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ladamedusoif · 1 year

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Visiting: Chapter Three - Ghosts

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter Summary: The gorgeous New England fall settles in - and so does Lydia, feeling more at home among her friends and colleagues at Barrow than ever. And then comes Evan’s Halloween party, with costumes, cocktails, and closeness on a couch…

Word Count: 5.7k

Rating: Mature; will become Explicit in later chapters.

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41, about to turn 42, and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; reference to relationship breakdown; reference to chronic pain and implied autoimmune-related pain; references to serial killers in a Halloween costume context; briefly illegal shenanigans in the back of a car if you're liable to be concerned about this.

A/N: This is fluff. After the horrors of Kevin Lacroix last chapter, it was nice to write our gang in a more relaxed and fun setting (even if, as you’ll see, you could cut the tension with a knife).

This was originally one long chapter but will now appear as chapters 3 and 4.

(A subtitle for this chapter might have been: In Which Rose Works Out Her Tim Rockford Feelings. You'll see what I mean.)

The title of this chapter is taken from Laura Marling's song 'Ghosts', which resonates really perfectly with Lydia’s own back story: The ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.

I've included links to more thematic/featured songs in Further Author's Notes at the end, to avoid spoilers.

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

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

“I’m giving you two weeks - that’s plenty of advance warning here. I need to make sure you two understand the assignment.”

Evan exhales and pushes his seat back from the round table in the staff lounge, where you are eating lunch with Ben on a random Tuesday in mid-October. Evan’s expression is one of deep concern.

Ben puts down his sandwich and brushes a couple of crumbs from his dark green pullover.

“Do we understand the assignment? For your Halloween thing? At your house?”

“For the Halloween party, yes. Are we clear on the theme? This is important.”

“Is this because David is coming?” Ben asks mischievously. Evan has been involved in an on-off “thing” (his term, not yours) with David, a drama professor based in Boston, for the last six months, and this party would mark his introduction to the Barrow circle.

Evan ignores Ben’s question. You stifle a giggle and stir your noodle soup. He’s spent the last twenty minutes issuing your invites to a Halloween party at his apartment, accompanied by detailed explanations on the importance of sticking to the theme.

“Cinematic Horror And/Or Serial Killers. It’s pretty broad, I think we’ll be okay.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Ben catches your eye and gives you a knowing look. “I have some questions, Evan. When you say ‘serial killers’, is that exclusively the killers themselves or are associated characters from the films an option?”

“Associated characters are fine. One of my friends from Boston is already dressing as Gale Weathers from Scream, though, so cross that one off your lists.”

Ben briefly looks confused, before returning to his lunch with a shrug.

“I also have a question, Evan,” you say, innocently. You can see Ben trying not to laugh as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “Fiction or non-fiction?”

Evan rolls his eyes. “What?”

“Well, do the characters have to be fictional, or can they be cinematic representations of real people as depicted in horror or serial killer movies?”

“Just stick to the theme. And you” - he points at Ben - “no niche literary or historical costumes.” He picks up his can of sparkling water and walks off.

You lean in, whispering. “I didn’t know this was so serious. I knew Halloween was a big deal here, but…”

Ben looks pensive as he finishes his lunch. “I’m still not entirely sure I understand what he means by ‘understand the assignment’.”

As the glorious New England fall settles in, making the Barrow campus a riot of copper and gold, you have that curious sensation of having been here forever while feeling like no time at all has passed. Your little community of friends and colleagues have, for the most part, made you feel like you were at home, not just “visiting”.

After the shenanigans at the beach away-day in September, you prove you can walk the walk as well as talking the talk. As soon as you got into work on the following Monday, you’d knocked on Ben’s door to volunteer as a tutor for one of the additional support workshops he was organising as part of the diversity and inclusion project across the faculty.

He seemed to appreciate your outsider perspective, regularly seeking out advice or feedback on how best to look after the students involved. You’ve never seen anyone look as pleased as he did to receive a printed and bound copy of the hundred-page report your institution had compiled a couple of years ago on support strategies.

He shrugged when you mentioned this, having watched him leaf excitedly through the document. “I’m just a nerd for this stuff.” You shook your head. “You care. They’re lucky to have you.”

You shouldn’t have favourites, really, not when you’re teaching such a range of classes, but the students in that particular workshop group are a joy: hard-working, insightful, kind, and funny. They have no sense of entitlement or expectation based on privilege. They come into each group meeting spilling over with things they want to tell you and the rest of the class: books read, movies watched, artworks discovered, songs played on repeat. Their intelligence and perceptiveness only underlines how toxic the attitudes of, ahem, certain colleagues are.

They seem to like you, too - though not as much as they like Ben, who is clearly a bit of a cult favourite. You overhear a group in your support workshop talking excitedly one morning about seeing him coming onto campus on his black-framed bicycle, two pannier bags attached to the back.

“He’s just so cute on his little bike, ohmygoooooood!” The other students had scrunched up their faces and made high-pitched noises to signal their agreement. “Protect this man at aaalllllll costs,” agrees another. “Did you see his little space tie at orientation?? He’s so baby and so old man at the same time, I just cannot with him.”

You daren't ask what they say about you.

Outside of work, the arrival of more of the belongings you’d had shipped over has helped make the once-spartan apartment into a home. The crocheted blanket you made sits on the back of your small sofa, ready to be pulled over you as you read or watch TV. The living area is dotted with trinkets from your travels and photographs, especially of your little nieces. A bright green Japanese kintsugi bowl, a gift from your sister a year after your ex-partner had left, takes pride of place on the low coffee table.

It might only be home for a year, but you’ve tried to make the apartment feel like you. Your framed print of a Raoul Dufy painting of Paris hangs on one wall, comforting pinks and blues in the abstract but familiar depiction of the city. You treated yourself to two small Diptyque candles at the airport duty free on your way to the US, and their scent acts as a reassuring comfort whenever you walk back through the door after a day at work. As has been the case everywhere you’ve ever lived, there are books and magazines everywhere, some neatly shelved, far more in random piles. You’d even managed to track down a cheap second-hand sewing machine at a local thrift store, and had convinced Ani to drive you to the nearest large craft store to stock up on fabric and patterns.

It’s become somewhat of a running joke that you are obsessed with the fall. You tried to explain that it was, in part, because it was so different to what you were used to.

“We just get meh.”

“Meh?” Evan repeated, sipping his coffee in the staff lounge one day, as you explain. “Meh?”

“Yes, meh. It gets dark too quickly. It’s kind of always…damp, and it makes my stupid fucked-up joints and body hurt. And we don’t get those crisp, gorgeous colours in the landscape. More like fog and sludge and rotting leaves and just: meh. Here, though! Campus is just like a picture book.”

“If you think this is good, you should see the lakeside trail just outside town,” Ben adds. “Best way to see it is by bike. Could be fun if you wanted to hire one and explore it?”

A week later, and you’re back on a bike for the first time in a long time, trying to keep your focus on staying upright while taking time to admire the incredible surroundings. The colours of a New England fall are spread across the landscape like an extraordinary patchwork quilt, all oranges and golds and reds and the occasional evergreen, and the blue of the lake provides a perfect contrast. You stop pedalling for a moment, resting your feet on the ground as you take it all in.

“Wow.”

Ben, a little further ahead, slows and comes to a halt before walking his bike back to you. He follows your gaze to look at the picture-perfect scene in front of you, as nature offers a final performance of spectacular colour before the winter snows arrive.

“It’s really something, isn’t it? Fall does not look like this where I’m from.”

You nod, awestruck. “Sometimes I just can’t believe I get to be here.”

