#littlespoiltthing

[likesomekindofcheese]

The BEN-nefits of Fake Dating

Hello! @littlespoiltthing​ it is I!!! Your Secret Santa revealed! Here is a one shot I wrote (with a title inspired by @littlespoiltthing​ ‘s own beautiful work) for @dtfrogertaylor​‘s Christmas Event. Enjoy everyone!!

Pairing: Ben Hardy x fem!Reader

Words: 2412

Warnings: Families, kissing, swearing, Christmas, grandparents, and parents being grandparents and parents. Sex, engagement, and kids are mentioned, nudity but nothing graphic. Plus a LOT was inspired by the Hallmark movie Holiday Engagement

Genre: Fluff and a bit of Angst!

“If I have to see you single again on another Christmas, I’ll jump off a bridge!” your grandmother whined over the phone. You sighed deeply, out of reach of the phone on the speaker in your hand.

“She’s joking, of course!” your mom interjected.

Yeah right, with another year and another ring less finger in the midst of an Instagram feed full of clean, French manicures with the largest diamonds sparkling on the left hand with two billion likes, you had had it. Especially since a lot of those clean, French manicured hands of yours with large sparkling diamonds on the left hand with two billion likes were in your family.

So now every head that was female and greying turned to you in anticipation. And every holiday, from their wrinkled, pink lips and their hot breath full of peppermint came the dreaded question with the monotone, dreaded answer.

Then came Ben.

Charming. Funny. Smart. Single. Ben.

He sat in your car on the passenger side and his eyes widened at your grandmother’s comment.

“Oh, I just want you to be happy, dear! And know you’re taken care of!”

Your grandmother forgot to recall the new world of college degrees, Netflix nights with friends, job choices, and vibrators to think a man could possibly be in the picture for women in the 21st century.

This was where Ben came in. Especially his job for the next week.

Ben clicked his tongue a little and bit his lips in a way that almost made you miss the turn.

He reached over the clicked the red button on the phone to end the call.

“Well, she’s a little mad.”

“She’s mad for babies, that’s what. I think she just wants babies to play with without changing diapers or, you know, responsibility” you said.

“Maybe I should’ve brought a dog, then” Ben quipped.

It was ideal. But too ideal. Ben and you were friends. Just. Friends. No matter what your stomach felt. No matter what fantasies you had at night. Just friends.

But it was nice to live that fantasy for a week. Merry frickin’ Christmas.

You pulled the car over to the park and walked into the big house. Already a lot of your family had entered in and were having drinks in red cups as a sports game blared on the tv as opposed to nice Christmas music tinkling away.

“Oh, honey, welcome!” your mother greeted, walking in with a big hug, the red arms of her red sweater outstretched.

“And is this your boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes, I’m Ben, Ben Jones.” He greeted. He had a polite smile and had engaged in his role. Today’s audition he had to read the role of boyfriend to shut up the Karens for a week. Only no real script except what was discussed, and pure improv. Good thing he was paid to leap off of trucks and shoot fake guns for Micheal Bay.

How hard could it be? After all hard was his name. His stage name.

Your grandmother gawked at you.

“Oh my gosh! What a cutie! I haven’t seen a butt that perky since your grandfather in ’72!” “Grandma!” you gasp, but giggling anyway.

You hug your mom very tightly, so much you can smell her. Ben merely gives her a platonic handshake.

But Ben handles being the dutiful boyfriend very well. People go over and drill questions into him. He hesitates a little and then replies quietly.

“So Ben, what job do you have.”

“I’m an actor, film, and television.”

Though one cousin of yours, who is at least six foot five and the size of a buffalo storms over, almost to Ben’s face. If it were not for the reindeer antlers hanging from his head, you probably would have been nervous.

“I’ll tell you Jonesey, my cousin, Y/N, is the sweetest, smartest, best girl ever.”

“I know! I wouldn’t be datin’ ‘er if she wasn’t!” Ben replies. His hands shoot out in front of him.

You can feel yourself biting your cheek insides in order not to smile.

Your cousin practically grabs him by the shirt collar and lifts him almost.

“If you break her heart or hurt her, I swear to God, man, I’ll cut your nuts off!”

“I-I won’t!” Ben insists being lowered to the ground.

But right as Ben turns around and sees your brother and you feel your stomach turn a little. Are your family members ganging up on poor Ben?

But he just nods his head and says “I think you seem like a nice guy, Ben, so ditto. But Y/N is a tough cookie, I trust you with her. And I trust her” he adds, he picks up his mug in the shape of Frosty the Snowman and lifts it as a toast in your direction.

Pretending to be dating was almost too easy. Natural, even.

It seems like forever, but the guests eventually filter their way out. Your family sighs deeply Your stepfather throws himself on the couch, almost melting into it.

“Well somebody has to pick up the dogs tomorrow…”

You can see Ben’s face light up.

“Dogs?” Ben interrupts, widening into the smile of a seagull offered a crumb of bread.

Your mom is a little taken aback.

“Uhm, yes…we have two German Shepherd puppies. We had to put them in a daycare center for the party. They’re cute, but a little rowdy,” she warned, shuffling her feet.

You have to hold Ben back from jumping into the car and picking them up now.

“I’ll go, why, I’ll even drive!”

“Well, thank you, Ben!”

“Anything for my best…”

You kick him softly into the back of his leg, threating harder later if he doesn’t keep it together.

“Anything for my best girl! That is! The best girlfriend ever!”

The night gets darker and everyone is exhausted from the greeting party.

“You guys are fine sharing a bed, is that right? Well, the only bed available is Y/N’s old bed…” your stepfather begins.

You are both muttering and Ben’s turning very pink.

“Yes, Dad! We are thinking about moving in, soon, so sharing a bed isn’t a problem.”

But you both head to the room, lock the door and sigh.

“This is gonna be harder than I thought.” You confess.

“I think we’re doing great!” Ben adds optimistically, looking around at the trinkets and clothes left on hangers and chairs in your room. “And we don’t have to sleep together, I brought an air mattress.”

Fighting the urge to wince from the comment, you begin chewing your bottom lip.

“I need to go to bed, when do you shower? There’s only two up here.” You suggest, fanning out your top from the sweat you gathered.

“Mornin” Ben added, noticing an old book on your shelf and curiously thumbing through it.

As you take some towels and walk off, you bump into your mother getting a laundry basket.

“Do you think they liked the cake I made?” she asked.

“Oh, they definitely did!” you assure.

“I just think I may not have put enough icing, you know the family always goes for the heavy sweet stuff”

“Oh, mom, your baking is always great! Fyi, Ben got a really big slice today if that’s a sign!” you tease.

She taps your shoulder lovingly.

“And how’s your relationship with Ben going?”

You pull your hands under the towel and squeeze.

“It’s…good mom, really good.”

“It’s just that today I noticed you didn’t hug or hold hands or kiss that much” she murmured, relaxing her arms so that the empty laundry basket seemed to dangle from her grasp.

“We wanted to be respectful. You wouldn’t want to see your daughter making out with a guy all evening, would you!”

Your mother’s eyes sparkled as if hesitant to give you an unexpected answer.

“Well, of course not!”

