toomanytookas

[toomanytookas]

Y'all are amazing. Reblog to hug the person you’re reblogging from.

#you know I’m a barnacle

[toomanytookas]

El, I suppose this is when you learn that sometimes I fixate on elements of what people write that kinda make it seem like I’m missing the point of the overall sweetness/romance of things…

But I genuinely can’t stop being drawn to all of the moments that you so expertly incorporate flashes of reference to Parker's relationship with Alex as well as her relationship with him being gone.

That passage right at the top when we begin to understand that they had some idealogical differences in relation to the marketing of her writing spoke VOLUMES about their dynamic. And it creates such a lovely flicker of hope that this time around might be different for her, not only in terms of getting to have full creative freedom, but also the support of someone (or perhaps someones in the form of the creative group) who maybe won't be so focused on the idea of mainstream success...

I also was just so, so enamoured with this:

You know this is the point you should politely share your story, but the W word had followed you everywhere for the last few years, and you just wanted to bask in being you for a while. Rather than the you that made people avert their eyes and cross the street through awkwardness.

It's such a fantastic description of the way in which grief and its presence in your life can kind of become you when people are aware of it, and I just love that Parker gave herself this moment to not make it about that for her? I will be really interested to see how she and Marcus explore their experiences of loss together somewhere down the line, but getting to have freedom to be outside of those topics for a while can be so important, too (perhaps there's an irony in my focusing on it for this comment lol).

I love how you contrasted the creative group's warmth with that sterile and uncomfortable grief support group environment. It's such a quick reference but again says so much about both Parker's past and the unfolding present. Mole certainly seems like fun! I hope we get to know her a bit more as the story continues. :)

Ok ok ok last thing and then I'll leave you be:

This line from Marcus literally made my heart soar: “That’s great! I’m so happy we get to keep you."

I'm so happy that she's found a place that fits for her and can't wait to see where everything goes from here.

Series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter moodboard

Afterword

Series summary: A story about hope and new chapters.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x f!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Rating: 18+

See the series masterlist for more information and for tropes/warnings.

Chapter 2

You spend the next few days unpacking, keeping busy. You’d closed the door to the small boxy room you’d earmarked as your office on your first night in your new place, but it was time to tackle it.

You tear open the parcel tape, peel it away, and open up the first of the cardboard boxes. A stack of copies of your first book, a detective novel printed in a few different languages and cover options, blink up at you. You heave them out and place them on the bare shelf above your writing desk.

In the bottom of the box is your pick-me-up folder. A carefully selected number of book reviews, magazine snippets, and online comments that you’d printed out. Alex had wanted to get them all mounted and framed, but you preferred to keep them tucked away and private.

He’d always supported your writing, but with his typical relentless pursuit of success. He’d helped shape the story, persuaded you to make it darker and grittier to hit the points that would sell, and his instincts had been right. It flew off the shelves, leaving behind a big cheque and the financial freedom to write whatever you wanted afterwards. But it had left you feeling a little hollow. You'd do things differently next time.

Next time.

You thought you’d start writing again right away, but after a celebratory holiday in Hawaii and a few weeks to let the dust settle, life got…uninspiring.

Was this now next time? Your plan and hope was that a new place and a new setup would kick start something.

Now that you have the chance to write anything, where should you start?

You work late into the night until you are left with a veritable fort of empty boxes and a sore back. You pick up the green paper bag from The Stationery Stop and set about arranging your new supplies on your desk. You line the pencils up perpendicular to your laptop and pile the notebooks up on the side.

As you rummage into the bottom of the bag for the last few trinkets, you remember the flyer you’d been given, which was now missing. What day did Marcus say the group met? Tuesdays? Thursdays? You needed to pop back into town again in the morning anyway. Maybe you’d nip in to double-check and see a friendly face.

---

You exit the florist struggling a little under the large bouquet of pink gerberas that you’d unwittingly purchased. You’d intended to pick up a small house plant for your desk, but the woman behind the counter was so enthusiastic and colourful that you were lucky you hadn’t left spending more.

When you’d told her you were a writer, still a term that you couldn't say without looking down at your shoes and waiting for the “Oh, anything I might have read?” question, she’d excitedly asked you if you knew about Pencils and Pals, and practically shoved you out of the door and into The Stationery Stop.

It’s quieter inside today without the Saturday throng of customers, but that feeling in the air is the same. There's something about this place. It has a calm kind of magnetism, like the peace of a library or the hush of an old museum.

Your eyes dart to the counter when you enter, but there’s no one behind it today. You take a walk to a display of birthday cards, shift the bunch of flowers under your arm, and leaf through a few, thinking you might actually send your mother’s on time this year.

“Back again?” Marcus comes out of the storeroom behind you, carrying a pile of small canvases all wrapped in plastic. You don't know where he buys his t-shirts from, but the man looks like a walking GAP advert. Today's is a crisp white with a shallow V-neck that draws your gaze as you spin around.

“If you thought that would make me jump, you should know I have three brothers and am immune to pretty much every form of practical joke.”

“I’m not the scaring sort.” He drops the pile onto a nearby table. “But I do like a challenge.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen one of these in years!” You take a few steps towards the counter and wind the handle of the vintage desktop pencil sharpener that sits there. “Why do I have an impulse to stick my finger in there?”

“Please don’t.” He shudders. “I thought it was a fun throwback too, until some kid nearly took a fingernail off.”

You grimace and pull your hand back.

“I actually came back to ask about your group, ‘Artists Rehab’ is it? I thought it was on Thursdays, but I couldn’t remember, and I didn’t want to offend the one person I know here.” You slide the birthday card across the counter and pick up a stack of post-its from the impulse buy section. “Although if I keep spending money every time I step foot in here, I might have to reconsider this friendship.”

He returns your smile, and you see a hint of blush creep up to his ears.

“Just call me your friendly neighbourhood pencil-man.”

You lean forward, your expression serious. “Do you shoot erasers out of your fingertips?”

He checks over his shoulder as if he were about to let you in on a state secret. “Only when surprised.”

You hand over a few bills, and as he drops your change into your palm, you spot his wedding ring. That warm feeling you had coming in here now has a slight chill to it.

“Does…Mrs Pencils come along on Thursdays too?” Your mouth is now a little dry. “It’d be nice to meet her.”

There’s a flicker of something across his face. It’s a look you recognise, one of a sore spot being poked.

“No, she’s….She died.” He twists the ring on his finger a tad self consciously. “It was a long time ago, but I’ve never- Sorry, you didn’t ask for all of that.”

You know this is the point you should politely share your story, but the W word had followed you everywhere for the last few years, and you just wanted to bask in being you for a while. Rather than the you that made people avert their eyes and cross the street through awkwardness.

“I’m really sorry.” The words tumble out before you remember how much you loathe them.

His eyes flash warmly again, and he slips another flyer into your carrier bag with your receipt. “Thank you. And I really hope I- we’ll- see you on Thursday.”

He steps out from behind the desk to hold the door open with his foot, your hands now full with today’s purchases.

You give him your name and another smile. “I’ll try to make it.” You say as you turn to leave, already knowing you’ll be there.

Marcus contemplates you as you walk away, the small bounce in your step and the swing of your bright coat. He leans into the window frame and watches until you disappear around the corner.

Talking to you feels easy. He likes that you just say whatever comes into your mind. Likes that you made him smile on this random Tuesday and that he might see you again in two days' time.

---

You shift nervously from one foot to the other in the doorway of the shop, wiping your feet more times than necessary on the rough coir mat.

Marcus is at the end of the room, unloading folding chairs from a stack and placing them next to several small round tables. The place is busy with people already. He looks up at you, and the expression on his face, the one that matches the warmth and welcome of this little place, makes you feel like you could melt into your boots.

He's wearing a button-down shirt in a dark navy brushed cotton, and you see him fiddle with the cuff button for a moment. You wonder if it's new, and perhaps if he chose it specifically for tonight.

He’s next to you in a few long strides, and for a breath, you think he’s about to pull you into a hug, your brain only registering this at the last second.

“Hello again,” he touches the top of your shoulder lightly and the skin beneath your shirt prickles, “I’m glad you’re here.”

You unwind your soft silky scarf from around your neck and stuff it into your backpack. “I’m glad too. Thanks again for the invite.”

He gestures towards the group. “Come on, they don’t bite.” He points to a young man with long dark bangs and a jet black floor-length coat who you see pull a ball of yarn and knitting needles out of his tote bag. “Not even him.”

“I’m so bad with names.” You confess. “I hope I can remember them all next week.”

Marcus smiles reassuringly at you. “I’m happy to hear you’re already coming back next week, but do you want to hear a secret?”

You lean in to him slightly. “Always.”

“I can’t remember all their names either.” He slides his hand into the pocket of his dark wash jeans and shrugs. “I gave them all nicknames at the start, and now I’m stuck with them.”

“Oh, really!” You laugh and your eyebrows shoot upwards. “Well, now you have to tell me what they all are, and I promise I’ll only bring it up weekly. Forever.”

He shakes his head at you but the dimple in his cheek tells you he likes your gentle prodding.

“Ok.” He runs his hand across his patchy, stubbled jaw. “See that tall guy over there?” You spot an older man with posture the army would be proud of. “That’s ‘Ruler’.”

“Figures.” You nod.

“The woman with the bright blonde cropped hair? ‘Highlighter’.”

He points out a few more people. There’s ‘Paperclip’ who wraps everyone in a tight embrace as they walk in. ‘Thumbtack’ who no-one seems to want to sit with. ‘Whiteout’ who is already crossing out everything they’ve written on their page and, finally, ‘Mole’, with her stack of Moleskin notebooks on her lap, each more dogeared and fuller than the last.

“How long until I get a themed nickname?” You joke.

“You already have one.” He grins as he walks back to the group, leaving you wondering.

You pick a seat next to ‘Mole’. She’s a writer too, and she has an infectious spark, a cute British accent, and an easy confidence that makes you want to read or listen to anything she has to say. She writes her phone number on an orange post-it and sticks it to the front of your notebook, a coffee date already a foregone conclusion at this point.

It’s a motley crew of creatives. Some are painting, others drawing, sewing, or writing. You’d been worried it would feel like the support groups you’d reluctantly attended, at other people’s insistence, after Alex was gone. All hard-backed chairs, harsh strip lighting, plastic cups of orange juice, and boxes of Kleenex. But this felt welcoming, fun, just what you didn’t know you needed.

You notice how Marcus takes time to talk to everyone in the group. He holds himself in a charismatic way, making every person light up when he shows an interest in what they’re working on. You could see him as a teacher or a boy scout leader.

When the last of the group pack up their things and leave, you find yourself hanging back and folding your papers away slowly. One by one, they leave the shop, and their cheery goodbyes fade away to leave a quiet stillness.

Marcus flicks the radio on low and starts putting the store to bed for the night. You like watching him from back here, the practised way he lets the roman blinds cascade down the windows, the soft taps of the keys of the cash register as he turns it off, the swish of the straw brush as he sweeps the floor.

His laptop is open on the counter, and you notice a pair of brown eyes that match his and a crown of chocolate ringlets radiating out from the screensaver.

“Your daughter?” You guess.

You like how his face glows at this. “Yeah, that’s her. Missy. She hates that photo now. It’s ancient. She’s grown up and is away at college.” His shoulders sag a little. “Great kid, calls her Dad every Sunday without fail.”

You’ve stalled as much as you can, so you wrap yourself up in your coat and sling your backpack onto your shoulders.

“I bet you’re a good Dad.”

He hums. “Depends which week you ask her.”

He pulls on his jacket and pats down the pockets for his keys.

“Is there anyone picking you up tonight, a partner or..?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m-. It's just me.”

After he switches off the lights and punches in the alarm code, you and Marcus step outside onto the street.

“So did you have a good time tonight?” He flips through his bunch of keys until he finds a brass coloured one and locks the door.

“I really did.” You nod. You’ve smiled so much tonight that you feel a little drunk off it. “I’ve always written alone, but it felt really good to be in a room full of other people being creative. Inspiring, I suppose.”

You feel him relax as he falls into step next to you. “That’s great! I’m so happy we get to keep you.”

There’s a tiny swoop in your stomach, and then the memory of something he said earlier comes back to you.

“Hey.” You prod him on the arm. “You never told me what my nickname is?”

There’s not even a beat before he says. “Parker.”

You think for a moment as the heels of your shoes click off the pavement in synchronised taps.

“Like the brand of fancy pens?”

“Exactly.”

You knit your brows together. “You’re a pencil guy, though, right?”

“Yeah,” he smiles but keeps his gaze forward, “your friend the pencil guy.”

Your friend. It feels nice and your cheeks are rising faster than you can stop them.

Later on, as you twist and turn in your bed and hear the pipes creaking as the heating comes on, you’re a little confused as you think back to why he chose ‘Parker’. Is it a compliment? Those pens are pretty high-end after all. Is it as simple as writer = pen?

Or are you reading way too much into this, and should you just be relieved you’re not ‘stapler’?

Next chapter

Taglist:

Apologies for weird formatting, blame Tumblr!

@missladym1981 @rhoorl @tuquoquebrute @5oh5 @anavatazes

@stevie75 @ranahx @darkheartgatita @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @titlee78

@amyispxnk @nerdieforpedro @katareyoudrilling @maried01 @survivingandenduring

@pedrit0-pascalit0 @casa-boiardi @iloveenya @lwfics

@msjarvis @heareball @yorksgirl @maggiemayhemnj @morallyinept @khindahra

@inept-the-magnificent @auteurdelabre @trulybetty @lizzie-cakes @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain

@julesonrecord @magpie-to-the-morning @burntheedges @schnarfer @imaswellkid

@janaispunk @sin-djarin @604to647 @toomanytookas @bubble-pop-eclectic @djarinmuse

@fuckyeahdindjarin @titabel @nerdieforpedro

@anoverwhelmingdin

#we can be heroes #chaptered #ongoing #read #author: secretelephanttattoo

[toomanytookas]

Look, I know we decided he wouldn't be good for me, but just this once can I take the puppy home? Please? I just want to wrap this soggy, gentle man in a towel, smooth the worry from his forehead, and give him the biggest cuddle.

You've managed to pack so much hinted backstory into this, Al, but at such a perfect level that I don't feel lost or like I have to know more in order to be invested in his little mope and their sparkly reunion. It's excellent!

Raining in Baltimore - Marcus Pike one shot

Marcus Pike x f!reader

Rating: Pure fluff but this blog is 18 + only please

Summary: Where you should be, no one's around

Word count: 792

Content: Sad, quite soggy Marcus POV but happy ending, some snogs

A/N: This is my little drabble/one shot type thing for @undercoverpena April Showers's Challenge! I've never written Marcus before and inspiration struck when I was wide awake at 4am, so hopefully this makes sense and isn't a fever dream of fluff and rain. Counting Crow's Raining in Baltimore was circling in my brain and this is the result of that rather melancholy tune combined with Marcus's puppy dog eyes! It’s actual fluff for real this time I promise.

Listen to: Counting Crows Raining in Baltimore (obvi)

It’s raining in Baltimore and Marcus Pike doesn’t have a raincoat. He walks in urgent, sure strides as he pushes himself onto the train, gripping a cold metal pole to steady his feet on the slippery floor. Resists the urge to shake his head like a dog to remove the raindrops that now soak his hair. A steady drip, drip, drip rolling onto his skin, a puddle pooling uncomfortably at the soles of his sodden feet.

Golden retriever energy, that’s what you’d said to him. It should have been cute, a term of endearment, but the bite in your voice made him aware there was an edge to the supposed compliment. It was hard to judge, in a phone call coming from 3,500 miles away, nuances get lost in the ether and he couldn’t reach out to touch your face for reassurance.

He mulls it over sullenly now, in the cold light of the end of the day. Was it something he’d said, or not said, that caused a rupture in the line? A crackle that couldn’t be smoothed out with a kiss pressed onto your lips, a clutch of your body to his. Marcus can’t help but let a frown form on that normally easy face, frustrated when he’s trying real hard to keep it together, desperate to make being so far from you work.

There was no answer when he tried to ring you this morning. He’s lonely, all he ever wanted was a big love. Now he needs a raincoat and a phone call. Maybe a plane ride.

He’s left the damp, muggy carriage and is back out into the stormy street. The rain is relentless, so he stops trying to fight it, trudging and constant, attempting to quiet the circus that’s taken up residence in his head, replaying your last stilted conversation and wondering how he could have rescued it. Made you understand how he hates coming home to an empty apartment, that not waking up to the feel of your skin against his is almost painful. A dull ache that he can’t shift. A restlessness that doesn’t sit with his usual enthusiasm for life, the shine disappearing from his eyes the moment he realises, once again, that you’re not in the bed with him.

Just one more block to go. He’s soaked to the bone now, wipes uselessly at his eyes, decides against running the last few yards. Braces himself for everything in his apartment being exactly as he left it first thing this morning. Resolves to call you, try and make amends for whatever it was he did. Worries at his lip, knows really, it was leaving for this job that did it. Something he can’t undo.

He feels heavy, walking up the stairs, careful not to slide on the wet stone steps. Prepares himself to enter a cold, empty apartment. He lets the sadness of missing you settle into him as he searches for his keys, hard metal against his now freezing fingers.

A rush of warmth hits him as he swings open the door.

“Marcus! I’m so sorry I…” he doesn’t let you finish the sentence, a burst of energy overwhelms you as he takes you in his arms, kisses the words right out of your mouth with an urgency you don’t normally feel from him. It knocks the breath right out of you, makes you sink happily into him despite his soaking clothes.

He is cold to the touch, you press your palms to his face, try to share some of your body heat, gaze into those dark brown eyes and search for the light in them that you love so much.

His eyes shine right back at you and he looks so adorably confused, “Sweetheart, I can’t believe you’re actually here? I thought I’d upset you, I couldn’t bear it.”

“Marcus, my love,” you’re peeling his jacket off, undoing the buttons of the shirt that clings to his broad chest and wet skin, “I was just mad at you because I missed you too much. Decided there was only one way to fix that.”

He’s shivering as you pull his belt undone, fingers deft as you unbutton his trousers. “Let’s get you in a hot shower and then I’m going to make you pancakes.”

He swoops in for another kiss as he steps out of his trousers, pressing himself against you with a longing that brings a flutter to your belly, as you tangle together.

This man. So earnest, so pure, impossible to be angry at. You’d worried that his unending kindness might damped your desire for him over time, but instead it grew with each sweetness, with every puppy-dog look in your direction.

“You coming in with me baby?”

“Hell yes.” You answer, pulling your t-shirt off over your head, enjoying his bright eyes taking you in. You trace a finger against those beautiful pouty lips, “Remind me to get you a raincoat baby.”

Note: All images from pinterest. Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tagging in a couple of peeps i think would enjoy Marcus (let me know if you'd like to be taken off/added): @pascalssbabyy @toomanytookas @katareyoudrilling @luxurychristmaspudding @secretelephanttattoo

@freelancearsonist @bitchwitch1981

#the mentalist #oneshot #read #author: schnarfer

[toomanytookas]

javier peña in every episode of narcos

1x04 the palace in flames

#amen #narcos #non-fic

[toomanytookas]

Oh my goshhhhhhh. This was hypnotically sensual. I got so wrapped up in it in the most glorious way!

Jo, the way you imbue even your most smutty scenes with such comforting relationship dynamics and acts of consideration and care makes me swoon and feel so safe and warm every single time.

I loved this soooo much: Until now, you weren’t sure if it was possible to be more in love with him. Then he proved that even up in the air he thought of nothing but what was best for you.

The whole fic absolutely just flooded me with the desire to experience this level of intense trust and admiration and worship of a partner. The way they get so lost and wild as they revel in their physical connection was so delicious. I loved all of the praise that Frankie lavished on the reader, and the exchanges of dominance between them was so fun and sexy.

You did suuuch a great job of conveying the thrill of (sufficiently safe) danger due to them standing (flying? Hah) on the precipice of the unravelling of Frankie’s control amidst a display of one of his biggest and most impressive competencies (I swear that wasn’t a euphemism). I particularly enjoyed that detail of how shoddy a job his landing was because it perfectly conveyed that juxtaposition between his capabilities and how he was just so overwhelmed with the intensity of his need to feel the reader and be with her after that incredibly intense blow job (which I looooooooved).

I’m going to come back to read this soooo many more times because it is just so satisfying and heady and HOT. 💕

up sky, low high

frankie morales x f!reader | frankie morales masterlist

summary: frankie takes you on a heli-ride. you decide to test his competency and take him for a ride.

word count: 1.9k warnings: smut. 18+. there's mouth to cock action in the sky - new kink for jo? maybe. jo's interpretation of how to fly a heli is deffo a warning in itself. everyone is safe. remember he's a professional, but don't try this in the air bbys. jo’s spelling—written on phone, forgive me. moodboard not reflective of reader. an: this wouldn't be possible without @morallyinept who not only thotted with me, told me to write this, filled me with confidence at the halfway point when i sent it to her but also made the prettiest banner and moodboard for this (see at the bottom). babe ily, thank you so much for this.

It’s not ideal—not even close to safe.

Finger pushing in on the button that releases the elements of your seatbelt as you swallow, staring at him. Gawking, in fact.

Frankie always looks good, a fact not fiction.

Whether it’s first thing in the morning, sleep in his eyes—fingers scratching over his soft stomach as he yawns. Or when his eyes are hidden under the bill of his hat, dark, all mahogany brown pupils blown with lust as the thing on the television becomes forgotten.

And while he does always look incredible, there’s something criminal about the way he looks right now. Piloting, all in his element, wearing fucking competency like he was the one who first birthed it as he keeps the helicopter in the air.

Short flight, he’d said when he’d helped you into the rental.

Now, you could bet on it.

Because you're not even sure how long you’ve been in the air, too busy gazing, hungrily undressing him as he flicks switches and checks gauges. Your understanding of what he was doing lost, barely reaching a basic level.

What you do know is that if he reaches over, slides his hand up your dress and touches the fabric covering your pussy, he’d find them soaked.

But then, he’d also likely notice the way you’re taking shallow breaths, that you’ve been squirming for friction for the past so many instructions—

Because of his voice.

It all low, husky—dragged through gravel when it comes through the headset. Pointing out sights, places, but he’s the only thing you want to gaze at from this height. From any height.

That’s why the thought had arrived, to begin with, the lucrative one. The one so far gone that you try not to consider logistics and just trust in the fact he’d stop you if it was too unsafe. Your voice barely steady through the microphone, asking—layered and wrapped with demand, as your pulse quickens and your palms become slick with sweat.

You know the idea is ridiculous. Yet, somehow, you find yourself moving up onto your knees, digging them into the chair you’d just been seated on.

That’s when you see it. The glimmer, the spark, before he whines out that he’ll maintain altitude as you palm him over his cargo pants. Feeling him harden, pressing against the zipper, all thick, long and delicious as your mouth waters.

Because you need him in your mouth.

A thing you must murmur because suddenly he’s helping—lifting his hips as he whispers an oh fuck, when you drag his layers down and your hand wraps around his cock. More so when you move your wrist, dipping your head to slide your tongue to lick up the bead of want already there at the tip.

Flicking your gaze up, you find hungry eyes staring back—ones lit by the sun, shades a plenty making up the lust-filled gaze that makes your mouth open wider as you take as much of him as you can.

Fuck it’s glorious.

Both the thrum of vibrations through the cushion seat under your knees as he keeps the thing in the air and the feel of his hot length sliding against your tongue. As you take him. As you make him hiss through gritted teeth when you try to take a little more of him than you usually manage—tears springing in your eyes and your throat constricting around him—

“Careful, querida,” he soothes.

Large hand cupping the back of your head, easing, aiding, as his cock rests at the entrance of your mouth, placed perfectly on your lower lip. Breath coming back to you; eyes blinking as he darts his eyes from the world below him to you.

“You okay?”

Until now, you weren’t sure if it was possible to be more in love with him. Then he proved that even up in the air he thought of nothing but what was best for you.

Nodding, spit trailing down your chin, droplets falling to your chest where it pools as fabric meets skin, you smile. Gleam. Grin. Before making him swallow a moan as you take him again, his head falling back.

It’s then, when you hollow your cheeks do you feel him shift, allowing him, as he gently thrusts to slide his length as far down your throat as it allows. Good girl, so good, my good girl—

Humming around him at his praise, a blend of languages as he calls you pretty and perfect. And you can tell he’s close, taste it on your tongue as he begins to rock his hips, as he begins to hiss—teeth biting down on his lip, imagining his knuckles whitening around the cyclic stick.

It’s enough to make you come from the thought—close to ruining your own panties further as you press your thighs together.

Closing your lips around him, sucking and adorning, showing him, etching your love for him with the way your tongue swirls over the tip, hand gripping his thigh as he groans your name. It followed by s’close, m’close baby—

Then he pulls you off him, all with care. Spit connecting your lips to his tip as you stare at him in confusion. The line dropping, snapping—it clinging to the curls at the base of him, soaking his hair like dew on a spring morning.

“Frankie…”

It’s all you manage to croak out. Eyes wide, thoughts barely present, all cock-drunk and adrenaline-fuelled—the scent of him still there, around your nose, musk and engine oil.

“Need to land,” he replies, short, jaw tight—cock angry and throbbing between his thighs as he flicks a switch. “Can’t… can’t fuck you, unless I land.”

You’re not sure he’s ever landed so quickly, never mind so clunky. Remembering stories, how he gloats at his prowess at most of his land landings. But you have no time to question, think, or ask, before he pulls off his belt, headset and hat before reaching to yank you into his lap.

It’s clumsy—a mess of limbs, a tight squeeze as your hands skate around his neck. But you forget about it all when his mouth crashes to yours. Kissing you so hard and hungrily your teeth clash. His breath is hot in your mouth as he pants at the feel, likely tasting himself as he slips his tongue into yours.

And it’s warm, his tongue. Licking into your mouth, large hands around your waist brushing your clothed core against his cock—the hiss reverbing down your throat as you swear you feel him shake. Tremble. So desperate for you that it makes him quiver.

You love kissing him.

Could spend hours doing it. Not caring about jaw aches when you’re tangled up with him. Like right now. In some field, in some place—

“Need t’fuck you, baby. Can I fuck you please?” he asks, voice low, but tinged with a plea.

His hand balls up your dress, the other hand hooking a finger in to pull your soaked underwear from your pussy before groaning at the sight. “Hold them for me, baby.”

Swallowing, smiling—you do. Lifting, nudging yourself closer as your knees screech on the leather as you become full of molten hunger. Hovering over him as he eases the head of his cock to your slick entrance, sliding it through your folds, eyes focused on you.

“Can’t wait.”

“Then, don’t,” you whisper.

Then he hisses as he pushes in, right between his teeth. One that’s born at the back of his throat and makes an entrance into the air. Cuts. Slices. The sound so fucking hot that you clench around him when he bottoms out—mouth open in an O at how full, stretched and stuffed you feel.

“No te muevas—lemme feel you, baby. Fuck—”

Your smile widens—practically smirking. Shifting on him as the hand on your waist tightens its hold. But, you’re not listening. Even less so when you press an open-mouth kiss to his skin as you begin to move, to slowly slide your pussy up and down his shaft.

“Fuck, querida—feel so—good—incredible. Tu perfecto. Made for me, you know that…”

It’s layered—all in a breath; you answer similarly when you say that you do. Practically pressing it into the air as you pant, resting your forehead on his shoulder, as the two of you are quick to find a pace.

It’s almost drowned by how wet you are, how loud it is when he begins to thrust up into you. All aching for one another, practically feral as you feel your slick clings to your inner thighs—likely smudging against his skin as your fist clenches at his shirt. Clit brushing against the tangle of coarse hair, you’re soaking, that makes you dizzy as he begins to fuck up into you.

All deep thrusts. Making you moan—feeling nothing but good. Perfect. Amazing.

Just how he always makes you feel this way. Every, single, time—

“Need you to come, baby,” he strains, rasps, groans as you feel his hand—all expert, calloused in the right places—snake between the two of you.

It’s there, trying to disguise between letters: desperation. Despair. His touch confirms it, finding your bundle of nerves as he makes you gasp, arch, tighten around him as your hand finds refuge on the back of his neck. Your fingers slide into his sweat-soaked curls, smearing against your fingers as you clutch, grip and grasp.

And you’re aware of it now. How the cabin is warmer—windows likely smothered in perspiration—but it’s nothing compared to the heat of your body. It licks at your neck, at the base of your spine, the backs of your thighs that meet your calves.

But you’re lost in it, in him. Wanting nothing more than to come; unable to speak from how much you want to. More so as his hips cant up into you, as you begin to see white in the corner of your vision—as your body becomes more fire than bone.

Tightening around him as he shifts, an angle that makes you see fucking stars as you whine his name like it’s made of one syllable.

“—that’s it, querida. Fuck, s’good for me, I love—“

It building, so near to snapping as you hear him babbling, rambling. Your mouth is just open against his neck, moaning—the noise slipping out of you as it slams into you. His voice fading, the world going quiet as you come undone, all pulsing, all clenching down on him as it crests.

But his hips push you through it. Chasing, seeking. His pace is all sloppy, difficult, lost as you blink your eyes open to see the way his face is scrunched, lips over his teeth. And if you hadn’t just, you swear you’d come against from the sight.

That look of sheer determination, skin bathed in sweat before his eyes find yours—crystallising, glazed over and fucked out—

“Come for me, baby,” you whisper.

And his expression pauses. Relaxes.

Smooths.

