#Mr Ben x You

[peepawispunk]

Coming soon Reader returns to her alma mater ready to put her new teaching degree to use. It's remarkable how much has stayed the same at her old school, right down to her old teacher, Mr Ben. She thought distance and time would have killed that old crush she'd had on Mr Ben, but she's about to find out just how wrong she was when she gets volunteered to chaperone a month long Europe school trip with him.

[demigoddessqueens]

secret admirer

A/N — Can’t believe I’m writing for a one-time sketch character but it’s a Pedro character and 🤣😆 I just adored him

Summary: Mr. Ben receives an unlikely gift from a…secret admirer?

Tagging @loveforfandomsstuff

Pairing - Mr Ben x new teacher!reader

Valentine’s Day was always hectic at the school. Students clamoring to pass out their gifts and cards, teasing, and the overflowing heaps of discarded candy wrappers.

But it brought a smile to Ben’s face seeing the students enjoy themselves. Reminded him of back when he was young and in love….

Amidst all the chaos, Ben noticed his phone vibrating in his pocket. Fishing out, he saw a message from a number he didn’t recognize yet along with its following musical fancam attachment.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

Here’s to hopefully talking to you soon

Adoringly,

Your secret admirer

At that, Ben quickly alerted his students about the imposing message.

“Class, what did I say since our last assembly about these…fancams? Who sent this?”

“Not me!” “Who, Mr. Ben??” “Mr Ben has a secret admirer?!?” “Who’s the lucky one??”

As you were rushing by to handle your next class of students, you heard the commotion coming from Mr. Ben’s home room along with a quick glance of his blushing face.

You tried your best to hide the growing smile on your heated cheeks as you walked on. Given that this was your first year as a teacher here, you were quickly smitten with such a man.

He was a kind man, a good listener and always made you laugh in the teacher’s lounge, and sat by you at the assemblies. Granted, you wanted to take things a bit further, and maybe this was the spark you needed.

[timbit-robin-art]

It’s fantastin’ time.

[mellowsaturns]

it’s cuffing season

MR. BEN (PEDRO PASCAL SNL CHARACTER) X TEACHER!READER

summary: your students won’t stop teasing you about a certain handsome teacher

warnings: fluff, teasing, hidden feelings, potential workplace romance, fem!reader

a/n: this is just for shits and giggles lol. teacher!pedro is doing something to my brain

part two

—

You were too busy to even notice at first. But when the hushed whispers and giggles started to become louder and louder, you finally snapped out of the trance you were in while grading your student’s papers and looked up.

And of course, the ever bashfully handsome teacher that everyone somehow had a crush on was leaning against your door, watching you.

You sighed before making your way over, not missing the childish noise your students were making. “Get back to work,” you scolded.

You raised a brow at him. “Is there something you need?”

“My students are in Geography right now, and had some time to kill.”

It seemed like he always had time to kill because he was always making these visits to your classroom.

“Don’t you have something better to do than distract my students?” you teased.

“I actually came to ask you something,” he said with a gentle smile on his face.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“What do you want for lunch today?”

-

It has become sort of a routine by now—the unspoken habit of buying each other lunch a few times a week.

Because that’s what good colleagues do, right? Buy lunches for each other. And for him, it also seemed to include hanging around in your classroom, and making sure to always wait up for you to finish organizing for tomorrow’s lessons before leaving the school together even though you knew it takes up an extra hour of his time.

Or not, because your students once again wouldn’t stop pestering and teasing you after he left your doors today.

“You should stop coming to my classroom so often,” you said in the staff lunch room. “My students are taking it the wrong way.”

Aftering taking a bite out of the burrito, he asked with his cheeks full, “What do you mean?”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his adorableness.

“Well, my students are ‘shipping’ us now,” you replied. When he looked at you in confusion, you explained it to him. “They are basically putting us together and saying some… stuff that’s not appropriate work wise.”

“Oh, really?” he said, face and voice smug.

The two of you have always been closer to each other than to the other teachers in this school—flirty even, but if your noisy students kept on talking, other staff members might catch on and take it the wrong way.

“This is serious!”

He hummed. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, my students call me ‘Daddy’ and you ‘Mommy.’ Much worse than that shipping thing you explained to me.”

You paused for a while. “Are they seriously saying that? Oh my God…” you trailed off, embarrassed.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either. But it’s a good thing. I think,” he said with a laugh.

You let out a groan before putting your head down onto the table. Despite the potential disaster of rumours to come, you couldn’t help but to wonder, would it be that bad? Being with him? You mentally cursed yourself for thinking that.

“Well, should we?” he asked.

You snapped your head up. “Should we what?”

“Become a Daddy and Mommy.”

You snorted at his insinuation. “You are insufferable.”

He gives you a sheepish smile but you don’t miss the little glimmer of hope in his eyes that also matched yours. You lifted your left hand up. “Hate to break it to you but I’m old fashioned. Ring first,” you teased, “then we can talk.”  

He smiled at you, face full of adoration. That wouldn’t be a problem at all, he thought to himself.

[miguel-owhora]

hgng... thinking about ben reilly who's such a loser and looks so pathetic and dumb next to you :((( but fuck if you're not so sweet to him, slowly riding his cock and peppering kisses along his face, wiping away the tears from his eyes because you just feel so good! and you treat him so right :((

or just you pinning his legs to his chest and slowly fucking him, each thrust deep and sensual, making him tremble and slowly break apart until he's helplessly squirting from his cock

[birtsby]

close call

[musings-of-a-rose]

What the Hell Are Fancams?

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader

Word Count: 2500+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Absolutely felt called out during the SNL sketch with Teacher Ben but I knew I had to write a little something for him. I'm pulling from my own experience as an ASL interpreter in the school system (glad I finally can incorporate it!). Thanks to @vanemando15 for her help in this and for being a beta!

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Main Masterlist

Teacher Ben Masterlist

What the Hell Are Fancams? PART 2

New year, new school, new student. Such is the life of an American Sign Language interpreter when you work in schools. 

My last student moved out of the district so I was assigned a different one. This student's interpreter wanted to go back to work with the little ones and while I loved my time with them, it was time to swap grades. 

My student is amazing and comes from a rare family, in that she is the only member that is Deaf but everyone in her life learned ASL from the moment she failed her hearing test. In most families it's the complete opposite, causing significant language delays and isolation. It never fails to blow my mind how many people won't learn a language for their child, especially when they'd both be starting from the beginning. 

This student, Chelsea, I had worked with from her time in pre-k to 5th grade. It was great already having an established repertoire with a student and we easily fell back into our normal chatter, her filling me in on anything I missed for the few years I was back in Pre-K.

So how's this school? I ask, as she's been here 2 years already.

Not bad. Teachers are mostly ok. Too much homework though.

That's usually the case with high school. Any favorite classes?

I like acting class, but my favorite teacher is Mr. Ben. He teaches marine biology.  She gives me a look I can't discern at this.

Oh? 

Yeah you know, like about the whales you like and other ocean stuff. 

You're in marine bio 2 and you're calling it ocean stuff? Sounds like a great ocean stuff teacher.