“Besides,”  you say, turning to the bathroom and opening the door “he’s the kind of person who’d rather be private about touchy stuff, you know?”

Your mother hums in understanding and turns off to her room.

A warm homey shower and a nice bedtime routine got you all settled. Cleanliness of your body and mouth seemed to free you from the weariness of the social demands and your mental worries of what could go wrong.

But there was one more thing that did go a little wrong. When you walked back into your room Ben was lifting the blanket to get into the air mattress.

In his birthday suit.

You let out a scream and turned away immediately, not sure whether to be thankful or mortified or both. Ben saw you and let out a small yelp as well, he grabbed an old pillow and put it right over his junk. His whole head turned pink.

“I’m so sorry. You were taking your time and I thought I’d be under by the time you…y’know!!!” He seemed to curl down and you fought the powerful urge not to let your eyes wander to his eight-pack.

“Just put on some underwear for the love of God!”

You manage to get him in underwear and your mother's fluffy pink robe full of flowers. Almost scoffing, you flop on your bed and fall asleep almost at once.

What you don’t see is Ben turning his head to look at you. He can’t go to sleep quite yet. Thoughts are racing thought his head far too fast for him to catch one and examine it.

Being in your room, seeing all your old trinkets, clothes, books, and even toys everywhere. Bits of your personality shine out to him. And now a younger, but your deeper, almost private self is now all around him.

He adores it and his heart is bursting silently. With widening eyes, he keeps still on the bed and observes each tiny detail as if it is a clue to reveal a bit more about you.

And there you are, your face turned right to face his, eyes closed and deep asleep. He admires how there’s a bit of moonlight from the window falling on you and he can see you.

There you are so close. If he got up now, he could touch your hand perhaps and even stir. He could place his head against your heart to feel how after everything today that it’s beating just, so, so slow. Your lips are curved into a smile. Is it a dream, perhaps? His hand almost reaches out, wanting to trace every bit of your face but he stops himself.

He nestles down on the pillow and your face is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and drifts off into uneasy rest.

Nights like these got quieter as the days got repetitive. There was a lot of smiling and conversing with each other in the day and in the evening, you both would be quiet. The air dripping with words that wanted to be said and yet could not be said for fear of something dying.

One evening the clock had struck one in the morning and neither one of you had gotten any sleep other than tossing and turning.

“Let’s just watch Christmas movies together!” Ben suggests childishly, and you nod. You two will sneak downstairs and watch The Grinch and Netflix together. One evening, Ben suggested The Snowman.

“It’s on Youtube, have you ever seen it?”

“No!”

“Let’s watch it!” Ben says, whipping out his phone and suggesting you scoot over.

It’s hard not to let your head fall on his shoulder and you force yourself to keep the slightest distance.

At the very end of the short little feature, the magical Snowman had melted, leaving the little boy alone in the snow as the credits rolled over a soft song with an orchestra and boy soprano.

Ben was bawling quietly.

“Oh my god…every bloody time…”

But as you reach over, you wipe off the tears and he looks right at you. You are both quiet.

“Go back to sleep, I need to have a smoke before I sleep.”

It had been a long smoke too.

On Christmas Eve, it was another small gathering. Mainly Grandma. She was eyeing you two as if she was watching the last five minutes of a Game of Thrones episode for any sudden, shocking twist or turn.

Like a kiss. Or a hug.

Ben could tell something was up and pulled up to her. “Well hello there, I’m Ben Jones, I don’t think I’ve talked with you much yet, but I’m dating your granddaughter.”

She nodded and gigged. Her eyes shone and brought energy not felt for about fifty years

“I know, we haven’t talked!” she replied, raising her shoulders a little in shyness.

“And I can’t leave a lovely lady all by herself!” Ben added with a wink.

You smiled. Ever the charmer where it counted.

You went over to the kitchen and heated up two mugs of hot milk and picked tow packets of hot chocolate.

But as you walked over to hand them to Ben right by the doorway there was a sudden burst of “OOOOOOOHHHHH!” from your brother.

There was mistletoe hanging over the two of you.

Mistletoe that wasn’t there yesterday.

You and Ben stared at each other, blinking. Then you looked at your grandmother, eyes wide and nodding.

You gave him a short peck. His lips were cold and reeked of onions from the pizza you ate, but it was soft and plump.

Ben looked back at you, dazed. You only half heard the cheering from everyone and the toasts.

You both looked at each other, the party went on, but it was as if you two were the only ones in the world.

“Y/N…” he starts….”I think I need some air…” he confesses.

“Me too…” you say, following after.

You both rush, the air is cool and soft, not freezing like the typical Christmas Eve and with a disappointingly green front yard in front of you and a semi-clear sky.

Before you can say anything, Ben looks up at you shyly.

“Can I kiss you properly? And date you proper? Not for fake…”

You take your hands on each side of his face, his green eyes grow to the size of your neighbors' bushes.

“Uhm…it that a yes? It was a pretty bad kiss back…”

“Shut up” you insist before locking your lips onto yours for a much bigger improvement.

[queenmercurys]

i was tagged by the lovely @littlespoiltthing, thank you so much! :) 

top three ships: i don’t really ship that many couples if i’m being honest. and the ones i do, i don’t really know how to rank. rip. sorry. 

lipstick or chapstick: why not both?

last song: las palabras de amor (the words of love) - queen (hot space rights) 

last movie: unfortunately, highlander. i watched it for queen and goddamn it, it is not very good.

last book: freddie mercury - a life, in his own words

i’m tagging some of my mutuals i’d like to know better: @hystericalroger @myfairykings @joe-mazzello @softfreddie @myfairyqueenmercury @bens-hardy @freddie-mercurys @queenrogerina @solofreddie

[sunlightbabe]

CONGRATS ON 300!! you deserve all of them and more 🎉🎉

thank you hon!!!!!! you're too damn sweet ilu 😙

[fourhystericalqueens-blog]

i'm here for the loving adam lambert hours

loving adam lambert hours is all day every day

[shels-kpop-main]

24 & 150??

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

Checking on all my pets, and texting @discodykey

150 is already answered :)

[bnhvrdy]

top 5 favorite actresses??

1. Brie Larson

2. Lupita Nyong’o

3. Margot Robbie

4. Awkwafina

5. Stephanie Beatriz

send me top 5 anything!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 1: Tobolsk, Siberia]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution (1917-1923) and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: "the 1" by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Nothing...?! This might be a first for me.

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

*** I'm going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 ***

Tagging:​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @hardyshoe​ @tensecondvacation​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall @babyzellodeacon @culturefiendtrashqueen @pomjompish @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @allauraleigh @im-an-adult-ish @rhapsodyrecs @queen-turtle-boiii @haileymorelikestupid @bohemianbea @hijackmy-heart @acdeaky @jennyggggrrr @some-major-ishues @okilover02 @girlafraidinacoma @misc-incorporated @brianmayspinkyring @littlespoiltthing @madeinheavxn @quarterback-5 @escabell @confusedhalfofthetime @queenborhaplovergirl @atwinklingsound @rest-is-detail @standing-onthe-edge @pattieboydwannabe @dinkiplier @adrenaline-roulette @fancybenjamin @itscale @thesunburntpotato @peculiareunoia @sparkleslightlyy @whatgoeson-itslate

“There is a man coming for you.”

