#acercontego ( ben callahan )

[carelessgraces]

@acercontego ( plotted starter )

( She hadn’t planned it. She’d arrived at the appointment with Chris Callahan knowing exactly how it would go; he’s a predictable man, and she likes that about him. It makes him a reliable client. And she’d been sitting across from him at his desk, handing him a report, and his door had opened, and he’d looked up and offered a brief nod to the interloper. And Astoria had turned around to say that this was a closed meeting, would he mind waiting —

     My son, Chris said, and if she didn’t know better she’d think he sounded bored by it, Ben. Ben, this is —

     And Astoria stood, extended a manicured hand, smiled. Bright. Warm. “Elizabeth.” The Dublin accent she loved so much was absent, replaced by a crisp Londoner’s royal pronunciation. Between the voice and the blonde wig and the herringbone blazer, it would have been hard to find any of Astoria in her. “Elizabeth Vane. It’s a pleasure. )

     It’s Elizabeth who arrives at the cocktail party — thrown by Chris and his wife, the sort of party that made the lovely Mrs. Callahan wave her hand and say oh, it’s nothing, when it had been clear that every single second of the night had been meticulously planned. It’s Elizabeth who introduces herself to the newest member of the board, one of the people Chris will surely have her look into soon enough.

     It’s Astoria who catches sight of Ben smiling pleasantly and saying help me !! with his eyes as he gets cornered by a retired partner who seems not to notice. It’s Astoria who slips through the little crowd of people to his side and smiles, bright, warm, and steals him away. It’s a simple enough process — a little joke here that gets everyone laughing, a hand on his arm, glancing his way a few too many times, and when she gets the chance to tug him to the side for some alone time, everyone simply offers up an indulgent little grin and a nod while Astoria Elizabeth links an arm through his and guides him towards the door.

     “You looked like you could use some saving.” There’s been flirting. There’s been teasing. There have been moments when all she’s wanted to do is grab him by the lapels of his jacket and drag him into a supply closet with her and even more moments than that when she’s wanted to make him a cup of tea and card her fingers through his hair while he tells her about his day. The latter is always the most dangerous. 

     It’s Elizabeth who doesn’t do anything about it, and it’s Astoria who wants to. It’s Elizabeth who’s bitten her tongue for the sake of the business, her reputation. It’s Astoria who speaks next.

     “I think we’ve been here long enough. Made enough rounds.” She raises her eyebrows, leans forward, drops her voice to a whisper. “Let’s get out of here? It’s a nice night. And we’re not too far from where I’m staying.”

[stfreds-arc]

@acercontego​​ sent :   ❛   don’t you dare touch yourself today. i want your orgasm and i plan on getting it later.   ❜   - .... also.... ben.

“ sure, as if —— ”, casual mockery comes out free, spontaneous, as if her mind hasn’t truly registered neither the meaning of his words, nor the tone. she stops dead in her tracks when it does, taking her eyes off the tiny denim backpack that’s become her luggage for nights spent at his place —— she looks up and needs to pause. the thing is this: there is a BEFORE and an AFTER BEN CALLAHAN. there is sex as an afterthought, as the quick, mishandled pastime in between shifts and another night alone, and there is pleasure for the sake of it, for the way he manages to reignite parts of her that have been dead for far too long —— and she has never really known pleasure before him, not LIKE THIS, and now she’s much too eager, demanding in a way. she’s discovered hunger and can’t quite satiate it. what, she’s suddenly supposed to starve herself ? “ oh, come on. you can’t be serious ”. quick showreel of emotions passing on her face: disbelief leaves room to protest, a childish anger follows quickly after. underneath it all, a shade of amusement: in spite of the way she can be impulsive and needy, far more instinct that there has ever been discipline in her body —— ah: freddie just loves the way he plays. 

can’t help the shiver running down her spine, can’t help that for a second her skin covers in goosebumps and she runs a quick equation through her mind to figure out how late for work she can be, if she can slip right back in bed with him just to make abstinence somewhat more tolerable. the answer is known already — she can’t, she’s late as it is. switch to plan b —— a gentle pleading, stepping closer to bridge the distance enough that she can place her fingertips over the sides of his neck, pull him close. “ c’mon. you know i won’t be able to get anything done… ”. her voice trails off in a mellow drawl, a low murmur, a beggar’s prayer —— and she melts too, in a way, the space she usually draws between her and anyone suddenly feeling superfluous and bothersome, by consequence of him and the way she so desperately longs to feel him closer ( even when she says she doesn’t. even when he alone holds the power to make her come undone with a single touch ). her kiss is bribery, a fleeting touch against the corner of his lips. “ c’mon… please ? ”

NSF/W STARTERS | not accepting .