She rolls her eyes at me. You know what I mean. Plus he's…

He's..what?

She smirks her mischievous smile that I know can only mean trouble. Nothing. Don't worry about it. 

Chelsea-

Oh look we're at math class.

Saved by the bell, indeed. 

After math was lunch, followed by marine biology. Since it was the first day, I decided to eat quickly and get to the next class a little early so I can start on my "who I am and where I and my student need to be placed" speel. Although he may not need it since Chelsea was in his class before. Still, you never know what a previous interpreter did. 

I knock softly on the door and male voice tells me to come in. I push the door open and see that the teacher has his back to me, bent over his desk grabbing something. His very broad back. 

"Uh hi. I'm the interpreter for your Deaf student for next period and I'm here to answer any questions-"

He turns around and I forget what I'm saying. Bright, brown eyes focus on mine, brown hair that looks so soft with greys starting to creep in, matching the patchy facial hair he has. His nose? Don't get me started on the thoughts I'm having about that nose. He's wearing a blue plaid shirt tucked into black pants, and a tie with tropical fish on it. 

A faint pink dusts his cheeks when he looks at me. "H-hi. I'm Ben Morales. The kids call me Mr. Ben." 

He holds out his hand and I shake it, willing my nerves to not come through it. God he's hot. I wonder if this is what Chelsea was talking about. In fact, I'm sure it is.

I launch into my speel, albeit a little faster than I normally would, but Ben just nods along and does whatever I ask of him. 

"Do you have any questions?" I ask.

"Um… not right now. You're a little different than the last interpreter." He coughs and takes a sip from his water bottle.

"Ah yeah we all do things a little different. Is there anything that worked well for the student and you that I can accommodate?"

He chokes on his water, coughing violently. I move quickly, thumping him on the back but his face keeps getting redder. 

"You-" He coughs "-want to go on-" He coughs more "- a date?"

It's my turn to have my cheeks heat up. "I- what? No I said accommodate… are you ok?"

He nods, muttering something like "Oh shit" under his breath as he turns away from me, his coughs dying down. But before we can talk more, the bell rings and students start moving about the halls. 

"Well let me know if there's anything I can do to date you, Mr. Ben. ACCOMMODATE! Accommodate you!"

Fuck. Me. 

A tap on my shoulder and I turn to see Chelsea, lips upturned in that mischievous smirk. 

I see you've met Mr. Ben.

I have. He's…nice.

Yeah, nice. Is that why your face is all sweaty and warm?

What? 

She laughs and takes her seat, eyes flicking between me and Mr. Ben as the bell rings and he starts his lecture. 

—----

I find myself making it to that class a few minutes before the bell rings just to have a moment to talk to him. When I can talk, that is. I've never met someone who makes me trip over my words as much as he does. But soon, we settle into a routine, after bonding over our mutual love of orca whales. A couple weeks in, I bought him a brightly colored tie with orcas swimming on it. The smile he had could be seen from space. 

Chelsea can't seem to wipe the smirk from her face whenever she sees us talking. 

He likes you. Chelsea signs, giving me a wink.

Focus on your test, Chelsea. 

It's hard to when you guys are up there yelling your love for each other. You should ask him out. 

This has nothing to do with your classwork. And this is highly inappropriate. 

She scoffs. You've known me forever. 

Yes but you're not an adult. 

I'll be 16 soon. And I'm not an idiot. Everyone knows you guys like each other. 

What do you mean "everyone"?

She gestures around the room. Everyone. It's in the fancams too.

The..what? 

F-A-N-C-A-M-S. She repeats the sign. 

Thanks but I have no clue what that is. 

She laughs and Mr. Ben walks over. 

"Everything ok? Any questions?" He's talking directly to Chelsea and not addressing me, which is exactly what I told him to do on day one.

"No, I'm good Mr. Ben. I was just telling my interpreter about fancams." I voice for her, trying to keep my cool.

His face goes blank. "The what?"

She laughs. "You don't know?"

Before he can answer the bell rings and we head off to next period. 

At the end of the day, Chelsea takes my phone and pulls up one of these fancams and wow. It's basically a Mashup of hidden video and photos taken of Mr. Ben that have been heavily edited and music added, making him look hot. How is this appro-

Oh shit I'm in this one. Apparently Chelsea is not the only one to try and push us together. 

Shit. 

The next day, I make it to his class early as usual. He walks from around his desk to lean sit in front of it.

"Hey Mr. Ben."

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Ben?"

I smile. "Sorry. Habit."

"Hey…so what was that fancam business from yesterday?"

Oh. 

"I uh.."

"Please tell me. These kids all talk about them and I have no clue what they are."

"I don't-"

"Please?"

Oh God his eyes are all big and brown and just like a damn puppy. 

I sigh, shaking my head when I realize that was audible and I'm staring too long into his eyes. I could get lost in those eyes. 

I pull my phone out and walk over to him, leaning my butt against the desk next to him. 

"Ok, so please remember that I was shown these and am in no way affiliated with the creation of the fancams."

He chuckles, leaning in closer to me. He smells good, like fresh parchment and aftershave. 

"Are you ok?" He asks me.

"What? Oh yeah. Uh the fan cams."

I scroll through and pull one up, handing him my phone as it plays. His face becomes redder as it plays on. 

"I uh..who…who made these?"

"I'm not sure. Chelsea said a bunch of the students did-"

"There's more than one??"

"Y-yeah. Look." I swipe through a few more until it settles on the one that puts us together. I try to swipe past it but he catches sight of it before I can.

"What was that one?"

"Oh nothing. It's nothing."

"But it had my face-"

"Just another fancam."

"And yours."

"Kids these days. They will make any-anything."

"I can't see it?"

"Uh nah you don't want to-"

"Oh I think I need to see it."

He's not pressuring me at all, more like flirting, but…that's not possible. There's no way he holds the same crush for me as I do for him, right? 

My boldness coming from some tucked away insanity, I reach over and swipe the video back up, letting him watch it in its entirety. 

"The kids…want us to go on a date?"

"Apparently so. C-crazy, right?" I swallow hard, hoping he can't hear the way my heart is pounding though my chest, his scent filling my head and making it very hard to focus. 

"I don't think it's crazy."

RIIIIING!

That fucking bell ruins everything. 

At the staff meeting the next morning, they ask for chaperones to the homecoming dance. Teachers groan but a few hands automatically go up, volunteering their evening. I raise mine too, Chelsea already telling me she had been asked to go by the person she'd been crushing on since last school year. They had spent the entire summer learning as much ASL as they could in order to talk to her, which was too touching for words and I know it meant the world to Chelsea. I won't have to follow her around but I'll be there in case of emergencies. 

To my surprise, Ben raises his hand shortly after watching me raise mine. The admin takes down names and the meeting concludes, Ben catching up with me as I start to head out to homeroom. 

"You're volunteering too?" He asks. 

"Yeah. Chelsea is already going and while she doesn't necessarily need me, she asked me to come in case she does. I think she's nervous."

"That kid learned asl for her, right?"