His hand tightens on your hip, grunting out your name—burying it into the air as his hips stutter. Then, he whines. Spilling inside of you as he collapses back into the chair, you pressed against him, jaw all slack and his eyes clenched shut.

And you swear you can feel his heartbeat. It is all out of step with your own.

Not that you care.

Smiles painted on your faces as your eyes met his, breaths ragged, your finger wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

Before his lips slide back over yours, kissing you, writing gratitude against your mouth as the muscles in his neck flex under your palm.

an: look how pretty this issssssss. thank you so much, jett.

#triple frontier #oneshot #read #author: undercoverpena #omg jo look at me I’m commenting outside of ao3 #idk why i never comment over here #just some weird mental block #but I’m trying to challenge myself to break that #so here I am #shouting from the tumblr rooftops about how much I loved this #(and of course you!!)

[toomanytookas]

I’ve not been commenting on things lately because I feel like I yell at you too much already but I HAVE TO for this one, Al.

Please tell me how a silly little half thought like “is Joel doing something delicious?” turned into this not just delicious but decadently, achingly sexy image:

He’s holding you so tight it almost hurts, a pain so delicious you’re desperate for him, want him to bruise you and show that for this moment you belong to him.

Because I NEED to STEAL that genius so I can enjoy the scorching HEAT of what it creates all for myself. I’ll give it back, I just want to be selfish and take it with me on a little trip and get to hold it in my hand and giggle at how wonderful it is and let it tell me lovely stories while I’m all tucked up in bed for a little while. Oh, wait… I guess that kinda happens already. 😂

It is immensely difficult to provide a meaningful edit when you have to stop for a breather to clear your head every few lines 🥵, so I am very grateful that you are willing to accept my 4am ramblings about verb tense agreement as a passable beta read. Getting to work with your writing feels like being given the sweetest candy that hits all of the right notes in my brain and it is always SO much fun to get to see the final product, especially when it’s as delightful and sensual and breathtaking as this.

Nicest Things Part 3: Most Ardently

Neighbour!Joel x f!reader

Rating: 18 + only please

Summary: I can resist everything but temptation

Word count: 1,777

Content: Gratuitous Austen references, Joel Miller AU but no ages mentioned (everyone is over 18 but they can be whatever you would wish), big swears, bad boyfriend mentioned, minimal descriptions of reader, LOOK AWAY if you don't want a spoiler - we got infidelity, we got smut! Snogs and thigh riding. Always Fleabag coded.

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 4 - coming soon

A/N: I did genuinely start off writing this thinking it would just be a kiss but... Well, Joel Miller and reader had other ideas. I feel like you guys (gn) are going to enjoy this one. Apologies to Jane Austen for using her work as basically foreplay.

Reminder: You're staying with your uncle this summer and your friendship with his unreasonably hot neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing. Only one small hitch, the long-term boyfriend waiting for you back at home.

Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being my original Austen inspiration, to @pascalssbabyy & @luxurychristmaspudding for holding my hand whilst I had a wobble or two& to @toomanytookas for being the ultimate beta reader.

Most Ardently

It’s scorching in the kitchen. And it’s not just because Joel Miller is sitting across the room from you, clutching your well-thumbed copy of Pride and Prejudice. He’s reading to you in that low, honied voice and with each hushed, drawn-out syllable you feel a little like you might be ascending to heaven, letting his words wash over you and dampen your skin.

The blissful summer evening light streams through the kitchen windows, bringing with it the lingering Texas heat, which is melding with the warmth from the oven and the hob, bestowing a glow to your cheeks, as you chop and weigh out ingredients for the feast you’re cooking up. You’ve slipped into a summer dress and pulled your hair up out of your face, yet it hasn’t made you any less hot, hot, hot. You drag the back of your hand against the perspiration gathering on your forehead.

Your phone is on silent, but you still see out of the corner of your eye as it lights up with an incoming call. You peer over at it. Shit, your boyfriend is ringing you. First time he’s tried to ring since you got to Texas. You quietly turn it over, screen now facing downwards, squish that edge of panic down that you always get when you see his name flash up on your phone. Yes, always. You don’t want to roll that thought around your head right now, no need to dig at that scab. You mentally blank it out. Blank him out.

You take a swig of the red wine that’s definitely growing on you, try to focus on Austen fused with the soothing lilt of Joel. You’ve picked out chapter 34 and Darcy is about to attempt his disastrous proposal to Elizabeth.

Joel reads; "She answered with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in agitated manner, and thus began-”    

Joel stops reading for a moment, a frown etched onto that beautiful face, “So, Darcy’s actually in love with Lizzie?”

“Of course,” you laugh, “wouldn’t you be?”

“Course,” Joel’s laugh echoes your own and you’re reminded how much you love the sound, how ever since you first heard that almost boyish laugh you’ve become addicted to it, feel it right down to your bones. He takes another sip of his red wine, “Ok where were we… right, he’s just turned up at her motel.”

“They’re staying at someone’s house Joel, there weren’t motel’s in England in the 1800’s.“

“Yeah, yeah,” he clears his throat, begins to read as Darcy, “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you - hang on, baby, he’s fucking this up, isn’t he?”

“Sure is. Not very romantic being told someone is struggling to try and stop being in love with you.”

Joel continues to read aloud, adding in his thoughts as Darcy well and truly fucks it up his proposal, "I like Lizzie, she’s got sass.”

You turn your head over your shoulder to agree with Joel, only to find he’s placed the book down on the table and has suddenly come up right close behind you. He slides his hands around your waist, strong arms pulling you up onto your tiptoes, so you’re leant against him, “Reminds me of someone I know.”

He leans down so the scruff of his beard prickles against the sensitive skin on your neck and you groan at the sensation, fingers splayed out in front of you on the counter, as you try and steady your breathing and not rut back against him, “Joel…”

“I’m trying real hard, but I can’t not touch you baby. I know… I know you’re in a tricky spot and I don’t want mess anything up for you. You know how much I want you, right? I’m gonna respect whatever you decide… but…” he nibbles a little at your exposed skin and you gasp at the contact, “We’ve got a problem, ‘cause I’m going to ask if I can kiss you. And if you say yes, I ain’t going to be able to stop.” 

You nod your head furiously, make a sound that kind of resembles an ‘uh huh’ but it’s more like a deep, shaky exhale.

“You’re gonna have to use your words when I ask, baby.”

“Yes, please Joel.” The effect this has on him is immediate. He pulls back from you a little, tilts his head, breath still hot on the curve of your neck. You can feel his eyes roving up and down your face as his jaw ticks. 

“Good girl.”

Your compliance, he likes that, and it emboldens you, makes you even more sure of the want that’s flooding every fibre of your being. You turn so you’re fully facing him, purposefully dragging your body against his, “Ask me now.”

He steps even closer to you, pushing you against the wooden side. He drops down to your height, slotting a knee between your bare thighs, one hand firm around your waist and the other warm against your face. His thumb ever so gently caresses your cheek, and you are tempted to turn a tiny increment and take that thumb into your mouth, let your teeth bite into the calloused flesh. Instead, you look up into Joel’s darkened eyes with your mouth dropped slightly open, feel your tongue push behind your teeth in anticipation.

He lets your demand sit between you for a moment. You wonder if he can feel the burning between your thighs that’s pulsing against the thick denim of his jeans, the thrumming of your pulse under his circling thumb.

He all but whispers into your breath, “Can I kiss you baby?”

You tilt your head, so your lips trace the words onto his, “Yes, please Joel.”

It’s so soft, that first touch. Like everything just melts away, his body sinking into you. The burning heat becomes a want that almost feels chaste for a second as you both marvel in the way your lips instinctively find each other, gentle, warm. Almost, almost like it was meant to be.

Your hands had been braced behind you, but now you let one drag against the soft hair on the back of his head, as he continues to explore your lips, pressing kisses onto you. A low groan rumbles in his chest as you tug at an almost curl that sits at the nape of his neck. You smile at that, pull harder, open your mouth to let his tongue search out yours, still slow, still tentative, little flicks against each other as the hunger between you grows.

You lean a little further back, beckoning Joel to push against you harder, take more of you, deepen the kiss as you begin to lick into each other with more intensity.

The fire flickers back into life in both of you, any hesitance has burned away, and you find you’re grinding against his strong thigh without even realising you were doing it. He’s holding you so tight it almost hurts, a pain so delicious you’re desperate for him, want him to bruise you and show that for this moment you belong to him. Your bodies are moving on intuition, guided by a shared, blazing ache that you can feel tingling in the very centre of you, which you know must be driving him wild from the sighs that are escaping him.

“Fuck… Joel, it feels so good.” You don’t want to stop kissing him, don’t want him to stop, but you need to tell him about this feeling that’s burning you up, making you begin to fist his t-shirt with both hands, lift your leg up off the floor and wind it around his waist.

Kisses on kisses, becoming more frantic, more urgent with each lick, each wet pull and twist of your tongues.

“I know baby, I know,” he’s all teeth and tongue and desire, “I want you to use me, I want to make you feel good. Please, baby, can I make you feel good, please? Can’t stop thinking about what that pretty face is going to look like when you come.”

You know the noise you make comes from the deepest part within you, a wanton moan as Joel pulls back from your lips and starts trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your neck, using his grip to drag your hips back and forth over his thigh, making you shiver at the delicious friction.

Your hands drop from him and back to the side, clutching the edge to give yourself purchase as you feel yourself disappearing into pure lust, your head dizzy with it, your body nothing but longing and need as you edge towards bliss.

“Yes, Joel, please, yes.” You try and form more words, but you can’t find them, they disappear into the air as you stutter, “Want you.”

He returns to your mouth, giving your pouting lips just what you need before he pulls at your dress with one hand, the buttons ease open against the force of him. His fingers caress your breast, thumbing at your nipple before bringing it into his waiting mouth.

You card your hands through his hair as he tongues at your peaked nub in a way that makes your back arch with the pleasure. It compels you press harder against his thigh, chasing your high with desperate drags.

“Joel, Joel… I’m..” you feel like you’re drunk on him, fizzing with an energy that tightens in your belly and swirls around your fingertips as you grip onto his hair. Your words are slurring into one another as you feel the ecstasy of your orgasm blurring into you, your mouth falling slack as Joel crashes his lips back against your own, sucking the breath right out of you and echoing the juddering groan you make as you come.

Everything shimmers as you slowly float back down to earth. You gently bite at his bottom lip, tangle your tongue against his again, before sinking into his shoulder with a heavenly sigh.

“Jesus Christ Joel. That… that was some first kiss.”

“Good things come to those who wait, I guess?” He chuckles, swoops in for another kiss before wrinkling his nose a little, “Can I smell burning?”

You shrug your shoulders, wrap your arms around his neck, “Probably.”

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 4 - coming soon

Note: All images from pinterest. Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Tagging in some Joel fans, let me know if you want to be added in/taken off:

@pedroswife69 @ashleyfilm @rizzraa @magpiepills

@yxtkiwiyxt @jessthebaker @missladym1981 @morallyinept @readingiskeepingmegoing

@tuquoquebrute @kirsteng42 @beskarandblasters @freelancearsonist @anoverwhelmingdin

@axshadows @ghotifishreads @sawymredfox @janaispunk @mothandpidgeon

#tlou #chaptered #read #ongoing #author: schnarfer

[toomanytookas]

^ An accurate depiction of me receiving this reply and basking in the loveliness and warmth of it. I have big hearts for you too!

A Girl Walks Into a Bookshop: Interlude: Ezra’s Room.

Fandom: Prospect (film)

Pairing:  Ezra x f!reader

Rating: ***Mature.*** It’s not overly graphic, but it’s still hella intimate.

Warnings: Kissing, stripping nekkid, unprotected P&V, hands doing a lot of the work, unfiltered word blarfing. Relentless. Like just thick and surypy as hell.

A/N: If you’ve come to the Bookshop for comfort and soft and want to just carry on and accept that sex happens and just skip this and wait for chapter 8, here’s your warning and my blessing. This little interlude doesn’t add to the story or the relationship other than the intimacy that comes with adding sex to the equation, so you won’t miss anything if you want to exclude mature material from the fic. 

Srsly, this is maybe the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written. Like all that soft was keeping the smut just barely contained and it’s come to a boil and this is the release valve. (*laughs* It feels a little like I just wrote fanfic of my own fic.) But. Ezra and Tinker find so much comfort in each other, they were always going to come together like this. It’s just that this isn’t a kiss that can happen in the public setting of the shop or a cuddle while reading in the sitting room. This is just for them, so it gets its own space. And I’m not sorry for just pouring my messy, yearning heart all over the page. 

Summary: Tinker follows Ezra into his bedroom, immediately following Chapter 7.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST - BOOKSHOP MASTERLIST

<–Chapter 7: Someone Who Handles You Gently

________________

Keep reading

[toomanytookas]

no matter how terrible my day is. i can always end my day in bed imagining fictional characters making out sloppy style and fucking raw. and that's beautiful. there's some good in this world mister frodo and it's worth fighting for

#commonplace book clippings

[toomanytookas]

*throws confetti* in celebration of the delight that is this chapter

I don't want to forget to mention them, so I'll start by saying yay for more Beth and Ellie! It was hearbreaking to get a more in-depth explanation of the shared trauma and difficult, tangled dynamic that they have with the readers' sister, but of course you did it in such a gentle way where the reader had Joel as such an understanding and caring listener. It's beautiful to see that the three of them have such a strong and healthy and happy dynamic on the other side of the worst of things and knowing the depth of the past just furthers how wonderful it is to see Ellie be this sassy teenager who clearly has known love and is able to give her own into the world. I'm looking forward to Joel meeting them and particularly to see how he approaches meeting Ellie.

To pair the other comment I have about the more emotionally vulnerable side of this chapter, that comment you made in a reply to me the other week about about her liking everything Joel does and that being meaningful and special for him makes even more sense now. I love how the way they fit so well together is something that is healing and validating for them both.

In that vein as well, I loved that frank discussion of the things that needed to be talked about for now and the things that could maybe be left for later regarding their kinks and safety and consent, especially with ALLLLLL of the anticipation and excitement of wanting to know what those other things could be buzzing in the reader's head (believe me I'm also curious especially since you mentioned that they explore more stuff in my kink ask hahaha. Even if you don't include them all in these final chapters, I would love to just see their list someday or something).

This cracked me up: “I just asked you to fuck me while I’m asleep, I think we can be honest with each other." I loved how that infusion of humour demonstrated how matter-of-fact this conversation was in a way? Yes, it is serious and yes it was important, but it also wasn't ceremonial, it was a talk between them like any other.

Ok. Now we're gonna go in for it. AND HOLY HELL WAS I IN FOR IT.

A bit of an aside: 

I have to laugh a bit because my birthday is November 10, so even though we’re in a completely different timeline from them, it does somehow feel like this was some sort of extra treat for me that they were doing this on that day in their world. 😂

I genuinely can’t remember at this point if this is the first time we are seeing from Joel’s perspective, but WHAT a rush to get it for this scene. All of those moments of him thinking the reader is in the edge of waking up before he’s reached his initial goal of being inside her literally started to make my heart pound a little, it was soooo good.

I looooved the contrast of these two passages together:

You were so fucking responsive, even in your sleep — you followed his instructions perfectly and your thighs shifted just enough for his cock to slip between them.

He wanted to see the exact moment you woke up and realized he was doing as you asked, he was doing what you wanted. He was giving it to you just right.

When I've thought about my approach to writing softdomming and devising scenes for it in the past, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the fact that it is often just as much about providing service and care and performing a bit of wish fulfillment as it is about asking for submission and receiving the fruits of submissive acts... It’s kind of how you frame it (that you are the provider, that you are creating a safe and gentle space, that you are the protector that makes it possible for your sub to let go and enjoy the moment) that makes the experience what it is rather than what the acts themselves are and how the roles of giving and receiving might typically be perceived/aligned... A sub could just as easily be performing the same acts as part of their submission, but the framing of it, the mentality of why it's happening and what it does for the other person, is part of what makes it a contribution to the dynamic and the energy of the scene.

ANYWAY, that was really long especially since they're not *expressly* engaging in a negotiated full on D/s thing here (lol oops sorry but I figured you might be interested/wouldn't mind chatting about this more so I figured I'd go ahead and include it!), but this felt like such a perfect example of how someone might hold both of those thoughts of delighting in someone's responsiveness and submission while at the same time thriving on a situation in which being the more dominant actor is thrilling because it has to do with doing something that they know their partner wants. It put me in such a great space to hear Joel’s inner monologue of it all and I really, really, really loved it.

This comment is getting OUT OF HAND so I'm not going to keep talking your ear off, but the switch back to the reader's perspective was brilliant and the way Joel turned on his beautiful mouth once she was awake again made the contrast of everything that had come before it so, so, so good and it all was just delightful. I would absolutely have cried from the pleasure and safety of the space, too.

🧡

Maintenance Request Chapter 19

Joel Miller x f!reader | new chapter every Friday 18+ | ao3 | main post & chapter list chapter word count: 7.6k

chapter summary: you and Joel have your third date, a bit of a discussion, and try something new together when Joel stays at your place for the first time. 👀

a/n: thank you as always to @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta 💕 fun fact, I wrote the second half of this chapter in a sort of fugue state, late one night during NaNo last year. I swear this just poured out of me. Joel knew what he wanted. 😂 happy chapter 19 on the 19th!

chapter tags/warnings: flirting, banter, fluff, cursing, food and drink mention, pet names (honey, gorgeous, darlin’, baby, sweetheart, pretty girl, good girl, handsome, cowboy), kink negotiation, some discussion of past relationships, somnophilia (kissing, fondling, p-in-v sex), mention of breasts, dream sex, dirty talk, a bit of crying while being fucked (in a good way)

Chapter 19

Saturday, November 9 Eleventh week of the semester

The rest of the week was a whirlwind – you saw Joel for at least a few minutes every day, and you talked on the phone most nights. By Thursday, you had your next date planned. Sarah had a sleepover on Saturday, so Joel was going to stay the night at your apartment. For the first time. 

On Saturday, you caught Beth and Ellie up with your new relationship status – Beth had been pestering you about it since you’d told her about it over text (tell me everything!!) – and they immediately started complaining about how they hadn’t met him yet. 

“I know! I know,” you wanted to wave your hands in front of their faces to get them to chill out. “I was thinking I could invite him to brunch next week.” You took a big gulp of coffee and watched their reactions. 

Ellie narrowed her eyes and stared at you. Beth looked thoughtful. 

“You sure you want him to meet both of us at once?” Beth asked, and Ellie snorted. “Throw him in the deep end?”

You shrugged. “I mean, he can handle it or he can’t. But I’m pretty sure he can.” 

Beth smiled. “Fine with me. What about you, Hell’s Bells?”

Ellie glared at Beth for the nickname, as always, but you knew she secretly loved it. 

“I guess that’s fine.” She furrowed her brow and stabbed a piece of egg with her fork. “If he does anything weird or fucked up I’m not gonna ignore it.”

You nodded. “I wouldn’t ask you to. But he’s not an asshole.” She squinted at you. “I know, Ells. But you know I trust you, right? If you did notice something, I’d want you to tell me. And I’d listen.” You knew you weren’t really talking about Joel, at this point, but you wanted her to know that anyway. She nodded and sighed. 

“Yeah I mean I do want to meet him. He can come to brunch.” Ellie shrugged.

“Thank you. I’ll ask him tonight.”

Beth nudged Ellie with her shoulder. “Maybe I can meet him this week for lunch, first, give you a full report.” Ellie laughed, but you could see the idea relaxed her a little bit. 

“Oh!” Ellie sat up straight. “What are you cooking for him?”

Beth pointed at you with a forkful of pancake. “Do not make soup.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time!”

Ellie smirked. “Even if you don’t create Soup Geyser: The Sequel, it’s probably not a good date food. What if you spill it all over yourself?”

Beth laughed. “I dunno, maybe that’s a good thing. Then you can take your clothes off.”

Ellie dramatically gagged and covered her ears. “I don’t want to know about that!”

You and Beth both laughed as she started in on a monologue about how men, and hearing about her aunt dating them, were gross.

…

Later that afternoon, you’d just finished cleaning up and making sure the food was almost ready when you realized you needed to change before Joel arrived. You stepped into your bedroom and stripped off your shirt at the exact moment you heard a knock at your door. Shit. 

You froze, not sure what to do, when he knocked again. “Shit,” you said out loud. You were standing in your bedroom in a lounge bra and sweatpants. How did you lose track of time so badly? You ran to the front door.

You hesitated once you got there but reasoned that Joel had already seen you naked, so you’d just open it and then run back to change. You nodded to yourself, and then opened the door, shielding your body behind it.

“Hey, darlin’, everything alright?” He looked like he’d been about to knock again. He eyed your bare shoulder.

“Sorry, Joel, wasn’t quite ready yet. You can come in and I’ll go change.” 

He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Guess I am a little early.” 

You laughed and invited him in, and watched as his eyes swept down your body. “You sure you need to change? I like this look.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Joel, go sit on the couch. I’ll be back in a minute.” He did as you said while you ran back to your room and changed into the outfit you’d picked out earlier (complete with some green lingerie underneath – it was his favorite color, after all). 

When you arrived back in the living room, you found Joel looking at the pictures lining your fireplace mantle. “I recognize Ellie and Beth,” he said. “Is this your sister?”

You stepped up next to him and nodded. “Yep. And our parents.” You continued on your photo tour for a few minutes, introducing Joel to your family as you went. He snaked an arm around your waist and leaned in behind you. 

“This shirt’s pretty on you, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

You smirked at him over your shoulder. “Thought you liked the other look?” 

Joel grinned, unrepentant. “I can like both, can’t I?” You laughed and led him into your kitchen.

“Sure you can. Have a seat, dinner will be ready in just a sec.”

He sat, and soon enough you joined him and placed the food in the middle of the table, which you’d set earlier, before he arrived. You poured him a drink and dug in. He complimented the food, sincerely, which made you smile. 

“So, you’re officially invited to brunch next weekend.” Joel snapped his head up to meet your gaze. He looked surprised, and pleased.

“I am?”

You smiled. “Sure are. Got the Ellie-and-Beth stamp of approval.”

He grinned. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“We might do lunch with Beth during the week, first.” 

He nodded. “Whatever they want, darlin’. I want Ellie to be comfortable.” He reached over to squeeze your hand. “That’s the most important thing.”

“Thanks, Joel. I know she’s not actually my kid, but in some ways she is.” He tilted his head at you, considering your words. “Yeah, I know it’s confusing. Well, you know Ellie’s 14. My sister had her right out of high school.”

“Not too different from when I had Sarah.” You nodded.

“Yeah, she had a rough time. Ellie used to come stay with me a lot, even when she was really little. And then, um. Right after I finally broke up with Matt, Ellie actually lived with me and Beth for about…” you looked up at the ceiling, counting back in time. “About 2 years? Almost. When she was 9.”

Joel nodded, taking that in. “It makes sense that you’re so close.”

You smiled. “Yeah, hard not to be. And Beth helped a lot, so they’re pretty close, too. But my sister is doing a lot better now. She used to, um…” You trailed off, thinking through what you wanted to say. “Well, part of the reason Ellie is more wary of people I might date is that my sister dated, um, more than a few men, and they were in and out of their house all the time. That’s part of the reason she lived with me. Not all of it.” Joel nodded, face solemn. He squeezed your hand between his own. “But yeah, she’s doing a lot better. She’s a nurse, works a lot of weekends and nights. Ellie has her own room here and sort of comes and goes as she pleases. Their relationship is a lot better than it used to be, too.”

“That sounds like it was hard, to send her back.” You sighed. He was so good at seeing right to the heart of what you were thinking. And feeling.

“It was, and it wasn’t. I’m so glad they’re doing better, you know? But I do miss having her here all the time, even now. And now she’s a teenager and wants to be with her friends anyway.” 

He laughed a little. “I’m familiar with that change.” 

You laughed, too. “Yeah, I bet. But she’s doing well in school and she actually talks to her mom about her life, so I feel like it’s going pretty well. And I sort of have my sister back.”

Joel scooted his chair a bit closer to yours and put his arm around the back. “Sort of?”

You sighed and closed your eyes. “Our relationship took a hit during all of that. But it’s getting better. We talk more now. She’s been teasing me about you.”

For a moment you both sat quietly as he considered what you shared and you leaned in to him, head on his shoulder. 

“Everything I learn about you impresses me more, sweetheart.” He murmured his words into your hair, and it made you shiver.

“What? Joel–”

“It’s true.” he squeezed you against him. “Not everyone would do that, you know. Even for family. It’s…” he sighed. “I love watching you get to know Sarah. I know I’m going to love seeing you with your niece. It’s just something special. Getting to know you in every way I can.” You leaned up to press a kiss to his chin and felt him smile in response. 

You were quiet again until you felt Joel shift underneath you. “Joel? What is it?” You leaned back to look at his face, and caught him staring at your cabinets with a frown on his face. “Joel.”

“Hmm?”

“Joel Miller, are you looking at my broken cabinet door and thinking about how you want to fix it?”

You watched as a flush took over his cheeks. “Maybe I am.” He sounded sheepish and you grinned.

“I don’t think I even have the tools you’d need. Sorry.” 

He shook his head, frowning at you playfully. “What, not even a hammer?”

“Ok, I probably have a hammer. And maybe, like, a couple of screwdrivers.”

He laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll fix it another time.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Darlin’,” he cut you off. “I’ll fix it.” He smiled at you, amused by your protest. “You know it won’t take me even five minutes.”

You laughed, loving his confidence. “Oh yeah? Well, who am I to argue with my Hot Maintenance Guy?”

He bit back on a smile and tilted his head. “Thought I was Hot Construction Guy?”

You grinned. “You are. And Hot Maintenance Guy, and Hot Gardening Guy. Whatever I’d seen you doing that day.” 

Joel laughed and pulled you into a short kiss. “Well, I’m definitely your maintenance guy. So I’m definitely gonna fix those cabinets.” You sighed, giving in.

“Not right now, though. We have better things to do.”

He perked up. “Oh? Like what?”

“Let’s clean up and then you’ll find out.” You winked as you stood to gather your plate.

Between the two of you, you made quick work of the dishes and leftovers. It was nice, doing something so domestic with Joel. You fit together by the sink and moved around each other in the kitchen like you’d done it before, like it was comfortable. You’d never smiled so much while doing dishes in your life.

“There is something I wanted to ask you about, honey.” You turned to look at him where he was washing a pot as you dried your plates. 

“Oh? About what?” You saw a tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth and narrowed your eyes. 

“Just about what you said, when we were in bed after our first date.” You flushed, feeling the heat enter your cheeks. But you also appreciated that Joel was bringing this up while you were doing something so totally unrelated to sex. So you could focus. Or try to, anyway.

“Yeah, I remember.” You bit your lip. 

He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, did you, um. Can you tell me more about what you like? And don’t like? I like the sound of it, you know that, but I’d never want to get it wrong.”

“Um, yes. I, well. I like waking up and already…” You took a deep breath and told yourself to act like a freaking adult. “I like to already be having sex, basically. To wake up with your mouth on– on my pussy. Or your fingers inside of me. Or your cock.” You felt more than saw Joel’s sharp intake of breath and smiled. “It’s difficult to do that last one without waking me up, but it’s my favorite.”

Joel coughed. “I, um, I really want that, too.” You finally met his gaze with your own and you could see how much he wanted it. You held your breath. “Shit, sweetheart, that sounds so fucking good. I just… since you’d be asleep, I want to make sure I’m doing the right thing. Since I can’t check in with you.”

You put down the plate you’d finished drying five minutes ago and turned towards him, taking his hands in yours and drying them off with the towel. “I trust you, Joel. I know you’d do it how I wanted – make sure I’m ready, and all that.” You finished drying his hands and put the towel down on the counter before lacing your fingers through his. You considered your next words. “I don’t… we can use a safe word. We don’t have to talk about all of that right now.” He squeezed your hands in response. “But I do have one. We can use it, so you know when my reactions are good and if they’re not. I know I can’t use it while I’m asleep, but it could help.” He disentangled and lifted one hand to place it under your chin and guide your eyes back up to meet his. 

“I’d like that, honey. And I’d like to talk about that more later, what other things you might like. That we might like together. But we can take it slow.” You nodded, smiling. “And, um. Well. Remember when I told you there were issues with Sarah’s mom that she didn’t know about?”

You nodded. “I do, but Joel, you don’t have to explain now–”

“No, I mean,” he interrupted you but then took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say, part of it was that we weren’t really compatible. At all. She thought, well. That some of the things I like are…” He trailed off and you tilted your chin to press a kiss to the hand still cupping your face, encouraging him. “She thought I was strange for wantin’ ‘em. Like all the sweet things I like to call you, honey, and how I like to call you mine. To her it was too much, not what she wanted. We can talk about it more but like I said, we can take it slow. Figure it out together.” 

You felt the shiver run up your spine at the idea of learning what more he might like to try with you. “I just asked you to fuck me while I’m asleep, I think we can be honest with each other.” He grinned.

“So, tomorrow morning? Want me to try it?” You nodded. “I need to hear your words, sweetheart.” As he asked he slipped his right hand around the back of your neck and pulled you closer. His lips brushed yours and you shivered.

“Yes, Joel,” you felt your pulse pick up at the idea and heard the hitch in your breath.

“Yeah, baby? You’d want to wake up with me already inside you?” Your eyes fell closed and you nodded. He pressed a kiss to your jaw, just in front of your ear. “Maybe my fingers? Maybe my tongue?” He licked the shell of your ear. You shivered and your hips squirmed as you pressed your thighs together. “You want to wake up to find my cock already deep inside this pretty pussy?” 