Mother’s words are very soft, so our jailers can’t hear them, and in English, so they wouldn’t be able to understand anyway. The stained-glass lamp on the vanity illuminates her drawn face in amber, gold, bumblebee jasper, a sickly yellow like jaundice. She stands behind me, dragging the brush through my hair, as I lock eyes with her reflection in the mirror. I knew this was coming when she walked into my bedroom shortly before midnight, or at least that something important was; Mother rarely leaves her wheelchair these days, and certainly not to brush anyone’s hair. Well…perhaps if it was Alexei’s. I nod seriously, gravely even, because that’s how Mother sees this: as a matter of great consequence, of great responsibility. But deep down—beneath this nightgown of linen and lace, beneath this prickling skin, beneath these bones handed down through centuries by the ruling dynasties of Europe—I’m so ecstatic I could scream it from rooftops.

“You’ll know him by his accent,” Mother continues, still brushing. She absently hammers through the tiny knots her fingers stumble across. “He’ll be British, and fairly young. He’s one of Sir Buchanan’s staff.”

I nod again, ostensibly solemn, weighed down by the gravity that only comes to people with years, if it comes at all. My reflection impresses even me. We’re co-conspirators in this mission.

“So don’t be alarmed when he presents himself. He’ll do so when it is most opportune, likely within the next few days. And be ready to leave with him immediately. You may not have any warning. Have you finished hemming your dresses?”

By hemming my dresses, she means secretly sewing our family jewels into them. It’s something we’ve all been doing since we were brought to Tobolsk one month ago. At Alexander Palace in Saint Petersburg, where we were first detained after Papa’s abdication, life had been almost normal: little supervision, plenty of comforts, the retaining of most of our retinue. But it’s different here in Siberia, in the mansion of the former governor who was similarly expelled by the tide of what I’ve heard called revolution. Half of our servants have been dismissed. Papa still receives diplomats, but less often than ever before, and only the few that he can still call friends; one of them is Sir Buchanan, who has been the British Ambassador to Russia and a familiar face for as long as I can remember. The soldiers that the Provisional Government has taxed with guarding us roam the hallways, the walking paths, the shifting shadows of long rooms; they stalk like wolves, their eyes narrow and wary and hateful. And the comforts that remain in our hands feel as fragile as the dwindling Russian summer.

“My dresses are in immaculate condition, I can assure you,” I tell Mother. This is my attempt at humor; my stitching is notoriously hideous. She doesn’t seem to hear me.

“It has to be now,” Mother says, and her knobby, arthritic hands stop brushing. Her eyes have taken on a glassy, far-away quality. “It’s the first week of September. Soon it will be too cold for you to travel safely. And if they take any more from us, if they leave us with no privacy at all, no visitors…if they move us any farther east…we’ll never have another opportunity to get someone out.”

And that someone has to be me, the middle daughter, the third of five extraneous non-heirs. Olga is too timid, too anxious, her nerves could never survive the journey. She’d give herself an ulcer within days and spend the rest of the trip retching blood into rubbish bins. Tatiana is too beautiful; and that may seem like a ridiculous reason for her not to go, but it is also a genuine one, because she is the only Romanov daughter that the average Russian could pick out in a crowd. She is tall and willowy and has striking, wide-set eyes and flawless skin and is just generally an angel fallen to Earth and a rather sizable dent to the ego to have as a sister. Maria is too pliable, she bends when pushed and always has, like the branches of a weeping willow, shoved by the wind one way and then the other until every last leaf is stripped away. Anastasia is too young, only sixteen, and hopelessly wild as well. This task will require restraint, and strategy, and above all else patience. And little Alexei…even if he did not have hemophilia (which he does, an affliction from Mother’s side of the family, and that is a weight she has never stopped carrying), even if he was not only twelve years old, he is too valuable to risk on a gamble like this. He’s more valuable and more loved than I will ever be. But this doesn’t pain me, and never has, at least not in my recollection. I’ve always considered it less a tragedy than a stark and inevitable truth. There’s no point in wrestling with it. I’d be better off resenting the moon, the stars.

My parents still have a great deal of affection for me, for all of their children. They would empty their veins for any one of us. I have never felt alone, never felt abandoned, not once in my life. Even now, Mother or Papa would go in my place if they could, would bear this burden for me; but it’s impossible. They’re both far too recognizable, like Tati. They’re both watched far too closely by our lurking jailers. And their health—collectively, as if they were a single organism—has collapsed since Papa’s abdication. They could not travel without the care of servants. They are phantoms of their former selves.

But I, I…

I am the only Romanov suited for this undertaking, inconspicuous in looks and durable in temperament. The talent that I lack in needlework is made up for several times over in my proclivity for languages; my English is fluent, and nearly without any trace of a Russian accent. And among my siblings, I am Uncle George’s unabashed favorite, the only one he has never been able to refuse during our yearly visits with the British royal family: not when I asked to stay up late with the adults as they sat around smoking and chuckling and telling stories too coarse for children, not when I invited him to dance with me at Christmas balls, not when I begged for riding lessons on his own children’s prized Windsor Grey horses. King George V is known to be a hard man, but he smiles for me. And he alone has the power to free us.

I reach up to take one of Mother’s cool, pale hands, which have come to rest on my shoulders. She’s staring blankly into her own reflection, caught there like a bear with its foot in a trap of iron jaws. “I’ll make you proud, Mama.” She likes when we call her Mama, as if we were still small and unsteady, as if she could still patch all our wounds. “I’ll tell Uncle George how desperate the situation is. I’ll beseech him to let us take asylum there. He doesn’t understand yet, but he will. And then we’ll all be together again.”

“That Welshman is a ghoul,” she whispers bitterly. She means the British prime minister, the man who has somehow convinced Uncle George that taking us in would irrevocably injure his popularity and thus his own monarchy’s stability. And so negotiations between the Russian Provisional Government and the British Empire regarding what to do with us have broken down. “He’s a demon sent straight from hell.”

This is very colorful language for Mother. “It’ll all be over soon, Mama. I promise. We’ll spend Christmas in London with our cousins, singing and dancing and opening presents, and Alexei can eat his weight in that English sticky toffee pudding he loves so much.”

Now Mother’s yellowed reflection smiles tenderly at me, and she bends down to kiss the crown of my head, smoothing my hair with hands gnarled by time and torment. “When you leave, a piece of me will go with you. I look forward to having it back where it belongs again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s an old greenhouse behind the mansion at the end of a cobblestone path that snakes through a rugged, craggy Siberian garden. It’s rather overgrown now and the glass walls are cracked in spots, and there’s a family of Blakiston’s fish owls building a nest in the eaves, but I still like to read there. I throw a wool sweater over my dress and head out in the afternoons once the sun has warmed it a bit, and I sit in the quiet and the green with a book—written in Russian or English or Latin or French or Italian—and a kerosene lantern until it’s time to retreat back inside for dinner. Everyone knows I do this: Papa, Mother, my sisters (none of whom quite grasp the appeal, although I’ve invited them all to join me at one time or another), little Alexei, the servants, the guards. They rarely even send a man out to supervise me anymore, which is much appreciated, because when they do he complains incessantly about how dull it is. And the greenhouse is where Sir Buchanan’s man comes to collect me.