I nod. "Yeah. She's super excited although she'll deny it."

"Sounds like her." 

"Mmmhmm."

We walk together for a hall or two. 

"I gotta go this way to homeroom."

"Oh. Right. Um, see you soon?"

"Yup. See you!"

—----

When I make it to his class at my usual time, I can see he's nervous about something, his eyes extra wide and small beads of sweat accumulating at his hairline. 

"HI, Ben."

"H-hi."

Silence as I unpack, but then he's standing near me and all I smell is him. 

"Can I ask you something?" He asks.

"Yeah of course."

"I…uh did.. um… would you-"

A student pops their head in, asking for clarification on the homework and he shakes his head, turning to help them.

—----

Homecoming arrives and I pick out a simple dress to wear. Not quite prom dress but definitely nicer than school attire. I head into the dance and get my assigned area and head there, milling about as people and students start to file in. Music blares as the dance starts andI  feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, Ben is standing there, a navy built suit, dark button up shirt and - the whale tie I had given him shortly after we met. His mouth is agape as he takes me in. 

"You…you look…"

"Is that the tie I got you?

He picks up the end and looks at it. "Yeah. I thought it would go good with my outfit."

"Brings out your eyes."

"What?'

"What?"

Just then the music stops and switches to a slow dance, the DJ insisting that teachers should join in on this flashback. "True" by Spandau Ballet starts to play and a few staff members laugh and pull each other to the dance floor. 

"D-doyouwanttodance?" Ben speaks so quickly that I can't understand him.

"What?"

He sighs, gathering up…courage?

"Do you want to dance?"

Oh.

"With…you?"

"Yes. But you don't have to if you don't want to-"

"No! I want to!" Shit, was that too enthusiastic? 

He smiles, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants before offering me his hand. I take it, the warmth from his hand spreading into mine. He guides me to the dance floor and spins me to him, his hand hesitating over my hip. Gently, I place my hand over his and guide it to my hip, encouraging him to grip me with his fingers. 

His eyes find mine as he leads, neither of us saying anything, just staring into each other's eyes. My stomach is in my chest and I swear he can feel my heart pumping out of my chest. He's wearing cologne tonight, but underneath it I can smell that familiar smell of him that makes me forget words. A minute passes before he leans in and speaks in my ear. 

"You know we're going to be in another fancam because of this, right?"

I laugh. "You're probably right. But it's worth it."

He pulls back and looks at me again, his brown eyes sparkling as he stares deep into my eyes. The song ends but Ben doesn't drop my hand or my hip. 

"Will you come with me for a second?" He asks. 

"Of course."

Removing his hand from my hip, he winds his fingers through mine and pulls me through the crowd of students and out of the side door, turning down the hallway and moving away from the cafeteria doors. 

"Ben, what-"

He spins me around and pulls me tight to his body. His eyes flicker between mine and I can feel the nervous tension bubble between us threatening to pop. 

And then it does. 

His hands come up and cup my face, bringing his lips to mine as he places the softest kiss to my lips. He pulls back and I follow him, unwilling to let him go. 

"Was that ok? I should have asked before-"

I grip the tie around his neck and pull him to me, deepening the kiss. His lips are warm and inviting, better than anything I could imagine. His hands are gentle, one sliding around to the back of my head and the other settling on my hip, pulling me in closer. A slight moan from him goes straight through me and I can feel myself getting warm. 

The doors bang open and we fly apart, laughing nervously when the students that had come through the doors disappear down the hall to the bathroom without even spotting us. 

"Dinner?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Ben?"

He pushes his body back against mine, having felt my tug on his belt. 

"I am." His voice is somehow deeper and it goes straight between my thighs. 

"I'd love to."

He kisses me again and starts to put away, but I grip his tie tighter and pull him back down. His eyebrows scrunch together in a question. 

"Let's go check if your classroom is empty."

The question drops, lips hitching up in a knowing smile as he slides his fingers between mine, pulling me down the hall to his room. 

—----

What the Hell Are Fancams? Part 2>>

General Taglist:

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[luckyshinyhunter]

💔Pretty hilarious how the Daily Wire made a anti-woke show only to have it backfire on their faces, suprisingly this scene and the fanart of them are 100 times better than the actual show! 💔

[ktwritesstuff]

The Professor (Pedro Pascal smut inspired by SNL)

Title: The Professor Fandom: RPF: Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Pedro Pascal (professor of Latin American Studies) x Reader (bedraggled PhD candidate) Word Count: ~2000 Summary: As if that SNL skit wasn't going to launch a thousand smut fics... As always, lovingly beta-read by @bs-fangirl. Additional notes below the cut.

Notes: This is my first "real person fic," may God have mercy on my soul. Additionally, my Spanish is virtually non-existent; I've relied heavily on Google Translate and asking my coworkers questions on the sly, my apologies for any errors! As we all know, this is not a story about actual human Pedro Pascal, but the fictionalized version which lives rent free in our heads. And as proper fan girl culture dictates, we keep this shit locked down. But just in case:

This note is for actual human Pedro Pascal and Pedro Pascal only. I don't know why you would click "Read More" on a post clearly labeled "Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU" but if you have, I beg of you LOOK AWAY, SIR. LOOK AWAY. If you choose to proceed, I will not be responsible for any trauma you may suffer as a result. Thank you.

For everyone else, I give you:

The Professor

Professor Pedro Pascal was the head of the Latin American Studies department at your small college.  You had never been in his classes as an undergrad–Latin American Fiction and Poetry, and a special seminar on the Magical Realism of Isabel Allende–but it was well known around campus that his family had fled Pinochet when he was a child, which granted him unsurprising street cred among your communist-leaning circle of friends.  He had been appointed the interim director of the campus’s Literary Center–after his predecessor was ousted for exposing himself in a virtual meeting. 

As the Center’s Graduate Assistant Director, it meant although he wasn’t technically your boss, you were suddenly spending an annoying amount of time working around the throngs of freshman girls who flocked to his office hours.  You couldn’t really blame them.  He was, if not an outright heartthrob, a reasonably good-looking college professor.  A strong face, with a short, rugged beard, a striking Roman nose, and deep brown eyes with the most charming crow's feet.  He had a lean physique, with a hint of softness at the belly, just this side of a “dad bod.”

His modest good looks combined with a cheerful disposition and a penchant for quoting the love poetry of Pablo Neruda were like catnip for liberal arts majors.  And although you were a card-carrying bra-burning feminist, you weren’t entirely immune.

“Professor,” his office door was open, but you knocked on the frame.  

Pedro looked up from the stack of resumes you had been sent to review before the selection panel for a new director.

“Coffee?”

“Mi angelita,” he sighed, rising from his desk to graciously accept the warm cup from your hands.  “What time is the first candidate arriving?”

“Noon,” you said.  “You, me, Dr. Monroe, the Provost, and Assistant Dean are sitting on the interview panel.”

Pedro looked at his watch.  

“Shit,” he sighed.  “I have Intro to Creative Writing at 9:30.”