[masterstrange-closed]

WHERE DO YOU HOLD YOUR LOVE ?

your result: in your teeth

love has uneven edges but it is something you sink your teeth into. with love you give all of yourself over and feel everything as it happens- good and bad. for you love can be a fight, whether it's hard won or hard lost (or hard to hold on to), love has a way of leaving it's impression in your skin. it's not that it hurts, it's just that it knows your tender spots and seems to hit those first.

TAGGED BY: @sagaiisms​

TAGGING: @combatfueled​ / christine palmer. @experimcnts​ / tony stark, @acercontego​ / ben callahan, @statesangria​, @horrorstoried​ / karl mordo, @defendsfreedom​, and you.

[carelessgraces]

@acercontego​: ( original )

it has not been an easy week. that is said as an understatement, murmured to himself in the privacy of his office. he gathers the items needed, sliding them neatly into his briefcase as he focuses his thoughts on his client that he was supposed to meet with his partner in the next fifteen. he’s never late, but it’s hard to focus, and ben will stop for a moment, placing both palms of his hands on his desk, closing his eyes as he breathes.

his brother showing up after twenty years of little to no contact. the phone calls from both his mother and father respectively. the lack of sleep: he’s tried a few pills, but nothing helps keep him down until daylight. so he has resorted to working more - quite literally around the clock, with a few naps peppered in. hasn’t so much as been home to his loft as he has made almost a second home in his office. he always had a clean button down in his office for emergencies anyways. the cases that keep piling up - he is a stubborn man, and though he certainly has the manpower, he does want to keep abreast as many cases as he can, preferring to lead when his schedule allows.

it was always about control - every aspect of his life was, and he was now doing everything he can to stay afloat. one thing at a time. another inhale of a slow breath and he rises, only to feel a sudden dizziness overwhelm him, causing him to falter, shutting his eyes briefly as he tries to wait for his world to center back. but it doesn’t, and instead, he feels a hard pressure, pain striking into chest. feels it spread to his arms, his back and though logically he thinks he knows what’s happening, still feels that that is exactly what is not happening.

and the last thing he thinks before he loses consciousness is: finally.

Hi, is this Astoria? Astoria Grimani? I’m calling about Ben Callahan, he’s — he’s — 

     She wonders sometimes how people get chosen for these jobs. Calling the emergency contact to let them know that somebody’s quite possibly dropped dead seems like something that gets assigned to you. Traffic had been a nightmare when she’d slipped out of the press conference, and so a cab would have taken way too long to get her to the hospital, and so she’d taken the subway, and if this isn’t real love she doesn’t know what is. 

     Her phone is almost dead, but she’d bought a charger in the hospital gift shop, and a very tall cup of coffee to follow from the cafeteria. The cup is empty, now, sitting on the chipped tray table beside his bed, next to the phone, charging. For her part, Astoria is sitting at his bedside, head propped up in her hand, elbow resting on one of the bed’s side railings, eyes falling closed every few minutes before her head slips and she jerks awake again. 

     — one of the junior associates found him and called 911, and he’s on his way to the hospital. I don’t know if he’s going to be okay, I mean, I know he’s been working so much more than usual, but I didn’t realize — oh, god. 

     If anything can be said about Astoria, it’s that she can keep her head in a crisis. It’s why she’s never going to be out of a job: politicians are stupid, and need someone to hand-hold them and clean up their messes, and she’s damn good at it. So she comforts the secretary on the phone between barking orders to her assistant, and she comforts the senator when he calls later for an update, and she somehow refrains from calling Ben’s family to inform them that she is, personally, going to push them into oncoming traffic if they ever so much as look at him funny again, and so help her God, she means it. 