Two weeks after Evan’s micro-managed invitation to his Halloween party, and you think - no, make that hope - you’ve created a costume that fits the brief. Ani is coming over to meet up before you head over together, and you put out a bowl of candy corn (a revelation to you, even if Evan never fails to remind you that “it tastes like crayons.”)

You’re adjusting your curly blonde wig, carefully teasing out some of the curls around the ends, and checking your drawn-on moustache in the mirror when your phone lights up.

ANI: SEE ME. SEE ME NOW.

You raise an eyebrow and go to the intercom panel near your front door. Someone is standing at the door of the building in a top hat and morning suit, curly dark hair carefully arranged around their shoulders and a pair of tiny dark glasses perched on their nose.

The curious figure is carrying a Barrow Farmers Market tote bag.

“Fucking hell.” You press the button to let Ani in, and leave your front door ajar. They swish into your apartment a few moments later, a vision in a dove-grey morning suit they’d found at a local Goodwill and a top hat borrowed from the student drama society. Ani had asked you to pin some grey fabric around the hat a few days earlier, but hadn’t revealed any more about their costume plans.

“Well?? Do you see me now?” They twirl around for your approval.

“That’s genuinely incredible. Vampirism really suits you.”

Ani grins, admiring themselves in the mirror that hangs near the front door before taking a seat on the arm of your sofa. “I look fucking fantastic, even if I shouldn’t be able to see my reflection. Any Mina Harkers at this party better watch out.” They look you up and down. “And you’re…?”

You stand up. In addition to the wig and pencil moustache, you’re dressed in a three-piece tweed suit (another Goodwill find, which you’d been able to easily tailor to fit with your trusty sewing machine) with a shirt and tie, topped with a white lab coat.

Ani still looks confused. You tap a name badge you’d made for exactly this eventuality. They peer at it, reading it aloud, and finally join the dots:

Dr F. Frankenstein (Fronk-en-STEEN)

“Oh, wow.” Ani shakes their head. “You must be the first person in Halloween costume party history to go dressed as Young Frankenstein before he becomes the crazy scientist. Evan is gonna have notes.”

You shove your hands in the pockets of the lab coat and make a haughty face. “It’s pronounced Fronk-en-STEEN.”

Ani laughs and stands up, picking up their bag (which contains two bottles of wine). “Okay, Fronk-en-Steen, let’s go see if anyone can outdo you for niche costume choice of the night. That pencil moustache is kinda hot, by the way.”

Evan opens the door dressed in a truly horrible dress, a messy grey wig styled in a bun, and wielding a toy knife. He looks in a foul mood, even discounting the Norman Bates-as-Mother costume.

Ani wheels around, ready to do their Dracula routine. “SEE ME. SEE ME - fuck! Are you okay, man?”

Evan scowls, stepping back to let you in. “I’ve got to take meds to get rid of that bastard chest thing I’ve had, and they specifically state no alcohol or other drugs to be consumed while taking them. So I’m stone-cold sober at my own party, while everyone else is enjoying my spooky margs.” He jerks his head in the direction of the crowd of guests.

You step over the threshold, both curious and reluctant to find out what a “spooky marg” involves. Ani remains outside.

“You gotta invite me in, dude.”

Evan rolls his eyes and brandishes the plastic knife. “Would you like to come in, vampire? You’re so lucky this is a toy.”

Ani winks behind their little glasses. “Nuh-uh! Stakes only!”

Evan’s apartment is a decently-sized mid-century two bed, and most of the party guests are milling around the open-plan living and dining area. In addition to the select group of colleagues who made the list, he’s invited a few of his friends from Boston and New York to come up for the night. You scan the room, hoping to spy the elusive David.

“Spooky Margs and a selection of other beverages are in the kitchen with some snacks. Help yourselves. And make sure to remind someone all night that they did not understand the assignment.” Evan points with his toy knife towards a familiar figure clad in a beige mac, who’s talking to some of Evan’s friends.

Ben wheels around at the sound of Evan’s voice. He’s wearing a white shirt, a 1970s-style striped tie, and a pair of vaguely vintage-looking grey dress pants. There’s what looks like a toy police badge clipped to his belt.

He’s hearing Evan’s admonition for what is evidently the millionth time since he arrived, and rolls his eyes. “I keep telling you, I did understand! Cinematic horror or serial killers!” He looks pleadingly in your direction. “Lydia was there. We asked Evan some clarifying questions, didn’t we?”

You nod, but Ani pulls a face. “Not convinced Columbo fits the brief, my guy. Did he get many serial killers?”

Evan nods enthusiastically. “See? SEE? Ani gets it. Fuckin’ Columbo, Ben.”

In the time they’ve been upbraiding him, you’ve been studying Ben’s costume more carefully, a smile of growing recognition dancing around your mouth. You clear your throat, and all three look directly at you.

“He’s not Columbo.”

“So who is he, then?” Evan asks, irritated. Clearly, the lack of spooky margs is having an effect on his mood.

You move beside Ben. “Mind if I show them the evidence, Detective?”

“Not at all, Doctor.”

The white lab coat must be imbuing you with some sort of scientific spirit. You begin to jokingly lecture Ani and Evan, pointing out parts of Ben’s outfit like he’s a specimen on display. Some of the other party guests turn to watch.

“To the untrained eye, Professor Morales’ costume may well look like a typical Columbo effort. But there are some vital clues that prove he is, in fact, not Columbo and is completely appropriately dressed for the theme. Exhibit A: the side parting in his hair, and the way it is styled - or, sorry to say this Ben, the way he’s tried to style it. Exhibit B: no cigar. Exhibit C: the contents of his pockets. Could you show these to the group, Professor?”

Ben nods with exaggerated formality and reaches into his coat pockets.

“An old street map of San Francisco. A pocket guide to codes and codebreaking. A pair of glasses - pretty sure these are not part of the costume. Colleagues, this is in fact Detective Dave Tosche, one of the leading figures in the Zodiac case.” You look to Ben for confirmation, your eyebrows raised expectantly.

“You’re so close.”

You chew on your lower lip before it hits you. “Ah! An important distinction. You’re Mark Ruffalo playing Dave Tosche in David Fincher’s 2007 based on a true story serial killer masterpiece, Zodiac. Serial killer, cinematic, he’s entirely on theme, he’s even from the Bay Area.”

You do a neat little bow. Ben laughs hard. “I knew you’d get it, Dr Fronk-en-steen!”

Ani rolls their eyes. Evan pinches his nose. “I swear to god, on your first day in graduate school they should warn you that if you become an academic you’ll end up working with fucking nerds for the rest of your life.”

The host’s irritation at his enforced sobriety aside, the party is relaxed and enjoyable. Evan has compiled an exceptionally well-curated playlist that mixes Halloween-themed songs and party bangers with random tracks from a ‘Spooky Sound Effects Vol. 1-5’ album he’d found in a thrift store. Evan’s friends are a fascinating and entertaining group of people: friends from college; former colleagues; people who work in fashion; writers, artists, and people who run tiny community theatres.

You’re swapping Paris stories with Drew, a 6’4” Boston-based art teacher dressed up as Shelley Duvall in The Shining, while finishing off a vodka and tonic (you are still building up to trying a Spooky Marg, disarmed by their lurid green colour).

Drew points to your now-empty glass. “Think it’s time for you to try Evan’s concoction, babe. Would you believe me if I told you it was actually pretty good?” he offers, raising his own glass of the icy green beverage.