“I’ll set up the conference room,” you said as he shoved his papers into his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, still carrying the open mug as he raced down the stairs.  

“Thank you, Angel.  Thank you!”

It was a six month process to find a new director.  Six months of staring across the conference table, chewing on the end of your pen, pretending not to be affected by the way he leaned in when you spoke and stroked his thumb across his lower lip in concentration.  Or the obscene way he spread his legs in a comfortable chair while speaking with candidates in front of a panel of students.  

And having to do it all over again when your first choice–a student favorite–declined the position, to stay in New Jersey of all things.  You knew Pedro was relieved to have reached a conclusion; he didn’t care for the administrative duties or politics.  He wanted to teach, to be with his students.  You admired that about him, he appreciated your organizational skills (and the fact that when you made coffee it counted as a meal.)  You worked well together, but now that was coming to an end. 

It was past 9pm and you had already closed up the Literary Center for the night, but Pedro was still in his office, reviewing students’ papers.

“I’m done for the night, Professor,” you said.  “Is there anything I can do to help you get out of here?”

“That depends,” he said, with a wry smile that had you convinced he was only half-kidding.  “How’s your Spanish?”

“Hmm,” you said, stepping into the light of the desk lamp.  “¿Dónde está la biblioteca? ¿Como estas?  Bien, gracias.  ¡Qué lluvia!  And that’s all I’ve got.”

Pedro chuckled.  “I’ve heard worse.”

“That and un tequila, por favor.”

“Tequila,” Pedro repeated, intrigued. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of Patron.  “That I can help you with.”

Your mouth fell open in surprise.

“Professor,” you deadpanned.  “I don’t know if you knew this, but alcohol is not permitted in academic buildings.”

"Lucky for me," he said, picking up the bottle. "I have tenure."

You laughed and Pedro laughed; you offered to run downstairs to retrieve a pair of glasses and a salt shaker from the kitchen while he finished grading papers in record speed.

“I worry about these kids,” Pedro said, three shots deep.  “I do!  The moment they hear something the least bit troubling, they refuse to engage with the material.  Our world exists in shades of gray.  They want things to be ideologically pure, when what they need is to learn to discern.  To question.  To decide!”

“I understand what you’re saying, Professor,” you said. 

“Pedro, please,” he interrupted you.  “Pedro.”  

“Pedro,” you repeated.  “I agree, but there’s no reason we need to elevate and spotlight the same tired canon of bigots, abusers, and dead white men year after year when there is so much more out there.”

Pedro downed another shot and pointed an accusing finger at you.  

“Look who’s talking,” he said.  “Your PhD is in Shakespeare Studies!”

“I know,” you laughed, pouring yourself another glass.   “I know, I’m a terrible person.”

“You are not,” he said, suddenly serious.  “You have an incredible mind and the most beautiful way of looking at the world.”

You felt languid and relaxed and warm.  You liked the way Pedro looked at you.  There was something undeniably romantic about getting drunk in the richly furnished office, with its leather armchairs and oak bookshelves, debating the merits of Nietzsche and bell hooks.   

“Okay,” you broke the silence.  “Okay, here’s a fun fact you can pass along to your successor.  There are 3 prints signed by Allen Ginsberg in this building, and you can see them all from this desk.”  

“There’s the one on the wall,” Pedro said, pointing to the framed portrait hanging above the bookshelf.  

“Yes,” you said, rising from your chair and moving to the other side of the desk.  “And there in the hallway, on the right, that's an excerpt from "Howl" they set in the printshop downstairs.”

You perched on the arm of his chair to get closer to his eye-level, pointing through the open door.  You slipped, nearly falling into his lap and he placed a hand on your back to steady you.  He smelled amazing, like old leather and warm spices.  

“And there, in the stairwell, you can just make out the top of his head on that linotype,” you explained.  “Do you see it?”

“I do.”

When you turned your head, Pedro was looking at you.  Perhaps it was the tequila, but you were almost certain he was staring at your lips, his eyes heavily lidded, smiling lazily.

“You look tired,” you warned.  You should have gotten up to leave, but you didn’t want to.  You didn’t want this warm, lovely feeling to ever end.  

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About what?” 

“Kissing you,” he said.  

You were almost surprised; you had spent so much time trying to convince yourself that your semester-long flirtation was a one-sided puppy crush.  You had been so busy with your research and recruiting and planning, you had forgotten somewhere along the way that you were a stone cold fox with tits and ass for days and enough sex appeal to blow the top off Mount St. Helens.

“You can,” you said, turning your body toward him.  “I don’t mind.” 

“I shouldn’t.”

“Fine then,” you turned to stand.

Pedro seized you by the waist, pulling you back into his lap and into a long, slow kiss.  His lips were surprisingly soft and his mouth tasted like salt and lime as his tongue brushed into yours with careful, confident strokes.  

“That was nice,” your eyes fluttered open as Pedro finally pulled away.  “You’re a good kisser.”

“You, too,” Pedro said.  “Again?”

You tilted your chin, touching the point on your neck, just below your ear.  As Pedro leaned in, working the beginnings of a hickey into your neck, you guided his hands from your waist to your breasts.  You pressed against him, moving to straddle his thigh.

“More?” Pedro asked.

“Yes,” you panted. You braced yourself on the back of the chair, one hand on either side of his head, grinding against his leg, feeling hot and wet as he kneaded your breasts with reverent appreciation.

“Mi amor,” he breathed.

“Pedro,” you held his face, nipping at his bottom lip.  

“Dime, lo qué quieres.”

“Fuck.”  His accent went straight to your cunt.  You ran one hand up his thigh, groping at the crotch of his chinos. 

Pedro let out an obscene moan and hoisted you up onto his desk.  He slid his hands up your thighs, fingers slipping into your panties.  He ran his fingertips through your folds, tracing circles around the swollen nub of your clit with an absolute shit-eating grin.

“Qué lluvia.”

You howled with laughter.  “I know that one!  I know that one!” 

“A huevo.”   

Pedro rose from his chair, bunching your dress up around your waist.  You pulled his shirt free from the waistband of his pants, running your hands up the warm skin of his back.  

“Want you,” you sighed.  “Want you inside me.”         

“Whatever you want, Angelita.”  

Pedro pulled your underwear down to your ankles, pausing to retrieve a condom from the wallet in his back pocket, like an over-eager undergrad, pulling down his pants to roll it on.  He pressed the head of his cock against your clit.  You grabbed him by the ass, wrapping your legs around him to guide him into you.  

Pedro flicked his hips into you with short, quick strokes, sending jolts of energy through your core.

“More,” you pleaded breathlessly.  “Deeper.”

Pedro lifted your ankles onto his shoulders, pressing into you long and slow until you could feel him bumping against your cervix.  You gasped, reaching behind you, scrambling for leverage, knocking the computer monitor off the desk.

“Oh no!” You turned, trying to catch it before it crashed to the floor.

“It’s okay!” Pedro said, taking your face in his hands to guide your gaze back to his eyes.  “It’s a shitty computer.  It’s fine.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back, grabbing for his chest with one hand as he fucked you.