“Yes, Joel,” you breathed again. “I love it. Yes, please —” you cut off as he gripped your chin in his hand. 

“Shhh, honey. Shit, what a good girl you are, letting me slip inside you while you’re asleep, huh? Take whatever I want? Give you what I want?” You sighed. “Can’t believe it. So fucking perfect for me.” He kissed your neck again as his thumb covered your lips, holding your mouth closed. He took a deep breath and relaxed again.

“Well, honey, I told you before. I’ll give you whatever you want. So I guess we’ll see in the morning, hmm?” You grinned under his finger and nodded. “But maybe we can get started right now.”

...

Sunday, November 10 Eleventh week of the semester

In the morning, Joel woke up first. Before he even opened his eyes, he felt the warmth — the warmth of the sun through the window, the bed beneath him, and the soft wonder of your body against his. You’d moved in the night, but not much. He was still wrapped around you, just with more space between your bodies, his right arm thrown across your waist. He blinked his eyes open slowly, careful not to move as he took in a deep breath and just looked at you.

You were on your side, turned away from him, but he could see the outline of your profile over your shoulder. You were peaceful in your sleep, mouth slightly open, eyelashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. He stared, almost stunned to find you with him in bed again. How did I get so fucking lucky? 

As he looked at you, careful not to move his arm, your discussion from last night came back to him and suddenly he was hard. He was so fucking hard, his cock filling so fast it took his breath away as the blood rushed south. 

You wanted him to be inside of you when you woke up. It was a fucking dream even thinking about it. He wanted it, fuck, he wanted it so fucking bad, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. How could he manage it, without waking you?

He kept his breathing even, despite his cock urging him forward, and considered what to do. It was still early, and you’d told him you liked to sleep in on weekends. So maybe he had time on his side. (He always woke up early, because of Sarah.) The first thing he needed to do was get rid of his briefs.

Joel slowly, gently, pulled his arm up from around you. You shifted in your sleep, but he moved slowly and successfully snuck it away. You settled back into your pillow and remained deeply asleep. He sighed in victory.

Slowly, cautiously, careful not to shake the bed, he reached down to slide his briefs off, kicking them somewhere in the sheets. He watched you the whole time, but you breathed evenly, slowly. Still asleep. He smiled. Maybe he could do this.

He rolled back onto his side and considered you. You were a few inches from him. Maybe if he slowly came up behind you you’d snuggle into him in your sleep, making it easier to touch. He nodded to himself. That was probably the best way to start.

Slowly, trying to move like he was asleep himself, he scooted towards you on the bed until his chest came back into contact with your back. He slowed even more there, gently pressing against you until you responded in your sleep — your body titled back against his, moving unconsciously together until he had you spooned in front of him again. He was careful to angle his cock down, not to get it stuck against your ass. (Even though the thought of pressing in between your cheeks almost had him thrusting forward, overcome with want.)

Joel took a moment to breathe in his success. He had you wrapped in his arms again, and he could feel your naked ass pressed against his pelvis. It was so fucking good already. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He was close to what he wanted, but he didn’t want to fuck this up. 

He carefully curled his body so his hips moved forwards, and his breath caught as his cock almost arrived right where he wanted it. The tip poked at the join of your thighs, and he sighed. Now what? How would he get any closer? He paused to consider his options again.

But you, it turned out, were on board, even in your sleep. Suddenly you let out a tiny, breathless moan, and he stilled. Peering over your shoulder, he saw that you were still asleep. A dream? He grinned. He could work with that. 

Leaving his hips where they were for now, he lightly ran his fingertips up your torso until he was cupping your breast. He tried to use the lightest touch, to encourage your dream without waking you up. He teased the very tip of one finger over your nipple and your body relaxed against him, like you were a puppet and your strings were cut. He stilled again, but you were still asleep. He was on the right track.

He watched your face intently as he lightly teased your nipple with his fingertip. In your sleep, your mouth opened wider, and you sighed. He was mesmerized, watching as your tongue peeked out of your mouth, the tip just touching your bottom lip. He realized his own mouth was hanging open, the desire to lick inside yours almost palpable in the air around him. He suppressed a shiver. 

Suddenly, you tilted your head to the side and whispered something. He leaned closer, not quite hearing you. To his great joy, you did it again, and he realized you had whispered his name. “Joel…” he grinned. He had to have you, just like this. Had to give you exactly what you wanted. He just had to figure out what to do about your legs.

He looked down and saw that your feet were twisting in the sheets. He wondered if this was his chance. Lightly slipping from your breast, he slowly moved his hand down to your thigh. You muttered something, but a quick check showed him you were still very much asleep. He only needed an inch, at most.

Ever so lightly, he gripped your thigh and pressed to ease it upwards. You were so fucking responsive, even in your sleep — you followed his instructions perfectly and your thighs shifted just enough for his cock to slip between them. He gasped, and then stilled as his eyes quickly sought your face again. Still asleep. He moved back to his previous position, hand on your breast, before thrusting slowly forward. His cock lined up perfect against your slit, and his eyes almost rolled back when he realized how fucking wet you were. Again. Fuck. His cock glided smoothly against you and he had to fight to keep from letting himself thrust inside, from filling you up right then and there.

Joel teased lightly at your nipple as he gently pulled back again before thrusting his hips forward once more. This time his cock nestled inside your folds and he heard a breathy little moan punch itself out of you when the tip of his cock nudged your clit. He grinned. Yes. 

He kept that up for a few more thrusts — gentle movement, he told himself, slow and steady, so fucking wet, sliding so easily against you, fuck — watching your face like a hawk for any trace of wakefulness. 

On the next pass, his cock almost caught against your entrance, and he stifled a deep moan of his own. Fuck me. That was the final hurdle, he knew. How could he slip inside you without waking you up? He’d have to go slow, ease into you, so slow and smooth you’d never notice. 

He forced himself to keep his hands light, not to grip or pull or tug. At the same time his hips moved with almost terrifying precision. He knew you were wet enough, and still ready from last night. He just had to take the final step.

Joel took a deep breath and, eyes still locked on your face, let himself nudge at your entrance on the next thrust. He stopped there, just there, with the tip of his cock nestled right at the place he most wanted to be. 

His heartbeat was racing and he felt winded. He wondered if his pounding heart would wake you before his cock did.

Gently, so gently it almost knocked him out, he pushed forward with his hips. The head of his cock pushed against you before sliding past your entrance, stopping just inside. Joel realized his mouth was hanging open as he stared at you. He felt torn. He wanted to look down, to see, but he was afraid if he looked away even for a moment you’d wake up. He gritted his teeth and kept his eyes on your face.

He pushed forward again, and he felt his cock sink deeper inside you. Fuck. Your cunt was fucking perfect. He had no idea how you could be so fucking wet all the time. Were you always like this? You’d said it was just for him, but did that mean you were always like this around him? Shit. Hold it together. 

He was panting. He tried to keep it quiet, but it was so much. So fucking much. He blinked to keep his eyes from closing.

Joel took a deep breath, still focused on you, and took one more gentle thrust to slide himself all the way home. He bit down so hard on his lip to fight back a moan he was worried he drew blood. He realized he’d let go of your breast to clutch at the comforter beneath you and was in danger of leaning his weight forward to fall on top of you. He stilled. He panted. He stared at your face. 

You were somehow still asleep. How?

He took the gift he was offered and moved. His hips pulled gently back, and he felt every inch of your cunt squeeze tight around his cock as he pulled out, until only the head of his cock was left stretching your entrance open. He breathed in through his nose, and then breathed out steadily while thrusting back in at that same slow, infuriating pace. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.

He managed three or four more agonizing thrusts, doing everything he could to be silent and gentle, to keep you sleeping while he fucked you. He realized now the goal was for you to wake up, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. He paused inside you after his next thrust, taking a deep breath, looking over your slumbering face. He started to smile. 

Slowly, gently, he leaned down towards your neck as he pulled almost all the way out of you again. As he slid home this time, just a tiny bit faster, he pressed a kiss to your neck, right under your ear. You moaned. His smile turned feral.

He continued like that, thrusting inwards and pressing kisses to your neck and your shoulder, getting wetter and sloppier each time. Your breaths started to come faster and faster, and then he noticed your hips were starting to push back against his. 

His eyes flew back to your face. He had to see it. He wanted to see the exact moment you woke up and realized he was doing as you asked, he was doing what you wanted. He was giving it to you just right.

He wanted to push you over the edge. On his next thrust he cupped your breast again, and your voice was clearer this time, calling out to him in your sleep. “Yes, Joel, yes,” he teased your nipple and thrust forward. “Joel,” you called out, brow furrowing. He knew it was coming. He stared at you, and on the next thrust, he pinched your nipple at the same moment his cock bottomed out inside of you. 

It was fucking heaven. Fucking transcendent. Your eyes flew open as you gasped, throwing your head back onto his shoulder. Your hands grasped at nothing until they found his arm, and you clutched at him. He pulled out again and thrust back inside you, hard, and you cried out. He smiled.

“Good morning, honey.” His voice was deep and rumbling and fucking vicious. He thrust inside you again, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Your next breath sounded like a sob. “How’d you sleep?”

…

You were having the most amazing dream. Everything was warmth and pleasure and there was a man holding you and you knew it was Joel. Joel, wrapped around you. You were floating together, somehow, twisting together as he spooned you from behind, but somehow also kissed you and touched you, everywhere. You sighed. 

His embrace tightened and you hitched your leg over his. “Mm, that’s my good girl,” you heard him say, and it melted through you like hot chocolate. “That’s it, baby. Show me.” You weren’t sure what he wanted you to show him, so you opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue. “Fuck yeah, baby. Let me see that tongue.” 

Dream Joel, somehow spooning you and making out with you at the same time, licked your tongue as you stuck it out for him. The slide of your tongues together made you press your thighs tight. “You’re so goddamn hot baby,” he muttered in your ear while making out with you. You moaned back, somehow still kissing him, “Joel.” He grinned at you, wicked and intent. He bent down suddenly to lick at your nipples and you gasped. “Joel!” He smiled and you hummed at the feeling of him worshiping your tits. 

In your dream the two of you were floating upwards, towards something — there was light above you, and warmth below you. Everything felt amazing. 

Dream Joel ran his hands down your body, grasping at your hips and your legs. You smiled. “Love the way you look, honey,” he murmured, and you told him you loved the way he looked, too. He smiled. “Open up for me, then, sweet thing. Let me inside.” You did as he asked and opened your legs. Dream Joel, talented man that he was, managed to kiss you and eat you out at the same time, and you sighed into it, mouth opening for him again. And then you felt something warm and hard and gorgeous slide against your pussy. You sighed and pushed back onto it.

“Inside, Joel,” you tried to demand, your voice weak and breathy. He chuckled, darkly. “Not yet baby, wanna feel you.” He slid his cock back and forth against your soaking wet pussy and you moaned. “You feel so good on my cock, honey. You hear that?” You listened, and you heard him panting behind you, heard the slick glide of his cock as it nestled in your folds. “Shit, sweetheart. You’re so wet for me.”

“Always,” you sighed out. 

“I know you are, baby. Can’t stop thinking about it, about sneaking my fingers inside your underwear everywhere we go, see if you’re ready for me. Ready for me to slip inside you, no matter where we are.” 

You nodded. “Always ready for you, Joel. Always want you inside me. Want you inside me right now.”

“Honey I told you, I’ll give you everything you want. Don’t you worry.” Dream Joel slid back again, and on his next thrust his cock notched right at your entrance, and you sighed. “Yes, please, Joel.” 

“Shhh, honey. Just let me give it to you. I’ll give you whatever you want, you know that. All you have to do is lie there and take it.” You moaned as he pressed the head of his cock inside of you. It felt huge and perfect and warm and like you never wanted to be without it. 

Dream Joel rubbed his hands up your torso as he fucked into you from behind. “That’s it, honey. Take me inside you. Let me fill you up. Let me stuff my cum so deep inside of you it’ll be dripping out for hours.” Your breath caught at the idea and you started to breathe harder and faster. He pinched your nipples and thrust into you, hard. “Feel it, honey? Feel how perfectly my cock fits inside this cunt?” 

“Yes, Joel, yes,” you cried, almost crying for real. “I need it.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he crooned, softly. “You’re such a good girl, you know that? Such a good fucking girl for me. Letting me put my cock inside you whenever I want, letting me fill you up. Sitting on my cock like an angel. Like you were meant to be right here, in my lap.” Dream Joel thrust inside of you again, and you cried out. 

“Joel, please,” you sighed as your brows pinched together. The dream suddenly felt so real, so physical, you couldn’t figure out which way was up or down. You were spinning, falling, and when you crash landed back into your body you gasped.

Your eyes flew open and all you could feel was Joel. He was fucking everywhere. His body was pressed all along your back, his fingers pinched your nipple, his mouth was on your jaw. 

And his cock was hard, and it was deep, deep inside of you. 

Your head flew back as you gasped for air, staring up at the ceiling without seeing. Your hands grasped for purchase on something, anything that would hold you there, keep you from flying apart and spiraling into the air, until they found his arm and you held on for dear life. Suddenly Joel pulled his hips back and then thrust inside of you, hard. You cried out, maybe his name, maybe no words at all. Fuck. You needed to catch your breath. Your hips were pinned under his, your pussy wet and dripping and tightening around his cock. You could feel a tear slip from your eye to land on the pillow under your head. Fuck me. 

Before you could even try to make sense of your surroundings, to catch your breath, Joel’s lips found your ear.

“Good morning, honey.” His voice was deep and rumbling and fucking vicious. He thrust inside you again, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Your next breath came out like a sob. “How’d you sleep?” You felt a tear form at the edge of your eye again, and he curled forward to kiss it away. “Shh, baby, you’re ok. You’re so fucking good, honey, my good fucking girl.” He thrust inside of you again, and his cock slid against you so easily, so wonderfully, that you breathed through another sob. “Honey?”

You realized, distantly, that he was starting to worry about you. You squeezed his arm. You had to say something.

“Y— yes, Joel. Yes.” You felt him grin against your shoulder. 

“Yeah, honey? That feel good?” You nodded, frantically, reaching one hand back to grasp at his hip. “You want it bad, don’t you? Want this cock to split you open?” Your breath hitched, again. “Want me to push deep inside you, don’t you, sweet thing? Fill you up? Leave you fucking dripping?” 

Real Joel echoing Dream Joel spun you upwards again, disorienting you in your pleasure. You whined, and thrust your hips backwards towards him. He pulled out and slammed his cock back into you, pulling back on your hip to urge you onto him. “Fuck, honey, you need it, don’t you? You need it so bad.” You could only grasp at him and nod, feeling another tear run down the side of your face. He kissed that one away, too.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. You can have this cock whenever you want.” He thrust forward again, pinning you to the bed. Your right knee bent in front of you and he followed, curving his body into the same position, somehow driving his cock deeper. “It’s yours. Yours to use, honey. Yours to touch, to lick, to sit on whenever you want.” He started up a steady pace, pushing his cock inside of you so deeply, so right on every thrust. Your face was turned, left side on the pillow, profile still open to him. He pressed kisses everywhere he could reach.

“I’m going to make you come, honey. And I want to see it.” He curved his right hand over your hip, seeking out your clit with his fingers. “I want you to come on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me, baby, squeeze me so fucking tight.” You sighed into the pillow. “Can you do that for me? Yeah, ‘course you can. Be a good girl, honey, and come for me.”

His fingers started circling your clit, and you felt it building inside of you like a tidal wave. It was almost too much, so much, more than you could handle. You were actually crying now, tears running down your face that he kissed away. “J— Joel,” you whined, and he twisted to press a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“That’s right, honey. Let me have it. It’s mine.”

Something about the way he claimed it, claimed you, sent you over the edge. You flew over it, into the air, twisting, falling, electrified. The orgasm erupted through you, and you felt more wet gush out of you, absolutely soaking his cock. He groaned. 

“Holy fucking shit, honey. Yes. Fucking give it to me.” He talked you through it, pressing kisses anywhere he could reach. It shuddered through you and you clamped down on him as your orgasm crested. You sobbed one more time, and he bit down on your shoulder to ground you.

As you came down, you realized his hips were speeding up. You whined and thrust your hips backwards again. You wanted it. You wanted him, inside of you, dripping out of you, like he promised. He nodded, seeming to understand.

“That’s right, honey. I’m going to give it to you. That’s what good girls get, right? And you were perfect, honey. My good fucking girl.” You clutched at the pillow as you pushed your hips back, trying to tilt them to give him the best angle. He sank deeper, somehow, and moaned. “I’m going to give it to you so deep, baby, so fucking deep.” He sighed, dreamily. “Fuck.”

His thrusts picked up, and you let yourself drift, feeling perfectly used as Joel pumped his hips into yours. His thrusts caught, uneven, and you heard him groan from deep in his chest. He clutched at you, with one final, devastating thrust, and came. His mouth was hot on your ear as he said your name in a voice that made it sound like a prayer.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both breathing hard, and you were a fucking mess — wet, everywhere — cum all over, sweaty, and tears that had dripped down your face and soaked your pillow. 

Joel sucked in a deep breath and carefully, gently, pulled out of you. You still gasped — you were sensitive from the night before, still, and he’d just fucked you so hard you’d cried, for god’s sake — but he was so soft and gentle with you that it barely hurt.

He flopped to your left on the bed, and with a groan, you heaved yourself onto your right side so you could look at him. You fell in the wet spot, but honestly, the entire bed was probably a wet spot at that point.

He turned his head, and for a minute you just looked at each other. You’d thought you’d seen him wrecked before, but that was nothing. You could see, now, what it actually looked like. And he was wrecked. You imagined you were the same. His hair was wild, his face was awestruck. He was red and sweaty and fucking beautiful. 

Slowly, he started to smile, and you returned it. Then he laughed, and you laughed back. Soon you were both giggling into your pillows, curled towards each other, linking fingers in the damp sheets.

Joel took a deep breath, and managed to stop giggling long enough to say, “I think you might have killed me, honey. Can’t move my legs.” You giggled and buried your face in the pillow. “No, I’m serious. First you knock me over with the idea of fucking you awake, much less telling me to do it? Jesus, I almost came before I ever got inside of you, trying to figure out how to do it without waking you up. Best fucking idea I’ve ever heard, honey, shit. Holy fucking shit.” He sounded winded, and awestruck. Like he couldn’t believe that just happened. “You were so beautiful, baby, taking it so well, even in your sleep. Couldn’t tear my eyes away from you.” He sighed, grinning. “Jesus, when can we do it again? I wanna do it again. How’s every goddamn morning sound to you?” You laughed outright. He cleared his throat. “Was it, um. Was it what you wanted?” He looked hopeful, and a tiny bit worried. You didn’t know how he could be, not after you came harder than you ever had in your life. So you told him that.

“Joel. I just came harder than I ever have in my entire life.” You figured he needed to hear it, and his answering grin told you he appreciated it. “I can’t feel my legs, either.” He laughed, and you tracked it across his face. Beautiful. “It was so fucking perfect. I was having the best dream about you, I guess because of what you were doing to me for real, and then suddenly the dream and reality came together and I— fuck.” You closed your eyes against the memory of that moment. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“It was fucking beautiful to watch,” he murmured, eyes traveling over your face and chest. “Never seen anything like that, either.” 

You smiled. “In my dream you were fucking me from behind, and it just… melted into real life. I felt like I fell back into myself and couldn’t tell up from down in the best fucking way.” You bit your lip. “Every morning, huh?” He winked at you. “I dunno, if you make me come like that every day I might not make it to work.” He laughed, and finally reached for you again. You went easily as he pulled you into his chest, pressing your bodies together. You sighed, sinking into him happily. 

“You fit so well in my arms, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss to your hairline. “Let’s just stay right here, for a while.”

You hummed, agreeing, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. You were both quiet for a moment, just letting the moment wash over you, when you felt him tense.

“Joel?” You questioned lightly, wondering what he was thinking. 

“I, um,” he cleared his throat. “Just want to make sure of something, honey. You were, well, the crying. Was that… ok?” He sounded so careful, so worried, it made your heart clench.

“Yes, Joel. That wasn’t just ok.” You tilted your head back to meet his eye so he could see the sincerity on your face. “It was exactly what I wanted. It was perfect.” He relaxed, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Sometimes I cry during sex. Not all the time, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing when it happens. Like just now, it was a really, really good thing.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nodded, “but I wanted to make sure I was reading you right. Would be a pretty upsetting thing to get wrong.”

The two of you nestled back into each other, holding tight, breathing in deep together as you came down from the intensity of the sex you’d just had. It had been beautiful, and rough, and exactly what you wanted, and now you were worn out. In his arms was exactly where you wanted to be.

After a while you started to doze off again, but you didn’t want to sleep the morning away, so you shook yourself back awake. You stretched, idly, and you felt Joel’s gaze on you. You looked up to find him admiring your legs as you stretched them along the bed.

“See something you like, cowboy?” 

He smiled. “You know I do, gorgeous.” 

“Want to get up, grab some breakfast, maybe?” Joel smiled and nodded, but pulled you in rather than letting you get up.

“Maybe in a few minutes.” 

You smiled.

…

Joel drove you to a diner about halfway between your apartment and his house. You’d never been there, but had driven past it many times, and told him so.

“This is a favorite of ours,” he told you as you both climbed out of his truck. “Sarah usually demands it at least once a month. We have family breakfast with Tommy.” You smiled at the thought.

Breakfast was easy, full of easy conversation and light teasing. Joel snuck some of your food and you retaliated by drinking some of his coffee. His feet nudged yours under the table as he grinned at you, and you rested your chin in your hand to watch him watch you across the table. It really drove home for you how much you liked being around Joel. The sex had been mind-blowing, obviously, like always, but you’d also spent weeks circling each other before finally starting to get to know each other over lunches and coffees and now dates. Every moment you spent with him showed you there was something more, here. It was in the way he couldn’t look away from you, the way he listened so carefully, like he always did, as you told him silly stories about the diner in your hometown. The way he remembered tiny details from everything you’d ever told him. You felt yourself falling, just like you’d told Beth. 

It was scary, but it was also pretty wonderful.

...

a/n: 😏

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#tlou #chaptered #ongoing #read #author: burntheedges

[toomanytookas]

just wanted to send you some love because not only are you the sweetest, but you’re also so incredibly kind with your thoughts and comments and I know you know how much I sob over them, but I also wanted to immortalise that fact here too.

I appreciate you, ily 🩷✨

Jo!!! I’ve been sat here for a good while trying to figure out how to adequately voice how I’m feeling having received this... I think the closest I can get is to say that—akin to your writing—this is like the biggest, warmest, most comforting hug and I am sending you one right back.

So grateful for you. ilysm. 💕

[toomanytookas]

Oh, oh, oh… El, this is so tender and beautiful and I am already *so* obsessed.

You’ve done such a beautiful job of highlighting moments that show us both Marcus and the readers’s lingering grief and love for their past partners. The language and imagery was just so wonderful and compelling and echoed with so much emotion.

I am genuinely in love with how you used Eve’s memorial tree to convey how much time has passed. And the fact that Marcus picnics there???

This was such a visceral passage: He notices how it’s covered in watermarks today from the rain that fell last night and buffs it to a shine with his sleeve. He’s used to this now, seeing her name written there, Eve Moreno. The pain is no longer sharp but dull and cloudy.

And then those moments with the reader… I feel like I know her voice already from this and we’ve just barely met. Look, there’s no point in my quoting everything back to you since you wrote the dang thing, but I can’t help but tell you that I loved both of these bits:

“Well, thanks, Alex.” You say to a crack on the ceiling. “People keep asking me when I’m going to take it off, and I guess you’ve made the decision for me.”

all those years of sharing the space with a starfish shaped man are seemingly a habit you can’t break

And I loooooooved how you give us such wonderful textures to imagine, too. Your descriptions of all of the storefronts were incredible! I want to move to this town!!! Let me loose in this stationery store!!!!!

I was grinning like mad reading their first meeting. So much chemistry already!

I can’t wait to see where we go from here. This story feels sooooo special.

Series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter moodboard

Afterword

Series summary: A story about hope and new chapters.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x f!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Rating: 18+

See the series masterlist for more information and for tropes/warnings.

Chapter 1

Marcus takes the final bite of his sandwich, turkey slices and salad leaves which he doesn't want but thinks he should eat, and scrunches up the aluminium foil into a ball before stuffing it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He brushes a few crumbs off his jeans, glances at his watch, and decides it’s probably time to head back to work.

He has a good viewpoint from this spot at the top of the hill. He can see the slate grey lake at the bottom and the neat park behind it. The last of the summer flowers still shine from the flowerbeds, and he can hear the distant rusty squeak of the swings.

A symphony of squawks overhead pulls his attention upwards towards the V-shaped formation of a flock of geese as they begin their annual migration towards somewhere warmer.

Ten summers. That’s how many he’s watched slide into autumn from here. He’s seen the tree behind him grow from a sapling to a teenager and watched the plaque underneath it become tarnished and weathered. He notices how it’s covered in watermarks today from the rain that fell last night and buffs it to a shine with his sleeve. He’s used to this now, seeing her name written there, Eve Moreno. The pain is no longer sharp but dull and cloudy.

His knees protest as he pulls himself up off the ground and folds up the tartan picnic blanket he’d been sitting on, holding it under one arm. He follows the winding path back towards the small parking lot, past other trees with other names and dates, and reaches his car just as yet more fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky.

He shucks off his jacket, lays it flat on the passenger seat, and flexes his hands on the steering wheel. It’s always hard to leave this place, to step back into the noise of ‘real life.’ Whatever that means.

He flicks through the radio channels and lands on the local talk radio station. He doesn’t quite catch who they’re interviewing, but the pleasant tone of the conversation washes over him. The discussion is evidently being done over the phone, and the line keeps breaking up. He thinks he hears the warm, cheery female voice name his neighbourhood as a place she’s moving to, and perhaps something about a book. It’s hard to hear over the rain and the creak of the wiper blades.

He swings the car onto the busy road and sets off back towards town, hoping today’s long lunch break sees him through to closing.

---

You hop out of the removal truck cabin, landing on the wet pavement with a less than graceful thud. You fiddle with the straps of your dungarees and regret choosing them as your moving day outfit. The aesthetic was cute, but peeling them off in the rest stop bathroom on your journey here was less so.

You take the front door key out of the envelope in your pocket. It has a little card tag attached with No.14 written on it in neat cursive.

You unlock your new front door and push it open, a small stack of mail and take-out menus, making it resist slightly as they drag across the mat. Dust motes glitter in the empty hallway as you step inside, and you're relieved to get that homely feeling again that you’d had when you originally viewed this place.

The removal guys roll up the back door of the truck with a metallic slam, and you hear them begin their well rehearsed routine of emptying a home into a house.

The older one, Ernie, trudges through to the kitchen with your coffee machine, drops it onto the counter, and plugs it in. “Priorities.” He winks.

You let them get on with their work and try not to get under their feet too much. The upstairs is soon filled with boxes and furniture, and the younger man, Stan, even fixes the runner on your dresser drawer, which had been broken for longer than you care to remember.

The rain, which began as a fine drizzle, is now pouring, and you’re glad for all your sakes that the truck is nearly empty.

Ernie lifts a box (which you know you overfilled) and stumbles on the uneven damp pavement. The box slips from his hand and lands in a deep puddle in the gutter, its contents spilling out.

It looks like junk. You know it does, but those were what you might generously call your ‘writing materials’.

For as long as you could remember, you’d feared the blank page. But worse than that, any new page. You only let yourself write on ‘old’ paper, scraps of things, the backs of old letters or even pieces of cardboard packets, until you felt like the idea was good enough to type up onto a screen. You envied people who had the confidence to open up a fresh notepad and let themself mark it with their ideas.

You pick up the sodden, sad remnants and dump them straight into the trash can in the kitchen. It had taken you forever to amass all that old paper, and you are about to start planning your next book.

Your hands are drenched from the rain and the wet paper, and as you shake them dry, your wedding ring slips from your finger. You hear the metallic ping of it against the floor, see it bounce, then roll and almost in slow motion slide between a crack in the wooden slats and out of sight.

You crouch down onto your knees and peer into the gap. You can’t see anything, and you’re not about to start pulling up the beautiful antique oak floorboards, which had pretty much sold the house to you.

You sit back on your heels and look upwards, rubbing your palms against your thighs.

“Well, thanks, Alex.” You say to a crack on the ceiling. “People keep asking me when I’m going to take it off, and I guess you’ve made the decision for me.”

You sigh out a laugh, small but it bounces off the empty walls, and it hits you that he isn’t here. It catches in your throat, and you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand before giving yourself a firm “No” under your breath.

“Now if anyone asks, I’m telling them my husband is under the floorboards.”

---

You're disorientated for a moment when you wake up the next morning. The frenetic traffic noise from your old place is replaced with a welcome quiet.

You still sleep perched right on the edge of the bed, all those years of sharing the space with a starfish shaped man are seemingly a habit you can’t break.

You lean over and pick up your phone from your nightstand. You’d passed out exhausted after yesterday’s long day and had a fair few messages to reply to from people wanting to know if the move had gone smoothly.

Today was Saturday, and you needed to pick up a few things in town, which was a pleasant short walk away.

Remembering poor Ernie and his mishap with your box of 'treasure', you open up google and type in ‘stationery stores near me’.