You pull a face. “I guess I can’t know until I try it. Okay. Here goes nothing.” You cross to the kitchen in search of the green nectar, bopping gently to the strains of ‘Cuff It’ pumping out of Evan’s speakers. En route, you spot Ani in the open-plan living area, flirting outrageously with someone dressed as Tippi Hedren in The Birds, enormous fake bird sticking out at a rakish angle from their blonde wig.

Ben has had the same idea as you. When you enter Evan’s tiny kitchen, he’s standing by the counter - still wearing his overcoat - and pouring himself a glass of the frosty green goo from a large jug.

“Ohhhh, yes. Yes. This is good. You can try it first.”

“I thought you were a scientist, Dr Fronk-en-Steen? Scared of an experimental substance?”

You join him at the counter and give him a sceptical look. “As a good scientist, I’d at least like to know what’s in the experimental substance.”

Ben sips the drink cautiously and narrows his eyes. “There’s definitely tequila. Lots of tequila. And triple sec. And something…minty? And then an extra booze layer that I can’t quite place.” He coughs suddenly, eyes watering. “Yep. Pretty…pretty potent.”

You scan the counter and spot a bottle of crème de menthe and one of vodka tucked alongside the tequila and triple sec. “Detective, I think we have our answer. Oh well. I guess it’s designed to make us merry. Or spooky. Or just really, really unwell.”

You pour yourself a glass, clink it off Ben’s, and lean against Evan’s countertop. You’ve taken off your lab coat and jacket. Ben gestures towards your outfit.

“That’s a great costume, by the way. Inspired choice not to go for the obvious ‘mad scientist’ version.” He peers closer. “And that is an excellent drawn-on moustache.”

You beam, delighting in the fact that he’s so impressed by your efforts. “It’s weird, I’ve kind of always wanted to go to a costume party where I had a drawn-on moustache. Maybe I want to feel like an early Hollywood villain.”

He laughs. “Or is it because of Jeanne Moreau with the fake moustache and cap in Jules et Jim?”

Your mouth drops open. “Shit! That’s it. God, that would have been a good costume. Easy to do, as well.”

Ben nods in agreement. “But I think Evan would have actually tried to kill you for not - what was the phrase? - not understanding the assignment.” He takes another sip of his Spooky Marg, wincing slightly. “And thank you, by the way, for proving that I did what I was told.”

You look him up and down, taking in his costume. “It’s so obviously not Columbo. Where did you get all the bits of the outfit?”

“Coat and pants are from a bigger branch of Goodwill in the next town over. Shirt is just a white shirt. Nothing exciting there. Got the badge in a toy store. The map and code book are my own.”

Of course they are.

He holds up his tie. “This belonged to my dad. Authentic 70s size and stripes.”

You smile softly at that detail. “It is an excellent tie and no mistake. I’m just wondering about how far you took the attention to detail, though - didn’t Tosche have one of those shoulder holster things on for pretty much the entire movie?”

Ben blushes. “Uh…well. You know I believe in the details. And the accuracy.”

You tilt your head quizzically. “In what sense?”

“In the sense that I do care about the attention to detail, so I, uh…”

He moves to take off his overcoat. And there they are: a pair of brown leather shoulder holsters, albeit without any handguns (real or fake). Insane green drink aside, he really looks the part as an old-school hard bitten TV detective.

It’s also impossible to ignore the way the combination of the snugly-fitted shirt and holsters seems to exaggerate (or maybe emphasise?) just how broad Ben’s shoulders are.

Have they always looked like…that?

Either way, you’re impressed. “Wow. I mean…wow. It’s the whole package. No toy pistols, though?”

He furrows his brow. “I was struggling a bit with whether this fed into the more problematic aspects of how policing is presented in popular culture - what do they call it, ‘copaganda’? - , and guns for me are just…no.” He shakes his head. “Felt weird enough getting the holsters but, like I said - attention to detail.”

You nod. “You could just use yours to store snacks, or something. Might get a bit, um, melted, though. Body heat, and all.”

Ben laughs, and nods his head towards the living room. “Come on. Grab your Spooky Marg and let’s go see if Tippi Hedren’s been turned vampiric yet.”

Three Spooky Margs later, and you’re buzzed. Thankfully, so is pretty much everyone else - with the exception of Evan, of course, and a lone guest dressed as the Babadook who’s been sitting, motionless, at the dining table all night.

Wig off, you’re chatting and eating pumpkin spiced cookies in the tiny kitchen with David, who has proven to be charm personified (and gorgeous to boot). Hair neatly styled and wearing a simple outfit of slacks, shirt, and jacket, it took you a moment before you realised he was dressed as Norman Bates.

That’s one way to do couples’ costumes.

In solidarity with Evan, David has limited himself to one Spooky Marg for the evening, and is sipping on tonic water and lime. Evan sticks his bewigged head into the kitchen and beckons you and David to join the rest of the party in the living area. “Come on! It’s Spooky Lip Sync for your Afterlife time.”

You glance sideways at David, who grins. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any death drops.”

“Lyyyyyyyydiiiaaaaa!” Ben beams and waves frantically at you from the smaller sofa, gesturing for you to join him. You realise why he seems so eager to have you join him when you see what’s happening on the couch.

He’s pinned against one end, holding his head at an awkward angle to avoid getting hit in the face by the fake bird stuck in Tippi Hedren’s hair as they throw their head back and laugh while Ani whispers sweet nothings into their ear.

All the Spooky Margs in the world couldn’t make Ben Morales comfortable in this scenario.

Even so, he’s definitely merry, albeit in an extremely smiley, benevolent kind of way. He’s got a beatific smile on his face as you approach. “Lyddie, sit. Sit. Sit in the seat.” He motions as if he’s about to stand and give you his space on the couch.

You laugh and put a hand on one of his shoulders, gently pushing him back into his spot. “Absolutely the fuck not. I’m not sitting beside someone getting turned into a vampire, Benjamin.” You settle onto the padded arm of the couch on his left, leaning ever so slightly into him as you do so. “M’sitting on the arm of this sofa right here.”

“Mmmmkay.” He sips his lurid green drink and hums with satisfaction. Drew, his Shelley Duvall wig swapped for a longer, darker one, emerges from the hallway clad in a wafty, bright red dress.

“Pssssst. Lyd. Lyd.” Ben leans in to whisper theatrically in your ear. “What’s a Spooky Sync Afterlife anyway?”

Evan glares at him and fiddles with his phone until a tinkly piano melody emerges from the speakers and Drew starts to dance, lip syncing along to ‘Wuthering Heights’:

Out on the wily, windy moors

We’d roll and fall in green

He’s uncannily good, nailing each of Kate Bush’s dance moves as he mouths along. From your spot on the arm of the couch, you fling your arms in the air, waving along in time to the music and matching Drew word for word in a perfect lip sync.

When the song reaches the middle eight, Drew advances towards you and pulls you up to join him. Ordinarily you’d run for cover, but the Spooky Margs have relaxed your inhibitions just enough and you join in, widening your eyes and extending your arms as you beg Heathcliff to let you in at his window. As the song’s closing guitar riff starts, Drew wraps his long arms around you, playfully pretending to drag you off to some uneasy underworld before embracing you in a delighted hug as the other guests whoop and cheer.

You hastily retreat back to your seat as Drew takes his bow. Ben breaks off his applause and raises a hand to high five you as you settle back onto the arm of the couch.

You’re not quite ready for it, your centre of gravity thrown off by the slightly awkward seating position and the effect of the drinks. To your horror, you begin to topple ungracefully off the couch in the direction of Evan’s living room floor, closing your eyes and bracing for impact.