     The problem is that crisis management is only useful when there’s a crisis. When it’s the waiting in between, she starts thinking things like I should have seen this coming, I should have tried to help more, Jesus Christ, I have never failed as badly as I’ve failed at being a decent girlfriend, why the fuck do people date me? and how the fuck am I supposed to make sure he’s going to be okay in the future? I can’t cook and we work in politics, why didn’t he date a nice girl who does something a little less stressful, like hostage negotiation —

     Her elbow slips off the railing and she startles herself awake for the thousandth time, just as the phone next to her vibrates, and she catches sight of the time. It’s just before four AM, and she’s already outright bribed two nurses who reminded her that only family was permitted to stay outside of visiting hours.

     ( “I am his family,” Astoria had said finally, and at that point, she was tired enough to start crying. “Jesus Christ. I am his family.” The crying hadn’t even been planned, but it worked all the same. ) 

     She hears the change in his breathing as she’s popping a piece of gum into her mouth, hears it before she sees him start to stir. Immediately, all thought of sleep flees, and Astoria runs a hand through her hair. Her assistant had arrived with a change of clothes and something to get her makeup off and a hairbrush, so at least he’s not going to wake up to the sight of the world’s most questionable girlfriend with hours-old mascara tears and a sad, rumpled blazer. She waits, breath held, until he looks her way, and when he does she lets out a full-body sigh of relief. 

     “Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?”

[carelessgraces]

@acercontego​ ( plotted starter )

In her defense, pacing inside the house would have been much weirder, and probably would have tipped Genevieve off that there was something happening. It’s reason enough to take it outside, Astoria’s shoulders hunched as if to shield herself from the cold, while Iain and Genevieve are working on another chapter of The Magician’s Nephew on the couch inside. 

     ( “I won’t stay,” Iain had promised. “I’ll head out once he gets here, but ‘Stor, you’re going to make her nervous, if you’re all fidgety while she’s waiting to meet someone important to you. And if you’re serious about this guy, this needs to go smoothly.” There are worse things than having a supportive ex, especially one who knows you that well, one who will step up despite the immense potential for awkwardness when old collides with new. ) 

     She takes a seat on the front steps, picks up the mug of tea she’d set down moments before when she’d decided to give pacing a try. It’s just that she’s never done this before. It’s only been a couple of years since the divorce was finalized, and Iain had gotten to a serious relationship first — and the new Mrs. Blackwood is such a staple in their lives now that Astoria can’t quite remember the concern that things wouldn’t work out, that meeting the daughter and seeing the daughter with the ex would be scary.

     The tea is getting colder, but Astoria downs it as quickly as she can, and she’s on her feet again and resuming her pacing by the time she sees Ben, walking down the sidewalk towards her. And at once, it’s like a release — the tension bleeds from her shoulders, her jaw, and her hands unclench at her sides, and the pacing slows to a stop as he gets closer. ( He’s good for her. He’s really good for her. The thought brings a smile to Astoria’s face, despite her earlier nerves. ) 

     When he’s close enough, Astoria reaches for him, stands on her toes to brush her lips against his in greeting. “They’re inside,” she says, and she shivers a little. She chalks it up to the weather. “You’re sure you’re ready?”

[carelessgraces]

@acercontego​ said:   🎉 - from ben.  ( new year’s kisses | not accepting )

God, she loves election years. The parties are lavish and over-the-top, dripping with alcohol and bad decisions; she is hands-down the most valuable person in any room, the only means by which anyone can access the Senator and the only way he knows anyone’s name. Tonight is no exception — any conversation lives and dies by her intercession, her schedule, her priorities. She’s derailed three lobbyists so far, somehow managed to steer clear of Vega’s most recent ex-girlfriend, and practically dropped him in the lap of the most important donor attending. That had won her points; Vega had dropped an absent-minded kiss to her cheek before excusing her, telling her to get something to drink, have a good night. 

     Somehow, she doubts this is what he meant.

     Astoria, with his lawyer, in the host’s empty office, door locked and Astoria’s underwear somewhere neither of them can locate. In fairness, it’s impressive that she’s standing at all: her knees are wobbling and she’s ditched the heels for now, for fear of a broken ankle. It’s also not as though either one of them is looking particularly hard. She used to have rules: don’t fuck your coworkers. Don’t get caught up in anything that you can’t control. Don’t lose your underwear in someone else’s house. 