“So soft,” he moaned against your ear.  “So fucking good for me, Angel.”  

“Give me your hand,” you said, guiding his fingers back to your clit.  “Up and down, right there.  Oh God.”  

You grabbed Pedro’s shoulder to brace yourself.  

“I’m close,” he warned.

“Not yet,” you pleaded.  “Just a little more.”  

You could feel your own climax building inside you.  You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.  

“Oh God!”

Pedro came inside you with a gasp as your inner walls clenched around him.  He slowly withdrew, supporting your legs, and easing you onto your back, scattering papers and pens onto the floor.  He kissed your neck and your breasts as his hands explored the curves of your body. 

You woke the next morning on the couch in Pedro’s office.  You were lying on top of him; your head on his chest.  He had his arms around you, your head was pounding as you squinted into the daylight.

“We got fucked up last night?” you said.

“Yup.”  

“It was nice."

"It was," Pedro agreed, kissing the top of your head as you blinked sleep from your eyes. 

"What time is it?”

You grabbed his forearm, turning it so you could look at the face of his watch.  

“Oh shit,” you gasped.  “I have Freshman Seminar in half an hour.”

“I already missed my morning classes,” Pedro moaned, letting his head fall back against the armrest. 

“Do you want to explain to Dr. Monroe why I can’t teach her class?” you said, rising from the couch and searching the office floor for your underpants.

“No,” Pedro said.  “She scares me.”  

You pulled your underwear back on, finding your bag, you used the satin scarf tied around the handle to cover the love-bites blooming on your throat and chest.  You dabbed concealer under your eyes and added a fresh coat of red lipstick.  

“Would you like to have lunch together? Not at the Caf. Somewhere nice, like a date.” Pedro asked, sitting up.  He looked endearingly child-like with his bedhead and giant brown eyes.  

You paused, checking your reflection in your compact mirror.  

“Can we do that?” you asked.

“I don’t see why not,” he said.  “You were never my student and after this week we won’t even work together any more.”

“Oh,” you nodded.  “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“I’ll pack things up here and meet you after class.”  

You smiled.  “I’ll see you then.”   

[ozarkthedog]

Could I also request something for Mr. Ben using #89 from the prompt list? 😊💗💗

summary: the repercussions of sending your boyfriend nudes while he's at work.

“YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING?!”

warnings: 18+ only. Mr. Ben x fem!Reader. spanking. fingering. dirty talk.

word count: 628

author's note: thank you so much for celebrating and putting this obscene thought in my brain. hope you rot in horny jail with me. 💙 FIRST TIME WRITING MR. BEN!

✨10K Birthday Celebration✨

“YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING?!”

You almost spit your wine all over the dining room table as your boyfriend, Ben, stands before you aghast. 

It was harmless fun, really it was. You had some time to kill after lunch and thought he’d enjoy the naughty surprise. It was rather stupid in the long run to send him topless photos while he was at work but you’d barely seen him all week and your hormones got the best of you.

“Thank god I didn’t have my phone connected to the monitor!” His hands perched on his hips as pins you with a hard stare. “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

You squirm in your seat. His tone is harsh, leaving no room for error. You fucked up big time.

You shake your head and begin to apologize but clicks his tongue and stalks towards you.

“Too late.” He hisses. 

With ease, he tugs you from the chair only to take your place as he tosses you over his lap. “Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson.”  

In a flash, he yanks your panties and leggings half way down your thighs and locks your legs together. You teeter on his lap, his solid muscly thighs press crudely into your curves as you sweetly beg forgiveness. 

“Hush, Baby.” Ben’s chest rumbles as he smooths his hand over your ass. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you bent over like this. Taking your punishment like a good girl. Made me so fuckin’ hard.” 

A heavy hand lands on your rump with a thwap. You jolt and grab his calf as the pain radiates across your flesh. Your head hangs between your shoulders as you bite back the whimpers that threaten to fall spank after spank.

“You’ll be my good girl, right?” He grabs the base of your hairline and yanks your head back. His nose grazes your cheek as he nuzzles his lips against your jaw. “Answer me.” 

He carelessly rubs the tender, raised skin on your ass forcing a whine to bubble from your lips. 

“Yes, please. I’m sorry.” You sniffle and yelp when he tugs on your locks.

“Thatta girl.” He beams before lowering your head to hang once more. 

His sinful touch moves lower, nestling thick fingers between your thighs, he finds you slick and wanting. “Lookit’ you getting soaked from a punishment.” He tsks. “What am I gonna do with you?”

You mewl as he spears you open with his fingers. He deviously glides his thick digits across every spot that makes you see stars and leaves you breathless. “You’re making a mess. Can you hear it?” A continuous sticky sound hits your ears with each overwhelming thrust of his wrist. 

“You know, this isn’t how a good girl is supposed to behave.” His condescending tone has you lurching in his lap. Suffocating bliss fogs your mind and seeps into your bloodstream. “Good girls don’t  drip down their thighs from getting spanked.”

Your grip on his calf gets tighter as the pleasure mounts and races up your spine. He wickedly curls his fingers, zeroing in on the spongy spot behind your clit as your cunt pulses and constricts. “That’s it. Good girl.”

With a shout, you cum around his fingers and he continuously fucks you through your orgasm despite your whimpers of protest.

You hear him groan as he sucks your cream off his fingers. His hard cock pokes into your belly and ignites a searing burst of arousal deep in your belly. He slips you onto your knees between his thighs and you come face to face with his throbbing cock hidden beneath his slacks.

“Now you show me how sorry you really are.”

[wyn-n-tonic]

Well Read

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader Word Count: 3.0k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Naughty teacher fantasy talk. Breeding kink. Author's Note: The brainrot settled in fast on this one. The gif is just a gif, there are no descriptions of reader.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for notifications. You can sign up for my taglist HERE.

Masterlist

Thunder rattles the old windows in the half rotten frames of the classroom. The glass panes barely hanging on as rain leaks through the small openings around the window air conditioning unit you had to buy with your own money.

It’s been three years and barely hanging on, having been run for eight hours or more every day all school year long.

Ben laughed the first cold day when he walked in and heard the heavy hum, even laughed until you turned it off and let him feel for himself that it’s the only airflow in the otherwise gas range oven that is your classroom.

Everybody has already gone home, it’s well passed three and all the kids who aren’t in electives or detention have left to go live their lives.

Not you, though. Your planning hour was spent breaking up a brawl between hormonal teenage boys fighting over… fucking PokeMon cards because it is apparently still the fucking nineties. No planning hour means now you’re here well after work.

Because that’s the rule this year—work stays at work.

The other half of that is that home stays at home but that doesn’t stop Ben from pushing through the door before knocking.

His own backpack is slung over his shoulder, lunchbox in hand, and he asks if you’re almost finished. “Come on, I want to get dinner started.”

“Then go get dinner started.”

Not cold but not warm either. Flat. Voice pressured down from a day of shit just building higher on shit. 

“We drove in together, sweetheart,” he reminds you. “Your car’s in the shop.”