Strong arms catch you gently around the waist mid-fall and pull you back to an upright position. A slightly slurred, but reassuring voice: “I’ve got you.”

This is mortifying.

You open your eyes and turn to face him, wanting to cringe yourself out of existence.

“Um…whoops?” If the ground could open you up and swallow you now, that would be most helpful.

But Ben’s wearing that contented smile again, evidently trying not to laugh but with a look in his eyes that reassures you he’s not making fun of you. Not in the slightest.

You crack in unison, giggling like misbehaving children.

You look down to where your left hand is still resting on his bare forearm, his shirt sleeves rolled up and exposing the warm, lightly golden skin below.

He has arm freckles.

Lowered inhibitions or not, reality kicks back in. You move your hand away, concerned you’ve overstepped a mark.

“Sorry. Thanks for catching me. Sorry.”

His smile fades and he reciprocates, pulling back and blushing as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I… Just didn’t want you falling.”

Another tiny crackle of electricity goes off in your brain, as if an unseen force is soldering together synapses that have long been out of use.

The signal, this time, is a little stronger, amplified no doubt by physical proximity and Spooky Margs.

You angle your body and reach behind you, catching hold of his left arm and moving it back into position so that it’s lightly bracing you, forearm against your back and hand holding you at the waist.

“’S just in case I fall again. Safety is paramount.”

Ani, left alone for a moment while Tippi Hedren goes to the bathroom, leans round and looks at you both.

“Could use a sholster holder for better counterbalance or some shit? Hold on to a sholster holder.” They start laughing at their malapropism. “Sholster holder. No wait, that’s not it. Sholster. Holder. No. Oh, fuck it.”

Ben looks up at you, coffee-brown eyes twinkling.

“I am kinda curious about the sholster holder,” you say. “Never seen one before.”

“Oh, well in that case…” He motions with his head and taps the holster strap on his right. You extend your right arm, stretching across his shoulders to rest your fingers against the leather.

The electrical current in your brain continues to pulse.

Evan introduces a lipsync by “Musty Springheeled”, who performs ‘Spooky’. Musty had been introduced to you earlier in the evening as a mild-mannered poet called Dani. They’re transformed now, enormous backcombed blonde wig and layers of black eyeliner complementing their long black vintage-style dress.

You sway gently to the music, careful not to overreach again. Not that you’d be likely to fall. Not with a large, warm hand at your waist and your fingers resting lightly on his shoulder. For better balance, as Ani suggested.

Musty extends their elegant arms in front of them as they mouth the words, hands passing back and forth in front of their face:

Just like a ghost

You’ve been a-haunting my dreams

But now I know

You’re not what you seem

You feel the caress of soft, wavy hair against your neck as Ben rests his head on your shoulder. Instinctively, you reciprocate, lightly shifting your head to lean against his.

Evan keeps an eagle eye on Musty Springheeled. Tippi Hedren has rejoined Ani on the couch, and they’re wrapped around each other and swaying along to the song, caught up in their own little world.

It’s only David, alert and observant, who notices just how contented the detective and scientist seem to be, nestled into one end of the sofa.

“Fuck it. I’ll drive you guys. Come on, nerds. Party’s over.”

Evan, still in his Mother Bates dress but wig discarded, is jangling his keys at Ben, who yawns and offers a thumbs up in acknowledgment before grabbing his mac.

There isn’t a cab to be had in Barrow, but Evan is determined to get the local guests home so that he - and everyone else staying with him - can go to bed. Some of the visiting contingent have already left, decamping to an AirBnB the next block over. Others are staying in Evan’s guest room or on his couch and sofabed.

Evan starts a head count. “Okay. So… that’s Lydia, Ben, Ani in the back, Dani up front. Right?”

Dani, still in their Musty Springheeled dress, nods. Ani appears from the kitchen, Tippi following close behind. “And Cass. Cass is, uh, coming with me.”

Who the fuck is Cass?

Tippi Hedren waves a tiny wave. “Hiiiii. I’m Cass,” they say in a quiet, sweet British accent.

Evan cocks an eyebrow at Ani, then realises the numbers don’t add up. “Lydia, Ben, Ani, Cass, Dani up front… fuck. Fuck.”

You pull on your lab coat and knee-length wool overcoat, eyes half-closed with sleep and Spooky Margs. “I can just walk, y’know? Not too far.”

“The fuck you aren’t,” Ben mutters. “I’ll walk. It’s fine.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “You live further away, Benjamin! Fuck. Make it make sense.”

David’s eyes flit between you, Ben, and Evan. “Who would be getting out first?”

Ani and Evan point at you in unison. You raise a hand, sheepishly. “I mean it, it’s close.”

“I mean, desperate times etc. So,” David sets out his proposal, “Ben, Ani, and Cass go in the back. Lydia sits on Ben’s lap for the short journey. You drop Lydia off, you’re good for the rest of the journey.”

Your eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s legal!”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Of course it fucking isn’t legal. But I want you fuckers to go home.”

David turns to Ben. “And you don’t mind having Lydia on your lap for a few minutes?”

Your face heats. A side effect of all those Spooky Margs, you think. Ben’s ears have turned pink, too. Definitely something in the drinks. Crème de menthe has a weird effect.

“Sure. Sure! Mmmhmm.” Ben nods quickly. “But only if that’s okay with you?” He turns to you.

There’s something endearing to you about the fact that, even with several extremely strong cocktails on board, even being more buzzed than you’ve ever seen him, and having spent most of the night holding you steady on the couch, he still wants to check that you’ll be comfortable.

You nod. “Just a bit worried I’ll be too heavy, is all.”

Ben scoffs gently and shakes his head to assuage your concerns.

“Oh, thank FUCK.” Evan exhales with relief. “Nerds! Come on!”

It must be twenty years since you’ve been in a car like this, perched on your friend’s lap on your way home from a party. You try to hold yourself up slightly, worried despite yourself about what Ben might think if he had to feel all of your body weight on his (strong-feeling) thighs.

You’ve never been small, not as an adult. As a student you envied those tiny, petite friends who always seemed to appeal to men and women alike, their compact, light frame fitting perfectly on the lap of whatever lucky person they were flirting with at the party. They never had to worry about stuff like this, right? Too busy being picked up and carried around by boys desperate to assert some kind of masculinity, who never cast a second glance at the unappealing, taller, serious-faced friend.

That said, even if he did think you were disturbingly heavy, Ben hadn’t given you the slightest indication since you’d clambered into the back of the car and settled yourself around him carefully, balancing yourself by resting an arm over the back seat. He arranges his arms firmly around you.

“Like a human seatbelt, Lyddie.” You giggle sleepily.

He murmurs. "I've got you."

Evan drives carefully, the Barrow streets mostly deserted save for occasional groups of student revellers in costume. Ani is leaning into Cass, ostensibly examining the fake bird still sticking out of their carefully-coiffed hair, but in truth taking the opportunity to rest a hand on Cass’s knee.

In the relatively cramped confines of the back seat, you have to lean your head on Ben’s shoulder to avoid thwacking your skull off the car roof. The scruff on his jaw brushes lightly against the top of your forehead. His breathing is steady, and oddly calming, but there’s this…frisson running through your body at the same time.

It’s been so long since you’d been this physically close to another person, the odd hook-up aside. No wonder it feels so good. Anyone would feel the same if they’d been a bit touch-starved.

Right?

“So I guess this experience is fairly standard for the visiting professor?” you ask. He laughs, and you can feel it resonating against you from his chest.

“Ohhh, yeah.” He pauses. “For the nice ones, anyway.”