---

You walk down the town high street, pop the last piece of a croissant from your inaugural bakery trip into your mouth, and take a look at the scribbled shopping list clutched in your other hand.

Curtain rings

Toilet roll holder

Light bulbs….

The list goes on and on, and it doesn’t get much more interesting. You curse the previous owners for taking anything that wasn’t nailed down with them, revenge for your below offer asking price perhaps.

You round a corner and look up from the list to see a pretty row of shops. The storefronts are all a little crooked and weather beaten, a far cry from the gleaming glass and chrome of the street they neighboured.

There’s a tiny florist, an archway of foliage and flowers curves over its door, and the paving slabs outside are crowded with a hodgepodge of buckets filled with seasonal blooms in oranges, pinks and reds.

Next to it, a jewellery store stands proudly, with a wooden door painted in a deep forest green and golden hand-painted lettering above the window. A woman steps out and admires the watch on her wrist, turning it this way and that and smiling to herself as the metal strap catches the light.

The final store is the one you’re looking for. The pencil silhouette etched on the brown framed curved window tells you you’re in the right place and you step inside.

The bell tinkles above your head, and you’re surprised by how far back this unimposing place stretches and how full of people it is, even for a Saturday.

You pick up a small wire basket from beside the door and take a measured walk around, dodging the other patrons. This feels like a big step, as silly as it seems, letting yourself try something new. You run through the list in your head, you’ll need notebooks, highlighters, post-its, and maybe some pens.

No, pencils. Pencils are more forgiving.

This place is like an Aladdin’s cave. The wooden shelving units are stacked almost to the ceiling with art materials, calligraphy supplies, reams of paper, piles, and piles of notebooks in every shape and size imaginable. You notice a wooden ladder attached to a rail that looks as though it can slide the whole length of the shelves and wonder how much fun it would be to sail along on it.

You pick up a rainbow of assorted items and hook the now heaving basket over your elbow. The writing supplies are towards the cash register at the front of the store and you’re charmed by the array of pencils on offer. It looks like a wall of Pic ‘n Mix sweets, all brightly coloured in their clear Perspex boxes. You run your hand through a pile on instinct and feel the cool wood roll over your fingertips. You pick up pretty much one of every type, not knowing which will feel right for your book two scribbles, and head to the counter to pay.

The queue is several people deep and moving slowly. Everyone seems to be catching up with the store assistant, and you can hear a steady stream of laughs and gentle enquiries up ahead. You pull your phone out of your pocket and respond to a few more messages asking how you’re getting on, and try to put people off from visiting until you’ve at least got your bearings.

You shuffle forwards with your eyes down on the screen until the toe of your shoe bumps into the counter.

You haul the basket up and slide it over to the man behind it, half expecting to be greeted by a surly teenager at this time on a Saturday.

The man who is actually there looks familiar somehow, like he was on a TV show or the news or something. He throws you a friendly “Hello” and your eyes flick quickly from his face to his grey t-shirt clad shoulders and to the practical, yet distracting, sight of his tan coloured leather apron and the way it frames him.

Apparently you're noticing handsome men again now. This is new.

“Stocking up?” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and you’re not sure why you notice this small detail, but you're glad that you do. You want to keep looking at him.

“Something like that. I’m a writer. Well, sort of. I’m not writing at the minute, but I’m hoping all this stuff,” you gesture to the large pile between you both, “will help get me started again.”

He probably didn’t need your life story, but the words just keep flowing.

He scans the items, your conversation punctuated by the pip of the barcode scanner. “A writer, huh? Haven’t seen you around at our artistic waifs and strays events.”

“I just moved here, actually. Just yesterday.” You drum your fingers against the lacquered wood. “Only from an hour away, but it might as well be the other side of the country for how many people I know here.”

He reaches out his right hand and shakes yours. “Then let me welcome you to the area, and to The Stationery Stop.”

You feel a tingle across your palm, something like a static shock but gentler, like a buzz.

“That’s two stops.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Stationery….Stop…it means the same. Although they are spelt differently, I never remember which is which.” You shrug and turn your credit card over and over in your hands.

“Do you know you’re the first person to ever make that joke, and I’ve been waiting two years for it?” He smiles and scans the last of your notebooks before picking up your array of pencils. “And you’ve chosen all my favourite things.”

The deep brown eyes partially hidden behind his thick, dark-rimmed glasses are kind and soft. You can see why the line ahead of you was so long. He feels like a friend you've known for a long time.

He passes you your items, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and string, piled inside a pale green paper carrier bag, and hands you a flyer from a tidy pile on the counter.  “You’d be welcome to join us, by the way. We meet on Thursday nights.”

You speed read the glossy paper. “Pencils and Pals?” You laugh.

“I know.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not good at that type of thing, but it’s better than Artists Anonymous, which was my first idea.”

You bid him goodbye and barely register how freely you’re swinging the bag in your hand as you walk back down the street and finish reading through the flyer.

His phone number is listed on the bottom, and a name; Marcus Moreno.

Next chapter

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#we can be heroes #chaptered #read #ongoing #author: secretelephanttattoo #pedropascalfandombingo

[toomanytookas]

AAAAAAAH. Hopefully interesting??? *Hopefully*? Try INCREDIBLY.

I totally agree that kink negotiation and planning are such interesting ways to explore the state of a relationship and really demonstrate levels of care and trust and feeling comfortable enough to be both vulnerable and liberated in sharing your desires with your partner... I think one of my favourite things about how you've included it in Maintenance Request is that it came up so 'early' (obviously it's all relative) because the reader felt so safe with Joel. It really signaled to me how comfortable she already was in their relationship, even with her early anxieties from her past dripping in, and of course you already know how much I appreciated how Joel responded to her sharing and the potential for engaging in her fantasy later down the line (and omg did I enjoy the later of it... I'll save it for my chapter comment, which I'm hoping to get to writing this afternoon!).

I also like what you said about being kind of open/flexible as a reader. I think I'm in a similar camp where one of the things that I enjoy is seeing how authors can take different elements of a character and flavour them with kink in a way that can sway me towards seeing them in one way or another. I definitely have certain versions that I will gravitate towards when it comes to straight up pwp because I tend to , but then sometimes I will come a cross a totally opposite or novel version of a character's kinks or alignment with an archetype and just get blown away by how well it fits for the character!

I loooooove all of the little details you mentioned and am particularly obsessed with your thoughts about Marcus P. I've really loved his characterisation in the fics you've posted with him so far and hope you'll revisit him and perhaps a bit of his dom energy sometime soon (not me just realising that this is 100% backed up by my poll vote! hahaha).

Thanks for such a detailed response, Kate! It was fun to see into your brain a bit about this (and obviously it gave me a lot of thoughts in response hahah). Congratulations again on your milestone. :D

Happy 600, Kate!! I’ve got a bit of a spicy ❓ for you:

I heartily appreciate Maintenance Request’s somno journey (👀👀👀) and love how you have explored/referenced elements of discovery, negotiation, and scene planning across your fics that include some kinky things. ✨

Are there any kinks that you headcanon for specific PPCU characters or BDSM archetypes that you think fit them well? Do you find that their interests and preferences as you write them vary depending on the story that you are telling and/or the details of who their partner/the reader (character) is?

You’ll find me at the munch table keeping an eye out in case any of the boys stop by… 😉😳 🤭 ~ M @toomanytookas

M!! thank you! 🧡 @toomanytookas I love this ask 😂 I saved it for now to go up around when the chapter does. I got a little carried away lol

As you noticed, I like exploring the negotiation and planning of kink, like... a lot. I feel like it's a really interesting way to deepen characterization and explore the developing relationship between characters. (how comfortable are they? do they trust each other? etc.)

So on the one hand, I'm the type of fanfic reader that can see a lot of possibilities for many individual characters. Like, a fic can convince me someone is more of a dom and another fic can convince me they're not. That's one of my favorite things about fic in general -- how much we can explore characterization and details like that and still have the characters be recognizably themselves.

On the other hand, I do tend to see them certain ways when I write them myself, but like you said I think I lean into it more or less depending on the fic and the relationship I've built/am building between the two people.

For example, I do think of Joel as someone who enjoys having control, but what that looks like in practice depends a lot on the fic, the plot, the situation they're in, their relationship... and I think pre- and post-outbreak Joel express that in different ways. So anything from like, actual dom!Joel with referenced kink negotiation and exploration (like the amazing relationship explored in @atticrissfinch's series that starts with Gimme What I Want - read the tags) to a Joel who is just a little bit more in charge in bed -- I think anything like that fits within his characterization in my mind. It depends on the story, the premise, the setting, the relationship, etc. And I think of Joel as someone who wants to/needs to let go of control sometimes, too, and that is also interesting to explore in fic.

For some of the other characters, here's just a few things I associate with them, but that might look different in different fics:

Din and Dave like to watch (in various ways)

Din is extremely into taste and touch, and that can express itself in various kinks depending on the story

Javi P is into overstimulation and exhibitionism

Marcus P is more of a dom to me, but that would look different in different fics, and always focused on his partner's pleasure

Frankie likes it both ways depending on what he needs/wants and what his partner needs/wants

Yeah so overall I think I tend to think more about the relationship and the characters and then the kinks, I guess? Does that make sense?

Slight spoilers for Maintenance Request under the cut (for anyone who hasn't read up to chapter 18) --

In Maintenance Request Joel is a little bit more in control, a little bit dominating in bed, but not a lot. It's more that he's driving things a lot of the time. (in my head these two explore various kinks more explicitly in the future)

anyway that was a lot lol. hopefully interesting?

followers celebration

#just chattin #author: burntheedges

[toomanytookas]

I’m obsessed with how you convey the reader’s nervousness and how she reacts to the strength of Joel’s presence and aura.

This was so so good:

You don’t like the way he makes you feel, like somehow you’re intruding on him. You should have the upper hand, this is your home and he’s injured, you helped him for crying out loud, and here you are, nervously watching his every move.

And of course I appreciate that Joel picks up on it too and we get to see that softer side that lurks behind his gruffness, the one that hints at his own encounters with loss and fear ("He doesn’t ask this time, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t place, something that almost looks like understanding." WOW.)

Those moments of reflection that hint at the reader's past continue to entrance me and make me so curious. The whole theme of her having to use what her father left her (either intentionally in the form of resources or because they are his own material things) in order to provide Ellie and Joel with care was so well done and heartbreaking.

I also feel so deeply for her seeing those glimpses of how much of a stasis she has fallen into without anyone else around her to make things seem worth doing.

This gives us so much of an insight into that and felt so familiar and real (I’m fine lol):

What is it that you do all day? Time has been blurring together, days without anything happening repeating on a constant loop. You realize that you don’t remember, can’t talk of any activities that are part of your day. How long has it been like this?

I can't wait to see how things unfold!

come morning light

chapter 2 • series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~2.5k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, vague description of an injury

a/n: i'm finally finished with chapter 2, and once again nervous af about it haha. there's not terribly much happening in this one, but i promise we'll get there, it just needs the buildup :)

thank you @catchallfangirl for beta reading <3

follow @janaispunknotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers as always by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

You don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, but after hours of tossing and turning in the darkness of your bedroom, you think it’s probably time to get up. 

You’re halfway convinced that last night’s events were a product of your imagination, that your mind has felt so lonely that it conjured up the whole scenario. But when you step out of your bedroom and find the door of your parents’ bedroom only halfway closed, the way you have never left it before saying good night to Ellie earlier, you have to come to terms with the fact that this might actually be your reality. 

Ellie seems to be sound asleep, a lump under the covers, softly breathing, but when you head to the living area and switch on one of the smaller lamps, you’re met with the piercing glare of Joel. He’s still lying on the couch, much like you left him, still pale, still dark shadows under his eyes, but he’s much more awake now, his gaze following your every move. 

“Hey,” you say softly, sinking down on the same armchair that you sat in when you watched him last night while Ellie took a shower. You suppress a shudder at the way he regards you, his eyes flicking up and down your body, taking in your size, you presume, searching for weapons. Your gun is tucked into the waistband at the back of your pants, which you’re sure he’s already aware of. You don’t like the way he makes you feel, like somehow you’re intruding on him. You should have the upper hand, this is your home and he’s injured, you helped him for crying out loud, and here you are, nervously watching his every move. You did the right thing. It’s gonna be fine. 

“Where’s Ellie?” he asks, ignoring your greeting, his voice gruff. 

“Sleeping,” you reply, nodding your head to the bedroom door. “She’s okay, I promise.” 

Some of the tension seems to release from his body and he slumps back down a little, but the distrust in his expression when he looks at you doesn’t waver. Then again, you’re probably not much different. 

“Look,” you sigh, “I’m not playing some kind of game here. You came into my house, I saw that you needed help, so I helped.” You try to infuse your voice with as much confidence as you can. “Don’t make me regret that, okay?” 

He shrugs, a noncommittal grunt the only verbal answer. It could potentially be interpreted as a thanks, you guess. In a less tense situation, you’d probably grow annoyed by now. Shrugging yourself, you get to your feet and head to the kitchen. Anything to escape the way he’s watching your every movement.

“Hey, do you want coffee?” You don’t really want to offer him any, but you’d feel weird drinking it yourself without asking. 

He pipes up at the question, head turning in your direction, his face the most open that you’ve seen it yet. “You have coffee?” 

“Yeah.” That’s why I’m fucking asking. 

“I– yes.” A breath, a second of him not meeting your eyes. “Thanks.” 

You smile, small, fleetingly, busying yourself with the ground beans and the boiling water, reveling in the smell that slowly spreads throughout the room. It reminds you of happier times, when the world was still normal. 

He has pushed himself into a sitting position, breathing heavily, when you walk over to hand him the steaming cup, still careful to keep your distance. 

After you sit back down, the both of you stay silent for a few minutes. You enjoy the bitter taste on your tongue, the way you slowly feel your energy rising. 

“Does it hurt much?” you ask eventually, gesturing towards his stomach. 

Another grunt, the hint of a head shake. 

“So it does.” He opens his mouth, the protest most likely already on his tongue, and you raise an eyebrow. “I have painkillers, are you sure that you–”

“No.” It comes fast, his voice raised, no room for arguments.

You instinctively flinch back at the unexpected louder sound, the cup shaking in your grip. You set it down on the table in front of you. Have your hands free, just in case.

There’s a hint of regret in his eyes, his free hand slightly raised, palm open. He’s trying to calm you down, you realize. 

“Okay,” you breathe, working hard to keep your voice steady, “no painkillers, got it.” 

“Sorry,” he mutters, his face half hidden, words almost lost behind the cup. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell him as much as yourself. 

You’ve gotten jumpy, not used to loud sounds anymore, raised voices, not used to humans in general, you suppose. You hadn’t fully realized it until now, until there’s other humans around you again.

“Thank you,” he continues unexpectedly, “not just for the coffee, but– you know.” He’s struggling, the words not coming easily, but you think that he’s being earnest. “Patching me up.”

“Of course.” You nod hastily, your heart still beating a little too fast. 

Another moment passes in silence, both of you slowly sipping the coffee. He’s looking around, taking in his surroundings, eyes lingering on the closed wooden doors and the stairs leading up. You try not to get nervous about it. It’s normal that he would want to know more about where he is, after all. 

“This is the basement, right? Is it safe?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “No way to get in from outside.” As long as you stay inside, you’re safe.

He hums, appreciatively, you think.

“How long have you been living here?” 

“Always. It’s my parents’ house. I mean–” you laugh, but it comes out hollow, “we lived upstairs, obviously. But my dad was… kinda crazy. Or– not that crazy, I guess, all things considered.” Your lips curl into a wry smile. 

Your mind flashes back to long lectures about survival techniques, learning how to shoot, your father going on and on about first aid, hunting, all the things that you couldn’t have cared less about as a teenage girl, but were ingrained in your brain nonetheless. You’re grateful, now, but it’s laced with guilt about how often you snapped at your father, how often you told him he was paranoid, seeing dangers that weren’t there, that he was wasting your time. You couldn’t have known, the rational part of you argues. But you can never take it back now, the guilt whispers. 

When you look up, Joel’s eyes are on you, eyebrows raised in question. You shake your head, trying to clear it. Stay in the present.

“Sorry, what did you–?” 

Worry is painting his expression. “Are you okay?” 

Don’t show weakness. “Yeah, of course. Just spaced out for a second.” 

You force a smile onto your face and stand up rather abruptly, gathering both cups and putting them into the sink. Joel hasn’t moved, but you feel his eyes on you as you move. 

“Do you, um, do you want to shower, maybe? Or just wash up, I don’t know, how–” You gesture towards the dried bloodstain on his flannel, forcefully keeping your tone light. “I have clean clothes, too, if you want.” 

A shiver runs through you at the thought of going through your dad’s things, of someone else wearing them. He doesn’t need them anymore. He’s not coming back. 

You know that you’ve gone silent for too long again even before you see Joel’s expression. He doesn’t ask this time, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t place, something that almost looks like understanding. 

“Yeah, I guess cleaning up a bit would be nice. I– thank you. Again” 

His voice is gruff and he avoids your eyes. You think that he doesn’t like it, having to thank you. Owing you. 

Giving him a nod, you head to the bedroom, hoping not to disturb Ellie, but she’s awake already, her eyes glinting in the light that’s falling into the dark room from the living area. You clench your jaw, heading for one of the drawers, trying hard not to think about what you’re doing. It’s not like he ever wore this stuff, it was just sitting down here. It’s fine, you’re fine. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not about you,” Ellie says quietly from beside you, breaking through your racing thoughts. 

You turn towards her, confusion on your face. “What is?”

“Joel,” she shrugs, still keeping her voice low. “He’s like that with everyone. He’s a bit of an asshole, really.” She sounds fond, saying it, like it’s an endearing character trait. 

A surprised laugh escapes you. “I– okay, thanks, I guess.” 

She waves it away, swinging her feet out of the bed. “No, thank you for not murdering me in my sleep.” 

“Yeah, likewise.” You shake your head, still laughing to yourself. It’s so easy to like the girl, to feel like you already know her. 

You hand Joel a pile of clothes, purposefully avoiding to look at them too closely, explain where the towels are and he grumbles his approval before the bathroom door closes behind him. 

You release a breath and close your eyes for a second. You are undeniably warming up to Ellie, finding it almost impossible not to, but her companion is a different story. 

“Hey, do you drink coffee?” you ask in the direction of the bedroom. 

“Ew, no!” comes her reply as she steps out of the door, collecting the wild mess of hair on the top of her head and securing it in a ponytail.

Her offense at the mere suggestion makes you chuckle under your breath as you busy yourself with preparing breakfast in the form of porridge instead. She’s leaning against the doorframe, watching you, her eyes wide as she takes in the cupboards full of supplies. 

You’re glad that you don’t need anything from the storeroom, keeping that door in the corner firmly closed. You want to trust her, want to trust them, but a feeling of unease still lingers at the thought of letting them know just how much you have.

Instead, you voice another question, a thought that fills you with unease as well. 

“Hey,” you begin, keeping your eyes trained on the stove, “I’m sorry, but you and Joel, there– there isn’t anything weird going on, is there?” 

“Like what?” She sounds slightly defensive, but when you steal a glance at her, she’s eyeing you with curiosity. 

“I don’t know, like…” You shrug, stirring the mixture of water and oats, “you want to be here, he’s not forcing you to come with him or anything, right?” 

“No, don’t worry about that,” comes her reply, almost amused. It was a bit of a stupid question, when you think about it, considering how worried she was about him last night, how protective. 

“Okay,” you smile at her. You’re curious nonetheless, how they ended up together and where they’re headed, but it’s probably not really your place to ask. 

You divide the porridge into three bowls and hand her one, while you carry yours and one for Joel back to the living area and set them down on the wooden table. 

Ellie starts shoveling the food down immediately and you’re left wondering once more what happened to them and when they last ate something. 

“So…” Ellie begins, her mouth still half full, “you’re just down here with all this food? Because your dad stored it here, before… things went to shit?” 

You can’t blame her for her curiosity, you’re aware that you’ve probably found yourself in a better living situation than most people. Your thoughts go to the storeroom again, basically stuffed with enough supplies to last you multiple lifetimes, especially now that it’s just… No.

You hum in affirmation, not trusting your voice and you’re thankful that she’s too distracted by her breakfast to notice anything weird about your reaction. 

“So you don’t go out hunting or anything?” comes her next question. You freeze. 

You did go hunting, back when you cared about variance in the meals you prepared, about using fresh ingredients when you could. Until there was no need for that any more. 

You realize that Ellie is saying your name, not for the first time, judging from the look on her face. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, your hands tightening around the bowl. “No, I- I don’t go hunting.”

If she finds the situation weird, she shrugs it off impressively fast. 

She nods to herself, eating quietly for a minute, before she speaks up again. “So what do you… do? Down here all day?” 

“Uh…” What is it that you do all day? Time has been blurring together, days without anything happening repeating on a constant loop. You realize that you don’t remember, can’t talk of any activities that are part of your day. How long has it been like this?

You’re relieved from having to answer by Joel emerging from the bathroom, his face pale and his breaths going heavy. He has put on the sweatpants you gave him, but his torso is bare, the skin around the injury still an angry red. 

He sinks back down into the cushions with a heavy sigh and you quickly get to work, cleaning the wound once more and giving him more antibiotics before you redo the bandages and hope for the best. Your hands don’t shake as badly as they did last night. 

Ellie gets him some water and pushes his bowl of porridge into his hands, urging him to eat, before she turns to you. She’s trying to be strong, to hide her worry, but the pleading look in her eyes when she asks you if he’s gonna be okay tells a different story. 

“Of course,” you say, giving her what you hope to be a reassuring smile. 

Joel does look better after he’s eaten something, but his eyelids are drooping and after a few more minutes, his eyes close and his breath evens out. You do the dishes and check the cameras, calming down a bit more when you’re sure that everything seems to be quiet upstairs. 

When you return to the living area, Ellie is rummaging through her pack, muttering to herself, until she pulls a book out of, proudly turning the cover for you to read it. No pun intended - Volume Too.

She starts reading them to you while you settle back down with a second cup of coffee and you share her laughs, enjoying the way it makes her look lighter, allows her to be a kid who can laugh at stupid jokes. You ignore the sting it causes in your chest because you once knew someone who would have loved this book just as much as Ellie does.

thank you for reading 🤍 if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask, it truly makes my day every single time!

#tlou #chaptered #ongoing #read

[toomanytookas]

Oh noooooooo Lydiaaaaaaaaaaa.

Our poor lady... This was such a recognisable experience/thought spiral for me:

In the light of day, you might have been able to muster the little tricks you’d learned in therapy to quiet the voice of your inner bully. In the early hours, vulnerable and anxious in Ben’s bed, the chorus simply grew more insistent.

The emotional torment and yearning of this chapter was soooo good but so achy.

This line???? You press send, your eyes glancing over the little round picture of Ben at the top of the screen. You say the words you’d left unsaid at the end of your message.  “God, I miss you, darling.”

I loved that dual storytelling through separate monologues section. It was so good and the pacing of the back and forth between the two perspectives felt reminiscent of the flow of a good play or film script!

The ending of this chapter was such a powerhouse. I loved those little moments of reaching out, of glimmers of hope and repair, and I could FRAME those final unspoken thoughts, it was such a wonderfully angsty passage.

Visiting - Chapter 8: Sister Winter

(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 morning after brings complicated feelings as Ben and Lydia return to their respective families for the holiday season.

Word Count: 7.7k

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia is 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; references to PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; serious self-esteem issues; references to panic attacks and anxiety disorders; references to the holidays; both Ben and Lydia come from families that mark Christmas; angst central.

A/N: The title of this chapter is inspired by Sufjan Stevens' eponymous song, which is one of my go-to Melancholy Winter Tracks. And yes, it was really weird writing Christmas in July.

I'm so grateful for all the love I've had for this story and for this pair. Every comment and reblog and ask is a little lift to my soul!

This chapter introduces Lydia and Ben's extended families. In addition to their chosen and found families, both in work and in their friendship groups, this pair are from closely-knit families of origin - though of course, that brings with it its own challenges.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

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

Cross-posting to AO3.

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

@lunapascal and @julesonrecord - thank you for cheering me on and offering wise and practical advice with this difficult chapter. @tessa-quayle - I am always so touched by your enthusiasm for these idiot dorksicles (a term I am appropriating from Jules).

Taglist:

@lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl

Ben is a deep sleeper - or maybe he was just completely worn out after your exploits that night. 

Either way, he doesn’t even move a muscle as you shift towards the edge of the mattress, fumbling your way out of bed and carefully tip-toeing across the floor, gathering your underwear and dress as you come across them on the floor.

The panic hit you when you woke around 5am, eyes flicking open suddenly in the dark stillness of Ben’s bedroom. The only sound was his soft, steady breathing, interspersed with the occasional tiny snore. In slumber, he somehow appeared even more handsome, more beautiful, snugly nestled into his pillow and hair sticking up at all angles. Fragments of light peeked around the edges of the blinds, picking out some of his features.

Whereas a couple of hours before his lovely face had felt like a comfort, in the wee small hours of the morning it triggered doubt. Your brain promptly forgot everything he had said about how beautiful he thought you were, how much he’d wanted you. Instead, it struck up a familiar, repetitive chorus.

He couldn’t really want you. He’s so gorgeous. You don’t deserve him. He’s sexy and kind and good and you’re a mess. Even if he thinks he wants you now, eventually he’ll realise he’s made a mistake. 

In the light of day, you might have been able to muster the little tricks you’d learned in therapy to quiet the voice of your inner bully. In the early hours, vulnerable and anxious in Ben’s bed, the chorus simply grew more insistent. 

So you carefully get out of bed and pick up your clothes. You pad out of the bedroom and find the bathroom, hoping that a splash of cold water might reset your thinking. 

Instead, the sight of yourself in the mirror just serves as further evidence for the case against you. Your makeup is smudged, settling into every line and wrinkle. You look jowly and heavy: matronly, even, and certainly not worthy of the handsome, good man whose bed you’d shared. 

You feel the defences around your heart building themselves back up again. 

You shouldn’t have let them down in the first place.

Still, you seem to want to somehow change your own mind. You tip-toe back across the hallway and peer around the door into the bedroom, as if maybe seeing Ben might quell the panic that’s beating a frantic, jolting rhythm in your chest. 

He’s still in the same position, his back to you as you stand at the door. There’s not a lot of him that’s visible, save for the tufts of messy hair and the outline of his broad form under the comforter. 

The panic eases momentarily as you feel a surge of affection and want. For an instant, you allow yourself to remember how good it felt to make love with him, to laugh and kiss and hold and touch and fuck together.

You have to leave in a few months. It would have to end one way or another. You couldn’t face that. You couldn’t go through the pain. And what if you hurt him, too? Better to get out now.

You return to the bathroom to dress quickly and quietly. In the semi-darkness, you pad down the stairs and retrieve your shoes, bag, and coat from the hallway. 

What the fuck are you doing?

“I’m getting out before he has the chance to reject me. Before we get too deep. Before I have to go home. Before it has to end. Before I hurt him.” 

Before I fuck it up, like I always do. I always ruin everything.

You remember from Thanksgiving that there’s a little notepad in the kitchen, for shopping lists and reminders. You think for a few moments before writing a note to Ben, folding it over and affixing it to the front of his fridge with a magnet. 

You know this is going to hurt him.

“Better than really hurting him further down the line, even if I’d never want to. I don’t deserve him.”

You try to block out the memory of the evening before, urgent declarations of want and your bodies pushed together against the hallway wall, as you quietly open the front door and leave. 

His immediate instinct as he blinks awake and stretches his long arms is to reach for you, to find your soft, warm body and pull you to him for another kiss, another cuddle; another chance to feel you, so wet and tight and perfect, as he sinks back into you.

“Mmmmm. Morning, baby.” Nothing.

Ben sits up and realises he’s on his own. He wanders around the upper floor of his home, calling your name, as if he’ll summon you out of the ether by repeating it.

He moves down the stairs and into the hallway, now filled with the crisp morning light of midwinter. Still nothing. 

His final hope is that you’re in the kitchen. Maybe you couldn’t sleep. Maybe you were hungry, or thirsty. 

“Lyddie?”

No you. Just a note.

“What the fuck, Lyddie. What the fuck are you doing?”

He leans back against the countertop, staring at the folded piece of paper - at his name, carefully inscribed in your neat, flowing script.

Dear Ben, 

Thank you for last night - it was great, really. I thought it would be easier if I just headed out. I didn’t want to wake you. Safe travels west. Happy holidays. See you soon. - L.

“Fuck.”

The thing that really drove you out of the safe warmth of Ben Morales’ arms and bed and out into the half-light of a December morning, walking home to your empty apartment alone and afraid, wasn’t your fear of fucking up - at least, not really. It was part of it, true, but what tipped the balance was not just fear, but feelings.

You pack the last of your things for the journey home for the holidays and try to ignore that simple fact. You had kept your defences up so sturdily and so dutifully for a long time, until he came along. Until you had to go catching feelings for a man who lived an entire ocean away from you.

You were frightened of fucking up because what you had - the friendship, whatever situation you entered into when he pressed his lips to yours and took you into his bed - meant the world to you. You were scared of hurting him, and of being hurt, because you cared about him so much. 

It was a strange paradox: you had done something that hurt the two of you now, in order to avoid the potential for greater pain further down the line. You’d always had a natural inclination to run from things that scared or overwhelmed you, after all. In your own, tortured logic, it made sense to run from the sheer force of your feelings for Ben. 

As you checked and double-checked the apartment while waiting for your cab to the airport, you remembered David’s words and felt a little guilty. You’d tried, though. You’d tried to let the light in. You just hadn’t expected it to blind you.