“I'll take a Lyft,” you shrug, only glancing back up at him long enough catch the way his face falls. “I'll see you at home, I have a lot of work to catch up on.” 

“Hey.” His voice is gentle and you hear the sound of his bags falling on a desktop; hear his footfalls coming closer until his large hand is covering yours. He takes the pen out of your hand and lifts your chin to look up at him with the other. “Let’s call it quits today, it’s been a tough one and I think that you could really use a nice dinner and an even bigger glass of wine.” 

“But—“ You gesture to the pile of essays that need to be graded; the blank test template you need to make copies of. There are no more words left in you today, they’re defeated out by the storm and the air conditioner and the bells and the fighting and all the talking back.

Ben smirks. “Mark all of them with an A, give the kids a break because you need a break, sweetheart, let’s go home.” 

“That's not fair, Benjamin,” you tell him. “That’s not fair to the kids who put the work in on these essays to give everybody the same score.”

He closes my planning book next and takes my hand. “You know what’s not fair? That you don’t give yourself a break—ever. It’s not fair that I had to put a hard rule down on work stuff being brought into our home the moment we moved in together.”

"Please just let me bring this home today, Benny,” you practically plead. “I’ll finish while you’re making dinner and then I’m all yours, I’ll take a break.”

Eyes hardening, he shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, because your idea of a break isn’t what you actually need. What you need”—he bends down, voice lowered—“is a hot bath, a glass of wine and to get every thought absolutely fucked out of your brain.” 

While he lets those words settle into your ears, he takes your hand and examines your nails. “I like this color,” he says, the pad of his rough thumb swiping over the polish. “Brianna’s getting better at this every time and if you don’t think you’re a good teacher because you put yourself first for one night, I want you to think of the very huge impact you have on students like her just by letting her do your nails during study hall.” 

Laughing, you tell him you doubt that. “You're her favorite teacher, she said you’re the first one to not make her read dumbass shit she’s not interested in.” 

“No, you’re her favorite,” he insists, coming around the desk to start packing up my bag for me. “She told me that you let her paint your nails and listen to music even if it has curse words.” He stops, looks down at you. “I also think she’s trying to set us up… should we let her know we’re getting married?”

“Oh, are we getting married, Benjamin?” You ask him, arms crossed. “People who are getting married usually set a date, we’re just engaged.” 

“For now.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

Deep breath. “It will be if you don’t get your ass in the car and let me take you home.” 

Wine in hand, you watch him work from the doorway, wondering how long it will take him to notice you there. On nights that he cooks, the routine is always similar; he puts you in the bath with a very large glass of wine and a book and he takes to the kitchen with headphones in his ears and two deep lines of concentration between his eyebrows. 

No headphones are in tonight, though. Instead, his audiobook plays loudly from the speaker beside the stove. On the way home, he asked if everything was okay other than the school day getting to you. Even with confirmation that you were fine, he squinted his eyes and tried to study you—to read you. 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” He asks, not looking up from the task at hand. “Or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”

Taking the glass from your hand, he takes the final drink and sets it to the side. “We'll refill that later. How do you feel?” 

“Better.” And you can finally appreciate the way his pants are hugging him today; the soft slope of his belly slight but visibly accentuated by the way the belt cuts into him. “You haven’t untucked your shirt.” 

“Was I supposed to?” He laughs.

“I mean… you’re home but”—palming the thick bulge over the black polyester, you push closer—“I’m glad you didn’t, I haven’t gotten to appreciate how handsome you look today.” 

“That’s okay, I’m sure there will be another fan cam tomorrow,” he whispers, fingers brushing along the swell of your cheek. “Do you want to eat and then”—lips drawn tight, he rocks his head back and forth in suggestions—“or do you want to do that and then eat?”

“You,” you tell him, fingers hooked into his waistband to pull him further as you stand up on your tiptoes. “My head hurts and I want you and everything else comes second.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice. He switches the burners off with enthusiasm and follows you through to the living room, large hands crawling up the t-shirt that you stole just to land on your bare hips with wide eyes. “Are you not wearing panties?” 

“Wanted to make your job easier for you.” 

All his soothing words make the days and the nights and everything that is hard better; they make everything that is good great. Three years ago when this idiot wandered into your classroom to introduce himself as your new neighbor, he caught you on a similarly bad day and it annoyed the shit out of you. Especially after he made fun of all your maps. 

Now, he’s pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it to the side after throwing you into the never made ocean of sheets and blankets that is your bed. Your shared bed in your shared home. 

He starts to pull at the button up, untucking it slowly and struggling with the buttons out of nerves. That bulge of his is already so much larger than when you groped him in the kitchen and the belt buckle is moving with every shallow, belly breath he takes.

“Come here,” you say, pushing yourself up to your knees and moving forward towards him. “Let me help.” 

Even when he’s the one in charge, this confident man with his soft brown eyes, he fumbles under nerves like he’s half expecting you to lash out in impatience. It’s what his ex did and you’re not a fan of her for it—or anything else for that matter—but there’s something about the relief of safety that washes over him in these moments that warm you up to the tips of your ears. 

You can trust him with your bad days just as much as your good; he can trust you with his insecurities just as much as his confidences. 

“You know,” you start, buttons easily coming undone with the work of your fingers. “Sometimes I think about coming into your classroom on your planning period and having you take me right there on your desk.” 

“On my desk?” He asks through a smile. “Baby, you know how much trouble we’d get in.” 

“Only if we get caught, Mr. Ben,” you whisper against his lips as you push the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Come on, I’ve always had a hot for teacher fantasy.”

“You are feeling better,” he smiles. “Maybe you don’t need me to fuck your brain empty after all.” 

He does it to make you beg and, despite knowing this, you fall for it every time—whine for him every time.

A soft push meets your shoulders and he nods back to the pillows in encouragement.

“Don't take your belt off yet,” you beg him as he follows you up on the mattress but he only laughs, says he has to because he’s been aching after you for hours and needs a little relief now.

Hours but you’ve only been home for one, maybe two. “Are you saying this isn't just about making me feel better?”

He shakes his head, lips pursed, and he throws the belt over to the side as well. “You’re ovulating,” he says, “and the only thing I have thought about since I woke up and checked our fertility calendar is how badly I’ve wanted to get you home and put a baby in you.”

Oh god, that explains so much.

Laying back under his guidance, you spread your legs open for him and watch him take you in. Years now and it doesn’t get old; soft brown eyes studying you in silent awe, mouth open with the occasional smirk pulling up a corner of his lips. It’s like he’s reading how you want it from him and you hope he never stops.

Leaning forward between your legs, he takes a deep breath and then spits on your aching center, eyes up towards you as it falls. He doesn’t wait long after that—doesn’t play with his food as he likes to joke. 

Everything is on fire already as he lays an open mouthed kiss to your core, soft moans vibrating into you and up through your own throat as you grab for his hair. 

He’s a ravenous kind of lover when he wants to be but tonight he seems more focused on taking you apart slowly with the warm press of his tongue between your legs.

Not long and you’re crying for him, actually crying. Softly sobbing his name out as his nose rubs against your clit with his tongue buried deep into your entrance for more than just a taste. 