I’m just pulling open the glass door, my eyes skimming the clouds, an English copy of Tarzan of the Apes under my arm, when a hand closes roughly around my wrist and drags me into a grove of Siberian pea-shrubs. Instinctively, I want to shout, to scratch at him; because no one has ever touched me like that, not even the guards, not even Mother or Papa. No one. Then I remember Mother’s words—there is a man coming for you—and I can feel myself flushing, grinning with exhilaration. My grand adventure is about to begin.

“Follow me to the stables,” my rescuer commands in a British accent that is hushed and very, very deep. He’s young, like Mother said he would be, maybe twenty-five. He has prominent, impatient green eyes and high cheekbones and curls of blond hair escaping from beneath his black knit hat. His fair skin is delicate somehow, and ruddy from the wind. My own skin is on fire.

My adventure is beginning! And my rescuer is handsome!! And he’s holding my hand!!!

Well, perhaps more like clutching my hand, but still.

He hauls me through the shrubs as I struggle to keep up, lifting the hem of my dress over roots and stones and thorns, my skull a useless echo chamber of exclamation points. Inside the stables, there is no company that doesn’t have feathers or four legs. Horses stomp and nicker, pleading for apples or sugar cubes. Crows flap their wings up in the rafters. Open on the straw-strewn, stone floor is a large steamer trunk.

“Get in,” my rescuer instructs me. “There are air holes for you. And no matter what you hear, no matter what you feel, do not make a sound. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I manage, smiling at him.

His eyes flick down to where my left hand is grasping Tarzan of the Apes, my knuckles white. “Why do you still have that?!”

“I’ll need something to read on the journey,” I explain, as if this is obvious.

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head. “Just get in the trunk.”

I do, curling up against the bottom with my face near one of the air holes the size of a marble. I can feel the weight of the jewels in the fabric of my dress, diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds not entirely unlike my rescuer’s urgent eyes. I can also feel another weight, a different sort of heaviness: a photograph of my family that I tucked into my bodice this morning, just in case today was the day. I clasp Tarzan of the Apes to my chest, my heart racing. I will see my family again soon, I know, and under much happier circumstances.

And I’ll have so many exciting stories to share with them!

My rescuer tosses some thin blankets on top of me—blotting out my vision—and then what sounds like several handfuls of shuffling papers. Then he closes the trunk. His footsteps recede out of the stables. I wait in the muffled sounds of horses and crows and the forthcoming Siberian autumn: chill wind and rustling leaves, the distant cries of migrating geese and the chopping of wood. Soon, the footsteps return, and there are more of them now. I listen to the clicking of hooves and the squeaking of wooden wheels.

“Careful with it,” my rescuer barks at someone in rather clumsy Russian. “Wait…”

To my horror, I hear him lift open the trunk lid. I hold my breath as he paws through the papers above me, feeling the pressure of his hands through the blankets. Finally, after what seems like forever, he grunts in approval and closes the trunk.

He continues, still in Russian: “Yes, I’ve got everything I need, thank you for waiting. I thought I might have forgotten some of my notes. Load it, please.”

And then I understand. He wants the guards to see he has nothing to hide, so that in a day or two when they realize I’m missing no one will say ‘hm, you know what, that handsome blond underling of Sir Buchanan left with a trunk just large enough to smuggle someone out in.’

The trunk rocks as it is lifted off the ground and loaded into the back of what I assume is a carriage. I brace myself against the sides of the trunk with the palms of my hands, gritting my teeth, biting back yelps like a tiny dog’s. Now I know how Anastasia’s Russian Toy feels when she yanks him around like she does, stroking his sable fur and nuzzling his floppy ears and kissing him ceaselessly.

Well, what’s an adventure without some discomfort? I mentally catalogue every detail to tell my family about later, perhaps around a roaring fireplace while sipping mugs of hot chocolate.

Soon the carriage is on the move, bumping along as we leave the mansion property and follow the dirt road that leads out into the wilderness. We travel for quite a while this way, for hours I suspect. Eventually, my rescuer begins whistling a tune I don’t recognize. It must be an English song. Even as the time lurches by uncertainly as I lay in the darkness of the trunk, I never become bored. I’m too busy envisioning all the fun we’re going to share together: sneaking through the countryside, outwitting the agents of the Provisional Government, exchanging stories and songs and the games of our respective childhoods, finally sailing triumphantly up the River Thames to Buckingham Palace. It feels like I could entertain myself forever with the promises of the coming weeks.

At last, the carriage comes to a halt. I hear my rescuer leap down onto the ground and the swishing as his boots displace crisp fallen leaves. He opens the trunk, lifts away the papers and blankets, and offers me his hand. It’s strong, I note, and latticed on top with faint lines like cross-stitching. I take it, beaming, my head swimming, and climb out of the trunk.

Once I’m on the ground—which is a patch of dirt off the road and concealed by rows of Scots pines—I see that we have been travelling not in a roomy carriage with velvet seats and a graceful arc of a roof, but rather a rickety open cart. Secured to the front is an ancient, scruffy-looking mule. I gawk in disbelief. “What is that?”

My rescuer waves to the mule. “That’s Kroshka. She’s excellent company.”

“…Where is the carriage?!”

He glances at the cart, then back at me, puzzled. “You’re looking at it.”

“No, see, this is not a carriage.” I speak very slowly, because my rescuer doesn’t seem all that bright. “This is a cart pulled by a mule. And not even a particularly attractive mule.”

Kroshka flattens her long, droopy ears and huffs. “She didn’t mean that,” Ben coos to the mule, scratching her forelock. “You are a lovely mule. Who’s a lovely mule? That’s right, you are. Yes you are.”

“I need to travel in a carriage,” I inform him, crossing my arms. Mother hates when we do this, but the occasion calls for it.

He laughs at me, and not politely either. He cackles in loud, hysterical peals. “You thought…you thought we were going to sneak you to the railroad station in a…a…a carriage? Like, a royal carriage?! Why don’t you just paint a sign to hang around your neck? ‘Princess on the run, busy committing espionage, please don’t interfere.’ Bloody hell!”

“I’m not a princess.” The thrashing heat in my cheeks is no longer elation. It’s annoyance, it’s indignation. “I’m a grand duchess. I’m ranked higher than the princesses of any other kingdom.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ben.” He extends his hand, and I take it with a frown. It’s an awkward gesture; I’ve never shaken hands before, only watched from a distance as men did. “Benjamin Hardy.”

I give him my name in return, still frowning. He releases my hand and I re-cross my arms over my chest.

“Well, we definitely can’t call you that,” Ben says. He pulls a hand-rolled cigarette out of his coat pocket, clamps it between his front teeth, and lights it. He exhales a mouthful of smoke into the cold twilight air. “You need a new name.”

“Oh, oh! A new identity, how exciting! Can it be something whimsical? Please? Something elegant and romantic? Maybe…Katerina? Or Valentina? Or Alexandra, like Mother?”

Ben appraises me, taking meditative drags off his cigarette. “Lana,” he decides.

