobi and the man had chosen to hide it from him.

So when the General then let go of his hand, sputtering through noises that made no sense and hands beginning to wave about slightly, Rex decided maybe they really did both need a moment and turned to the water.

Rex didn't care that he wasn't wearing swim gear, didn't care that he left his sandals where the ocean would no doubt swallow them into its tides. He simply walked out until it was at his waist, gave the General the space and time he believed was wanted from Rex, and let himself sway with the surf instead. The water was still so cool, weaving past the fabric to ease at his muscle and take weight from his bones. His hands slowly began carding through the water, swirling in the ebb and flow of it. The water withstood the test of time better then anything ever had or ever will, and Rex let that familiar thought ground him. Let the waters immovable change strengthen him as it had many times before.

And for how long it was, he didn't know for sure, but the sun was about half way up when he opened his eyes again. He could sense General Kenobi to his left sooner then that, but he hadn't said a word until Rex had taken a deep breath and turned toward him.

"You haven't done anything wrong Rex. And even if you had, I would more then trust you with it as well. I am sorry I gave you the impression otherwise."

Rex stayed silent still. He could feel that there was more; and besides that, General Kenobi's words were hollow if he did not fulfill the truth of them and trust Rex with what was wrong.

"I was just- I am nervous."

Which... wasn't the answer Rex expected. And unfortunately his silence this time was only met with the sound of waves, so he gave in to the prompting. "Nervous for what? That isn't much of an explanation sir-"

"Rex I know, I know," The General had turned quickly, once again taking Rex's wrist in his hand. But instead of kissing it goodbye this time, he brought it between both of his hands and pulled it towards his heart. "I know it is no explanation, especially not the one you deserve, I just- if I go through with it right here I am afraid I would actually drown with my height, and if I don't do it the right way I am positive Cody will find out somehow, and I rightfully already karked it up cutting myself shaving, Vos is going to hang me from my beard, not to mention you almost saw the ring because I couldn't follow the one rule Cody gave about not taking it out until I was proposing and-"

Rex's other hand clamped down on General Kenobi's mouth, the Jedi's looking desperately back to Rex. But Rex couldn't think much on that as he struggled to comprehend everything that just came spilling out of the Jedi. "I think you need to start that over, before Cody really does appear from no where to shove you in the ocean."

As the clones hand pulled away Obi-Wan's watery blue eyes widened in realization of what he said, and if Rex was being honest with himself, which he always tried to do, it was somewhat amusing how this was all falling apart in a very Obi-Wan way. Because if what Rex caught in all of that was truly what was about to happen, then this was most definitely a story that would make it back to Cody, with the express note that Rex wouldn't want a single second of it changed. Especially not when Obi-Wan once again fumbled as he seemed to forget himself and go to kneel, only to require Rex to grab him swiftly as a wave smacked into his shoulder and nearly took him under with it.

And now, both standing inches apart with Rex clutching Obi-Wan's shirt in a death grip and Obi-Wan snatching at a small, familiar blue colored box out of the water, tight enough to turn his already pale knuckle pure white as they both slowly began to laugh.

"Oh Rex," Obi-Wan sighed, face split in the most honest smile Rex had ever witnessed on him. "I am so sorry for being such a fool. But I am not the least bit sorry for how it has brought us here. I have a whole speech memorized, Cody made me repeat it over and over to Quinlan while Quinlan gave me various responses, but none of it was... this."

"Was what?" Rex couldn't stop his own smile that was almost starting to hurt now. "Was you nearly drowning because you forgot what you just said, calling yourself too short? Or the part where you have already blurted out what you are doing to me without actually doing it yet?"

Obi-Wan groaned, and Rex watched as bright blue eyes ensnared in crows feet rolled to the side. "All of it Rex, all of it. How do I even start to fix this?"

"Well," Rex hummed, letting his hold go a bit more slack but keeping his hands on Obi-Wan's broad chest. "Seems a shame to do all of that work and then not say your speech."

Rex could feel the waves still pushing at them, felt it mirror the pull of Obi-Wan's features as he seemed to think something through very critically for a moment before answering.

"Rex I... well I honestly can't. Later, if you want the full thing, I shall recite it with all the dramatics that I always deny having, but right now this just seems more... right. I don't know how to encompass everything we have been through together in some small speech anyhow. How do I explain how I trust you with everything, all the lives and happiness of those I love most, in the same time constraint that I give special prose to how much I adore the way your nose scrunches differently depending on your emotions- like that!"

Rex had in fact scrunched his nose up without realizing at the mention of his nose, and Obi-Wan had stolen the opportunity to quickly pop upward and kiss the end of it, much to the already overwhelmed clones amusement.

"My point is, rún, that you are the light of my life, the one I want to dedicate myself fully to, in every way imaginable, in front of every being who will listen including the Force itself. I love you. All of you. All that you have been, all that you are, and all that you will become. And to share all of that with you would be the highest honor I, high Jedi Master and General of the third systems army Obi-Wan Kenobi, could ever be given. So, letting the years speak for me, all I ask now is if you would give me the most wonderful gift of allowing me to remain at your side until the end, and guard your back as you have protected my heart against anything this galaxy can come up with, and marry me?"

Rex had been biting his lip, trying not to make a sound throughout all of Obi-Wan's fumbled words, taking them all in as the sun rose higher and the waves continued to hug them. He truly couldn't believe it was all happening though, that Obi-Wan Kenobi was saying this to him. A man with a galaxy wide reputation that was only truly rivaled by his own former Padawan, a man who had lead countless successful battles and missions, who had been giving his entire life to keep the peace before Rex had even been a test tube of random DNA. He stood now before Rex, a simple clone, and said he would dedicate all of that to him, if he only allowed him.

And though Rex had questions, like how Obi-Wan would keep his dedication to the order, those answers would come later (mostly in the shape of Anakin awaiting them on the landing platform, excitedly announcing how he had managed to outmaneuver Cody to get Obi-Wan's resignation letter to Windu for absolutely every Jedi and their clone on the platform to hear). For now, Rex only had one thing he wished to say as Obi-Wan very carefully opened the box between their chests to reveal a silver ring, inset with dark blue jaig eye shaped gems fit snugly around a light blue crystal that pulsed with a familiar kyber core.

And he said it first without any words at all, heart bursting in his chest as he tightened his hands on Obi-Wan's shirt again and tugged him in for a promise sealed in a kiss. Then he backed only a breath away and locked a gaze that could make most beings squirm directly on Obi-Wan. "Yes, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Nothing would make me happier then being attached to your clumsy, dorky, handsome, brilliant, stubborn, and amazing self for the rest of my life."

And if there was one thing Rex would never forget, it was how brightly Obi-Wan smiled up at him then after slipping that ring on his finger with shaky hands, or how the sun lit the grey in his hair so brightly it begged for Rex to thread his newly decorated hand through it. To capture Obi-Wan once again without any barrier between them. Just the light of a new day, the waves they stood against, and the currents of the universe melding them together.

Because if there was ever any guarantee in this universe, it was this: Obi-Wan needed to love, and Rex needed to be given it.

@rexobiweek

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