     Then again, Ben Callahan makes her reconsider a lot of things, those rules foremost among them. He’s a glorious mess, his hair utterly hopeless and his mouth stained the color of her lipstick; she almost wants to let him walk out of here like that, let the whole party know that he’s occupied, indefinitely. She won’t; she might be reconsidering her rules, but she hasn’t abandoned them entirely. No need to broadcast something like this for the whole world — and everyone is paying attention to the Vega campaign tonight. 

     Still, there’s something particularly thrilling about it — Ben, abandoning the search in favor of tugging her into his lap again. 

     “Someone missed me,” she laughs, a little breathless, and he grins. 

     “Two weeks in North Dakota; what did you expect?” 

     “Oh, I’m not complaining. It’s a hell of a homecoming. Remind me why we’re still here and not at my place right now...?”

     “Because I’m going to like watching you try to make small talk while you’re thinking about this. How long can you manage before you’re dragging me out of here? An hour?”

     “That’s generous of you. I’m betting ten minutes.” 

     Ben’s hand takes hold of her hair — and that’ll be a dead giveaway when they leave, she knows — and he guides her head to the side, baring her throat before he bows to met it, scraping his teeth across her skin. She did miss him, truth be told, and not just this part. But that’s another of her rules: don’t let anyone have a greater hold on you than you have on them. Ben Callahan doesn’t do serious; they’re both a temporary fix for the other, a way to occupy time. She knows what this is — and yes, she spent two hours choosing the very underwear they just lost, not to mention the shoes she’s all but forgotten, but she knows what this is, and she knows not to expect it to change. 

     Still. There isn’t even a token show of brattiness tonight — she’d been eager, almost embarrassingly so, and all too accommodating, all too obedient.

     But they’re losing track of time — past the closed door, down the hall, she hears the echoing countdown to midnight, and Ben sits back with a huff of laughter. “Do you want to watch the ball drop?” he drawls, and Astoria shakes her head. 

     “Same every year. Now, this, this is something to pay attention to.”

     Five... four... three... 

     She grins, and Ben encircles her waist with one arm, pulling her closer; she drapes her arms over his shoulders, hands sliding into his hair. 

     Two... one.

     Before she can move toward him Ben surges up to kiss her. Outside, people are cheering as though the new calendar year is some kind of victory; she barely hears them. For a few moments while he kisses her, the gesture surprisingly sweet ( even chaste !! ), the world around them vanishes. 

     Ben’s smiling when he breaks the kiss, his free hand coming up to catch Astoria’s chin when she moves to chase after him. “Happy New Year,” he says, and he sounds a little hoarse. Is she imagining it? 

     No. She doesn’t think she is. 

     Astoria moves one hand to curl around his wrist, and she ducks her head to press a kiss to his palm. “Come on.” She releases his wrist, moves her lips to his cheek, speaks in a murmur. “Take me home. Do you really want to share me with anyone else right now?” 

     He lets out a groan, half amused, half hungry, and Astoria slips out of his lap, grinning. By chance she catches sight of the missing lace — caught on a manilla folder, how did she miss it? — and she snatches it up as she stands. She’s able to smooth his hair somewhat, and she keeps makeup wipes in her purse for a reason, these days; once they’re cleaned up, remotely respectable, she slips a hand into his pocket, depositing the slip of fabric in his possession. 

     “Meet me at mine in half an hour,” she says, and on a whim she slips her hand into his and squeezes lightly. ( That’s something new. They’ve never been the handholding type before, have they? Shit, are they now? ) “Come on; before anyone notices we’re gone?” 

     He looks at her curiously for a moment, then squeezes her hand in return before stepping out of her grasp. He’ll leave first, do a lap around the party while she says some goodbyes, give her a moment to gather herself before she has to face the public. 

     “Happy New Year,” she adds as he moves to open the door. He spares a last glance over his shoulder, lips curling into a smile, before he slips out of the office, closing the door behind him. 

     It takes her a moment before she can stand. 

     ( When they get to her apartment they leave a trail of clothes to the first flat surface they can find. She tells herself that nothing’s changed. ) 

[stfreds-arc]

@acercontego​ / valentine’s day applications / accepting .

Name: Ben Callahan Age: forty-five Do you like to cuddle?: Sure. Can we make-out?: Of course. A night in or dinner out?: Dinner out - I’ve made reservations. Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: both.  What makes you a good Valentine?: I’m funny and pretty good looking, and I think you do like me. Would you cook for me?: If you stopped glaring, yes. Would you let me cook for you?: a lovely surprise.