You can feel him smiling with every shuddering breath as you grasp for purchase on the sheets and pleasure floods your brain. 

Then he takes his mouth away, face shining with your slick as your eyes meet with some kind of electric charge between you as your chests rise and fall in time with one another.

“I feel like I should probably take your temperature,” he says finally, large hands held out as if he’s weighing his options. “Make sure your cute body is the right environment for implantation right now but—“ 

He goes on but you’ve tuned that out, focused in on the deep wells his fingers make as they curve over in a half closed fist. Everything about him is so gentle, including those hands and the way they hold you—the way you know they’d hold your baby.

“You're not a science teacher,” you finally say. “So save the lesson and let me make you a dad.” 

It was one of the first things he ever told you—maybe the second or the third date—when you talked about your dreams and does life now look like what you wanted when you were younger. He’d said his biggest dream was to be a dad. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen in love with him on those words alone but there was something about him that just made sense and fit perfectly into all your big dreams and big plans too. 

You could see a future with this man—a family and years of happiness in those soft brown eyes.

Pants off now, he fists himself as he crawls back onto the bed. You just had sex two nights ago and, yet, somehow you feel like you haven’t been full for him in weeks. The thunder hasn’t stopped either and it’s amplifying how intense it all feels with him right now but, then, it always does when he talks about the big, life altering things he wants with you.

Slowly, he pushes in, grip on your hips tightening with every aching inch he gives to you until he’s fully seated. Those hands run up the expanse or your body beneath your shirt as he gathers the fabric and gently pulls it over your head as you lift up towards him. Only then, after a quick look down your body to the place you’re both connected, does he lay himself down on you. 

Face still shiny with what you’ve given him already, he smiles into the small, closed lipped kiss he presses into you.

“Your mustache is soaked,” you tell him when he pulls back, trying to ignore the pulsing inside of you. 

Those lines of concentration back between his eyebrows, he nods and starts to pull out of you before pushing back in with a groan. “And this needy little pussy is why.” 

“Is pussy an appropriate word for a highly educated English teacher to be using?” You ask, goading him into coming back down and pressing that tongue of his into your mouth this time. “Such profanities are unbecoming of such a man—“

“Your cunt,” he interrupts you, one hand coming up to rest around your throat, “is so wet that I can feel it pulling me deeper and all I’m doing is just sitting here, looking at you and trying not to bust early.” 

“It's okay if you do," you shrug. “You've already given me an orgasm.” 

But he shakes his head and leans back down, tells you to open your mouth and spits there too before pushing his tongue flat down on yours. It catches you off guard just enough that his first real thrust is even more of a surprise and that grip he holds on your throat moves to cradles the back of your head.

The sounds in the bedroom are lewd and only covered by the sound of the rain and thunder that continue to shake the walls of your home. 

He’s not rushing, though. Not trying to run through you like just another task. The care he takes with and the concentration he places into you are the reasons you find yourself over the edge in such achingly efficient time. But that doesn’t mean he follows you over and calls it a night. 

No, he takes his time until you’re nothing but jelly in his hold. Eyes glazed over, curls wrapped around your fingers and begging for breath and God and him with every thrust that feels like it goes deeper and deeper. 

“Are you going to make fun of me if I tell you I love you?” You ask against his lips as his concentration and pace both start to falter. “Because ovulating or not, you would’ve still fucked me like this just for having a bad day and I-I—oh fuck—” Your muscles are seizing up beneath the surface of your skin and it pushes a moan straight into his greedy mouth. 

“I would never make fun of you,” he breathes out heavily. “I would fuck you like this even if we couldn’t have kids; I will fuck you like this on every good day or bad day you have for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.”

Languid and slow, the way his tongue moves against yours is confusing your interpretation of his rhythm between your legs even as it picks up again. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him, alive and on fire beneath him and around him with his soft kisses and hard thrusts. 

A deep sigh of relief finally leaves his lips as he swells inside of you and warmth rushes through you and out around him to start pooling and cooling beneath your bare body. 

Being finished doesn’t mean he leaves though. He stays inside of you, twitching and thrusting occasionally as he continues kissing you with his hands hooked around your shoulders and every ounce of his body weight pressing down into you. 

This man treats you with an intimacy you never knew could exist. Not for you, at least. He is hungry and in love and both insatiable for and always satisfied with you. He reads you like he wrote you; knowledge of your body and your brain and your heart encoded so deeply into him and you know—you feel it deep down in the pit of your being—that this will only grow as you do and your family does.

"Did that help get all the thoughts out of your head, sweetheart?” He asks, laying his forehead against yours.

A few deep breaths is all the confirmation he needs until, finally, you say, “I think I forgot to turn off the air conditioner.” 

[trulybetty]

11 x dream - mr. ben (snl) x reader

prompt: dream pairing: ben x reader word count: 357 notes: fluff and betty's dated english degree pulling apart poetry to strong arm into this drabble summary: just a little stolen moment

A/N: this is new territory, writing for Ben - we can thank @wildemaven and her stunning moodboard, and @gnpwdrnwhiskey's tags that spurred this. Happy Wednesday all and Happy Valentine's if you celebrate! 💕

x. masterlist

The college hallways were congested with students, and you weaved in and out of their clusters to reach the end of the hall in the limited time you had before your next lessons started. Your bright pink loafers set the pace, on theme for the day at hand, Valentine's Day, for your planned little escape from routine.

Slipping quietly into his office, you found him buried in a mountain of papers, his focus a testament to his dedication. “Guess who?” you whispered, covering his eyes with your hands.

Startled, Ben paused, a smile soon spread across his face as he recognized your touch. “Could it be the art thief here to steal my heart again?” he joked in reference to the department you worked in, turning to pull you into a warm embrace.

“I thought I'd already stolen it for good,” you retorted playfully, presenting him with a handmade Valentine.

He laughed as he took in the crude valentine made from recycled textbook pages and a post-it note, “Quite imaginative,” his fingers ran over the looped cursive of your handwriting and his smile turned soft as he recognized the lines from one of his favourite poems.

What could there be more purely bright  In Truth’s day-star? 

“You are the brightness that dreams only pale in comparison to,” he kissed your hand he'd taken in his. “But I'm afraid I have nothing for you here. It's home.”

“Well,” you remarked as you turned his office chair to face you, leaning over and placing your hands on either side of him, resting them on the padded armrests. “I think there's a way for you to make up for that,” you assured him, leaning in for a soft kiss that spoke volumes.

The kiss deepened, a silent conversation of love and longing, before you both reluctantly pulled away, mindful of the time.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Ben sighed, his hands lingering at your waist.

“We will have all the time in the world soon enough,” you whispered back, squeezing his hand. “Now, let's steal a few more moments before we have to face the world again.”

[tyanis]

The Resident Evil 2 Survival Guide being weirdly mean to characters.

I've excluded Annette from this batch because she's already been pummeled with plenty of name calling by this guide. So let's see how the other characters fair!

Marvin. They're referring to Marvin.