Evan pulls up at the kerb outside your building. You open the door and unfold yourself carefully from your position on Ben’s lap, until you’re eventually upright. You wave cheerily and turn to walk to the main door of the building, smiling happily.

You’re only a couple of steps away when the car door opens again. You look over your shoulder, instinctively.

He’s standing on the pavement, hands in his coat pockets, looking down at the ground for an instant before meeting your eye.

“Hey, Lydia?”

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

Further A/N:

Huge thanks to lovely @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for thoughts, excited responses, and reading parts of this in draft! And for introducing the word "frisson" into the equation... sigh.

The idea of Lydia on Ben’s lap in the car came from @cutesyscreenname, and this got me thinking A LOT about physical proximity for these two nerds and what it might unleash…

Costume references: Ani as Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992).

Lydia as Gene Wilder as Dr Frederick Frankenstein in the earlier parts of Young Frankenstein (1974). "It's pronounced Fronk-en-Steen."

Ben as Mark Ruffalo as Dave Tosche in Zodiac (2007) (that's him on the left, obviously). (Bonus: SHOULDER HOLSTER SUPREMACY)

Evan as Norman as Mother Bates in Psycho (1960)

Cass as Tippi Hedren in The Birds (1963)

This is the specific performance of 'Wuthering Heights' Drew does at Evan's party (this is one of my absolute favourite songs, ever, and I would have been just as into this as Lydia is):

youtube

'Spooky' by Dusty Springfield, lip synced by Musty Springheeled/Dani:

#visiting fic #visiting masterlist #mr ben snl #professor ben x OFC #mr ben #professor!ben x ofc #pedro pascal character fanfic #professor!ben #mr ben x ofc #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #Spotify

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whimsicalmeerkat · 8 months

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First & Last Lines

I did this a million years ago. I just got reminded of it and thought it would be fun to do again. Basically, post the first and last lines of the last 10 fics you posted. WIPs are welcome. Not going with any sort of strict rules, because that’s just not how I roll. Anyway, here goes!

1. hope for the future, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale

First: As Derek flew back from his uncle's punch, he wondered just how he hadn't realized sooner that Peter was the alpha—that he was his alpha.

Last: He couldn't say he'd ever be be content with the past or that he was happy in the present, but for the first time in years he had hope for the future, and maybe that would be enough.

2. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Teen Wolf, multiple pairings

First: Derek leans his head back so he can stare at the star-studded tree canopy overhead and thinks, not for the first time, that he will never get tired of seeing Stiles’ magic.

Last: “Easy for you and Derek to say—you were both born like this and you took away my chance to get out of this life,” Scott rages back, the arrows hitting Stiles in his soft parts just like they have every time he’s hurled them over the years since Stiles got him turned into a werewolf.

3. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Chosen One, macy blake’s chosen one universe, multiple pairings

First: “I just feels it lacks a certain gravitas,” Eduard says, tugging at the hem of the denim jacket he considers so ugly he wonders if some of his mates are pulling a prank on him until he turns around and sees all eight of them staring at him in a distinctly horny fashion.

Last: “Fucking lions—you’re lucky I love you.”

4. with lightning in his hands, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles stares at the ruins of the Hale house and reflects that he perhaps should have taken Deaton more seriously when he told him starting to practice magic would change how he saw the world.

Last: All they have to do is wait for him to come.

5. time travel, teen wolf, derek hale/laura hale

First: Derek bursts through the door of his little apartment in New York City, yelling for his sister.

Last: "It all started in seven days from now for you and five years ago for me."

6. telepathy, black jewels, daemon sadi/lucivar yaslana

First: She’s not trustworthy.

Last: They exited the room without opposition, knowing their point was made and would not be forgotten.

7. dusk, the witcher, emhry var emreis/geralt of rivia

First: Geralt stands on the balcony outside of Emhyr’s rooms and watches the day fade into dusk

Last: Geralt could get used to having a family.

8. Trading Up, teen wolf, derek hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles and his (maybe?) girlfriend are walking down Main Street after dinner, holding hands and looking in the shop windows

Last: “Damnit, I need to see if I have to do actual work. While I’m checking my email, you should try to guess why Lydia didn’t turn into a werewolf. You’ll never get it, but it will entertain you while you wait,” Stiles tells Derek, then turns his attention to his laptop.

9. candy, macy blake’s chosen one universe, victor eastaughffe/orsen riggs & gus

First: “Bear!” Gus shrieks from his seat at the table.

Last: “You may have gummy bears after dinner, Gus.”

10. drift, perilous courts by tavia lark, julien sandry/whisper

First: Julien watches Whisper in the sunlight.

Last: “We’ll make sure we win.”

Tags: @dear-massacre @jammerific @shadow-wasser @thotpuppy @lavender-lotion @mrs-steve-harrington @bad-at-names-and-faces @definitively-different-drivel

#tag game #fanfic #teen wolf #chosen one universe #macy blake #chosen one universe by macy blake #black jewels #black jewels by anne bishop #black jewels trilogy #the witcher #perilous courts #tavia lark #perilous courts by tavia lark #author:whimsicalmeerkat

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notanettelmao · 1 year

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The Tell pt. 1

Also on AO3

(A Teen Wolf Rewrite)

Fandoms: Teen Wolf, Supernatural Warnings: usual TW and SPN stuff Pairings: Stiles Stilinski x reader Words: 1,8k

Tags: @venomsvl @celestair

If you wanna be tagged let me know!

Y/N was with Derek when he heard about the attack at the video store. He took off in the direction of the store, leaving her behind. She swore, looked around, and started running after him.

When she finally got there, he and Scott were climbing the rusty ladder on the side of the building. Y/N rolled her eyes and climbed after them. Scott said hi to her while Derek stared at her as if he wasn't expecting her to follow him. He then turned to Scott.

"Starting to get it?" He asked, leaning over the edge to look down in a way that didn't make him visible to the people on the ground under them. Scott did the same.

"I get that he is killing people. I don't get why." Scott mumbled. Y/N walked a few steps toward the edge to take a look at the scene.

"I mean, we don't go out in the middle of the night murdering everyone, do we?" Y/N turned to look at Scott.

"Werewolves are predators. Not killers." She said. Derek agreed, not looking away from the people on the street.

"Then why is he a killer?" Scott asked looking at his friend and then at the older werewolf.

"That's what we are going to find out. Y/N, how does this look like from the perspective of a hunter?" Derek turned towards her. The youngest Winchester took a deep breath and stepped away from the edge of the roof.

"It must have been a rogue omega. He killed Laura to get the alpha power, which we already knew. We know that he wants to build a pack, and that's why he bit Scott. But something isn't right here. Why didn't he bite anyone else? I'll need to do some research on my own, maybe I will take Stiles with me because he can get us the police reports. I need to know if there were organs missing or if he is just killing for the fun of it." Y/N looked at her phone, texting Stiles to meet her a few blocks away from the video store.

"You do that. I'm gonna take Scott to the house for a bit. I'll see you later," Derek waved a hand her way and then ran off the roof, Scott following him. Y/N groaned when she realized she will have to climb the ladder down

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

The youngest Winchester got to the meeting point at the same time as Stiles parked his jeep on the side of the road. She quickly jumped into the passenger seat and told him to drive to his house. She needed his whiteboard for this.

"So, what are we going to do now?" Stiles asked as they got into his room. He sat on his bed and watched Y/N pace around the room picking different stuff up and then wiping his whiteboard so she had a clean space to work with. She ignored his question and wrote 'THE ALPHA' in capital letters in the middle of it, then drew lines around it and started writing everything they knew already.