“ i’m not glaring. it’s my natural, god-given skepticism around fancy men and their fancy cooking habits. and, by the way — me cooking would only be a LOVELY surprise if you’re really into spending the night in the bathroom. but still, eating aside ——— i guess we can find an agreement. ”

[stfreds-arc]

DAWN - FLAVORED | selectively accepting .

@acercontego​​ sent :   ❛  i’m  gonna  go  shower …   you  wanna  join ?  ❜ - ben

“ come back… ” it comes out a child’s lament, dragged out of her by force, barely audible. she’s usually getting off work, around this time —— this is no time for waking up. the rearranging of her ( loose, barely held together ) schedule is just part one of the many chapters regarding ben callahan and the way he keeps turning her life inside out —— at least, it feels like it. still, her nocturne ways are the last bastion that refuses to fall. he might pry her deep - rooted prejudice for white collars and fancy suits from her, he might even convince her to let her guard down, now and then, welcome something GOOD in her life that isn’t just a temporary high. he just can’t convince her to wake up around the time the sun is rising —— her hand does make an attempt at grabbing him and keeping him in bed ( to provide HEAT, if nothing else —— not like she genuinely longs for his presence beside her, around her. not that she seems to sleep easier around him, the very essence of safety to be found in the way she looks for his hand right before waking up ), but it’s sleep-ridden still, weak, and it falls back on the mattress heavily with a muttered sound of disapproval. and that’s about it: the width of her resistance.

      ...until the magic words, and temptation wakes her up gently.

not without protest, of course —— she tries to resist at first, really, she does. a dragged out grunt, like gears suddenly shifting to motion, and fred rolls over, sprawled in the middle of the bed, huffing out in exaggerated frustration. “ i hate you ”. there it goes, the last great dawson defense. she makes sure to make a performance out of it, whining and moaning but sliding out of the bed either way —— but if there’s still a furrow to her eyebrows while she bridges the distance to the bathroom, it’s gone by the time she reaches him, grabs him right before he walks into the shower, wraps her arms around him and there, right above his shoulder, leaves a bite just for the added emphasis: he might have a way to win her over every time, doesn’t mean she has to make it easy. 

“ i fucking hate lawyers, did i ever tell you that ? ”. a slightly more alert smile is flashed, then she’s the one getting rid of her underwear —— and step in the shower before him.

[stfreds-arc]

valentine’s day kisses / not accepting .

@acercontego​ gets n. 3 / a kiss on the cheek .

“ i gotta give it to you: you’re just too good at this game. ”

truly, her smile may look tired ( the fatigue from a long working day only truly catches up to her when she’s abandoning herself to RELAXATION —— a careful observer might note down the correlation between her serenity and present company ) — still it shines, a particular brand of gratitude and nostalgic exhilaration. might be the closest she can get to having FUN: the genuine kind — not the sickening, rushed friction she gets from rubbing her sorrow over strangers. no, tonight was good by all standards, and though she had a sense of it in spite of all her teasing, it still surprised her, how easy it all was: how comfortable, even.

     [ which, in part, also means it carries much more danger than planned. ]

fred, however, is a smart girl —— she knows this ( whatever THIS is ) is nothing like a one night stand, and that if ben walked the threshold to her apartment, spent the night in her bed, she would begin to lose control over all of it and remember about the brakes only when the car’s too far down the slope. she might like the idea, she might have a particular curiosity for the taste of him — but then how could she explain, in the morning, that he really needs to leave: that she’s very sorry, but she was never meant to wake up next to somebody again, let alone someone she might be temped to see again ? 

so the night ends here. right in front of her building, the sickly, greenish light from the hall glaring out into the street. not romantic, not charming in any way —— still for just a fraction of a second she pulls close, lets her fingers find his like a child’s. and before she can truly talk herself out of it she’s leaning closer, a kiss on the cheek that’s more a hint, a suggestion of a deeper, burning passion — it’s a candlelit flame at most, right now, but warmer than the rest of her.

a grin curls her lips as she pulls away. “ congratulations. you beat me, callahan ”. then, just as quickly, she’s fading off into the neon light.