How dare Ben not want to give violent birth to a horrific mutant!

...ok, this one gets a pass.

I... I don't think Ada has been injured or anything at this point? So, uhm... her brain is just dying, I guess.

Ugh, so lame of Marvin to do that.

I will not stand for this Sherry slander!

...because I am gonna go to bed!

[wannab-urs]

Mr. Ben (SNL) Masterlist

Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

You Have Me In a Chokehold - smut | AO3

Type: one shot Word Count: 2.5k Summary: You’re a teacher at Mr. Ben’s school and you’re sitting in the “No More Fancams” assembly freaking out because he just showed your fancam on screen… Do you think he knows it was you? Tags: no ages implied (all legal obvi), hair pulling, sir kink, very mild degrading language, fingering, unprotected PiV (don’t be silly, wrap your willy) (also y’all are teachers, you should know better), rough-ish sex but no one gets hurt, Mr. Ben is girthy (Big Ben ;) ), brief mention of the picture of dorian gray, which deserves its own warning if you’ve ever tried to teach that book to teenagers, extreme cringe in the first half. Gets weirdly fluffy at the end so if that kills your vibe just stop reading after the uhhhh climax of the story (if you catch my drift). Sorry we support aftercare in this house

[mellowsaturns]

now we got a reason

MR. BEN (PEDRO PASCAL SNL CHARACTER) X TEACHER!READER

summary: turns out, hiding your feelings is harder than you thought

warnings: fluff, hidden relationship, workplace romance, kissing, teasing, suggestive content but nothing too explicit, all the feels, pet names, it’s kinda cheesy i’m sorry, fem!reader

wc: 1.1k

part one but can be read as a stand-alone

a/n: it’s mr. ben’s world and we’re just living in it

— — —

It’s during those extra minutes in class where one of your students decides to take one for the team and ask you.

“How come Mr. Ben doesn’t visit you anymore?” one student calls out instead of doing their class work.

Here we go again.

Sighing, you place your pen down. “Is there a reason he should be visiting me?”

“Well… He always does,” another student adds.

“And he hasn’t for a while now,” pipes in another.

God. You loved your homeroom students, you really did, but if only they would focus on their education as much as they do with your love life.

“Whether he visits me or not is none of your business,” you answer with a bit of an edge.

That gets your entire class perked up, and suddenly, everyone’s whispering and murmuring among themselves. And you know exactly what they are talking about with words like ‘Break Up?’ ‘Fight’ and ‘Misunderstanding’ being thrown around.

You just simply look down and ignore them and your feelings.

“Did something happen between the two of you?” a brave soul asks.

“Frankie,” you say sternly. “Focus on your work.”

-

It’s lunchtime when you’re making your way down the empty hall for a department meeting. You never make it to your destination because someone pulls you into an empty classroom.

You let out a small yelp when your back hits the door, locking you inside. The panic never comes because you know just who it is.

Looking up, you're met with a pair of beautiful brown doe eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says with a charming smile.

Ever since he made that Daddy and Mommy joke and you teasing him that he needed to put a ring on your finger first—he had asked you out on a date.

Then another. And another.

It didn’t take long for him to officially ask you to be his girlfriend—a home cooked meal at his house with a lit candle and everything.

After that, he couldn’t get enough of you.

He’s caging you with one arm propped up onto the door as a way to impress you and you had to stifle your laughter at his enduring shamelessness.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He grabs one of your hands and rubs gentle circles on the delicate skin. “I missed you,” he murmurs.

“You missed me?”

He hums. “Of course I did.”

You let out a small chuckle. “You saw me this morning.”

“I know,” he says with a small pout, “but I usually see you more than that.”

Ever since the two of you made it official, you had suggested that he stop coming by your classroom so often to reduce the chances of getting caught. And he had consciously agreed because he had no control when it came to you—he would’ve accidentally kissed you in front of the whole class, he had said himself.

It’s not like there were strict forbidden rules about teachers getting together, but just to play it safe, the two of you agreed to keep it on the low for the meantime.

But he just couldn’t keep his hands to himself, it seems. Because while he can’t go to see you in your classroom, he’s always pulling you into empty rooms for a quick stolen kiss.

“It’s hard for me too,” you confess, intertwining your fingers with his. “They ask me about you all the time and I have to act as if we had a fight or something.”

It was the hardest thing in the world because you’re so lovestruck that the mere mention of his name results in an automatic smile.

But you had to keep the act up—just until the two of you figure out how to tell your colleagues and most importantly, your boss.

He brings you into a hug. “I know, baby. I know.”

“You know this is highly inappropriate, right?” you say into his chest.

He smirks. “You never complained before.”

You pull away. “Yeah but this time you led me into a classroom with the lights off,” you chime. “Are you suggesting something?”

He lowers his head, just enough that his lips brush past your ear. “You know better than to tease me, honey,” he says, voice so thick and guttural that you had to shut your eyes to stabilize yourself.

He may look reserved and modest, but he was anything but that, especially when the two of you were alone.

Pulling back, he smirks at your reaction. Then, the next thing you know, his plush lips were on yours.

No matter how many times the two of you do this, the first touch always ignites a spark.

And for Ben, he would never get over this feeling, one that he longed for ever since you transferred to this school.

And because he always loses himself with you, his lips are now on your neck—gentle, yet eager from all those years of pining.

You helplessly let yourself melt into his touches for a minute before gently pushing him away. “Not here,” you whisper.

He nods, always thinking about you and putting you first.

(It didn’t matter anyways, he’s staying over at your place this weekend, there will be plenty of time. It doesn’t need to be said.)

You hum and pull onto his tie. “I see you’re wearing the one I bought you.”

The blue one with little planets on it because it was so him.

He looks down and a grin spreads across his face. “Of course I’m wearing it. It’s all I’ll ever wear from now on.��

He gives you a peck on the tip of your nose. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before the other teachers think you got kidnapped or something,” he says referring to your meeting. One where you’re probably very late for.

Exiting the classroom, he quietly shuts the door while you giggle at him, both of you acting like guilty school children.

When you turn around, the two of you are stunned—like deers caught in headlights.

Because one of your students is in the hallway. And they’re staring at the two of you.

You look back at Ben and your eyes widen even further because when did his hair get that disheveled?

“Uh…” you start, voice in a panic, “This isn't what it looks like. Really.”

But the poor soul just looks at you. Then, something unexpected happens. “Wait. So you two aren’t in your divorced eras?” they say happily.

You and Ben look at each other with confusion. Divorced—What?

“What does that even mea—”

But Ben doesn't even get a chance to finish his question because they’re already off in a rush, pulling out their phone and typing something with a sneaky grin on their face.

The two of you take a deep breath. “Oh god,” you mutter.

This was definitely going to get addressed at the Assembly next week. 

[pettyprocrastination]

thinking about how our librarian gal probably has to wear clear retainers for her piercings because yknow..working with kids means dealing with parents complaints and dress code yadda yadda yadda which means the first time you and Benjamin go out on a date or bump into eachother outside of work you have your real piercings in and he almost has a heart attack because you look so hot