"I need you to look in your dad's files to see if there were any bodies found dead with their heart missing in the towns around Beacon Hills." Y/N turned to look at Stiles who was reading the words on the board, looking really interested.

"You think it could be the bad kind? The one you told me about?" He was suddenly up, looking worried. Y/N swallowed and nodded.

"I have a bad feeling. And I need another wolf to talk to about it. Not Derek. And not Scott, Scott hasn't been a werewolf for long." She ran her fingers through her hair.

"I guess we have one more Hale we can visit." He said quietly. Y/N nodded.

"I'll go see him. I need you to go look through the folders. Look for the missing hearts and anything that could be a clue." She quickly dropped the parker on Stiles' table and turned to walk out, but stopped in between the door.

"I don't have a car." She turned back to look at Stiles. He let out a laugh and then motioned for her to follow him.

"Come on, I'll take you there."

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Peter lived on the side of Beacon Hills where Lydia did. The rich part of town. He moved into his house right when he was let out of the hospital after his miraculous recovery. Y/N actually helped him and Derek to pick the place and get him used to being around people again. No one really recognized Peter in town, which saved them a lot of explaining about how the hell he was walking and talking after spending six years in a coma.

Y/N thanked Stiles for the ride and closed the car door. She watched him drive away and then let herself in through the gate. She walked up the stone steps towards the front door and knocked. She didn't have to wait long before Peter opened it, frowning. When he saw her he smirked.

"Ah, Winchester. What can I do for you?" He asked, moving to the side so she could walk in.

"Hi, Peter. Nice to see you too. Are you doing better?" She lifted an eyebrow at him and took off her shoes. She put them on the shoe rack in the huge hallway.

"Did you come over only to ask me how I was doing or do you actually need something?" He led her towards the kitchen.

"Oh, I just wanted to talk." She sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen island and put her phone in front of her.

"Talk? About what? And where is my nephew? Does he still refuse to buy a normal living space and tortures himself by sleeping in the burned-down house?" He pulled out two cups and started the coffee maker.

"Derek is currently at the old house with Scott. And yes, he still lives there. He is way too stubborn to listen to us. Even though it would be safer for him to move somewhere else now that Kate is in town. That woman is a whole new level of crazy. But that's not why I'm here. I need to talk to you about werewolves. And about how they go rogue." Peter turned to look at her.

"Why don't you ask your uncle about it?" He asked and placed one of the full coffee cups in front of her.

"My uncle was in an accident a few days back. I don't really want to bother him now, as I am sure he and my brothers have a lot of stuff to do because the Leviathans are getting all around the USA."

"Yes, I remember you telling me about him being shot. What do you need to know?" Peter sat down on one of the chairs on the other side of the island.

"How does a wolf go rogue?" Y/N asked.

"Depend on the situation. You can be kicked out of the pack, and then if no other pack wants you in, you lose it. You start going more and more feral. That's how omegas are made, but omegas are usually born wolves that go feral. The bitten omegas are more..." Peter stopped talking, thinking about how to say it correctly.

"They're the worst kind, right? The ones that feed on the hearts of humans?" Y/N asked quietly. Peter nodded.

"Yes, they are the worst. I don't know how, but they actually became weak to silver. Us born wolves aren't."

"I know. It is a myth connected to the Argents as they are the oldest line of hunters ever." Y/N agreed. She then pulled her father's journal from the bag she had brought with her.

"Can you look over this to see if there are correct facts?" She pushed the journal towards Peter, who took it in his hands carefully.

"It was my father's and my brothers left it with me just in case I needed it. And I know you know a lot of stuff about the supernatural as you yourself are supernatural. Also, Derek told me you used to have a lot of different bestiaries and other books before..." Y/N didn't finish the sentence when she noticed the pained look on his face.

"Why are you asking me all this? You think the alpha is a bitten wolf?" Peter asked. The girl nodded.

"If it was a born wolf someone would know something. There are not that many of you anymore and my brothers keep tabs on all of the packs with born wolves. They would know if one of them went rogue." Y/N explained.

"Did you tell any of this to Derek?"

"No, are you crazy? You know him. He would go right after the guy and get himself killed in the process." She took a sip of her coffee and watched Peter as he agreed.

"If you are right, and you probably are... We are going to need all the help we can get. Derek is not as strong by himself, your friend Scott still doesn't really know how to have control over his shift, and the sheriff's kid is a skinny human who talks too much. Even with the help of your angel friend, my wolf is not healed fully yet. You are probably the strongest of us right now with your hunter training." Y/N knew what Peter wanted her to do.

"I can't call them here Peter. They have a lot of stuff going on, I told you the Leviathans are everywhere-"

"Y/N, you are creating a pack around yourself. The alpha is going to see you as a threat." Peter said as if it was nothing. Y/N froze in her seat.

"I'm creating a pack around myself? How is that possible? I'm not an alpha, not even a werewolf." The youngest Winchester looked so confused Peter had to laugh.

"It is possible. You have to have the right amount of Spark to pull it off. You are a Winchester. You and your brothers stopped multiple apocalypses. The angels watched over you. You went against multiple gods and came out alive. There is no one else that could do all that."

"So what, I'm an alpha, but not really?" Y/N cringed as she said that. It sounded ridiculous.

"Something like that." Peter shrugged and got up from his chair with her journal in his hands.

"If you'll need me I'll be in the library." With that, he walked away.

"Okay, hold up. You can't just drop that and walk away! Peter!" Y/N yelled as she watched his back disappear up the stairs.

"You son of a bitch." She let out a sigh and put her empty cup in the sink. Her phone buzzed at the same time. She quickly picked it up and looked at the new text. 'There are at least 4 cases where bodies were missing hearts' was all it said.

"Shit." She let out as she grabbed all of her stuff and ran out of the door.

#teen wolf x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #derek hale #stiles stilinski #scott mccall #y/n winchester #winchester!reader #superantural x reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #teen wolf rewrite #peter hale #kind of au?#might be different from spn canon #why are there no gifs of the rooftop scene

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stereknation · 4 months

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Spook: A Ghostly Love Story in Three Parts by zosofi

Summary:

Derek is fifteen when he dies. He's been fifteen for six years when he meets Stiles.

And then suddenly... suddenly things start looking up.

A ghostly romance, as requested by Varlovian for the Teen Wolf Pack Charity Project.

Rating: Teen

Main Character(s): Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski

Additional Character(s): Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Jackson Whittemore, Sheriff Stilinski, Kate Argent, Laura Hale, Alan Deaton, Melissa McCall, Talia Hale

Pairing(s): Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Allison Argent, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore

Tags: Ghost!Derek, Mediator!Stiles, AU, Romance, TWCP, Sterek Campaign, Humor, Angst, Teen Wolf Pack Charity Project, Time Travel

Series: Spook

Words: 38,154

Chapters: 3/3

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 1 year

Note

hi i was just wondering if you knew of any fics with a stranger things crossover? preferably stiles but really any that you know of. thank you so much xx

I sure do! (Also, if anyone is interested, I also have a Steddie fic blog. Just throwing that out there.)

024 by Merlin_Wolfgang_Trades_Hale

(1/? I 1,186 I Teen I No Pairing)

Getting arrested was too much of a risk for a werewolf. It could expose the supernatural and put them all in bigger danger. On a full moon that went all sorts of wrong, Stiles is ditched and left behind to be arrested. With his dad being the Sheriff they assumed Stiles would have a better chance of getting off easy.

But it wasn't Beacon Hills Sheriff's department that arrested Stiles. They don't know who it was, just that they have him. There aren't any answers...until Sheriff Steven Harrington from Hawkins Indiana arrives with his deputy Jane, who claims she find Stiles.