You’ve been avoiding your phone, save for sending a message to your family group chat to let them know you were safely en route to the airport. When your mother’s name pops up, you open the message.

MOM: Good woman, Lyd, you’re there good and early! Time to have a nice coffee and a bite to eat. Can’t wait to see you! 

Your mother was always thrilled when you got to the airport ahead of schedule, knowing your propensity for last-minute panic. You had no idea how to explain to her why you were sitting, red-eyed and heartbroken, in an airside coffee shop three whole hours early. 

You still hadn’t opened the two voice notes from Ben. A missed call on the phone, which you spotted after you got through security, then the two notes. Part of you had hoped that if you just ignored them long enough, they’d go away. Typical Lyd.

You take a deep breath and a sip of your enormous festive coffee, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles and reeking of peppermint syrup. You pop in your earbuds and press play.

The sound of his voice is like a knife to the heart. You’d feared anger, but instead Ben sounds like he’s aching.

“Hi, Lyddie - Lydia. I, uh, I got your note. Um. I guess I thought we were on the same page, about… about last night. Maybe not. Sorry if I got the wrong idea. I… anyway. I guess you’re on your way home now, or about to be. I’ll, um - I’ll talk to you. Happy holidays. Safe travels.”

It’s all you can do not to run out of that airport and hop into a cab back to his place, to hold him, to tell him how sorry you are, to beg him to forgive you for being a fucking idiot.

You’ve fucked it up. Told you you would.

You press play on the second voice note. His voice, still cracking a little, sounds stronger, steadier, more determined.

“Hi, just wanted to say - I don’t regret it. I don’t regret that we spent the night together. I’ll never regret that, no matter what. It meant something to me. I don’t want you to regret it, Lyd. Please.”

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press ‘call’. He doesn’t answer. 

Ben listens to your voice note again while he’s sitting in the departures lounge, a day after you’d passed through. He hasn’t slept very much in the last day and a half. This morning, when he was washing his face and trimming his beard and moustache, he was sure he’d aged a decade in the space of less than 48 hours. The delay to his flight gives him plenty of time to nurse an enormous black coffee, though he wishes it was something even stronger.

“Hi. I’m at the airport. I tried calling, but - I guess you’re busy. Or maybe you just don’t want to talk. I understand why you - listen, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know what - I can explain, it’s just - it’s hard not being able to do that face to face. I promise, I can explain. I can. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ben.”

Your voice catches at that point in the voice note, and he can hear you trying not to completely break down. It breaks his heart every time he listens to the message.

“I guess I will see you in the new year, then? I promise I’ll explain then. Safe travels west. Okay, then. Bye.”

Jet lag is a bitch. But you summon the strength and focus to slip in your earbuds in the privacy of your childhood bedroom at home, and press play on the next voice note he sent you. 

You might be imagining it, but his tone is softer. He still sounds hurt, but calmer, somehow. 

“Hey there. I’m just about to fly out. I got your message and - yeah. Probably best to see how things are in January. Maybe it’ll be good to have some space, clear our heads. Anyway.” He pauses, his voice quieter. “It’s good to hear your voice, Lyd.”

Oh, fuck. He wants space. Fuck. That’s not good. 

You take three attempts at your response before you manage to record a coherent message. 

“Hey. I hope the flights are okay, and that you get there safely. Yeah - um, yeah. Space, clear our heads. So, guess I’ll give you your space, until I see you and can explain. And it’s so good to hear your voice, too.”

You press send, your eyes glancing over the little round picture of Ben at the top of the screen. You say the words you’d left unsaid at the end of your message. 

“God, I miss you, darling.”

TJ Morales waits inside the arrivals hall at San Francisco International with his twelve year old twin sons, Dylan and Carlos. There’s only eighteen months between TJ - Thomas Juan, to give him his full name - and his older brother, and despite living on opposite sides of the country for a decade, they’re very close. It’s become an annual tradition, when Ben returns for the holidays, for TJ and the boys to pick him up.

This year, the three are decked out in an array of Star Wars-themed Christmas shirts to welcome Ben home: Dylan’s printed with a pattern of C3PO in a Santa hat, Carlos wearing a shirt emblazoned with Chewbacca wrapped in fairy lights, and their father wearing a pattern rather sweetly titled ‘We Wish You A Merry Sithmas’.

The running joke in the family was that TJ was the ‘cool brother’, a title he’d given himself when they were in middle school, much to the amusement of their parents. In many ways, that dynamic held fast to the present day. TJ, with his laidback personality, his long dark locks and neat beard, his array of plaid shirts, band T-shirts, and casual hoodies, still seemed to embody West Coast cool in a way that his more serious, anxious brother didn’t. His job certainly helped - a sound engineer for a video game studio, the kind of job both boys could have only dreamed of as they hid their shared Game Boy from their younger sister, Teresa.

Even so, as Ana Morales liked to remind people when she spoke about her sons, when she’d asked a three year old TJ what he wanted to be when he grew up, his answer was clear: “I wanna be like Ben.”

The sliding doors open and passengers begin to stream out, excitedly greeted by their families and friends. The two boys keep watch at the barrier, their dark curls bobbing up and down as they compete to spot their beloved tío first.

“Tío Ben!!” 

Carlos wins this year, waving frantically to his uncle as he pushes his luggage trolley through the doors.

Ben grins widely as he wraps an arm around each of his nephews, ruffling their hair as they show off their new holiday shirts. TJ throws his arms around his big brother, embracing him tightly. “Welcome home, hermano. We missed you.”

As he pulls away, TJ notices how tired Ben looks. His smile, genuine as it is, doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“You okay, Ben?” he asks in a low voice as they follow the boys out of the terminal and in the direction of the parking lot.

Ben nods, putting his arm around his brother as they walk. “I’m okay. Just tired. It’s been a long semester. I’m so glad to be home with you guys - it’s been forever.”

“Can I ask you something, Lyd?”

Your younger - only - sibling, Kate, is bouncing her one year old daughter Evie on her lap while Cora, her older girl, dances around the room and sings along to Encanto.

“We don’t talk about Bru- sure, of course. What’s up?”

“Are you alright? You’re normally full of energy when you’re home for the holidays and you just seem - I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like someone’s turned down your brightness.”

You haven’t said anything to Kate about Ben - well, nothing more than acknowledging him as part of the wider group of friends you’d established at Barrow. You certainly haven’t told her about your growing closeness, or what had happened, or - god forbid - your feelings for him.

It wasn’t that you two weren’t close enough for sharing that kind of confidence. You’d been brought even closer together since your ex-partner had cheated and left. You just felt like if you actually articulated the words, it would make it too real. Too much. Too fragile, too likely to disappear like every other crush or love affair you’d ever had.

“I’m just tired, I think. It was a lot in a few months - moving there, adjusting to a new environment, meeting all those new people, doing new classes. You know I’m always wrecked at the end of the semester.”

Kate raises an eyebrow sceptically while Evie chews on a giraffe-shaped teething toy. “There’s something off.”

You exhale, frustrated. “I’m fine.”

“Did you meet someone?”

Your eyes widen. How the FUCK does she know?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re on about. What gives you that idea?”

“You were happy when we’d talk and FaceTime. You were always so excited going out with your new friends. And now you’re back here you’re tired and gloomy. It just makes me wonder, you know - was there more than intellectual stimulation going on over there. If you know what I mean.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Kate.”

“They’re working you too hard, Benjamin. Doesn’t your poor brother look tired, Thomas?”

TJ exhales and takes a sip of his coffee. He was used to the annual routine - their mother fussing over Ben like he’d been thoroughly neglected since the last time he was home. 

“I asked him earlier and he said he was fine. Didn’t you, B?”

Ben nods. “I’m fine, mom.”

Ana Morales does not seem convinced. “Well, you’ve got a couple of weeks now to rest up. We’ll take care of you.”

TJ shoots a look at the twins, who giggle conspiratorially.

The door into the kitchen opens and Lucy, TJ’s wife, staggers in carrying a precarious stack of lilac-coloured cake boxes printed with the logo for Pun in the Oven, her bakery and coffee shop in the city. Ben and TJ immediately stand up to relieve her of the burden, placing the boxes on the kitchen table as Lucy - or as she’s more usually called, Luce - wipes her brow and grins in the direction of her brother-in-law.

“BENJAMIIIIIIIIN!” She grabs Ben and pulls him in for a hug, smiling widely. “Missed you, man!”

Ben smiles softly at her in turn. “You look great, Luce. Any new tattoos since I saw you last?”

Luce arches an eyebrow and holds out her left hand, revealing a simple outline of a heart in purple ink in the space between her index finger and thumb. 

“Hope you don’t mind, dude. Took some inspiration from your bullseye for this one, just because I always thought the placement was cool.”

Ben spreads the fingers on his left hand, flexing his thumb slightly as he looks at the small bullseye tattoo he had done during his junior year abroad. 

“I’m honoured. Any chance your husband might get a matching one, eh?” 

Luce giggles and wraps an arm around TJ. “You know he hates needles. He got our initials done, that was enough for me. He was so brave.” She plants a kiss to TJ’s cheek, triggering dry-heaving noises from their sons.

Ana surveys the stack of cake boxes on her table. “You didn’t need to, Luce. This is far too much.”

Luce shakes her head and holds up her hands. “Nonsense. Just a couple of the leftovers from today and a few extra batches of the holiday specials I threw in this morning. Plus, for the homecoming…”

She lifts the lid on one of the boxes and pushes it in Ben’s direction.

“Coffee and walnut - your favourite.”

Ben’s eyes light up and he hugs his sister-in-law. “This is the best gift I could ask for. Thanks, Luce.”

“Don’t you think he looks tired, Luce? He needs to rest, poor boy.” Ana tilts her head at Ben, who is already searching for a knife to cut a slice of the cake.

Luce does think Ben looks tired, but there’s something else that’s just not quite right. A sadness, somewhere, or a resurgence of his anxiety. You can see it in his eyes. Maybe her husband knows more.

“We’ll look after him.” 

There’s always been something special about Christmas Eve. As a child it was the anticipation and excitement for the day to come, desperate to go to bed but too excited to sleep. As an adult, drafted in to help prep the food for the next day’s dinner, you peeled potatoes, sliced carrots, and monitored the turkey slowly cooking in the oven while listening to carols and Christmas songs on the radio. 

More than that, there was something in the air - maybe not ‘magic’, contrary to the message pushed in every TV ad since November. But possibility: of transformation, of newness, of togetherness, whether with blood family, found family, or whatever community you chose for yourself.

Or, just maybe, you’d completely internalised A Christmas Carol. Never mind Charles Dickens, that was mostly the Muppets’ fault.

The arrival of your little nieces in recent years has brought back some of the old traditions from your own childhood. You’d been followed around for most of the day by Cora, who had turned three a few months before.

“How does Santa bring all the things, Auntie Lyd?”

You smile and continue peeling potatoes. “I think he has some magic that lets him have a really big sleigh that just carries all the toys for everyone.”

“But then it’s too big and won’t fly.”

“No, it will. Because it’s magic.”

“But then he has’ta come down the chimley.” She gazes up at you, narrowing her eyes. “Should just use the magic to put the presents down.”

You’re stuck there. Thankfully, your brother-in-law Marc arrives in search of another slice of cake, and you palm her off on her daddy. 

With Cora and Evie safely in bed and asleep, you and your parents help your sister and her husband set up the living room, carefully setting out the Santa gifts and filling the little stockings embroidered with each girl’s name. 

Marc takes a careful bite out of the slice of cake and drains the glass of port left at the fireplace. “I don’t know how he isn’t absolutely rat-arsed, with all the port and whiskey and that being left out for him. No wonder he’s falling down chimneys.”

With your parents gone to bed, and Marc watching Die Hard on a random movie channel, you and your sister unwind for a bit with tea and Christmas cookies. She eyes you up, as if steeling herself to make a confession. Or, as it turns out, to encourage you to make one.

“So, who is he?” Kate poses the question at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her gigantic Christmas mug of tea.

You put down your own mug and sigh.

One of Cora’s favourite questions about Santa Claus is how he does it all in one night. Apart from magic, which even at three she seems sceptical about, you tend to cite time zones as an explanation.

After all, how else could Cora and Evie be already starting to wake up to their gifts on one side of the world, while Santa hasn’t yet visited the extended Morales clan on the other?

With Luce and TJ hosting Christmas this year, they extended an invitation to Ben and Ana to stay with them on Christmas Eve. In truth, they hoped being roped in for an 80s Christmas movie marathon with his nephews would help distract Ben a little. Maybe even get him in the holiday mood. 

By 11pm, Lucy has finished the prep for tomorrow’s meal and is shooing her sons to their beds. Their grandmother retired a couple of hours before to the guest bedroom, carrying a dog-eared copy of A Christmas Carol - she likes to read the last couple of chapters every Christmas Eve, even if Tiny Tim always makes her cry.

“I’m going to head up, babe - don’t stay up too late. You have all the stuff for the sofa bed, Ben?”

Ben turns to acknowledge his sister-in-law, nodding. “All here. Thanks, Luce, it’s really nice spending Christmas Eve with you guys.”

She smiles warmly. “It’s our pleasure. Teej, I’ll see you in a bit? G’night, Ben. Merry Christmas.”

The Morales boys are sitting on TJ’s couch, each drinking a beer while Scrooged plays, quietly, on the TV. 

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” TJ runs a finger along the condensation on his bottle of beer, sleeves rolled up on his blue flannel. 

Ben fiddles with the cuff of his own, pine-green checked shirt. “As in…?”

His younger brother fixes him with a glare.

“As in what - or should I say, who’s - on your mind?”

“He’s called Ben. He’s a literature professor at Barrow.”

“Her name is Lyddie - I mean, Lydia. She’s a visiting professor. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her?”

“I met him on the very first day. He was my - what did he call himself? - my ‘welcome wagon’.”

“We went to dinner, as we normally do with the visiting people. And we just…man. Clicked. As friends.” 

“I mean, I made a Big Night reference and he got it? Honestly, I hadn’t had such a good time in…I can’t remember. I told him about what happened - the shit hitting the fan, and all that.”

“I guess we just started hanging out. Having coffee, talking - just friendly stuff, you know? She was new, we had a lot in common. I - I liked having her around.”

“He was so sweet to me when I was settling in. Like, I have made some really good friends over there. But sometimes he’d bring me coffee in the afternoon, and - I dunno, I started to look forward to it.”

“She’s unbelievably smart, TJ. Doesn’t think it. Always puts herself down. Same as when you try to tell her she’s pretty. But she’s so fucking bright, I swear to god. And she has the best taste in movies and music. And she is pretty. More than pretty.”

“And he’s so kind and giving. He’s running this whole diversity programme to try to make Barrow less white and wealthy and he’s had so much shit about it from fucking dickheads who think Ben’s not as good as them because he’s Latino and because his parents had to fucking work hard for a living. Assholes. All that and he’s really goddamn handsome.”

“And she’s a bit of a firecracker when she wants to be. You know that culture war idiot Lacroix? She just went for him at the away day because he was giving me shit.”

“He’s so fucking funny. The biggest dork you’ve ever seen. Actually did a ‘reeling you in’ dance at my birthday drinks to get me on the dancefloor. Once, he laughed so hard in my office that his glasses flew off his face. Hanging out with him is - was - so great.”

“She’s got this knack of knowing how to lift my spirits. I said to her one day that I’ve never laughed as much in work before - I meant before her.”

“I was the only person to get who he’d dressed up as for Halloween. That was a fun night - at Evan’s. You know Evan. You’re mutuals with Evan on Instagram, right? We were a little bit merry. Well, a lot merry. It sounds so fucking dumb but we touched and I swear I could feel electricity going off in my brain, and I…I hadn’t experienced that in years. Years.”

“Had her on my lap on the ride home from Evan’s. I put it down to being a bit drunk on Spooky Margs but honestly, I didn’t want to let her go when we got to her place. I’ll explain the Spooky Marg another time, man, you do not want to know.”

“We do - did - a lot of movie nerding out together. Did I show you the gifts he got me for my birthday? And the card? He got me a Hitchhiker’s Guide card. Y’know, because -”

“42. The answer to the ultimate question. She’s 42. I don’t think I said that to you. I guess I should have known there was something there the day I ordered that card, huh.”

“I knew there was something there on my birthday, for sure. And dancing with him, to that song - fuck. For a couple of minutes I just let myself pretend, you know? But he never did anything more, not that night.”

“I wasn’t drinking when we went out for her birthday, but she was. So I didn’t want to make a move, in case she wasn’t interested and felt I was trying to take advantage. But I wish I had.”

“He ended up alone in Barrow for Thanksgiving, so he invited me to come over. I’m sure I told you about this? The parade, the movie? Well, it was - it was really nice. God, that’s such a shit way of explaining it. It was just -”

“Mom did a video call, remember? And she saw her and she was all nice as pie and then she was giving me shit about whether Lydia was my girlfriend, and why wasn’t she my girlfriend because she was so pretty and so funny, and - god. You know what she’s like.”

“And all day I kept thinking ‘I wish I could tell you how I feel’, and then I’d remember I was just fucking visiting. I’m temporary. It’s temporary, by default. And he couldn’t want someone like me. And you know I can’t go through that hurt again. You know, Kate. You saw me at my lowest.”

“I did think about asking her out that evening, TJ. I did. But she’d said some stuff about being ‘good friends’ or something, and I just thought it was safer not to. I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. You know? She probably wasn’t interested, that’s what I thought.”

“I went to give him a kiss on the cheek to say thank you.”

“I turned to meet her. I wanted it, wanted to kiss her.”

“And we kissed, accidentally. For a couple of seconds. At least, I thought it was accidental. Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t long.”

“I wasn’t brave enough to kiss her like she ought to be kissed. She panicked and I thought she didn’t want it.”

“I should have kept kissing him.”

“We didn’t see each other for a couple of weeks, between conferences and travel. And fuck it, I missed her.”

“We messaged all the time and I still missed him. We didn’t talk about Thanksgiving. Not until - well.”

“So I told her I meant it. Meant to kiss her.”

“I don’t know what it is but tying a man’s tie is so intimate and so hot and - yep. We kissed properly.”

“We ended up back at my place the night before she went home.”

“We…we were together, the night before I came back over here.”

“I’m not being ‘coy’, TJ. I - okay, we slept together. Happy now?”

“Yes, okay, yes, we slept together that night, at his place.”

“And I asked her to stay. I wanted her to stay over. I was ready to drive her home and get her stuff. I would have gone to the fucking airport with her. Anything.”

“I woke up in the early hours and I just - fuck. I just lost it. I flipped. All the dark shit just came roaring back up.”

“She left a note. I couldn’t believe it.”

“The sex was not bad, fuck off! I can’t believe I’m about to say these words to my baby sister but - best sex I’ve ever had. Four times. Four fucking times.”

“I know I’m blushing, dude. It was really, really fucking good. Really good.”

“Who am I, Kate? A fucking cliché? I left him a fucking note? All because I couldn’t handle having real fucking feelings, because I knew I’d fuck it up. Like I always do. And oh look - SHE FUCKED IT UP. Again.”

“I really thought we were on the same page, you know?”

“He left me a voice note. Here, listen.”

“I tried calling her, but she was already at the airport.”

“I called him back. No answer.”

“I don’t think I would have been able to speak to her. She left me a voice note, too.”

“It would be easier to explain in person, right? Wouldn’t it?” 

“Maybe we needed the space and time apart, anyway. Especially if she regrets it.”

“He said we could do with the space. He said he hopes I don’t regret it. How could I ever regret that, with him? I’ve fucked it up, Kate. I know it would have been pointless anyway with the temporary visiting stupid situation, but - still. I ruined everything.”

Kate reaches over to pat the back of your hand, her festive, red and green manicure glittering as the light bounces off her nails.

“You probably didn’t, love. You always think you did. Can I - can I see a picture of him, if you have one? Want to see this nerdy sex god for myself.”

You open your phone and swipe through your pictures, finding one you’d taken of Ben on Thanksgiving. He’s holding his plate stacked with blueberry pancakes, smiling and bespectacled on the couch as you watch the Macy’s parade.

“Here he is.”

Kate studies the image carefully, eyebrows raised. She zooms in and out a couple of times.

“Well, hello, gorgeous! He’s handsome. Really handsome. Look at that smile, whew. And those eyes!” She zooms in and out again. 

“May I remind you that you are a married mother of two?”

“I can look and appreciate, can’t I?” She swats the air as if brushing your comment away.  “Fuck, it’s like someone engineered him in a lab for you. He even kinda looks like a mature version of those imaginary boyfriends you used to draw in your diary when you were thirteen.”

“He is fucking handsome, isn’t he? He’s so - wait, what? How did you know about those?”

Your sister rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Bitch, I read that thing cover to cover. You were so dramatic. Still are. You got any of the two of you together?”

You open your photos and pull up the photos Ani took of you and Ben dancing the night of your birthday drinks. “These are probably the best.”

Kate’s expression changes when she swipes through the set of pictures, zooming in every so often to look at your and Ben’s expressions more carefully. She looks up at you, hands you back the phone, and looks like she might cry.

“You okay?”

“Fucking hell, Lyd, you’ve got it bad. Both of you - I mean, look at the two of you! I know they’re just pictures but on top of everything you’ve said? I don’t think he’s just got a ‘thing’ for you, I think he’s really into you.” She chews on a cookie. “Remind me what you said in the note again.”

You recount the contents of the missive. 

“It’s just… you clearly have serious feelings for him. You’ve told me all these things about this wonderful guy. You told me it was the best sex you’ve ever had. And then you say ‘it was great’ to him in a shitty note?! I can understand why he’s pissed off.”

“I screwed this up, didn’t I?”

Kate throws her head back in frustration. “Still dramatic. You screwed it up a bit, but - surely he’s not that much of an asshole that he wouldn’t hear you out?” She drains the last of her tea from the mug. “Admittedly if it wasn’t Christmas, I’d be putting you on a flight to San Fran. However - talk when you get back. Explain face to face. Don’t assume the worst. I don’t think he can turn off his feelings that easily.”

“You don’t know that she regrets it. You don’t even know why she left without saying goodbye. You said she’d had some rough shit in the last couple of years. She said the night together was great in the note, didn’t she? And she’s been in touch, so… I dunno, man. I wouldn’t write her off.”

TJ takes the last swig from his bottle of beer and slaps his brother on the thigh.

“Can I see a photo of this Lydia, then?”

Ben sighs and digs around in his jeans pocket for his phone. He chooses the one he’d taken of you on Thanksgiving, sitting in the diner with your grilled cheese sandwich and basket of fries. You’re still wearing your glasses after the movie, smiling at him in your thick cable-knit sweater.

“That’s Lyddie - I mean, Lydia on Thanksgiving. She made that sweater herself, you know. She’s a talented woman.”

TJ smiles as he studies your features, zooming in a little on your bright, happy face.

“She’s a pretty woman, too. Beautiful smile, gorgeous eyes - kind-looking, and you just know she’s smart and funny as hell.” He turns to his older brother, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.” 

Ben smiles and huffs a laugh at the reference. “Quoting The Way We Were at me? Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Ana Morales has good taste in movies! Remember the VHS copy she always used to put on and cry at?”

Ben smiles at the memory. He turns to TJ, eyes full of emotion - worry, sadness, and affection. For his little brother, of course - but for you, too.

“I mean it, Ben. She is lovely. She sounds lovely - disappearing act aside, of course. And the way she’s looking at you in that picture - fuck, man. You can just see how much she likes you. You’ve every right to be hurt and angry, but - maybe don’t give up on her. You’re both too fucking old to let a chance like this slide, bro. Don’t let her go.”

Christmas Day is a chaotic whirlwind of overexcited nieces, a family dinner delivered like a military operation, and fighting over what to watch on TV. Same as it ever was. 

It’s nice. It’s comforting. But you’re impossibly lonely, embrace of a loving (if stress-inducing) family unit aside.

Since you’d cut and run a few days before, the steady stream of communication back and forth between you and Ben had essentially ceased, save for the voice notes. It’s become such second nature to you, the constant contact, and the rupture is all the more brutal as a result.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, lying wide awake in your old bed, you remember that during the Apollo missions to the moon they had a thing called LOS, or Loss of Signal. When orbit took the craft to the dark side of the moon, all communication between Mission Control and the astronauts became impossible for a time. 

LOS was nerve-wracking, particularly in the first attempts at lunar orbit. What if they never re-established contact? What if something happened on the dark side, leaving the crew lost forever while the rest of the world carried on? You have heard the recordings, the hiss of static fraying the nerves of those on the ground awaiting the return of the signal, the sound of a voice spinning through the vastness of space.

You’re in extended LOS, you realise. In spite of yourself, you smile, thinking how in any other circumstances Ben - with his Saturn V model and his Apollo 11 sweatshirt - would love the analogy.

“Did you send him a happy Christmas message yet?”

Kate doesn’t even look at you as she says it, all casual. She’s too busy scraping the remains of the Christmas dinner off the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“The fuck?” Her ability to read your mind is starting to become disturbing. 

She swivels. “Did you send Ben a message wishing him a happy Christmas? If I was you I’d take a nice picture and send it. You look cute in that dress.”

“Do you think he wants a Christmas message from me? I doubt it. He wants space.”

Kate closes the dishwasher and presses the start button.

“I don’t think he knows what he wants, probably. Other than you. I’m sure he wants you, going on the way he looked at you in those pictures.”

You make a whining noise. “That was before.”

“You and your apocalyptic thinking. Unfortunately, Lyd, if you want to fix this you’re going to have to be the one leading the fixing. Start with a message.”

She sidles over to the kitchen counter, where your phone is safely tucked away to avoid doom-scrolling, picking it up and waving it menacingly. 

“If you don’t, I will.”

“FINE. But I’m not sending him a cute selfie, that’s ludicrous.”

You retreat to your room. It takes you a full half-hour to pick a photo and compose a message.

A notification appears at the top of your screen.

KATE: SEND THAT FUCKING MESSAGE

Breathe. Send. Run away.

Ben sneaks another buñuelo from the pile made by his mother earlier that Christmas morning. The sweet, spicy kick of the cinnamon sugar with the fried dough lifts his spirits - as does the sight of his three niblings side by side on the couch, engrossed in a game on Dylan and Carlos’s Nintendo Switch. A twin sits on either side of their youngest cousin, Julia - Jules to all - and helps her manoeuvre the controller and work her way through the game.

Newly-turned seven, and the daughter of Teresa Morales and her Irish husband Pádraig, Jules might be the youngest in the family but is a tiny force of nature. Though he didn’t have favourites among the three, Ben had a special connection with Jules, who routinely mailed him letters and drawings every couple of weeks. He would diligently respond with a hand-written letter, usually enclosing a couple of packs of stickers or a new book for her to read.

“I’M BORED NOW.” Jules hops off the couch and saunters over to her tío Ben, who’s sitting at the table in the dining room off Luce and TJ’s living room. “Can I have a buñuelo?” 

He brushes cinnamon sugar out of his moustache and off his dark red sweater, and looks over at his sister, who rolls her eyes and nods in resignation. “Your mom says yes, so…” He holds out the plate. 

Jules scrunches her nose up in delight as she takes a bite, then cocks her head as she studies her uncle. “I think you might be sad.”

This is a perceptive kid, Ben thinks. 

“I’m okay, Jules. Just a little tired.”

She chews another bite of her snack and shakes her head. “No. I think you’re sad. I can make you happy, though!” She makes a serious face. “Wait here, okay?”

She returns carrying a bundle of brightly-coloured hair clips and what looks suspiciously like a couple of bottles of nail polish. 

“Mama always says she feels happier when she gets her hair done. And has her pretty nails.” 

The little girl perches herself on a chair, sets out her equipment, and gets to work, tongue peeking out as she concentrates on painting Ben’s nails (she adds a glittery topcoat for extra effect) and carefully placing hair clips in his hair. 

“Everyone, tell tío he looks pretty!”

The rest of the extended Morales clan turn to look at Ben. Dylan and Carlos immediately grab their phones to take photos. TJ raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly. 

“That makeover stays put for the rest of the day, Ben.” Teresa is deadly serious, not wanting her little girl to see her handiwork undone. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Jules. I feel much better.”

You allow yourself a glance at your phone later that evening, a glass of champagne lending you some extra courage.

Still nothing.

You cast a glance at the contents of the little gift box Ben had left for you before leaving Barrow. A beautiful, dark red notebook, subtly personalised with your initials in embossed lettering - and a set of Nouvelle Vague-themed film button badges.

“Stupendous as always, Luce!” 

Ben and TJ carry stacks of empty dinner plates into the kitchen, the family well-fed and content after their Christmas meal of beef and a seemingly endless selection of side dishes. 

Lucy is preparing dessert, which mostly consists of the cakes and cookies left over at Pun in the Oven when they closed for the holiday the day before, served with ice cream and fresh fruit.

“Your mom did a lot of the work, guys. Can’t take all the credit. Hey, TJ, can you carry this cake stand in with you? Thanks, babe.”

She notices that Ben has a somewhat wistful expression on his face as he sorts out the dirty dishes.

“Hey, I just wanted to say - I asked TJ if he knew what was going on with you, and…”

Ben nods and smiles. “He told you.”

“I’m with him, Benjamin. From what you told TJ, I think this is worth fighting for. Or at least, it’s worth giving her a chance to explain properly.” 

He casts his gaze downwards. “You know, when I saw those photos the boys took of my ‘makeover’, the first thing that popped into my mind was ‘I better send these to Lyd’.”