“Lana?!” I’m crushed. “No, absolutely not, I hate that name. It’s so pedestrian. It’s uninspired. It doesn’t even sound like a real name, it sounds like a nickname. It’s not a name for grand adventures. And we had a goat named Lana growing up and she was awful, she ate three of my hats.”

Ben grins. “Lana it is.”

“Can it at least be Svetlana? That’s a real name.”

“No.” He begins unloading the cart: feed for the mule, canteens of water, a small tent to be assembled. He flings a loaf of crusty bread at me and I almost drop it. “Go on, eat.”

“What, for a meal?!”

“Yeah. You’ve had bread before, haven’t you, Your Majesty?”

It’s actually Your Imperial Highness, but I don’t correct him. “No meat? No cheese?” I peer into the trees. “Can’t you chop some wood and build a fire and cook something for us? Some stew? Maybe some rabbit?”

Ben stops setting up camp and stares at me. “What do you think this is, the Waldorf Hotel?”

“The what?”

He points to the bread. “Just eat. We’re not building a fire tonight. We’re still too close to Tobolsk. We aren’t going to advertise our location. We are going to exercise an abundance of caution.”

“Do you think they’ll come after us when they discover I’m missing?” That’s a scary thought, but it’s terribly thrilling too. My heart leaps in my chest. An adventure! What an adventure!

“I don’t think they will,” Ben says. He struggles with the tent. “Someone, probably one of your sisters, is going to go out tomorrow and toss a kerosene lantern into the greenhouse. Then they’ll tell the guards you were inside and must have had an accident while reading and perished in the fire.”

“Oh!” I gasp, stunned. “How grisly.” I picture my family steeped in feigned mourning for me, drifting through the mansion halls in black, dabbing at imaginary tears. How strange. “But I suppose that will give us some advantage.”

“Yes.”

“What is our route, exactly?”

He recites it as the tent begins to take shape: “Tobolsk to the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The railroad to Moscow. Another railroad from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. And then a ship from Saint Petersburg out to the Baltic and south to London.”

I consider Ben as he labors. Perhaps I have judged him (and the mule) too harshly. After all, he is still my rescuer. “I would like to formally thank you for your service, Mr. Benjamin Hardy. For the great personal risk you have assumed in order to extend Christian goodwill to us in our hour of need. On behalf of the entire Romanov family, I thank you.”

He snorts a laugh. This one is incredulous, bitter even. “I’m not doing this for your family.”

Everything sinks in me, like a stone through water. “…You’re not?”

“No.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because Sir Buchanan asked me to,” he says. “Because he’s in poor health and retiring soon, so this will likely be my last chance to repay him for all that he has done for me. And because when I deliver you to King George, I expect to receive a substantial monetary reward. Then I’ll cross the Atlantic, secure employment with the New York Times, and publish an internationally acclaimed article about my experience smuggling the former tsar’s daughter out of wartime Russia. And I’ll live happily ever after.”

“Oh,” I reply softly. It’s all I can think to say. This adventure is not unfolding quite as I had planned.

“There, the tent is ready.” Ben shows me, opening the front flaps.

“Surely we’re not going to sleep in there together!” It’s a small tent. A very small tent.

“Indeed we are. And you’ll be thankful for that when you see how cold it gets out here at night. Sleeping together will keep us warm.”

“It’s indecent,” I say firmly.

Ben stands and rests his hands on his waist. “Look, I’m not going to touch you. That’s my whole job, to get you to London safe and…how would your people put it? Undefiled. You have to still be tradeable stock in the royal marriage market, right? So that’s what I’m going to do. I have no desire nor intention to make any advances upon you. God’s honest truth.”

I glower at him, mistrustful and unsure and suddenly very, very tired. The rush of today’s excitement has bled out and left me empty, drained down to the bones.

Ben adds: “Also, you’ll catch your death out here if you don’t sleep in the tent. And then I definitely won’t get paid.”

“I suppose there’s no use fighting it, in that case.” I plop down on a felled tree trunk and gnaw at my bread morosely, studying the dirt between my shoes as Ben bustles around the campsite: feeding and watering the mule, brushing her down, covering her with a blanket, devouring his own loaf of bread, consulting a map and compass, all the while humming songs I couldn’t name.

I wash myself as best I can with water from a canteen, change into one of the heavy cotton nightgowns that Ben brought for me, and stow my dress safely in the trunk where the jewels and photograph won’t be found. Then I crawl into the tent, hugging the north side while Ben clings to the south. He has a flashlight and is sprawled on his stomach, scribbling down what I presume are the events of the day in a leather-bound notebook. He’s true to his word, because he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even look at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shiver beneath thin blankets and wish for my mother’s hands, chasing dreams of home as Ben’s pen scratches rivers of black ink into his notebook.

[queenmercurys]

hi there! I’m sorry people are being lil shits but I don’t think your blog is bullshit, I think it’s quite lovely! being a creator’s really hard, especially in fandom. but I appreciate all of what you put out and anyone who doesn’t can get rekt ☺️

hi!! thank you so much for this, you’re a dear and i really appreciate it. i probably took the negative comments too hard, but these days it’s rare to get any feedback on edits and whatnot on tumblr, and for so much of the little feedback i get to be negative is a little sad, i guess. but anyway, thank you, this is very sweet of you, and made my day! :D 

[acockius]

and by tomorrow I obviously meant today hI FRIEND it is me your anatf gifter! 👾 I hope you like your gift and I’m sorry for the thousandth time it took so long 😫 I’m sending this ask a bit early because I’m at work and I have a meeting when the fic’s scheduled to be posted so if you don’t see it in the next 10-15 mins I’m sorry AGAIN and I can send you a link/fix it as soon as I can!! because you should be tagged but idk about tumblr notifs lol

I have been waiting so patiently to hear from you so this better be THE BEST FUCKING THING I’VE EVE- just kidding. I can’t wait to read it and freak out but also now be your pal??? Omg you’re a person. ♥️

[sunlightbabe]

✨You are made of stardust and galaxies, you are beyond amazing and I love you. Send this to your top favorite bloggers on this website ✨

hey guess what i love u and ur blog too

[glitterslag]

ben fanfic recs?

“Roommates” by @brownhardyho 

“Good Girl” by @sweet-ladyy --> this one is poss my fave 

“Friends With Benefits” by @littlespoiltthing

“Unspoken Rules” by @supersonicfreddie --> another god tier one

@strangeandwonderfulconcepts has a great ongoing series with ben x reader x roger in like a polyamorous relationship and its really really cute so def check that out

@taronisbaby has a lot of good quality ben content check the blurb masterlist 

guys feel free to keep this going and add more!!! I’m sure there are tons of amazing ben fics out there and it is CRIMINAL that i’m having such a brain fart right now 

[bnhvrdy]

❄️& 💒

❄️- what is your favorite season?

Spring and Fall! I love gardening season and I love the cool temperatures of the fall!

💒- which show would you want to live in?

I’ve never thought about this, but I think Bob’s Burgers LMAO

send me pure and sweet asks 🐙

[yourlocalmusicalprostitute]

Happy Halloqueen ! !

A//N: Happy Halloqueen!! This is for @littlespoiltthing ! It was so hard not to reveal myself lol but I really hope you like this. I've never written poly ships so like ya know...go easy on me.