Spilling Over by LilliBla

(9/? I 3,752 I Teen I Steddie)

Will snaps, but an unexpected person shares their trauma and let's him know that he's not alone.

Caught Somewhere in Time by badfanfictionaire

(5/? I 5,489 I Teen I Stydia)

Lydia and Stiles are just having a peaceful moment in the park when the sky opens up and sucks them back in time to 1987.

Chrissy and Eddie are camping in Yellowwood State Forest when two time-traveling weirdos show up at their campsite.

Two strawberry blond brainiacs and their ADHD riddled boyfriends... what could go wrong?

Curiosity Door by bananannabeth

(4/? I 5,681 I Teen i Stydia)

The Ghost Riders' dimension isn't the only one with portals into Beacon Hills.

Dealers Choice by StrangerxImagines

(8/? I 8,067 I Not Rated I No Pairings)

Laura dies in the woods, staring up at the full moon peeking through the tree tops, letting go as the world goes black around her. She wakes up in 1984 in dark murky tunnels in a town she hadn’t been to since her parent’s died and comes face to face with her nineteen year old father. Now stuck in the past Laura does her best to blend in, lying about who she is and where she comes from. Does she warn her father of his fate twenty years in the future or does she remain silent? Laura doesn’t know if changing the future might make things worse but what she does know is that the more time she spends with him the harder it is to keep her secret.

Moonlight by Vexed_Love21

(10/? I 9,711 I General I Steddie)

Steddie being Stiles parents. Instead of his mother dying and Noah being his dad

Holding Hands While the Walls Come Tumbling Down by tabbytabbytabby

(1/1 I 10,092 I Teen I Steve/Stiles)

Stiles gets word of some strange disappearances happening in the town on Hawkins, Indiana. Worried the town might have a Nemeton they don't know about, he sets off to investigate. What he's not expecting is to find himself drawn to the town and more specifically one of its locals, Steve Harrington.

parts of you, forgotten by buddhaghost

(13/? I 21,631 I Not Rated I Nancy/Jonathon)

Jonathan Byers is new at Beacon Hills. Stiles is convinced he's being watched. And then he meets Jonathan's 'little sister', the one who called Stiles her brother, and everything simultaneously makes sense, as well as gets much more complicated.

#teen wolf #steddie #stydia #stiles stilinski #mpreg

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sterek-ao3feed · 2 months

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Paw's Rewind

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/57708118

by Definitively_Different_Drivel

A gangly kid sat, unnaturally still, save for solemn hazel eyes that tracked the pair of kids playing on the swings. He'd fill out later. He knew this. He didn't know why he did, just that it was an immutable fact, like the fact that Laura was the next alpha, or the fact that sometimes, he missed the scents of strangers so deeply it hurt, or the way he dreamed of horrible things that he knew in his heart would never come to pass.

Scott pulled Mischief to stillness with a whisper. "It's that weird kid again. Should we call your dad?"

A young Derek finds himself with strange memories and symptoms, estranging him from his family of birth, everyone except, of all people, Peter.

Claudia Gajos takes note. Between the Stilinskis and Peter, things get rough a few times over but everything ends up ok in the end.

Note: Three parts. Chapter 1: Derek is 10, Stiles is 7 Chapter 2-3: Derek is 13, Stiles is 10 Chapters 4-5: Derek is 21, Stiles is freshly 18 Mature for language, older teenagers getting drunk, and references to sex/sexual acts; nothing explicit on screen.

Words: 31034, Chapters: 6/6, Language: English

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Derek Hale, Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Claudia Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski (Teen Wolf), Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Camden Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Danny Māhealani, Ennis (Teen Wolf)

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Claudia Stilinski/Sheriff Stilinski

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical underage drinking twice, Good Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Everyone Is Alive, Time travel fix most of it, Minor Scott/Allison/Isaac, Minor Jackson/Lydia/Danny with Jackson in middle, Eventual queerplatonic Peter/Stilinski parents, Eventual "Stiles is close to Jackson & company", Warning: Argents/Kate Argent in final part, Fluff and Angst, Final part is a lot of angst built up off-screen that's resolved on-screen, Hale pack has issues, BAMF Claudia, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Families of Choice

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57708118

#Sterek #Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale #Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski #ao3feed Sterek #ao3feed #fanfic

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invisible-storyteller · 1 year

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Mercenary's wolf

Hey, everyone! I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm participating in @teenwolfrarepairevents July event with the following pairings: Day 1: Braeden/Laura Day 2: Scott/Lydia Day 3: Kali/Julia (Jennifer) Day 4: Camden/Laura Day 5: Jordan/Sheriff Day 6: Hayden/Tracy Day 7: Nolan/Brett Day 8: Coach Finstock/Greenberg (in the future) I'm posting the first one (Braeden/Laura - role reversal) here as well, below the cut. You can check out my series for the event on AO3. Happy reading! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Come on. Try it."

Curls of dark hair frame the creature's face where canine teeth shine white and threateningly sharp in the moonlight, and Laura twirls the combat knife idly around her finger before taking it firmly into hand. The creature's eyes assess the weapon with mild curiosity.

"Nice. But mine are better." Claws pop out at the words, and they would serve well as a warning if not for their owner looking at the ravine behind her with poorly hidden despair. Laura eyes the bleeding wound in the werewolf's calf and estimates her survival to be 10 minutes 'til the poison would ultimately overpower the creature's advanced healing. Running would still be futile, even if the creature had any escape routes available.

"My client wants you alive," Laura stresses, but like any other time, the other woman just wouldn't listen.

"You mean he wants to kill me with his own hands," Braeden corrects.

Laura can't help the way her eyes trail over the claw marks running across the woman's neck - an impressing reminder from an alpha that he has claim over Braeden, no matter how far she ventures from home.

"What Deucalion plans to do with you isn't my concern," Laura frankly states, "But he might keep you alive if you are willing to cooperate."

"That man is anything but merciful," Braeden reiterates the same old argument while throwing a glance at the ravine as if to guess the distance below. "None of his mercenaries has succeeded before. What makes you think you're special?"

"I found you," Laura points out, eyes gleaming, "And now you have two options. Take a leap and hope you don't fall to your death... or fight me."

Braeden pretends to mull her options over, but Laura knows her better than to hope for sensibility.

"The second one sounds fun," Braeden finally says and Laura smiles at her predictability.

She pounces with a swift slash of her knife but Braeden ducks from the attack, poison still hindering the werewolf if the pained grunt she lets out when jumping over the mercenary is anything to go by. Laura swings back on instinct and manages to cut the werewolf's palm who growls with the new doze of poison in her veins. Using Braeden's distracted state, Laura tugs on her hair and kneels the werewolf into the stomach before Braeden gathers her bearings and trips her over, smashing the mercenary's head hard into the ground. Laura's vision is blurry when Braeden makes a run towards the cliff, and strangely enough, Laura hopes that she makes the jump.

Braeden looks majestic as she soars over the deep crack in the ground and lands on the other side with a complacent smirk tossed over her shoulder. She's limping as she disappears into the dense forest, probably not as delusional to think she's gotten away for good. Laura fights past her swimming vision as she fishes her phone out of her jacket and types out a quick message, strands of hair gripped tight between her fingers.

Got her DNA. Your location spell better be worth its price.

•♥•

The darkness is hindering but Laura wouldn't be a professional mercenary if she couldn't discern her target's form in a dim abandoned warehouse. Braeden's kneeling in a circle of mountain ash with three hunters looming over her, cackling like some cheaply animated villains, as they take turns shooting wolfsbane-laced arrows into the were's tortured body. Laura is strictly here for business, but even she can admit to herself that she'll have fun gutting them all.