“You miss her.” Luce pats him on the back. “So why don’t you? Send them, I mean.”

Ben turns to her in astonishment. “Seriously? We said we were giving each other space, time… and I’m still not sure what she wants.”

His sister-in-law rolls her eyes. “If you don’t send her a happy holidays message with one of those pictures - I will. And you know I don’t fuck around.”

He stands with one hand on his hip, bringing the other up to cover his face. “I know you don’t. Shit. Okay. I’ll do it. But only so you - or worse, TJ - don’t.”

Luce does a tiny dance for joy as Ben turns to leave. She spots - and recognises - a baby pink no-crease hair clip sticking out of his dark hair at the back of his head.

“JULES, have you been in our room??”

Ben settles himself at the desk in his brother’s home office, where he’d deliberately left his phone all day. He’s still not convinced that Luce is right about sending this, but she’s a woman of her word. 

He holds your gift to him, unopened, in his hands. He unwraps it quickly.

A pair of brightly-coloured socks, patterned with books and pens. And a soft, hand-knitted, merino watchcap in a Prussian blue, with a little tag stitched inside: Hand Knitted by Me.

He didn’t expect your name to be there, waiting for him, when he turned over his phone.

You had chosen a slightly chaotic photo of yourself that your brother-in-law had taken, of Cora bopping you in the face while trying to stick a huge bow on you. It would at least, you hoped, make him smile.

Happy Christmas, Ben. I was injured in a gifting incident earlier today. - L.

He selects a photo of himself showing off his painted nails, his hair festooned with coloured clips, while Jules beams in the background at her handiwork.

Merry Christmas, Lyd. I got a holiday makeover courtesy of Jules. - B.

You each hope that the other will somehow be able to read, in the gaps, the words left invisible:

I’m so sorry.

I don’t know why you did it.

I care so much about you.

I really miss you.

I think about you all the time.

I want you.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: TJ's 'Your girl's lovely, Hubbell' is, of course, a reference to The Way We Were.

#snl #chaptered #ongoing #read

[toomanytookas]

"See what happens if you let the light in…" Wow did that whole scene make me tear up.

You’ve done such a good job building up such a wall of intense held-back emotions and feelings of inadequacy and moments of self-talk that rejects the possibility that their dynamic could be real beyond their individual hopes, and I really felt that kind of panic/fear/release that David gave her the space to experience. It was such a safe space, too, so well created and it's one of those things that makes me yearn for more folks around me who might understand that kind of thing. ANYWAY ENOUGH OF MY FEELS.

The tie scene. Oh my god. The tenderness of their touches and then the WeIGhT of Ben’s confession. Fuck I loved it so much it just felt so satisfying and wonderful and then HOT.

I think this was my favourite line from there: With his free hand, he strokes your cheek with his long fingers, the warm span of his palm carefully cupping your jaw as if you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

And then it was such a delight to see him shine and be so competent with his address. This might be the most attractive thing I've ever seen written about a person's public speaking abilities 😂: "he wears his learning lightly, his natural charm working to hook the audience in and hang on his every word."

And then the teasing touches at the party what a menace!

THE HAND TOUCHING. If I could have squawked out loud without waking everyone on the plane, I would have. Sooo much appreciation for this: It’s so stupidly chaste , like something from a Georgette Heyer novel about maidens and gentlemen in Georgian England, and yet it’s one of the sweetest, most intimate things you’ve experienced in a very long time.

Thank you for returning to Lydia’s self-consciousness... I mean, knowing how well you’ve explored it in past chapters it’s no wonder it makes its presence known here, but I just really wanted to highlight how much it meant to me to see it. As gloriously burning as these scenes were, the fact that the dam breaking didn’t smash every insecurity made it feel so relatable even as I loved sinking into the heat of their attraction and desire.

And oh my gooooood was there heat. Holy wow. I… idk I always am really bad at explaining what I love about smutty stuff but this was just so wonderful.

This was glorious: He hums with pleasure and pulls back to look at you, rubbing a thumb gently against your cheek before nuzzling in at your neck. His weight against you is somehow devastatingly erotic and perfectly reassuring.

I loved those little moment of awkwardness and vulnerability that were just so easily addressed and moved past (THE BIG BOY LINE HOLY HELL. That was simultaneously hilarious but also incredibly hot). And the way they are so attentive and touchy and... *sighs*. Just everything.

Visiting - Chapter 7: Forget Who We Are

(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: As the semester winds to a close, and Lydia and Ben prepare to go their separate ways for the holidays, it's time to face facts about what happened at Thanksgiving - and indulge in some holiday cheer.

Word Count: 11.4k (it's worth it)

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+) - for real.

Content (chapter specific): Smut; Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia turns 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; fingering; oral sex (F and M receiving); praise kink; tongue-in-cheek size kink; discussions of sexual health and explicit consent; Ben and Lyd are consent masters; safe but technically unprotected PiV sex (talk about it first, people); creampie; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; references to the holidays; did I mention the smut?; tiny bit of angst for good measure; smutty mcsmutterson.

A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from Father John Misty's song "Real Love Baby", which - to quote @julesonrecord - has become one of the songs for this pair of idiots as they come to terms with what they feel about each other. I listened to this a lot while drafting and writing this chapter.

I'd also recommend the classic "Fall at Your Feet" by Crowded House as a song with an appropriate vibe for this chapter. (God, I love this song so much.)

("Who knows where that might lead?" jeez alright Neil Finn hit me in the feels, why don't you?)

I'm so grateful for all the love I've had for this story and for this pair. Every comment and reblog and ask is a little lift to my soul (I mean that!)

And I'm extra pleased to be posting this important chapter this week, given that OG SNL Ben, the character that got into my head and made me think "imagine that man as a college professor of literature", is technically now Emmy-nominated.

They're idiots, the love might be requited, but they still have a long way to go, trust me.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

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

Cross-posting to AO3 (got delayed this week because of The Attack!)

Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for loving Bendie as much as I do, and for being patient sounding boards as I work out how to tell this vital part of their story.

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

“So you’re in at what time tomorrow?”

“It’s not tomorrow, mom, it’s the day after tomorrow. Actually, it might be the day after the day after tomorrow with the time difference? Let me check, I’ll confirm later.”

You’re discussing the final arrangements for your flight home for the holidays with your mother by phone, while simultaneously checking over your end-of-semester to-do list. 

There’s always a certain giddiness in the air - tempered with panic, as everyone tries to get as much work as possible wrapped up - as the first semester winds to a close for the winter holidays and the student body starts to thin out, and Barrow is no exception. All that’s left on the calendar are two events, happening tomorrow: the Founders’ Luncheon, a formal event considered a vital part of the college’s fundraising activity; and - much more importantly, from a faculty staff perspective - the informal annual staff holiday party, held in the evening. 

You zone out a little as your mother starts telling you how busy she is with the preparations for the holidays. Looking through the glass panel in your door, you see a familiar figure standing further down the hallway, glasses dangling from his mouth as he opens his office door while juggling a stack of books. 

A little smile creeps across your face, but there’s an ache in your chest: yearning tempered with uncertainty. You haven’t actually seen Ben in person since Thanksgiving. He’d been away at a big comparative literature conference in the south, and by the time he’d got back you were leaving for New York, where you were speaking at a week-long conference on eighteenth-century art. 

You’d been in touch, though. While you were both away, you kept up the constant back-and-forth of messages that you’d grown used to over the last couple of months, a steady stream of jokes and gifs and selfies and commentary on everything: from the books you were reading to the shows you were watching, to the most mundane, everyday experiences. 

Well, almost everything. In all of those exchanges, neither of you had ever brought up Thanksgiving, or the accidental, sort-of “kiss” that had haunted your dreams and fantasies over the last couple of weeks.

Ben turns just as he’s about to go into his office. He smiles, raises a hand, and gives you a little wave

“Hey there, stranger.”

He’s there at your door, a mug of coffee in each hand, as usual, and a soft, if nervous, smile on his face. 

“Hey stranger, yourself.” You take your coffee gratefully and sit back in your desk chair. “Why does it feel like I haven’t seen you in forever?”

Ben shrugs and leans against the doorframe. “Conferences, travel - and I guess it feels longer because we’ve seen each other pretty much every workday, right?” He takes a substantial sip from his mug, and looks at you. “I can’t stay, I’ve got a supervision meeting, but, um, how have you been? How was the conference?”

You throw your head back and flail your hands excitedly. “Oh my god, it was amazing! Full disclosure - I might have skipped the occasional session because I was in New fucking York. But it was so worth it. And the paper seemed to go well, so - all good. How was yours?”

He exhales and shakes his head, rolling his eyes for comic effect. “The paper was a rushed job, I was basically in a hotel in Louisiana for four days, my daily treat was a trip to the CVS across the road, as you know - but yeah, the discussions were good, the work was interesting…” He raises an eyebrow and smiles mischievously. “Still - clearly I should have become an art historian purely for the conference locations.”

Neither of you seems willing - or able - to bring up the elephant in the room. Perhaps you just didn’t need to talk about it. You’d both seemed surprised by the “kiss”. You both seemed to understand it as unintentional. Maybe further discussion was unnecessary. 

You reach into your desk drawer to retrieve a pack of luridly-frosted holiday cookies. “Hey, take a couple of these for that meeting. You need the extra sugar and artificial ingredients to get you to the end of the semester.” 

Ben’s face lights up. He walks over to the desk and takes two of the cookies, holding them in his big palm carefully. “Damn right I do.” He looks down at you, and you feel the smile spreading across your face at the sight of those eyes at close quarters. 

You take a deep breath. “Ben, I -”

A knock at your office door, still ajar. To your surprise, it’s David.

“Hi Lyd, hi Ben - I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all,” Ben reassures him. “I was just leaving.” He turns back to face you before he leaves the office. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lyddie, at the luncheon?” 

You nod. “And the holiday party. For god’s sake, don’t forget about the party or Susan might kill you.”

He grins, pats David on the shoulder, and wanders down the hall to his office. David closes your office door and sits in the chair in front of your desk.

You extend the pack of cookies towards him. “Help yourself and try not to think about the amount of edible glitter involved. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

David gingerly picks up a cookie shaped like a snowman. “I’ve been up with Evan this week, and realised I wouldn’t see you before you go home,” he explains, nibbling a little of his cookie. “I wanted to call by and wish you safe travels and happy holidays.”

Before you can start to return the sentiment he puts up a hand, gently. 

“There is something else. Lydia, can I say something to you? Between us. It will never leave this room.”

You shift in your chair. “Sure, of course - oh shit. Is… is Evan okay?”

David smiles and nods, reassuring you. “He’s fine. It’s not about Evan, actually. It’s about you.” 

You feel your eyebrows shoot upwards. 

“Well, really… it’s about you. And Ben.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck. 

You get a sudden, strong memory of David in the cab on the night of your birthday drinks, looking at you intently as Evan confirmed that Ben was single, contrary to Amy’s rumour mongering. 

What did he know?

“Oh, okay. Okay.”

“I don’t know how else to put this, Lyd, but I think that man - I think Ben has feelings for you. Strong feelings.”

You feel your face heat and your mouth start to dry up. There might even be tears pricking your eyes. You try as best you can to control your breathing.

“David, no. I don’t think so. He’s never done anything to suggest otherwise, and he’s had the chance, so -”

David tilts his head to one side, his eyes kind and serious. 

“Lydia, I’m a theatre scholar. I study bodies and expressions for a living. I know what’s real, and I know what’s performed. And I’ve seen you two together enough, and heard each of you talk about the other enough times, to know that he has real feelings for you.” He looks at you intently. “And… to be fairly certain that you have feelings for Ben, too.”

The pricking sensation has turned to real tears, rolling heavy and slow down your cheeks.

“Please, please don’t tell Evan.”

David crosses to your side of the desk and wraps an arm around you. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” He hugs you as you protest that Ben just wants to be your friend, that he couldn’t possibly want someone like you, and then pulls away, looking at you face on.

“All that might be true. Maybe. But…just see. See what happens if you let the light in, just a little. You might be surprised.”

Before you leave work that evening, you pop into the main faculty office, a small, festively-wrapped parcel in your hands. Susan barely notices you pass, wrapped up in counting glasses and bottles of wine for the party the next day.

You scan the rows of cubbyholes, each one labelled in alphabetical order for a staff member, until you find it: 

B.E. Morales

You place the little parcel on top of a couple of academic publisher catalogues, addressed to Ben. 

A couple of rows above his, you notice something in your own mailbox: a gift box with a Post-It on top. 

Another explanatory Post-It, you think, placing the box in a tote bag.

A very small Christmas gift, if you have room in your suitcase. - B.

You bring it home and place it carefully in your hand luggage.

Your invite to the Founders’ Luncheon had arrived just before Thanksgiving: a small, gold-edged cream-coloured card with the event details printed on it in elegant black lettering. 

“Does everyone attend this?” you’d asked Susan, studying the invite carefully. 

She shook her head. “A select few. We usually nominate the visiting professor to attend, though - so be prepared to smile and gladhand anyone who looks like they might be willing to donate to support the diversity and inclusion project. Or maybe even a new wing for the library, if you’re extra convincing.”

You hummed thoughtfully, wondering what you could dredge up from your wardrobe that would be formal enough for the luncheon and still be appropriately festive for the party later the same day. 

“You’ll have at least one familiar face there, though,” Susan added, stacking a pile of freshly-copied course materials. “Ben’s been asked to deliver the address that kicks off proceedings - trying to get philanthropic support for the diversity stuff he’s been working on. He’s nervous as all hell about it - you can imagine - but I think he’ll be pleased to know he has you there for moral support.”

In the end, you’d plumped for a crimson vintage-style swing dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a cross-over neckline: demure enough to wear to the lunch and look like a Serious Intellectual, but ready to be dressed up with some well-chosen holiday accessories for the party later. 

Though Ani insisted it was nothing fancy, everyone seemed extremely excited for the holiday shindig: a gathering of colleagues in one of the bigger teaching rooms in the building, fuelled by eggnog, wine, and party food. You had already heard in detail about Evan’s carefully-curated playlists. It seemed like the perfect way to blow off a little steam after a busy semester.

The party was due to start about 5pm, but first there was a formal lunch to contend with. All morning, you’d been silently repeating ‘elevator pitches’ about your work, the importance of the progress already made in diversity and inclusion, and the resources the college needed to continue it. Visitor or not, you were ready to do your best with the wealthy donors who might write a fat cheque - and get a tax break in return. 

You’re running over the list of talking points in your head as you meander down the corridor on your way to your office, about an hour before the luncheon is due to begin. 

“Motherfucker!”

The loud swearing stops you in your tracks. His door is ajar. You knock lightly. 

“Come in.” Ben turns, sounding frustrated, but brightens and visibly relaxes when he realises it’s you. 

“Oh, hi Lyd! Sorry, I’m just…” He stops and runs his eyes over you from top to toe. “Wow, you look…great.”

You can feel your face burning, and try to deflect from his words. “So do you. I mean… you’re all fancy.”

He’s dressed more formally than you’ve ever seen before. A white button-down shirt, slim navy dress pants, black lace-up Oxfords. The collar of his shirt is turned up, and he’s holding the source of his irritation: a dark green tie.

Oh, fuck me. He looks so good.

He exhales sadly. “I can do this without a mirror - usually. But it’s like I can’t remember how to do it today, and I think I’m losing it.”

“Might also be because you’re thinking about the speech, no?” 

He sighs and looks a little sheepish. “You know me too well, Lyddie.” 

You feel heat spread at the nape of your neck. Pull yourself together. 

“Can I help at all? With the tie? I could act as your mirror, or help to get it right…”

His eyes light up and he drapes the tie around his neck again. “Oh, please? I need to run through the address one more time and I’m already late. Here: it’s probably quicker if you just do it for me at this stage.”

Oh. Oh, no.

Your instinctive need to help had overridden whether or not you could actually cope with this: physical proximity, first of all, but then having to tie Ben’s tie? With all the intimate domesticity it implied? It could end you there and then. 

You take a deep breath and move a little closer, taking each end of the tie in your hands. 

“I can literally do one knot, so I hope this is what you’re after,” you say, and he laughs lightly. You begin to knot his tie, muscle memory kicking in from your school days, when a tie was part of your convent school uniform. By necessity, you’ve had to edge closer still to him, and you can feel his dark eyes burning into you as he watches your fingers work. 

David’s words from the day before continue to run through your brain on a permanent loop. 

Let the light in, just a little. 

You look at Ben through your lashes, mouth drying and a telltale throb fluttering through your core. 

“Hope I’ve done this right. I’ll just adjust it and then I can take a picture so you can check.” You tighten the knot slightly and work it up towards the hollow of his neck, eyes trailing up to meet his gaze. 

Let the light in. 

You bring your hands up to fold down his collar and, almost without thinking, graze your fingertips off the grey patches that you love so much, just at the corners of his jaw. 

Ben closes his eyes for a moment, and you can see his breathing speeding up slightly. He swallows hard.

“I meant it.”

You fold down the collar and adjust the knot, praying that your heart will stop beating quite so quickly and that the ache between your legs will dissipate. Still, you don’t stop touching him, bringing your right hand to rest lightly on his chest, just over his heart.

“Meant what?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. “I meant it. On Thanksgiving. I…meant to kiss you.”

Your eyes widen and your features soften in understanding. “Ohhhh.”

He brings one hand up and places it over yours. “I know you didn’t mean it, you went in for a kiss on the cheek and - I’m sorry, I just have to tell you, Lyd. I… I wanted to. And I should have kept kissing you, the way I wanted to.” 

With his free hand, he strokes your cheek with his long fingers, the warm span of his palm carefully cupping your jaw as if you’re the most delicate thing in the world. 

You smile shyly, reciprocating his gesture as you stroke your thumb along the scruff on his jaw. “I was going in for a kiss on the cheek…but I meant it, too. I wish I’d been braver that night.” You giggle. “And yes, you should definitely have kept kissing me.”

For an instant you remember the defences you’ve built up around yourself: around your heart and your soul. They were a protection and a comfort, a suit of armour deflecting even the slightest possibility of future pain and loss. You cannot be hurt or disappointed if you never expect anything. Never let anyone in.

But even the best armour is not completely impenetrable. The first weakness was exposed the day you realised what you actually felt for this man, even if you could barely admit it to yourself. 

Smiling softly, Ben drops his arm to your waist to pull you close to him, continuing to caress your cheek with his free hand. “You…you’re so beautiful. I…”

His tongue darts fleetingly across his lips, as if he’s looking at a delicious morsel, and it’s enough to make you almost feral with sheer desire. 

He angles his head slightly, gently nudging at your nose with his. His soft, pink lips meet yours, slightly open, in a warm, perfect kiss.

With a light moan, your tongue immediately seeks entrance to his mouth. He tastes of peppermint and coffee, of sweetness and bitterness all at once. You reach for his tie, not breaking the kiss, and gently tug him along with you as you walk backwards towards the wall of his office until he’s almost pressing you into it. 

As he kisses you ever more deeply, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, tight as he can to his body, slowly moving his hands over your back and hips, and trailing his fingertips across your ass. In return, you run your hands through his hair and stroke your fingers down one side of his neck, eliciting a groan from him, before breaking away to wrap your arms around the broad span of his back. 

You have felt his warm body before, when you’d hugged, but this was something else entirely. No need to worry about whether you’d lingered a little too long in his arms. No need to suppress the desires that had haunted and tormented you. Now it was time to express them.

Ben breaks off the kiss momentarily, pausing to look at you with those intelligent, sensitive, coffee-brown eyes. A wide grin spreads across his handsome face. You feel his cock pressing, half-hard, against you in his dress pants. The sensation sends another wave of wetness to your centre. 

“What are you smiling at, Professor?”

“You. Beautiful, gorgeous you.” 

It’s all you can do to stop the happy tears from falling. Instead, you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and pull him in for a deep kiss, hungrily tasting each other. He breaks away and moves his mouth to your neck, pulling a moan of desire from you that’s probably louder than was wise in a workplace. 

He’s working his way down to your collarbone when your eyes snap open and you freeze. Ben looks at you with concern. 

“Are you okay? Is this too much? We can stop. We can slow down. Whatever you…”

You shake your head frantically. “I wish we didn’t have to stop but, Ben: the fucking luncheon!”

His eyes widen in panic. “Oh, FUCK! FUUUUUCK! What time is it? Fuck fuck fuck -”

You look at your phone and try to calm him down. “You’re fine, you’ve got like twenty minutes before it starts. Hey,” you reach for his hand, “remember the message of Hitchhiker’s Guide? Don’t Panic. And maybe relax a bit, so you’re not… visible. Ahem.”

He raises an eyebrow and laughs. His breathing slows a little, and he squeezes your hand gratefully before planting a final, chaste kiss to your lips. “I’ll see you over there. Might be a bit late for the holiday party, depending on how many people they want me to meet after, but we can, uh, pick up where we left off?”

He looks so sweet and so painfully shy that you almost can’t believe this is the same man who was pushing you into a wall and kissing you like his life depended on it only a few minutes before. 

You lean in for just one more kiss. “Abso-fucking-lutely we can.”

His address to the luncheon is, unsurprisingly, brilliant. Erudite, warm, funny: infused with the passion you saw him bring to his work and to his subject every day. He is so talented: he wears his learning lightly, his natural charm working to hook the audience in and hang on his every word.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he looks so gorgeous up there at the podium: smart suit, curls neater than usual (you suspect he’d run some wax through his hair after you left him), and that tie.

That fucking tie. You can’t even look at it, because it immediately sends your brain right back to the feeling of tugging it to pull him against you, to the taste of him, to the way his big hands roved over you, gentle but needy, to the way his body revealed just how turned on he’d become by kissing and touching you. 

Fuck. You try to ignore the ache between your legs, choosing to focus instead on the handsome man at the podium. 

You listen attentively to Ben making a powerful case to the large hall full of wealthy donors for the importance of making arts and humanities education accessible. The room fills with applause as he brings his address to a close, and you clap as loud as you can, looking at him with a broad smile on your face. As he walks across the stage, he turns and spots you. 

“Was it okay?” He mouths the words towards you. 

You nod enthusiastically, and give a subtle thumbs up. He does a tiny air punch, and grins at you as he disappears off stage. 

“I’ve switched up the playlists - no one really wants more than an hour of festive hits, even if it’s curated by me. Vegan no-pig in blanket?”

Evan proffers a tray of party snacks, having come over to join you near the tables set up with drinks and food. The music has become much more eclectic: fewer holiday hits, many more danceable, extremely cool, crowd pleasers. A few people are even starting to clear space in the centre of the room as a makeshift dancefloor. 

“Where’s Benjamin?” Evan asks as you chew on a no-pig in blanket. “You’re normally joined at the hip.”

You try not to choke on the pastry, grabbing a glass of red wine to wash down the food. “He was doing the address at the founders’ thing, remember? I think they wanted him to stay around afterwards to meet possible donors. It’s all about the diversity and inclusion programme.”

Evan nods, satisfied. “I’m not keeping any food for him, though.”

The strains of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” are abruptly cut off as Jen Arden taps on her wine glass. “Head of department holiday speech time! Don’t worry, I won’t keep you from your partying too long - I want to see everyone out on that floor!” 

Her words are succinct but heartfelt, thanking everyone for the hard work that had made the semester successful and noting your arrival and integration into the Barrow community. You blush slightly as the eyes of the room turn in your direction. 

“And as some of you know, Ben Morales delivered the address at the annual Founders Luncheon today - an important part of fundraising for the inclusion programme he’s been spearheading.” Jen looks around the room, seeking out her friend, eyes resting on the doorway as Ben finally arrives. “And here he is now!”

Ben shyly acknowledges the applause in the room, making a beeline for the food and drink. Pure coincidence, of course, that you happened to be standing over there, too. He stands behind you and greets Evan. 

“Well, did you secure the megabucks? Are there hessian sacks printed with dollar signs currently filling your office?”

Ben huffs a laugh. “We have to wait and see, I guess. They seemed nice. Weird, though, talking to people you know are multi-millionaires. Billionaires, even. You keep thinking, ‘why do you need all that money?’”

He shakes his head and reaches for a glass of red wine. As he does so, he trails his hand along your lower back, fingertips grazing the top of your ass. For an instant you wonder if it was an accident, until you feel the palm of his hand pressing lightly but deliberately into the small of your back. 

Evan is talking at length about the snack selection at this year’s party and is clearly oblivious to Ben’s shenanigans and the heat rising in your face as you struggle to maintain your composure. Glass of wine obtained, Ben continues the conversation with Evan, studiously avoiding your attempts to catch his eye.

He’d been explaining his holiday plans - Ben is going west, trying to make up for some of the time lost when he cancelled his trip at Thanksgiving, and is really excited about it - when Evan spots an incoming call on his phone. “Oh shit, it’s my mom. I better go talk to her - sorry guys!”

He exits the room, already talking loudly to his mother about her holiday menu plans. 

As soon as you’re both alone, you swivel to face Ben head-on. 

“Um, excuse me?”

He smirks. “Excuse you?”

“Benjamin Ernesto Morales. You know what I’m talking about. You’re lucky I didn’t spontaneously combust in front of Evan.”

He chuckles. “Ah, that was just a friendly hand placement. Nothing more to it.” He arches an eyebrow, and once again you can feel desire - no, need - rushing through you. The urge to kiss him here, in front of everyone, without a thought for the (possible) consequences, is overwhelming. 

“You, sir, are a menace. Why didn’t I know about this before?”

He does that half-smile that makes you melt, and shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, on another topic - where’s Ani?”

“They messaged me this morning. In bed with a migraine, poor thing. I think these things wait until the end of the semester, just when you’re about to relax, and then bam.”

He makes a sympathetic face and nibbles on a cookie. “So it’s just us, then?” His gaze is both gentle and flirtatious.

“Us, and the rest of the faculty.” You gesture around the room, giving him a look that says “no funny business”.

He gently moves his hand along the edge of the table until it’s within touching distance of yours, and gently runs his fingertips along the back of your hand. You reciprocate by stroking the side of his hand with the pad of your thumb. 

It’s so stupidly chaste, like something from a Georgette Heyer novel about maidens and gentlemen in Georgian England, and yet it’s one of the sweetest, most intimate things you’ve experienced in a very long time.

Ben’s eyes widen as the music changes and the unmistakable opening bars of “Edge of Seventeen” begin. “Oh, Lyd!” He outright grabs your hand now. “Let’s dance, come on.”

He looks perplexed when you don’t move. You beckon him closer with a tilt of your head, and whisper into his ear, feeling your cheeks heating.

“I can think of something better than dancing, but we might need to be somewhere more, um, private.”

His expression shifts as understanding sets in. “Oh. Ohhh.” He grins, looking you up and down. “Yours or mine?”

Praise be to Stevie Nicks. “Edge of Seventeen” got so many colleagues out on the ‘dancefloor’ that the two of you were able to slip away completely unnoticed.

You unlock the door of your office and switch on your desk lamp before pulling down the blind over the glass panel. The soft light illuminates his handsome features as you turn back to face him: the strong line of his profile; the softness of his mouth, lips slightly parted; the glint in his warm eyes. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and with a smile you suddenly recall the first time you noticed how beautifully broad he was, standing in the kitchen at Evan’s Halloween party.

“Hi, Ben.”

“Hi, Lyddie.”

You’re standing close now, face to face. You walk your fingers up towards the knot of his tie, looking at him through your lashes, and tug it so that he’s right up against you, beautiful dark eyes taking you in. He leans in with a smile and kisses you slowly and deeply, the bristling sensation of his moustache and beard against your lips and face going straight to your core.

The pace was never going to stay slow. You wrap your arms around him and he pulls you tight to his body, moving his hands over your hips and ass and pulling little gasps and moans from you. The mints and coffee of earlier are replaced by the taste of red wine and sugar cookies on his lips and tongue. 

You start to run your hands through his hair, stroking your fingers down the side of his beautiful neck, loosening the knot of his tie, and opening the top buttons on his shirt to create a little more space for you. He inhales sharply when you break away from the kiss to gently lick and nibble at his neck and collarbone. You can feel him hardening against you, again. 

He pulls away slightly, keeping his hands around your waist. For the first time in your life, you actually understand what romance novelists mean when they describe a character as having ‘lust-blown eyes’. Ben’s coffee-brown eyes are near black, pupils dilated and lids heavy, conveying a potent mixture of sweet affection and utter desire. He lifts his hand to stroke your cheek gently, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, before gently moving you towards the edge of your desk. 

He’s nervous. He moves some of the piles of your papers and books out of the way, careful not to disrupt the chaotic ‘order’ you maintain, so you have more room to sit on the desk. As you sit on the edge, you notice his hands are trembling a little. You feel a bit better about the quivering sensation that’s been running through you since you entered the office together, a mixture of desire and nerves.

You hitch up the skirt of your dress a little, opening your legs and creating more room for him as he stands between them, resting his forehead against yours.

“You okay, Ben?”

He looks at you in surprise. “I’m great, Lyd, I’m just…it’s…I’m really glad.” 

You feel a surge of affection in your chest. “So am I. And I’m glad for this tie.” You use it to pull him close to your body again, kissing him hungrily. He leans against you, hands on your waist and back. 

“Is this okay? Can I…touch you, Lydia?”

Something about the way he says your name, softly but purposefully, sends you utterly wild. 

“You know you can, Ben. I’m all yours,” you whisper, edging closer and slowly moving a hand down his broad torso, strong and soft at the same time. You reach his waistband and keep going, brushing your hand lightly over the bulge straining against his dress pants as you maintain eye contact. “I want you.” 