Warnings: mention of alcohol, bad attempts at humor, Ben is a little flirty, poly relationship

You had been bouncing in your office chair all day, dying to get home. Yourself and all of your men were hosting Halloween at your house and the anticipation was eating away at you. 

As soon as your eight hours were up, you were dashing to your car and speeding home. You could hear music from the driveway, which meant Joe was doing his usual pre-party cleaning. 

Joe wasn't the first of your boyfriends that you saw though. It was Gwilym. He had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up practically elbow deep in the food he was preparing. 

"Hi Gwil." You greeted him. You set your bag onto the counter before coming to wrap your arms around him. 

He wanted to hug you, but couldn't due to being preoccupied. Instead he twisted a bit, leaned down, and planted a kiss on the top of your head. "Hello love, how was work?" He spoke. 

"It was work. I've been way too excited to get home and get my costume on. Think I'm winning the contest this year." You smiled after Gwilym leaned back in laughter before answering you. 

"You're the hostess Y/N. You're not supposed to compete." He said factually. 

You shrugged, "I know. I like to say I won in my head." 

Gwilym chuckled a bit more at your antics before you let him go to get your costume. 

"I'll be back. Don't burn anything." 

"Unlikely, make sure Ben isn't drilling holes in the wall." 

You giggled as you walked down the hallway. You saw the bathroom light on and heard a few clinks. That couldn't be anyone except Ben. You smiled at the sight of him crouched by the bathroom cabinets. 

"Ben…" he looked up when you called his name. Your eyebrows went up in question and Ben smiled. 

"I'll hug you in a second Y/N. I've got to finish putting this screw in here." Ben was surrounded by an array of tools, including electric ones. All which seemed a bit too much for changing a screw. 

"All of this for one screw Ben?" 

"Well it had to be the right one! You know some people can be judgemental when it comes to other's interior design." You laughed at his definition of interior design and waited patiently for Ben to finish so he could fulfill his promise of a hug. 

It took him a few minutes since the screw had to be just right, but once he finished Ben gladly took you into his arms. He asked the same question as Gwilym, "How was work?"

"Boring." You stated simply. "So happy to be home."

"I'm happy you're home too. Very excited to see you in costume." Ben smiled down at you cheekily which made you blush a bit. 

"That's a good idea." You agreed with Ben, but neither of you let each other go. 

"We should both be getting ready." Ben stated, but made no effort to move. 

"Yeah, don't want to be in a rush later." You still had your hands on Ben's chest. The two of you did this kind of thing often. It always made you two late for whatever you needed to attend, but it was always worth it. 

Before anything escalated, Joe came sliding in. Literally, sliding in. He was the only one in full costume already. His white button down was slightly wrinkled and half buttoned. He bought new boxers for his costume. The socks were spot on too. 

"Just take those old records off the shelf," Joe sung along to Bob Seger, "I said I'll listen to them by myself!" 

You joined Joe in the hallway."Today's music ain't got the same soul! I'm on that old time rock'n'roll!" The two of you broke into a dance number. It was really just Joe being animated as ever as you strutted around him. 

Gwilym peeked out of the kitchen at the commotion. He secretly took a video to send to the group chat that all the party guests were in captioning it with "Pre-gaming."

Joe wrapped you into a tight hug once the song was over. "We're so playing that every time someone shows up." He said. Before you could formally protest, Ben butted in. 

"No! You get one grand entrance mate!"

Joe looked to you for support, but you shook your head. "I'm with Ben on this one. The song's great, but over and over? Don't think so. As Ben and Joe argued over the official playlist, you finally got to slip into your costume. 

It may have been cliche to be a witch, but you weren't just some run of the mill, party city witch. You were the Wicked Witch of the West. The classic Wizard of Oz villain. Gwilym knocked before swinging the door open. 

"Almost ready? Rami and Lucy are on their way." His costume matched yours. He was the house that fell on the wicked witch's sister. He had a hat that resembled a chimney. 

You couldn't help but smile at how adorable he was in his costume. "I'm just about ready. Is Ben dressed?" He was and appeared in the doorway just as you asked. 

Ben stood with his hands on his hips, a very proud look on his face. "Guess who I am!" 

You thought it over. "A boy scout?" You asked. 

"No! I'm Joe!" He said as if it made any sense. 

"You're what?" Gwilym asked for you both. 

"I'm Tim Murphy! Joe!" The room erupted into laughter. You thought he was kidding when he brought up the idea two weeks ago, but he obviously wasn't. 

The party jumped off at dusk. A few more people showed than you expected so the cocktail sausages were gone within a few hours. Otherwise it all went swimmingly. 

Rami and Lucy won the costume contest by a landslide. They looked impeccable as Edward Scissor hands and Kim. You and Gwilym got second place based on the sheer hilarity of Gwilym being an actual house. 

Around midnight all three of your boyfriends came staggering up to you. All of their faces were warm from the alcohol. (You remained sober for the party, just to keep an eye on people.) Joe was the first to speak. 

"We love you!" He might be a bit more drunk than the other two. 

"I love you guys too! Is everything okay?" You passed Joe a water bottle that he graciously took. 

"Slow dance with me!" Ben pulled you out into the crowd that was slowly diminishing. 

"Ben, we can't slow dance to Thriller." You tried to reason with him, but it was in vain. You actually didn't slow dance. It was more of a waltz around the dining room. 

After your Thriller waltz was over many people started to find their way out the door. The wreckage from the party actually wasn't that bad. You knew that it would be a much quieter clean than earlier due to Joe's impending hangover. He was the first to join you in bed. 

You slipped off the witch dress, as your hat was in some mysterious place in the house, and wiped off the green makeup. Joe's costume made it very easy to get comfortable for bed. He removed his socks and shirt after he basically threw himself into bed. 

Gwilym took his place on the other side of you and Ben beside Joe. There were ringing in your ears from the loud music of the party, but the silence was inviting. The last thing you heard were the words mumbled by your favorite men in the world. 

"I'm gonna have a cavity." Joe slurred. 

"I'm a better Tim." Ben muttered. 

"Shut up." Gwilym finished. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 2: Should I Stay Or Should I Go]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap 

Hey y’all, I’m also going to tag some of my usual readers so you know this exists but I WON’T TAG YOU AGAIN UNLESS YOU ASK ME TO, so don’t worry I won’t bother you! :) @the-borhap-boys @killer-queen-xo @sincereleygmg @calspixie @queen-crue @inthegardensofourminds @jennyggggrrr @stormtrprinstilettos @bramblesforbreakfast @brainflakes @coffeexcigarette @ezmina98 @danamaleksworld @littlespoiltthing

You guide your forest green, decade-old, positively no-frills Hyundai Elantra onto the shoulder of the narrow, winding road. There are trees and boulders and steep rock faces peppering the landscape; even before you open the car door, you can hear birds and rustling leaves overhead. You climb out and inspect the rear tires with your hands on your hips. As you suspected, the driver’s side one is flattening before your eyes. There’s a daggerish white rock jutting out of the deflating rubber, the source of your trouble on this otherwise unencumbered Saturday.