She approaches the scene with light steps, quiet like a predator on a hunt, and creeps up behind one of the hunters with a knife grazing his throat and making the man huff in his struggles. His accomplices finally tear their gaze away from Braeden's hunched form and one of them immediately drops the crossbow to pull a gun on Laura. She's quick to slice the man's throat then and she uses the makeshift shield to dodge the bullets from the hunter before tossing the body towards the gun-bearing man. She manages to duck away from the third hunter and grab the crossbow, aiming it at the man shrugging off his friend's corpse and piercing an arrow through his skull without hesitation. Laura then wrestles with the last standing woman until a direct blow to the head knocks her out, and finally buries a bullet between her eyes with the man's gun. Just to make sure there are no witnesses.

With the hunters eliminated, Laura retrieves the jar of wolfsbane from their bag and deposits it among her own gear. She needed to replenish her stock anyway. Next, she crosses the circle and lays Braeden's wavering body on the ground, ignoring the quiet growls that the werewolf so ungratefully addresses her with. Laura pulls out each arrow and burns the wolfsbane from the contaminated flesh, the sight infuriating enough that the hunter doesn't even relish in Braeden trashing helplessly under her hold. When the last trace of wolfsbane has been cleared from the werewolf's system, Laura stands up with a sigh and breaks the mountain ash circle on her way out.

"Didn't know mercenaries were this caring."

Laura wonders how Braeden is even capable of talking right now as she grabs her own supplies, already wondering where she could hide the bodies, and guesses that the other woman is simply fueled by spite.

"As I've said, I need you alive," Laura repeats, looking over her shoulder to where Braeden is slowly getting up to her feet.

"You didn't need to kill them."

"I hate it when others play with my toy."

Laura expects Braeden to growl at the implication of her being in anyone's possession, but surprisingly, Braeden just looks calculating and perhaps a bit satisfied as she recuperates. "Thanks."

"You have an hour headstart," Laura tells her in response, and Braeden scoffs in something akin to amusement before exiting the building.

Meanwhile, Laura takes a look at the bodies and prepares herself to dig.

•♥•

"He hurt you." It's more of a statement than a question.

Braeden drags her eyes over the scars stretching across Laura's face, and for the first time, Laura feels self-conscious.

"If you're worried about my safety, maybe you should finally let me take you to him," Laura remarks, even if her words have long lost their bite, "He's getting impatient."

For some nebulous reason, she decides that Braeden can't know that Deucalion has threatened to hunt down her family - well, what is left of it, anyhow. There's a chance Braeden will give herself up - you gather that much about someone after chasing them for half a year - and even the thought of that makes Laura's lunch want to resurface.

"Why are you still doing this?"

Braeden's eyes are filled with more concern than any werewolf should ever have for a hunter sent to deliver their pelt. Laura hates everything about this situation, but mostly, she feels betrayed by how fast her heart starts to beat all of a sudden.

"Girl's gotta eat."

"Yeah, but you gotta live first to do that." Braeden jibes, and her look of utter fear is not as new as Laura wants to make herself believe. It's been there for a while, and never for the werewolf's own sake.

She raises a gun on Braeden without any intention to pull the trigger, and tries to recall when it all changed. The way Braeden's face crumbles is heartbreaking but necessary. It has to be.

"I don't want to hurt you," Braeden says, and it sounds a lot like a plea.

The werewolf's eyes flash blue for a second, but it's not a threat, not anymore. It's a visceral reaction to the scars marring the mercenary's flesh, and after such an impossible realization, Laura can no longer hold control over what comes out of her mouth next.

"But you want to mark me." Laura's accusation is loud, bouncing off the walls of the empty subway tunnel. "Want to sink your teeth into me, isn't that right?"

Braeden bares her canines on instinct, eyes squinting in irritation, but Laura catches the way her nose flairs. Sometimes it's so easy to read her.

"You're the one with an obsession."

Laura doesn't even attempt to deny that.

"I'll tell you a secret, Braeden. I actually like wolves." She's forcing her heartbeat to stay steady now as her feet carry her forward. "But now the only thing I see is prey."

There's a moment of silence that stretches on dangerously. In the end, Braeden's mouth twitches at the sides and Laura knows she's busted.

"I'm not the one always running for my life."

"You run from me."

"I run for you," Braeden clarifies, daring to step forward and let the barrel of the gun bump against her chest, "I run so that I won't hurt you. And so that you get further away from him."

Laura feels weirdly trapped, and yet, she recognizes an opportunity when it's presented to her, even when wrapped in the shape of an impossibility offered blatantly and with undeserved kindness. Deep down, Laura knows that the woman offering salvation is one who would try to shelter her from the world as well as drench her claws in the blood of whoever sets out to hurt them. When Braeden wraps her hands around Laura's wrist, it feels like a finality.

"You've got enough money to ditch him," Braeden reasons, eyes mad with hope. Laura isn't sure if she should trust someone like that, but she's also aware that it's too late now. "He can't find you."

"He will send someone after me."

It's a truth they both know from experience, but unlike Braeden, Laura can't lull herself into false security. That's why when Braeden's lips curl into a deadly smile, Laura doesn't understand how her heart can flutter so violently against all logic.

"I think some of his enemies would take great pleasure in hunting him down. Alongside us."

"Us?" And it's obvious wishfulness in her voice, but Laura has gone so long without a future to hang onto and there's something about Braeden that makes her feel like they can face anything together.

All this time, and it's been Braeden poisoning Laura, not the other way around.

The werewolf guides Laura's hand lower until the gun is at her side with Braeden's fingers still warm on her wrist and eyebrows lifting in challenge. "Two women with wolfsbane-laced arrows who can kick ass? I say we have a shot against him." Braeden pauses for a second then, looks to the side and presses her touch deeper into Laura's skin. "I'll protect you."

Braeden is promising much more than those few words would suggest, Laura knows that from the way the werewolf seeks out her pulse point - a primal urge for affirmation that her pack is safe.

They are standing face to face in an abandoned subway tunnel and the glint in Braeden's eyes when she raises her questioning gaze at the mercenary is the most thrill Laura has felt in a while.

"What do you say?" Braeden leers around the tease of her fangs, "Wanna make a deal, mercenary?"

The grin Laura sends back is nothing short of wolfish.

#laura hale x braeden #original: tw fanfic #teen wolf rarepair #twrarepairweek #scydia #kali x julia #laura x camden #jordan x sheriff #hayden x tracy #nolan x brett #finstock x greenberg

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ladamedusoif · 1 year

Text

Visiting - Chapter Two: Bright in the Sea

(moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

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

Word Count: 6.5k (??)

Rating: Mature; will become Explicit in later chapters.

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41 and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; thinly-veiled racism and discrimination; accent discrimination; "anti-woke" culture war nonsense from academics; not all historians, etc; alcohol consumption; discussion of anxiety and panic disorders as well as coping methods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, more or less.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we running you ragged already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um. Benjamin. Are those…giraffes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck??”

“I know. It’s toxic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raises his eyebrows. “Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who doesn’t?”

And then he winks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That fucking exaggerated pronunciation, again.

The red mist descends.

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

Lacroix looks startled, clearly unused to someone letting rip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, you wink at him.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

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

Reminder: everyone has an accent.

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

#visiting fic #visiting masterlist #mr ben snl #professor ben x OFC #mr ben #pedro pascal character fanfic #mr ben x ofc #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #Spotify

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