He closes his eyes, letting out a soft moan, before bringing his hands - those beautiful, big hands - up to softly caress your breasts as he moves his mouth to your neck, planting gentle kisses and sucking the skin ever so gently. 

It’s miraculous that you don’t come undone there and then, tipped over the edge by the feeling of his hands on your breasts, his mouth working the sensitive skin at the base of your neck, and his cock growing ever-harder underneath the light massage offered by your palm. Your fingers work at the buttons and zipper of his pants, desperately trying to get access to his hard length. 

He’s pulled up your dress, running his hands up your thighs and towards the warm, wet apex of your legs. He lets out a sigh of pleasure as he traces his long fingers from the top of your stockings to the bare skin of your upper thigh, leaning back to look at your body with a sort of delighted rapture. You silently congratulate yourself for choosing to wear hold-ups instead of regular pantyhose under your dress.

Even in this moment, part of your brain starts to worry about the state of your body and its many flaws, wondering what he is going to think about the you that’s under the scarlet fabric. That said, he seems to be keen so far. He grabs handfuls of the soft flesh on your thighs and hips, grunting with pleasure into your mouth. He feels insatiable already, one hand still caressing your tits as the other slips right between your legs and starts to rub at the soaking crotch of your panties. You’re trying to keep it together, moaning as you move your fingers against the waistband of his boxer briefs, ready to take him in your hand and attend to his pleasure.

Suddenly, the lights in the corridor come on. Laughter and loud chatting from a group of colleagues fills the air. Both you and Ben freeze, breaking off the kiss while your hands stay put.

“Shit… do you think they heard us?” you hiss, unsure what the rules are around this kind of thing at Barrow.

He turns to look at the door of the office, trying to see how close the group was. 

“I don’t think so. I don’t think we were that loud, were we?”

You smirk and raise an eyebrow.

“We weren’t, but we were just getting going…”

He rests his forehead on your shoulder and laughs before looking at you again, withdrawing his hands and straightening your dress. 

“Shall we get out of here? I can call a cab…”, he offers as you nod in agreement. He quickly does up his fly before grabbing his phone from his jacket pocket and pulling up the relevant app. “This is going to sound so cheesy, but - your place or mine?”

You giggle. “My apartment looks like a packing monster threw up in it, so, if you’re okay with yours…”

He smiles and nods enthusiastically, tapping in the details. “Five minutes. They’ll be at the main entrance.”

“Five minutes, so that’s two minutes to get to the door - and three minutes for another kiss?”

He chuckles deeply and pulls you in again.

Ben fastens his seatbelt in the back of the cab, looking at you expectantly. The street lights have him half in shadow, half in light, and you have to focus for a moment to answer. 

Fuck, he’s so sexy. 

The little voice deep inside you still whispers about how someone as fucking hot as him surely couldn’t want someone like you. But you manage to hush it, focusing on Ben’s beautiful face.

The cab journey is short - no more than five minutes along the quiet streets - but feels like an eternity. You’ve spent the entire ride making out in the back seat, like horny students rather than two forty-something academics. Pulling up at his house, you and Ben try to retain at least a little decorum as you hustle to the front door.

“I hope you gave that guy a good tip,” you joke as Ben fumbles for his keys, one hand resting on your ass.

He grins. “The tip was three times the cost of the ride. Think that should cover him for enduring our, uh, shenanigans?”

The front door opens and the two of you step inside. You pause for a moment to take each other in, you trailing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck while his thumb caresses your cheek. Your lips meet again as you peel off each other’s coats and fall back against the wall in his hallway, your hands fumbling to undo his pants again while he dips his long fingers, finally, into the wet heat between your legs. 

“Oh, fuck!” It feels like you’ve been waiting for him all your life. And, judging by the noises he’s making, the feeling seems to be reciprocated.

“God, Lydia, baby, I can’t believe you’re this wet for me already,” he purrs, sounding genuinely surprised and stroking the inside of your cunt firmly while his thumb works your clit. “You feel so fucking good.”

Ben resumes his work on your neck, moving more urgently now than he had in your office. His moustache and beard brushes against the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders and makes you wetter still as he continues to massage your clit, occasionally slipping a finger into your pussy. You moan deeply, feeling yourself tightening around his finger as you get ever closer. 

“Fuck, I want you,” he whispers in your ear. “I really want you, Lyddie. I need you. You know?”

You whine with pleasure, one hand inside his briefs palming his cock as he works you to the edge. You can feel the orgasm about to burst deep inside, focused on the sound and sensation of his fingers - Ben’s big, strong fingers  - sliding in and out of you. 

He doesn’t stop, but he sounds a little more vulnerable. “Is that okay? I hope that’s okay,” he continues, and you feel like you’re about to black out.

“I…fuck…that’s more than okay, that’s - Jesus, I want that. And I want you, I need you, to have you, I want you…fuck, Ben! I think I’m going to fucking come, I…”

He looks down to where his hand is working you towards your climax. “That’s it, good girl. You’re so close. Come for me, beautiful girl.”

Good girl. Beautiful girl. Praise kink: activated.

Somehow he manages to look sexy as hell and sweetly shy as he brings you to the edge, eyes warm and dark. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting to make you come, I…I’ve wanted to, so badly.”

You come with a gasp, cunt throbbing and tightening around his fingers. It has been a long time since you’ve come this hard. Your eyes shoot open, looking directly into his. 

He strokes the side of your face with his other hand as he takes you through the aftershocks. Your wetness soaks his fingers as you kiss him, trying to express your gratitude for what he’s made you feel, leaning against the wall of his hallway. 

You break away, able to concentrate more effectively on the way his cock is now fully hard under your hand. “Fuck, baby, that was… holy shit. It’s, uh… it’s been a while.”

He blushes and kisses your forehead. “Can I take you to bed, Lyddie?”

You grin and start to giggle. He looks confused. “What? You don’t want to?”

How can you explain the myriad feelings racing through you in this moment? Excited. Nervous. Happy. Horny.

“I do, Ben. You know I do. I’m just, I dunno, I’m - I’m happy. And I really, really want you.”

He gives you a flash of that sexy fucking smile as he withdraws his hand from your panties and gently moves yours from his cock. 

“Come on.”

Taking your hand, he leads you up the stairs.

You notice almost nothing about Ben’s bedroom as the two of you enter, besides the side lamp he quickly flicks on and the pile of books he moves off the bed before turning his attention back to you. Lips locked, you focus on unbuttoning his shirt while he tries to get your dress off. 

In an instant you are standing before him in black and red bra, black (sensible) high-waisted panties, and hold-ups, his shirt, tie, and pants already discarded.

His eyes widen as he takes you in, gaze lingering over the black lace and red satin of your bra. “Wow. Holy shit.”

Instinctively, you move a step backwards and wrap your arms over your body protectively. You are suddenly overwhelmed by all that is wrong with your body: its size, its awkwardness, the stretch marks from weight lost and (more commonly) gained, marks and scars, a belly that is far too squishy and soft, in your opinion, hips that are too wide, breasts made heavier and less, well, perky with age. And that’s before you get on to your perennially crunchy knees.

You feel every one of your forty-two years, and then some. The fact of his utter gorgeousness leads you to only one conclusion.

God, he’s probably only ever fucked hotter people than me. I can’t compare, surely? 

You feel exposed. The defences - physical, sure, but emotional, too - have been irretrievably breached, and the fear of rejection scares the shit out of you.

The sight of Ben Morales before you, wearing just his boxer briefs (and, you notice for the first time, a pair of candy cane-patterned socks), makes you even more anxious about how you must look to him. He is a gorgeous vision, easily the most beautiful man you’ve ever even seen, let alone gone to bed with: lightly golden skin, strong arms and legs, broad shoulders, and a soft tummy that is as adorable and sexy as you’d imagined. 

And best of all, that beautiful, kind face, now looking at you with real concern.

“Are… are you okay? Lyddie? Are you alright? We can stop, we don’t have to -“

You shake your head and bring your eyes up to meet his. 

“I really don’t want to stop, Ben. I mean it, I want you…I need you in every way. It’s just… I mean, this,” and you gesture loosely to your body. “Like, I’ve had sex since my last relationship but it wasn’t like this, it wasn’t…this. It wasn’t…it didn’t mean…”

He reaches his hands towards you to bring you in for a hug. You take a deep breath as you try to explain properly.

“I haven’t been naked with someone like you…someone I actually care about in a long time. And I’m scared that you won’t like what you see, because you look so good and hot and so beautiful. You’re just so beautiful, Ben. And I…I’m not…”

He holds you closer and places a gentle kiss on your forehead. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he whispers. “I wish you could understand what it feels like to have looked at you, to have thought for so long about what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, and now to finally touch you.” He’s blushing. 

“Kinda wish I could see myself the way you seem to see me, too. Don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘beautiful’ before. Before…you.”

He is still holding you, warm and gentle against his broad chest. You are suffused with a feeling of absolute safety. 

“I mean it, Lyd. If you don’t want to go any further we don’t have to.”

You pull back, bringing your arms to your sides and resisting the urge to hide yourself from his gaze. You look him in the eyes and shake your head with a soft smile.

“I know. We’re keeping going. I want this, too.” 

He kisses you and reaches around to undo your bra, struggling against the hooks.

You reach behind you, keeping your eyes on him, and deftly undo the bra. His mouth moves immediately to your breasts, tongue circling first one nipple and then the other before pulling back to admire you, chest rising and falling and eyes widening as he looks at you. 

Has anyone ever looked at you like that before? Like you are the most perfect creature to ever exist?

Mind you, you’re looking at him in much the same way. 

“You are so fucking beautiful, Lyd. You are. Let me show you how gorgeous you are.”

You smile shyly, still a little conscious of your body, and sit back on the side of the bed. 

Oh, shit. The sensible part of your brain butts in, abruptly. 

You need to talk about this now, not in the moment.

“Uh, Ben? Before you do that, can we maybe talk about, um, health and that?”

He looks confused. “Health? I had a cold in October but - oh. Yes. Yes. I get you.”

He scrabbles around for his pants. 

“What are you doing, Ben?”

“Getting my phone to show you my last screening results. We have the tests as an option on annual physicals and I had mine in August.” He locates his phone and looks at you fondly. “Just before you came over, as it happens.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, giggling affectionately. “Ben, love, I trust you. Just tell me, I don’t need to see them.”

He kisses the top of your head. “All good. And you?”

You nod, still feeling deeply awkward but relieved. “Also all good. Last test just before I came over. Funny, that. I’ve got a contraceptive implant thingy, as well.” You point out the little plastic device just under the skin of your upper arm. “And I haven’t been with anyone since, obviously.”

“Me neither.” He grins and whispers in your ear. “I did have a crush on someone in work, though.”

You smile and run a hand over the salt-and-pepper scruff along one side of his face. “A crush, huh? So you were waiting for them?”

He nods and kisses you softly as he gently encourages you to lie back on his bed, before swiftly discarding the candy cane socks and joining you in bed. 

For a couple of moments you just lie there together, hands trailing across each other’s bodies. You look at his handsome face, and the realisation that you’re actually going to sleep with him dawns. It triggers an unfortunate, involuntary surge of giggles.

“Why are you laughing?” He’s running his hand along the curve of your hip, fingers tugging at the waistband of your panties. 

“I’m not laughing, it’s just…” You start giggling again and hide your face against his broad shoulder.

“Okay, that’s definitely laughing. What did I do?”

You look at him and feel the affection and desire catch in your throat. “You didn’t do anything, baby, I’m sorry. It’s just - we’re basically naked and in bed together and…I’m excited?”

He laughs too, now, chest heaving as he pulls you tight and kisses you, slowly and deeply. You reach for his body, leg wrapping around his and one hand slipping to his hard cock while he caresses and sucks on your tits. His hand is inside your panties now, eagerly seeking out the warm, silky wetness of your folds. 

“Going to take these off, is that okay?” You nod, moaning as he tugs down the black fabric and lifting your hips so he can drag them over your ass. You kick them off as he rolls you against him, one hand grabbing the flesh of your ass while the other rubs small circles over your clit. 

You lean back slightly to look at him, your hands now tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs. “I want you naked, too,” you murmur, breasts resting on Ben’s chest. “Want to go down on you for a little bit. Is that okay?”

His eyes widen. “God, yeah. Fuck, please, Lyd.”

His boxers discarded, you move down his body, one hand already gently stroking his hard length. You resist the urge that strikes you to drag your teeth over the soft flesh of his tummy, maybe even to bite him. 

You plant a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock, flicking your gaze up to meet his as you take him, hard as hell, between your lips, tongue gently flicking over the head. 

The gesture drives him crazy, and he groans, low and long.

“Fucking hell, you’re good at this. You’re really fucking good at this. So fucking…oh God, Lyd.”

You smile at the praise as you continue to take him deeper into your mouth, fingers tracing around the base of his cock and stroking him lightly. The bulge you’d first felt in his office earlier that evening did not disappoint. 

“Fuck, Lyd, I won’t last if you keep that up,” he hisses, breathing ragged as you use your tongue to lick up and down his shaft. 

Gently, you remove him from your mouth and push yourself back up the mattress, Ben’s strong hands guiding you back into place against the pillows. He drops his hand back to your soaking pussy as you feel the warm, solid softness of his body on yours. You inhale his masculine scent deeply: his cologne, leather, paper, and still a hint of wine from his lips. 

You never want to be anywhere but here. 

He begins to trace a line of kisses from your mouth down to your breasts and tummy, slowly bringing himself down the line of your body until he is nestled between your legs. He runs a finger along a patch of stretch marks on your hip before kissing them softly. With care and a kind of reverence, he plants kisses on the soft flesh of your belly, starting just under your belly button, and working his way down as far as the hair that covers your mound. 

He gently pushes your right leg out to make a little more room and open you up, lifting your leg over his shoulder, before beginning to lick purposefully at your glistening folds. You cry out with pleasure, one hand reaching back to grip the wooden headboard of the bed and the other dropping to the back of Ben’s head. You trail your fingers through his hair as he eats you out, moaning as the line of his nose nudges rhythmically against your clit while his tongue explores you.

It doesn’t take much to bring you back to the edge, and when he brings a finger up to massage you while his tongue slips in and out of your cunt, you come on his face, hips rolling up and back as you climax. 

He grins as he shifts his body back up the bed and you reach for him, pulling him in for a kiss so that you can taste yourself on his lips. He hums with pleasure and pulls back to look at you, rubbing a thumb gently against your cheek before nuzzling in at your neck. His weight against you is somehow devastatingly erotic and perfectly reassuring. 

He pulls back again and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, opening your legs even wider as you feel the heavy, hard length of his cock pulsing against your core. He rolls one of your nipples between the tips of his fingers, letting his broad palm cup the soft flesh of your breast.

Your voice is quiet, but determined. “I want you to fuck me, baby. Please. Fuck me.”

“I’m going to, darling.” He drops a hand to your soaking pussy, making sure you’re ready. He looks deep into your eyes and you try to make a mental screenshot of this moment: what it feels like to have him above you, to have the weight of his body against yours, to feel the tip of his cock nudging at the lips of your cunt; to look into his eyes and see them dark with lust and warm with affection, to have him tracing his fingers across your mouth and jaw before asking, silently, for a final gesture of consent. 

You nod and gently move your hips down as if you’re going to take him into you all by yourself. He moans loudly, guiding himself slowly and steadily inside you until he bottoms out. The stretch makes you gasp, though it’s in no way painful. You close your eyes as you adjust to the sensation of him filling you, warm and heavy.

He’s looking deeply into your eyes when you open them again. “You okay?” He gently strokes the side of your face with his long fingers. 

“Mmmyeah,” you sigh, distracted by the pleasure of having him inside you. “You’re big, you know,” you murmur. “You’re such a big boy.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth you screw up your face with embarrassment. 

Lydia, what in the fuck was that? Did he already manage to fuck the filter out of you with his fingers? Did he induce some sort of malfunction in lydiabrain.exe?

Ben’s eyebrows are raised but you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. 

You’re fucking this up, Lyd, as usual. 

“Oh god I’m so cringe, I’m so sorry -“

He stops you with a chuckle and a soft, sweet kiss. “I mean, it’s a hell of a compliment.” He arches an eyebrow and looks endearingly smug. “Would you like your big boy to fuck you now?”, he purrs. 

This time, you’re the one who can’t help but giggle as you roll your eyes in mock horror at the cheesy line and he grins in response. You can’t remember the last time you felt this intimate with a lover. 

“I would like that very much. Move, Ben, please.”

He takes it slowly at first, keeping his body close to yours as he uses his hips to pull out and push back into your core, over and over. The rhythm is steady and insistent, and your body responds in kind, your hips moving to meet him and your legs widening and hitching up to take him even more deeply. 

He’s starting to increase the pace slightly and you whine, digging your fingers into his broad shoulders. “You feel so good, Lyd,” he pants, “so fucking good. So warm and tight.”

“You like how tight I am for you? You want to see how much I can take?” you coo in his ear as you trail your hands down his back before spreading your palms over his ass, triggering a growl from deep within his chest as he fucks you faster. 

“Want you to take it all, baby, know you can…” A grimace flashes across his face, though he doesn’t stop, and you wonder if something’s wrong. You bring your hands back up to his shoulders and run a finger along the bristling hair on his jawline.

“Are you okay? Do we need to stop?”

“Sorry, just a tight muscle somewhere -“ He looks a little sheepish, as if his body is letting him down.

“Hey,” you murmur, “get on your back. I want to fuck you on top.” His eyes widen with delight and you shift your bodies together, keeping him inside you as he eases carefully back onto the bed and you straddle him.

For a moment you stay just like that, quiet and still. He looks you up and down, smiling at the sight of you and brushing the tips of his fingers gently over the weight of your breasts and the curve of your hips and thighs. You run your hands over Ben’s chest, gazing at his body as if it were a treasure. When you start to trace your fingers over his tummy, he seems to shrink back a little, embarrassed by his physique. 

In response, you shift forward, pulling him out of you slightly so that you can lean in and run your tongue and mouth over the soft flesh of his stomach. He’s looking down his chest at you, and you look up from under your eyelashes. 

“This is a really sexy tummy, you know. Probably the sexiest I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A smile flickers across his face. “You don’t have to say that -“ 

You silence him by sinking back down onto his full length, pulling a cry from his lungs. With a roll of your hips you start to ride his cock, keeping your fingers on his tummy. As you pick up the pace he can’t keep his eyes off your breasts, and he greedily lifts himself up to suck on your nipples. The sensation of his tongue tracing the outline of each nipple is enough to throw you off, and you have to really concentrate on the rhythm you’ve set with your hips and ass.

Months of pent-up frustration and desire find their release as you fuck Ben harder and deeper, his hands digging into your hips and thighs. “Fucking hell, Lyd, you’re amazing,” he rasps, eyes flitting between the fluid movement of your hips and the bounce of your tits. “Feels amazing. Feel good for you, too?”

You nod, not wanting to break the rhythm. With a smirk, he slips a thumb to your clit and starts to rub circles over and around it. You cry out his name in response. 

“Fuck yes, Ben, keep doing that, keep doing…that’s it, fuck!”

“Are you going to come again for me, Lyd?”, he murmurs gently, the quiet of his voice in stark contrast to the obscene, wet noises coming from your cunt and the dirty talk he’s sent tripping from your tongue.

For the third time, the tightly-wound coil snaps deep inside you. You can feel your cunt pulsing around Ben’s cock as you ride out your peak, feeling him tightening between your legs. He’s close. He sits up, pausing to kiss you and to suck on your neck for a few moments while he caresses your tits, before easing you over and onto your back again so he can finish with you underneath him.

“You’re so close,” you whisper to him as he starts to fuck you again, hard and steady. “Let go, baby. Come for me.” 

He picks up the pace, the wetness of your pussy letting him take you as hard as he wants. He’s still holding back. 

“Let go. Come in me,” you purr, hitching your hips slightly to let him go even deeper. “I want your come in me.”

That’s enough to tip him over the edge, and Ben’s rhythm stutters and finally breaks. With a gasp and a shudder you feel him come, crying out as he fills you, cock buried deep within you and beads of sweat dripping from his chest onto your tits. 

He stays put for a moment or two, panting into your neck as he tries to pull himself together. You run your fingers through the soft curls of his hair and hold him close. 

“Thank you.”

His words are almost inaudible, barely a whisper, and you aren’t entirely sure if you’ve heard them or imagined them. You respond with a kiss to the top of his head. 

After a couple of moments Ben pulls away and gets out of bed, pulling the comforter around you before crossing from his bedroom to the bathroom across the hall. He returns with a washcloth and a towel, cleaning you up and gently drying you off. He places one more kiss on your belly and smiles, moving back up to join you at the head of the bed.

You lie close together, facing each other in a comfortable silence. He strokes a little pattern on the curve of your hip while you absent-mindedly trace a finger over the constellation of dark freckles across the top of his chest. 

He tilts your chin up to look at you, stroking your cheek as his big dark eyes gaze into yours. You plant a soft kiss on the little bare patch of skin along his jaw before shifting back to look - really look - at Ben’s face, mapping it with your eyes. The slight furrow between his brows. The line of his nose. The specific shape and colour of his lips. The little divot in his bottom lip. 

“Was - was that okay?” He looks at you intently with those big, baby cow eyes, waiting for a response. 

You are surprised by the question and by how quiet and awkward he sounds, given that he’s just made you come deeper and harder than you have in years. Or maybe ever.

Three. Fucking. Times.

“It was…” you search for the right word as you run your fingers over his strong bicep, “amazing. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard before, honestly. Was it good for you too?”

He blushes, a wide smile creeping across his face. “Pretty spectacular, Lyd. You on top? I mean…” He mimes fireworks exploding with his hands, and you bury your face in his chest as you laugh. You stay like that for a little while, tucked into his side with a big, stupid smile on your face and your arm wrapped around Ben’s tummy. He holds you close to him, tilting his head to rest on yours.

The gesture brings you back, suddenly, to Halloween. His arm around your waist. Your arm around his shoulders. His head resting against you, yours against his. 

Fuck, you two are idiots.

“We should have done this ages ago,” he murmurs, and you worry for a moment that he might be able to read your mind.

You reach for his hand, twining your fingers together. 

“Was it worth the wait, Ben?”

He squeezes you tightly. “Every fucking minute.”

It’s still comparatively early when you fall asleep (the joys of a 5pm party start time), you as the little spoon, Ben dozing off with an arm around you and his hand gently holding your breast. His body is warm and comforting against your back, and you listen for a couple of minutes to the sound of his breathing slowing, steadying, into sleep. 

You don’t sleep for very long - maybe an hour or two. You blink awake, noticing that the lamp is still on, and that Ben’s broad hand is still in place against your soft skin. You caress the back of his hand with yours, trying not to wake him but wanting to feel him under your fingertips again. 

“Mmmmm. Hi, baby.” He drowsily starts to kiss the back of your neck, and his fingers begin to squeeze lightly at your nipple. It grows hard and pert as he nuzzles into your neck, his mouth tracing a line of kisses along your shoulder. You are still wet from earlier, but can feel the ache building again between your legs. He shifts closer to you, and you feel his cock, hard again, pressing against your ass. 

You keen quietly with pleasure, still sleepy, your body starting to grind against his. He whispers a question into your ear, and in response you drag his hand down your body, lifting your leg ever so slightly so he can feel for himself.

“Christ, darling, this just from me playing with your tit?”

You hum your appreciation, nodding. “Mmmm. And the orgasms.”

He chuckles quietly. “Can I have you?” He shuffles down slightly, his hard length already notching at your thighs. 

“Always,” you purr, and he reaches around to tilt your face to his. He kisses you as he lifts your leg, drapes it over his, and carefully pushes inside you. The stretch is still new, but more familiar now, and you mewl a little as he bottoms out. 

It’s slow at first, intense and intimate as he works up a rhythm while still half-asleep. He moans into your neck as he fucks you gently, praising you over and over. “You feel so good, Lyddie,” he whispers, “taking it so well.” He sucks lightly at the crook of your neck, making you whimper with pleasure. 

“You’re so beautiful. Beautiful girl,” he sighs, rolling his hips firmly but slowly as he thrusts up into your pussy. 

“I lo-... I love y-your…body. So soft for me.”

“I love your body too, baby.” You drop a hand between your legs and touch yourself. As he realises what you’re doing, he picks up the pace, fucking you harder from behind until you come with a cry.

His hand drifts to your uppermost hip, holding you in place as he fucks - and talks - you through it. “That’s it, baby. You feel so good when you come like that for me. I lo-” 

You know he’s close, both from the stuttering rhythm and the fact he can’t use his words any more. He mutters and curses as his movements become more staggered. With a moan that seems to come from the depths of his soul, he spills into you with a final thrust, panting into your back as he stays inside you for a moment. 

You turn your mouth to his again, and he kisses you with hunger and gratitude.

You are both utterly wrecked, in every sense, lying flat out on the bed together as you come down from a shared high. 

“So I know you’ve got your flight tomorrow,” he says, fingers idly running up and down your forearm, and you brace yourself for him suggesting you should probably go home. 

“But if you’d like, you can stay the night? I can drive you to your place as early as you need.” 

“If you want me to? I don’t want to impose…”

He shakes his head. “It would be a pleasure. I want you to stay, you know? Would you like something to sleep in? A t-shirt?” You nod in response. He’s holding your hand, rubbing his thumb against your palm. 

He retrieves two T-shirts and a pair of boxers from a tallboy that stands against the opposite wall of the room, holding the shirts up for your approval. 

“REM 1999 tour shirt, or study abroad souvenir?” He really is gorgeous, you think, even when he’s standing naked making silly faces and pretending to model each shirt. Actually, especially when he’s doing that. 

“Ooh, vintage Universidad de Málaga 1996, please.” He crosses back to the bed and hands you the faded red cotton shirt before pulling on his own. 

“That’s a precious relic,” he says with mock seriousness. “It is a privilege to wear that shirt.”

“Understood. I respect the power of the shirt.” You bow your head, crossing your arms across your chest reverentially and he laughs gently. 

He clambers back into bed, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close under the comforter. You rest your head on his shoulder, hands on his chest, and sneak little glances up at him. He’s already starting to drift to sleep, lids heavy and breathing slowing into a steady rhythm. 

Oh, fuck. He’s so gorgeous. He’s so beautiful.

The last word slips, unbidden, from your lips, and he looks confused for a moment before breaking into a gentle, sleepy smile. “So are you.”

The afterglow is cosy and safe. He holds you close with his strong arms, and your fingers are entwined with his. It is both new and familiar, strange and reassuring; a first time, and like you’ve been doing this forever.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: They got there. They have a long way to go (please don't hate me - it can't all be sunshine and orgasms roses). Next chapter sees some more Christmas "cheer", albeit on other sides of the Atlantic.

Thank you so much if you've been with them this far - don't forget, of course, that Lydia is just visiting...

#snl #chaptered #ongoing #read

[toomanytookas]

I feel like every chapter, my first thought it always just “oh that was wonderful”

Even when there are such moments of angst or lack of communication, you create such warm moments between them that continue to emphasise how special their connection is and the potential that might have to grow into something more.

I loved how you described all of the 'signs' that they both have been reading that tell them that the other isn’t interested… it feels to me like every over-analysis of someone’s responses that I’ve ever had and makes it so clear: a. The hurt they’ve experienced in the past, and b. how worried they are about ruining the good thing they have.

This was... wow: "Settle for a flash of that smile, for the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, for the sight of his broad outline at your office door, coffee mugs in hand.  It would have to be enough."

The "I’m too much" convo felt so relatable and so devastating. I love how Ben responded and really hope that his and Ani’s presence in her life will help Lyd gain more confidence in being authentically herself without feeling like she has to filter the joy of her enthusiasm and love to share what she knows. Fuck her ex, wow.

The further reveal of why Ben might be so hesitant was heart achingly good.

And then the KIsS omgggggggg the kiss and that scorching final scene of them both pleasuring themselves. Wowwww.

I loved this line: "unable to shake the lingering trace of your lips on his and frustrated at himself for not being brave enough to show you how he ought to kiss you. How you deserved to be kissed."

I would like a Ben, please. Maybe I need to speak to my department about their hiring plans… 😂

Visiting - Chapter 6: If You'd Accept Surrender

(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: It's Thanksgiving in Barrow, and Lydia and Ben try to work out each other's feelings - and (kind of!) give in...

Word Count: 7.6k

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+)

Content (chapter specific): Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia turns 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; masturbation (F; implied M); descriptions of PiV sex; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; descriptions of emotionally-abusive past relationship; liberal arts profs feeling weird about Thanksgiving, kind of; emotional insecurity; self-confidence issues; a bit of angst; a lot of yearn.

A/N: With HUGE thanks to @lunapascal for triggering a wave of late 90s nostalgia, the title of this chapter is taken from 'Walking After You' by the Foo Fighters. (I wish they would accept surrender too, dear readers.)

I don't quite know how, but this chapter just got together (ironically, given who we're writing about here) and, well, here it is. Aside from these two bouncing around not quite making contact, metaphorically speaking, Lydia learns more about Ben's family and finally visits his (very nice) home.

I had a bit of a wobble about the story after Chapter 5, and then got a wave of beautiful comments and responses to the story that made my heart sing for joy. Readers, you're all bloody wonderful and I love each and every comment and thought you've shared about these two and their story. In the words of a post I reblogged earlier this week: the love is requited. They're just idiots.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

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

Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for loving Bendie as much as I do.