“Dammit,” you moan, peering up and down the road. It’s not a great place to break down: it’s fairly isolated, there are blind curves, the shoulder isn’t very wide. The sun is hot and glaring in a cloudless sky.

You slip back into your car and click on the hazard lights. Your iPhone is laying on the dashboard. Fortunately, you already have your usual mechanic’s contact information saved.

“Siri, call Benji’s.”

“Calling: Ben Hardy.”

“What?! No!” You paw for your phone and in the process knock it off the dashboard and onto the floor of the passenger’s side. “No no no no no, bad Siri, no—!” 

“Hello?” a reverberating British voice pours through the speakers.

You chuckle awkwardly, contorted between the front seats, your left arm painfully extended towards the phone. “Uh, hi, yeah, good afternoon, Mr. Hardy. This is Miss Y/L/N, Eli’s teacher.”

“...Okay?”

“Uh...” Your fingertips brush the phone, flail around unproductively, then finally scoop it into your palm. You sigh as you straighten up in the driver’s seat, treasuring your freshly unimpeded breathing. “Look, I’m going to be honest, Mr. Hardy. I was trying to call my mechanic and accidentally dialed you. So I’m very sorry for the intrusion and won’t interrupt your weekend any further.”

There’s a lull before he replies. “Having car trouble?”

“No. Well, yeah. It’s a flat tire, nothing serious. I’m just woefully incompetent with car stuff.”

He sounds amused now, as if all his assumptions about what it means to grow up in the United States have been shattered. “Your dad never taught you how to change a flat?”

“Not exactly.” The thought is legitimately preposterous. Your mom and dad own an organic goat farm in Northern California, and as skilled as they are in animal husbandry, quilting, soapmaking, and horticulture, neither know the first thing about the stereotypically heteronormative male, unapologetically red-blooded American realm of vehicle maintenance. “My parents are...unconventional.”

“Gotcha. You know a mechanic is going to charge you an arm and a leg to drive out and fix it.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I knew you were evil.

Mr. Hardy is backpedaling, almost nervous. “What I mean is that I can change a flat in five minutes and you shouldn’t be out a hundred bucks for something like that.”

“...Okay...?”

“Where are you?”

You recoil, shaking your head, your earrings jangling. “Are you...offering to come fix my car...?

“Is that against the rules or something?”

“I mean, no, I guess not.” You’re struggling to process his words; he wants to help you? He’s taking time out of his Saturday to save you, a systemically underappreciated public school teacher, from financial distress? Mr. Archetypal Uppity British Gentleman knows how to change a tire?!

“Good. Where are you exactly?”

“Angeles Crest Highway. I’m about halfway up Mt. Wilson.”

“Yikes,” Mr. Hardy notes. “Not a good spot.”

“Not at all.”

“Right. I’ll be quick. See you soon.” And then he’s gone.

You set the phone back up on the dashboard and crinkle your brow at it in suspicious bewilderment. “What the fuck, Siri?” you murmur.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Forget it, Siri.”

This is weird. This is really weird. But the part that’s gnawing at you the hardest is this: now that you’re alone again, now that there’s no husky voice echoing around the Elantra, now that there’s nothing between vulnerable stranded you and the Southern California wilderness...you sort of miss him. You miss Mr. Hardy. He’s odd and intense and intimidating and seemingly always vaguely pissed off, but there’s something else underneath that as well. There’s something strong and protective, something comforting.

“No,” you say firmly, glaring at yourself in the rearview mirror. “We cannot get crushes on students’ parents. Especially not potential demons.”

Suddenly, you wonder if maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You’re completely on your own out here on this wooded, snaking road. And you don’t actually know Mr. Hardy at all, that abrupt irrational fondness notwithstanding.

You text your best friend Sasha, who teaches third grade. If I go missing or end up sacrificed to pagan deities or something, it was Benjamin Whitaker Hardy. Avenge me.

Sasha replies thirty seconds later. ???

And then: Demon kid’s dad?????

Finally: Daddy demon?????????

Daddy demon sounds way too sexual for your liking. Yeah, you reply practically. Then you wait.

He rolls up behind your car in his black Lexus, and before he kills the engine you can hear AC/DC booming through the open windows. You’re perched on the hood of your Elantra, your feet swinging. When Mr. Hardy steps out of the Lexus, he’s wearing slim-fitted light jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt, the kind sold at Target and sported by teenagers who couldn’t pick Kurt Cobain out of a lineup if their life depended on it. Instinctively, you smirk and roll your eyes.

“That’s no way to greet your rescuer. What’s funny?”

You point to his shirt. “Can you name a single Nirvana song or is that strictly for the aesthetic?”

“All Apologies. Stay Away. Smells Like Teen Spirit...Teen Spirit is a type of deodorant, by the way. Come As You Are. Heart-Shaped Box. In Bloom. Lithium. About A Girl.” He flashes a grin. “Want more?”

“No, that’s okay. You pass.” You’re a little sad about this; it would be so much easier to loathe him if he was a poser.

Mr. Hardy pops open his trunk and digs around. “Do you have a spare tire and a jack?”

“I think I have a spare, but...uh...what’s a jack...?”

He bursts out laughing. “You really are hopeless! Not to worry, I’ve got one.” He pulls an x-shaped wrench and a twist of black metal—what must be a jack—out of his trunk and strolls towards you, surveying the damage to your flat tire, nodding as he rubs his cleanshaven chin. You slip off the hood and approach him, your arms crossed over your chest so he can’t see your hands trembling.

“Mr. Hardy...”

“I’m not going to fix that unless you start calling me Ben.”

“Ben,” you manage with difficulty. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs. You don’t feel like he’s ogling you up and down, you don’t feel objectified; that’s a pitifully rare occurrence around unfamiliar men. His gaze is on your face and nowhere else. It’s hard to meet his eyes; there’s that daunting aura he never quite shakes. But once you do, you’re trapped there in a sea of sparking green like malachite. Oh no. I like this guy. “I feel like I was rude the other day,” he says finally. “I wanted to apologize. And if my kid’s been giving you hell for the past month, I should probably apologize for that too.”

“Oh,” you respond softly. “Well...that’s really appreciated, Mr. Hardy. Ben. But of course I’m going to pay you—”

“You definitely are not.” He slides the jack beneath the Elantra and pumps it up as you dig the spare tire out of your trunk and bring it to him.

“Can I help?”

“Here’s what you can do.” Ben gestures to the pavement next to where he’s kneeling. “Watch me. Then you’ll know how to do it yourself next time you get attacked by a rock.”

“Okay.” You sit beside him, trying not to stare at his glistening biceps, the beads of sweat gathering at his temples and dampening his golden hair, his sturdy dexterous fingers as he unscrews the lug nuts one after the other, rolls the flat away, and secures the spare tire. Five minutes was about right. “I’m gonna keep it real with you. I feel ridiculous.”

He glances over at you as he throws the flat tire into the trunk of his Lexus. “Why’s that?” he asks, oddly concerned.

“Because you made that look so easy and I’m a helpless moron.”

Ben chuckles. “You’re not a moron. We just have different skillsets. I’d be pretty lost in a classroom of twenty-five six-year-olds, that’s for sure.” He points at your earrings. “You like dinosaurs?”

“What?” Your hands come up to feel them: oh right, the green stegosaurus pair. “Yeah, I do, actually. And the kids like them too, so everyone wins.”

“How do you feel about Jurassic Park?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “This is a bizarre conversation, Mr. Hardy.”

“Ben,” he corrects good-naturedly.

“Ben,” you agree.

“The question still stands.”

“Jurassic Park is one of my all-time favorite movies, I harbor a humiliating yet undying passion for Jeff Goldblum, there, have I passed?”

Ben smiles at you playfully, almost trickily, like there’s some hilarious joke you aren’t in on. “You passed.”

“Awesome. I guess I should let you go enjoy the rest of your weekend now.”

Instead he says: “Do you want to get coffee or something?”

“What?” you sputter, gawking. “With...you...?”

Ben rubs the back of his head and glimpses around at the trees, the sky, nothing in particular. Oh my god, he’s nervous. “Well I’ve been meaning to find time to talk with you about Eli, and my schedule is usually a nightmare, but Eli had a friend’s birthday party to go to today and my meetings fell through so I find myself suddenly available.”

“Oh,” you reply, blinking.

“Unless of course you have plans, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume—”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” you say. “I have no life whatsoever outside of school. So, yeah, we can totally talk now. About Eli.”

“Okay.” Ben seems pleased. “Are you especially attached to the prospect of coffee?”

“I am not. Why?”

He buries his hands in his pockets and tilts his head at you. Why does this feel like a test? “I really like pie.”

“I freaking love pie. Let’s go.”

Ben’s Lexus follows you to your favorite—if decidedly unglamorous—little diner about twenty minutes outside the city. The decor is straight out of the 1950s: slick black-and-white checkered floors, mint green counters and appliances, Elvis and Marilyn posters, a full-sized jukebox. You ask the waitress for your usual spot, a cozy booth next to the rotating dessert display. Then you place your orders: a root beer float and coconut cream pie for Ben, hot chocolate and crumb-top apple pie for you.

“So you’re into national parks,” Ben ventures as he scoots into the bright red booth, as if he’s trying to make conversation, as if this is some stilted blind date. “Or just...driving through them?”

“I’m super into them. Sometimes I do my grading out there.” You lace your hands on top of the table, clicking seamlessly into business mode. “Now, about Eli...”

“Yes,” Ben complies, fidgeting, drumming his knuckles on the table. What is up with this guy?

“What I usually do in situations like this is come up with a collaborative, two-pronged plan. I’ll make classroom accommodations to help Eli succeed, and you as the parents...parent...will implement steps at home to model better choices and reinforce the lessons learned at school.”

“Okay.” He’s attentive, he’s nodding, he’s making this way too easy. Your order arrives and Ben beams at his root beer float like it’s a winning lottery ticket. “Oh my god, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted one of these,” he sighs, slurping through the metal straw.

“Are root beer floats...a rarity where you come from...?”

“Well I’m usually on a strict diet. For my job. But I’m between projects so I can afford the calories.” Ben devours his slice of pie in three bites. “Oh yeahhhhh.”

You laugh at him, sipping your hot chocolate. “So you’re an actor? Or a model or something?” Holy hell, he really does work for J.Crew.

Ben clams up instantly. “Or something.”

Fine, be cryptic then. “Anyway, here’s my plan for Eli. Your son is extremely bright—he couldn’t possibly come up with some of those shenanigans if he wasn’t—so I’m thinking part of the problem is that he’s bored with the lessons, that the rest of the class moves a bit to slow for him. I think he needs extra attention, extra motivation. I’d like to ask him to be my helper, to write examples out on the board, to take care of the class hamster Creampuff, maybe even do some grading. Try to find something that interests him, and get him to realize that teachers can be friends. But I need to be able to trust him not to abuse that added responsibility.”

“Yeah,” Ben replies thoughtfully. “That sounds great. He’s definitely a smart kid, he’s just...he’s got a lot of energy, you know, he’s...he’s spirited. I’ve talked to Eli and he says he doesn’t mean any harm, that he’s just trying to have fun. But of course I explained to him that throwing frogs at people is at best a very loose interpretation of fun.”

Here comes the sensitive part. “How are things at home, Mr. Hardy?”

“Ben.”

“Ben. Sorry.”

“Things are...good!” he answers, but he’s avoiding your eyeline. “I mean...things aren’t perfect. I wish I could be home more. I work a lot. But I try to spend as much time with Eli as I can, and my mum relocated to L.A. so she’s always available to watch him...he adores her. He’s definitely better behaved at home than at school. But I believe you about the trouble he’s been causing. And I do think stress at home is at least partially to blame.”

“Is his mother...” How can you put this delicately? “Did Eli...lose her?”

Ben nods, glancing out the window, refracted sunlight spilling over his pale face, still not looking at you. “Yeah, she’s not in the picture.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say gently. “For both of you.”

He clears his throat, then drains the rest of his float. “Right. I think we have a plan.”  

“We do,” you agree. “And I think we should have meetings every so often to assess Eli’s progress. Maybe once a week to start? I can just call if that’s easiest. It doesn’t have to be in person.”

“No, in person works.” Now Ben’s eyes are fixed on you, large like a doe’s and arresting. You remember thinking they were like malachite before; but maybe emerald is closer, or olive, or hunter or peridot or jade.

Okay, time to stop obsessing over daddy demon’s infuriatingly nice irises.

Except all at once you can’t imagine thinking Benjamin Whitaker Hardy is anything like a demon. Maybe something else, something related but reversed, something light and benevolent and peaceful.

He asks: “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”

There’s no way I heard that right. “I’m sorry, I was chewing pie obnoxiously loudly, did you say...?

“Dinner. Sometime. With me.”

You swim through the words like coming up from a dream, clawing through haze and into daylight. “We’re not...dating or anything, are we?”

Are you allowed to date students’ parents? Is it possible that outrageously dashing, British, J.Crew model Ben could be interested in you? Did you get hit by a truck while trying to change your flat tire and all of this is some elaborate unconscious fantasy? Are you in a coma?

Ben chuckles, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful sound. “No, we are definitely...” He makes air quotes. “...Not dating.”

And you realize that whether you actually want to date Ben wasn’t on your list of questions, probably because it’s not much of a question at all.

“Okay,” you reply quietly, your lips curving up at the edges into a shy smile. “Dinner sometime.”

“Cool. It’s a not-date.” Ben winks at you.

If the fiery afterlife is filled with demons like him, sign me the fuck up.

[sadprose-auroras]

Rules: Tag 9 people you’d like to get to know better. I was tagged by @littlespoiltthing @bensmazzello @funkytalia @babey--blog thank you lovelies!! 💓

Top three ships: malec (shadowhunter chronicles), sizzy (shadowhunter chronicles), mondler (friends)

Lipstick or chapstick? Chapstick most days, but I love a lippy for a special occasion

Last song: Join the club - Hockey Dad

Last movie: Imagine me and you

Last book: I just finished Little Women, but I’m currently reading Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

I tag; @im-inlovewithmycar @blamerogertaylor @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @daughter-of-ophelia @johndeaconlover @honeyedhardy @meddowsmoon @longhaireddeacy @laedymoon feel free to ignore of course 💓