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

It’s just over a week to go before the short vacation around Thanksgiving. The four of you - Ani, Evan, you, and Ben - are eating lunch in the main campus restaurant. The seasonal decor - Halloween ghosts and smiling pumpkins now replaced by cartoonish turkeys and cornucopia displays - has triggered a conversation about plans for the holiday. In turn, because this is a gathering of liberal arts academics and you never miss an opportunity to overthink something, the conversation has also involved grappling with the more problematic aspects of Thanksgiving.

Ani is working through their complex feelings regarding the holiday. “As a queer person of colour, the annual celebration of coloniser assholes is my kryptonite,” they mutter. “But my mom loves this shit, and I love my mom.” Ani forlornly sips their water and looks at you. “I think you might be the only one here who can mark this thing without being a hypocrite, Lyd.”

You huff a laugh. “And that’s mostly because I don’t actually mark it, right?” The holiday is not and has never been a ‘thing’ in your neck of the woods, though you were very familiar with it through popular culture, access to American children’s magazines, and clickbaity BuzzFeed articles on “The 25 Weirdest Thanksgiving Dishes EVER”. 

“So what are you planning on doing while everyone else is refusing yet more turkey leftovers, Lydia? You staying put or taking a little trip somewhere else?” Evan asks, swigging from his can of La Croix. He and David are bringing Evan’s mother to a fancy hotel in Boston for a spa retreat. Ben, meanwhile, is going to spend Thanksgiving at home on the west coast with his mom and extended family for the first time in several years. He’s incredibly excited about it, even if he needs to write a conference paper while he’s away.

You put down your fork and spread your hands ahead of you, preparing to wax lyrical about your Thanksgiving plans while everyone else is out of town. 

“Dude, I’m going to live my best life. I also have to write my paper for that visual arts conference in New York in a couple of weeks, but only after living my best life.” 

Ben watches you affectionately as you prepare to set out the details of your plans. He hasn’t told you this, not yet, but your ability to describe the most ordinary-seeming things in just the right way, with loving care and attention, is one of the (many) things he likes about you.

“We start the day with homemade blueberry pancakes,” you begin, eliciting exaggerated oohs and aahs from your friends. “Served with a scoop of crème fraîche and drizzle of maple syrup, with a giant pot of good filter coffee on the go. Then, we move on to the Macy’s parade. I’m mostly hoping for an inflatable going rogue.”

Ani laughs. “I’m going to open a book on that. A wager on whether there’s a rogue inflatable, and a sub-wager on which inflatable??”

“I will not be watching football,” you continue. “I have a better place to be. For reasons known only to themselves, the college film society has decided to take over the little film theatre downtown for a season of European classics over the vacation. I will therefore be giving thanks for Francois Truffaut and The 400 Blows, which is their Thanksgiving afternoon screening.”

Ben closes his eyes and hums appreciatively, nodding. 

“I then intend to round off the day with takeout and a whiskey sour made at home,” you conclude. “But,” and you look down at the table and bite your lip, “and not to get sentimental on main, I’ll drink it and be quietly thankful for all the good things I’ve got to experience here so far. You three, most of all.”

You lift your eyes and realise that Ben is looking right at you, eyes and expression softer than ever. 

It is just over a fortnight since your birthday. Two weeks, more or less, since he’d held your hand and spun you around on the dancefloor, making you laugh and smile more than you’d done in a very long time. No time at all, and forever ago. The ghostly trace of his touch on your waist, on your back, on your hip still haunts you. His card is still on your nightstand. 

At night, you fall asleep trying - and failing - to resist conjuring up the image of his smiling face. Your dreams about him are erratic. Some are pure fantasy, some sexual, others decidedly unromantic. In some, he evades your grasp, slipping away just as you get close. In others, he ignores you completely. Worst of all are the ones where he ventriloquises the bullying you dole out to yourself, reminding you that you are too plain, too old, too big, too much.

You get used to spending the first few minutes after waking reassuring yourself that they were just dreams. Nothing serious. Nothing real, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. After all, it was your subconscious inventing the scenarios that crept into your sleeping brain.

For all that, things have continued much as they’d always done between the two of you. Lunch. Coffee. Sometimes drinks with others after work. Silly conversations in the staff lounge that make the two of you crease and wipe tears from your eyes with laughter. He never sees the sad expression that sometimes creeps over your face after he leaves your office or disappears to a class. Never catches you tracing your fingers over the memory of his touch on your hand or arm. He never hears you crying in the night when you jolt awake after another bad dream.

You don’t bother trying to talk yourself out of your feelings. What would be the point in denial? Far better to remind yourself that you can’t - indeed, rarely - get what you want, because he doesn’t want you. Couldn’t want you. He’d had opportunities. He didn’t do anything about it. The proof of his feelings - or lack thereof - was staring you in the face.

And besides: you were only visiting. 

So settle for friendship. Settle for the warmth of a friendly glance from his chocolate eyes. Settle for a flash of that smile, for the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, for the sight of his broad outline at your office door, coffee mugs in hand. 

It would have to be enough.

The grocery store is busy with last-minute Thanksgiving shoppers, picking up essentials for the next day’s family feast. You stare at your phone, brain whirring as you try to scale down a pumpkin pie recipe and convert the frankly bonkers system of US weights and measurements and then work out exactly how much butter you need to buy.

“They bang on about having had a revolution and yet they kept this system? The metric system is right there, fuck’s sake…”

Your screen flashes suddenly with an incoming call:

Ben Morales

An involuntary flip of your stomach. You tap the button on your earbuds to accept the call, forcing a casual tone.

“Hey, Ben. How’s the Bay Area? Everything okay?”

“Hi, Lydia. Uh, can’t answer to the Bay Area. Still here.”

“Still here? Oh - oh no. Is everything okay? Has something happened? What can I do - I’ll do whatever you need, no mat-”

He inhales and exhales. “It’s fine, I’m fine, everyone at home is mostly fine. My mom’s just called me in a fury. One of TJ’s boys got a vomiting bug and, well…”

Your face falls, devastated on his behalf. He’d been so looking forward to this. “I can guess. Everyone’s got it.”

“Everyone’s got it,” he echoes. “My mom is fine - fine enough to be really angry at Dylan, that’s my nephew - but it still sounds a bit like…” he trails off, and giggles despite himself. “Like a puke-pocalypse.”

You bite the inside of your cheek but can’t stop yourself from laughing. “Shit, I’m sorry, Ben. Just ‘puke-pocalypse’ is such a fucking funny term.”

He’s laughing now, too, and you feel your heart swelling at the sound of his voice, giggling away like a badly-behaved kid.

“Long story short, I am not going to California. They don’t want me getting sick, either. Not with that big conference in Louisiana the week after.”

“I’m sorry, truly. I know you were looking forward to this.”

He sighs. “I was. But what can you do? Anyway, the longer holidays are coming up. I’ll see them then and we’ll do a video call tomorrow. And I can really focus on getting my conference paper written. It’ll be okay.” He seems to be reassuring himself more than you.

“I’m calling because I was wondering if you’d…if you would want…” He pauses again. “If you’d like to come over and watch the parade tomorrow morning? If you’d like the company of a seasoned giver of thanks.”

You smile in the dairy aisle, even though you feel a flutter of nerves run through your body. “I would really like that. I can bring over the stuff I’ve bought for breakfast and make it at your place? I’ve got enough to feed the five thousand, honestly.”

Note to self: buy more blueberries before you leave the store.

He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but I was only after the food you described the other day. This is all a convenient ruse.”

You hum, as if trying to deduce whether this is a ploy. “I should have known. You only want me for my pancakes!”

The words are out before you realise what you’ve said. You hope to fuck he hasn’t noticed. Deflect, change the subject?

“Actually, Ben, do you want to come to see 400 Blows tomorrow, too? Or are you otherwise occupied with blueberries and batter?”

You swear you hear him sigh happily. You push it aside as a kind of aural illusion, putting it down to your overactive imagination, caught up in trying to distract from your stupid slip of the tongue. 

He doesn’t want you. He’s just being nice. That’s all. He’s just really nice. He doesn’t want you to be on your own. He’d do that for anyone. 

“I would really like that.” 

He takes a breath and continues. “It’s a d- I mean, it’s a deal. So, uh, what time works for you to come over?”

Ben being Ben, he has insisted on picking you up, to save you having to walk over while carrying the supplies for the blueberry pancakes. You aren’t entirely sure how he manages to be as attractive (if not more so) in a grey sweatshirt, faded jeans, and a cosy navy pea coat as he is when he wears a shirt and tie, but somehow he just is.

“Let me bring these through to the kitchen, and I’ll dig out the utensils and pans. Have a look around - you can judge me on my DVD selection if you want.” He winks as he totes the bag of groceries towards the kitchen. 

His house is nice. To your eyes, it’s like something from a picture book or an old movie: two stories, painted a sort of primrose yellow with white accents and sash windows. Steps up to a porch and the front door, a small but neatly trimmed lawn in front, a garage built in the same style as the house to one side. At a guess, you’d place it as dating from the first decades of the twentieth century. 

Inside, a parquet hallway, walls lined with framed posters and prints, leads towards the staircase. Two doors open up off the hall: one to a spacious living room at the front of the house, and one to a dining room at the back, which is connected to the living room by glass-panelled doors. The kitchen, adjoining the dining room, wraps around the back of the house. A small deck accessible from the kitchen leads down to the back yard. The rooms are bright and inviting. You think there might be a basement, judging by the windows you could see under the front steps. Possibly even an attic, if the small round window in the gable at the front was anything to go by.

Fuck, this is really nice. 

It’s also very him. There are little piles of books where you’d least expect them: on one of the lower stairs, on his hall table, on the floor beside the armchair in the corner of the dining room. The framed prints in the hall are clearly all meaningful to him: prints of various paintings, posters from gigs, theatre productions, art exhibitions, some vintage postcards. This is, without doubt, a lived-in home, and it’s clear that - as with his office at work - Ben is not terribly precious about everything being absolutely pristine or neat at all times. But even a cursory glance reveals something of his taste and sensibilities, and suggests the care he must have taken in picking out furniture, or even refurbishing pieces (the man clearly likes the period from the 1920s to the 1960s, you think), and making his house a home. 

You try very hard not to fall for the house, too. Bad enough whatever you’ve got going on for the man who lives there. But - like him - it’s so charming and appealing that you’re fighting a losing battle.

You decide to take a closer look at the living room, admiring the fitted shelving in the alcoves on either side of the large, cosy fireplace. A small, wood-burning stove nestles in the hearth. Family photos line the mantel, with vintage railway posters advertising the Union Pacific Railroad’s Californian routes framed on one wall. The room is bright and high-ceilinged, TV in one corner, shelves of DVDs underneath. Through the glass doors into the dining room you spy a record player, speakers, and shelving holding an extremely impressive collection of vinyl records. 

Best of all, though, is the Lego model of a Saturn V rocket that you spy on top of the shelving in the dining room. You idly wonder if he’s got the lunar lander set as well.

More family photos pepper the bookshelves in the living room, alongside the occasional trinket or tchotchke. A black and white photograph of a man who is Ben’s double in almost every way, save for having straighter hair and different eyes. You guess this must be his dad, captured in his twenties or so, wearing a beautiful light-coloured short-sleeved shirt decorated with abstract embroidery. 

A small figurine catches your eye: a woman in a green mantle, with a pinkish red robe, covered in the unmistakable patina of age. You instantly recognise it as a miniature statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, standing on a little wooden base. Its presence here feels surprising, somehow. Nothing had ever given you the impression that Ben was remotely religious, but then again - had you even discussed it?

The doors from the dining room into the living room open and Ben comes in as you look intently at the little figure. “You know who she is?”

You nod. “Apart from my professional expertise including religious art, you’re looking at the product of a Catholic education. I may not be much of a believer, but I learned a lot about iconography. And, full disclosure, I still love a holy statue.” You hold your hands up. “It’s the kitsch, I can’t deny it.”

He smiles and moves towards you. “I’m not much of a believer, either,” he says, smiling. “But she belonged to my abuela - I mean, my grandmother.” 

You nod, and a framed photo beside the statue catches your eye. In it, a woman - her long greying hair pinned up - is sitting on an armchair, holding a tiny infant and beaming. Standing beside her, a toddler - no more than two, you reckon - is scowling at the camera. He’s wearing a pair of denim dungarees and a stripy, long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Wait - is that - that’s you? That’s you, oh my god!” You look more closely at the picture and Ben puts a palm to his face. 

“Dammit, you’re too quick. That’s my abuela holding TJ, just a few days old - that’s when he’d come home from the hospital with my mom. And yes, that’s me. I was thrilled to become a big brother, as you can see.” He rolls his eyes and chuckles. 

You look carefully at the furious face of the little boy, his hair maybe a shade lighter than Ben’s dark brown locks now, but his eyes are unmistakably the same. Even the toddler’s pout is familiar. You’ve seen it in action, when the copier refuses to cooperate with him.

“You might have been pissed off, but you were still pretty cute,” you say softly, smiling at him with perhaps more affection than you might otherwise have deemed wise. 

“Cute, huh? You must be wondering what went wrong.”

You good-naturedly roll your eyes and shake your head. “Far from it. I’m sure that kid would be thrilled to know who he’d grow up to be.”

He smiles a tiny smile and blushes slightly, casting his eyes downwards. Silence, for a moment. 

“So you were close to your grandmother?”

He nods, smiling at the photograph. “She was really great. My dad’s mother.” He points to the photograph of the handsome young man in the formal shirt. “That’s him. Diego. He’s just a kid there.” He smiles at the picture, mirroring his father’s expression. It only serves to highlight the resemblance even further. 

“Dad worked long, hard hours, and my abuela took care of us when my mom had to get a part-time job to help make ends meet - used to read to us, bring me to the library, tell anyone who’d listen that I was the smartest kid in the world.” He chuckles. “Not the easiest thing being a little boy who loved books and making up stories when everyone else was sports-mad or running around in a cut-up tshirt pretending to be Rambo. But she never stopped encouraging me. She encouraged all of us.”

He picks up the little figurine. It looks even tinier in his broad hand. 

“She swore blind that nuestra señora here helped with my SATs. Or rather, her prayers to nuestra señora helped me get the grades I needed for college. Never mind all my hard work! So when I left for school, she gave me this. Said it would keep me safe.” He places it gently back on the shelf beside the picture. 

“Like I said, I’m not a believer. But the statue is a little bit of her, and how much she loved me, and I liked having that with me. You know what I mean?” He looks at you, big brown eyes soft and searching.

You feel your heart swell. Shit, Lyd. You’ve got to get over this. You have got to get over him.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod. “I have a couple of things like that - little tokens that mean so much. She must have been so proud of you when you did so well at college, got into grad school...”

He exhales. “Oh, man. She was obsessed with everything I did in college. I had to update her on my classes every semester so she could brag to the ladies at the hair salon about how smart I was.” He laughs briefly, then his face falls a little. “I just wish she’d seen me graduate. She, uh, passed a month or so before we got our final degree results.” 

He looks so sad all of a sudden. Spontaneously, unthinking, you reach out and gently touch his bicep in a gesture of comfort. 

He turns to face you, eyes widened a little in surprise, and lightly pats your hand. “It’s okay, really. Sorry. Just got a bit…melancholy there. Anyway, I’m thankful I had her when I did.”

“Ah, bringing it back to today’s theme. Nice segue, very impressive, no notes.” 

He grins. “She’d have liked you.” He’s rubbing his hands together and making a beeline back towards the kitchen.

“Okay - I can’t wait any longer. Pancakes and parade time, I think?”

You eat more blueberry pancakes than you thought humanly possible while you take in the spectacle of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade: three hours of inflatables, floats, and marching bands with special guests. Ben is surprisingly knowledgeable about the various character balloons and seems genuinely impressed when you recognise Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr Seuss, laughing as you point excitedly at the TV. 

“Sorry! It’s just totally new to me, and I’m basically an overgrown child.”

He shakes his head. “It’s great. Next year they need to get you on board as an international commentator.”

Next year. Fuck. There is no next year, at least not so far as this is concerned. Next Thanksgiving you’ll be an ocean away, not tucking into fluffy pancakes on Ben’s comfy sofa and picking out your favourite floats. 

“They’ll have to fly me back, I guess.”

The realisation reminds you how temporary all of this is. The fellowship. Your presence in this place. Your easy closeness to a man who, unbeknownst to himself, had stirred up feelings of affection, need, and desire in you, just when you thought they were gone forever.

The look on Ben’s face suggests that he’d forgotten this was temporary, too. You feel a surge of affection in your chest as you look at his face, a little crestfallen. 

Push it down. Push it away. 

While you’re clearing up, Ben’s phone buzzes with a message from his mom. 

“Shit, she wants to do a video call now. Is that okay?”

“Of course! God, don’t mind me. I can leave if it’s easier, let you have your time talking to your family.”

He turns, shaking his head. “I’m not kicking you out, you’re my guest.”

“Okay, but let me keep clearing up in here and you go and talk to her. That way you get privacy and it means the clean-up is done and dusted when you’re finished.”

He grabs his iPad and heads back into the living room, closing the doors into the dining area and kitchen. You continue with the washing up as Ben speaks with his family on the other side of the country, popping back to the dining table every so often to gather other dirty dishes and plop them in the sink.

Then, you hear Ben’s mom’s voice clearer and louder than before. It’s enough to stop you dead.

“Who’s the pretty woman in your dining room, Benjamin?”

What the fuck? How did she…

The doors have glass panels. Which you forgot about. You are an idiot.

She could see you popping in and out. You’re not hiding, as such. But you don’t want to provoke any awkward questions for Ben. 

“It’s my friend Lydia, mom. She’s the visiting professor this year, she’s on her own for the holiday too, so…we’re keeping each other company. I told you about her.”

He did? 

You try not to think too much about his use of ‘we’, or exactly how you would like to ‘keep him company’. 

“Well, does your” - Mrs Morales pauses for emphasis - “friend Lydia, the visiting professor, want to come say hi? Or have you confined her to the dining room and kitchen?”

Oh, shit. Shit. Could the ground just open up and swallow you, please? Come, friendly sinkhole, come.

Ben turns and looks at you over the back of the armchair, through the glass panelled doors. He raises his eyebrows, leaving it up to you to decide. 

What can you do, but say hi? 

You smile weakly as you come into the living room and settle on the arm of the chair, hoping you’re not at a terrible angle for the front-facing camera while repressing the screaming panic inside you. 

It’s your friend’s mom. It doesn’t mean anything because you aren’t anything. 

“Hello, Mrs Morales. It’s very nice to meet you. Happy Thanksgiving!”

You estimate that Mrs Morales is a little older than your own parents, though not by much. Her white hair is cut short and curls softly around her expressive face. He might be the image of his father, but he shares the same wavy curls, penetrating dark eyes, and kind smile as his mother. 

“Please, call me Ana. Are you enjoying your first Thanksgiving?” She arches an eyebrow and nods towards her son, expression deadly serious all of a sudden. “I hope he’s being a good host.”

You exchange a glance with Ben, who looks affronted, and laugh. “He’s a very good host. He’s made me feel so welcome since I came to Barrow in August.” You feel heat rising in your neck. “There’s just a really nice group of people here. Ben mentioned that you were unwell - I hope you are doing better now?”

Ana Morales smiles and brings a hand to her chest. “Thank you, my dear. It has been unpleasant, as you can imagine. Difficult when you live so far from your family, too.”

Ben huffs quietly. “Mom, TJ and Teresa and their families are like, five minutes away from you.”

His mom turns her attention back to you. “I’m sure you must miss your family too, Lydia. You’re here on your own, hmm? Sometimes the visiting professor travels over with their partner and children…”

Is she trying to suss you out? 

Ben looks slightly horrified at her line of questioning, but you nod and explain. “Nope, I’m on my own - no partner, no kids, unless I have really forgotten something at home!” Your joke doesn’t seem to land, and you try to deflect. “But I’m happy and I’m really enjoying myself here. It’s a wonderful experience and I’m very lucky. I guess that’s what I’m thankful for today.”

Oh, and I’m thankful for you and your husband because you created this specimen, congrats on the good genes guys.

She seems satisfied with your answer. This feels like a natural break in the conversation, and you stand up and start to make your excuses.

“I will leave you two, if that’s okay - I don’t want to keep you from catching up. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Morales, truly.”

Ana tilts her head and smiles a genuine, warm smile. You notice how her eyes smile too, crinkling just like his do.

“And lovely to meet you, Lydia. Let’s hope we will meet in person someday.”

Smile, nod, wave, retreat. Wait - in person?

You gently close the door into the dining room and return to the kitchen, out of sight of the iPad’s camera, before exhaling, long and slow. 

The conversation continues in the living room, and you notice that Ben’s mother has switched into Spanish. In turn, you note that the timbre of his voice has dropped slightly as he switches into the other language.

It’s probably a good thing that your command of Spanish barely stretches to the basics - no fear of understanding what they’re saying. The most you actually overhear in spite of yourself is an exasperated “Mom!” from Ben, and his mother’s repeated use of a word that sounds like nobya or novya. Or was it nobeea? 

You focus on putting away the clean dishes and cooking utensils, avoiding the temptation to ruminate on what his mother must have thought of you.

A round of goodbyes and you hear the door to the dining room opening again, turning to see Ben standing by the table. He looks a little awkward, running his hand through his hair to the back of his neck. You can guess what’s on his mind. 

“It was lovely to be able to say hello to your mom. Really.”

“I’m sorry you got the third degree, though.” He extends his hands in front of him, as if showing two polar opposites. “This is mom and this -” he stretches his long arms further apart “- is normal personal boundaries, I’m afraid.”

You grin, relaxing a little more. “Man, if the roles were reversed, my family would have extracted full details of your blood type, social security number, and the name you chose at your Confirmation. And all in less time than I was talking to your mom.”

You can see the laughter rising from his chest through his neck to his face, and it is a comfort when you eventually hear it. 

“Are you part of a family of superspies, Lydia?” 

You pretend to think. “Hmmm. I don’t think so. But my mom would have been amazing at it. I mean, maybe she’s just in deep cover.” 

“I don’t think my mom could do deep cover,” he muses, looking up at the kitchen clock to check the time. “She’d end up telling someone before the first hour was out. Probably call her friend Julia, tell her not to tell a soul, and the entire neighbourhood would know immediately. Hey - we should probably get going if we want to make the screening.”

You nod and grab your coat and purse, tugging a soft pink knitted hat over your head as you lead the way to the front door. You wait on the stone steps outside as he locks up. 

“She really liked you, by the way,” he says quietly as he checks he’s properly locked the front door. You look at him, somewhat quizzical.

“My mom. Said you were clearly very sweet and told me I had to keep looking after you, or..”

“Or?” you offer the prompt.

“Or she’d fly over here and I would - and I quote - ‘know all about it.’” He grins. “Please use your new power for good, Lyd.”

The short winter days mean it’s dark by the time the film’s over and you leave the movie theatre, chattering enthusiastically about French cinema, the New Wave, Francois Truffaut, and the charisma of a young Jean-Pierre Léaud. You talk all the way to the Brunswick Café, a diner on Main Street that looked untouched since the 1960s - in a good way. Ben had insisted on going - best pumpkin pie in the world, apparently, and they had a tradition of opening for the afternoon and evening on Thanksgiving to cater to left-behind students and college staff. You were only too glad to continue the conversation over big plates of delicious grilled cheese sandwiches and golden, crispy french fries. 

You’re waving your hands around as you describe a day you spent in Paris as a doctoral student, tracing various locations from the film and ending with a visit to Truffaut’s grave in the Montmartre cemetery. You have completely forgotten about the french fry you’re holding between your left thumb and index finger, now serving as a kind of pointer as you detail the excitement of tracking down the locations and planning your itinerary. 

He’s listening intently with a smile on his face. 

And that’s when the bullying voice inside you decides to pipe up, speaking the kind of words you’d had thrown at you by your ex.

You’ve been talking for ages. You must be boring him by now. All you ever do is talk. All I ever do is listen to you. You’re just too much, Lydia. It’s…a lot.

You rein yourself in quickly. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been rambling away here and taking up all the space. Sorry, I just get carried away sometimes, I forget -”

Ben furrows his brow behind his glasses and looks at you, smile wiped and replaced by a serious expression. “Why did you stop talking? What do you mean, taking up all the space?”

You wave his words away, as if it was all self-explanatory. “You know what I mean, me going on and on and on. I know I’m a lot. I don’t mean to be. Just that when I get onto something I really care about I can’t stop sometimes and I’m too much. I’m sorry.”

His expression has shifted to one of confusion, brow still furrowed. He rests his palms on the table.

“Lydia, why are you apologising for being so passionate about stuff? I like hearing you talk. You know so much cool shit! You’ve done so much cool shit! Why wouldn’t I want to hear that? You hear enough from me when I get to talking about one of my ‘things’.” He’s shaking his head, an expression of his disbelief.

He pushes himself back from the table, leaning on the dark red banquette behind. 

“Lyd, I don’t want to pry but - have people told you you’re a lot or too much, or whatever, and that you need to talk less? Is that where this comes from?”

You avert his gaze. “It…it was said to me. And because the person who used to remind me isn’t, um, in my life now, I forget sometimes and get over excited and talky.”

He looks down. “Your ex?”

You nod, still unable to meet his eye. 

Very gently, he reaches over and pats the back of your hand. A tiny electrical charge shoots through you. His words are shot through with a quiet fury. “A fucking idiot, then. And don’t ever listen to a fucking idiot like that. You’re not ‘a lot’, or whatever they told you. You’re not ‘too much’. You’re - you’re exactly right just as you are.”

He moves his hand away. Now it’s his turn to avert your gaze, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. You look up and try to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Ben - hey, look at me. Thank you. That’s really nice, you know? I’m still working on believing that for myself, but it helps when you have such good -” you pause, unsure what to say in this moment of quiet intimacy, “-such good, um, friends to help you remember.”

He lifts his eyebrows and for the briefest instant you think you see a flash of sadness in his dark eyes. 

“Never say you’re ‘too much’ again.” His face is soft, and his voice reassures you in the same way as the touch of his hand. 

The urge to lean over, hold his gorgeous face in your hands, and kiss Ben Morales there and then surges in you like mercury climbing on a hot summer’s day. 

You take a deep breath and steady yourself, forcing the thought out of your mind before you do something stupid and make a show of yourself. And in public.

You’re interrupted by the server appearing at your table, her tray laden with enormous slices of pumpkin pie and a fresh pot of coffee. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Professor Ben! Long time, no see.” She beams at him. She must be in her mid-sixties, you reckon, short dark hair shot through with greys and the air of someone who has seen it all around here. 

Ben returns her smile. “Hey, Emma! I’m sorry I haven’t really been in a lot this semester. We’ve got some new courses on, and -”

Emma raises her hand to stop him. “I know, sweetheart, I know. And I guess you’ve been busy in other ways, too, huh?” She turns and looks at you, eyebrows waggling and a huge smile on her face. “It’s so good to see good people in love.”

I’m sorry - the what in holy fuck now?

Ben looks as flustered as you feel. His eyes dart over and back as he looks from you to Emma and back again. 

You try to help clarify things, words tumbling out in a rush. “Uh well no we’re not - I mean, I’m not - uh - I’m a visiting professor, Lydia. I’m Lydia. I’m a visiting professor. We -”

Ben finds his words. “We’re n-not a couple, Emma.” He shrugs gently. “I’m sorry, I know what you always say.”

Emma pulls herself up to her full height, coffee pot in hand. She looks at him sceptically, cocking her hip and raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sorry too. Just thought I saw what I saw from over at the counter. Didn’t say you were a couple, but…I got it wrong.” She offers a smile that seems more like a grimace. “Enjoy the pie, kids.”

You get the distinct feeling that Emma a) doesn’t believe you and b) feels personally attacked by the fact that you aren’t together.

Fucking tell me about it, lady. 

Ben sips on his coffee and picks up a fork to start on the pie. He pauses just before digging in.

“Hey, Lyd?” You meet his eyes. “Sorry about that. I didn’t intend to give any impression to her that we were…y’know. I’m sorry if it upset you.”

You wish you were brave enough to tell him that the only reason you might be upset over this is because you aren’t actually involved. But everything today feels like more proof that he just sees you as a good friend - including his response to Emma. 

You smile and shake your head furiously. “I’m not upset, I was just worried that you’d be upset!”

He looks up, a piece of pumpkin pie speared on his fork. “I’m not upset, Lyd.”

“Good. So no harm done. She was just eager to get you all coupled up.” You start into your own slice of pie, marvelling at the texture of the filling and the spices tingling on your tongue.

He laughs lightly. “True that. I’ve come here for years and she keeps saying it’s a crime I’m not with anyone.” 

She’s not wrong there. But only because you should be with me.

You sip your coffee. “In that case, you’ve been joined by a fellow hardened singleton criminal. Cheers.” You reach over with your mug and clink it off his. “Here’s to pumpkin pie, the French New Wave, and good people.”

He mulls it over as you walk from Main Street back towards the residential areas around campus. The same questions he’s been pondering since the night of your birthday.

What if he just said something to you? Told you how he felt?

What would you do? Would you be happy about it? Would you feel the same?

Would it ruin everything? Ruin the friendship he loved so much?

He tries to keep up the conversation but is happy to let you chat away, too distracted by the questions in his mind. He’s replaying the things you said today, looking for crumbs as to how you saw him, or saw your relationship, or hints that you might want more. 

You’d mentioned ‘friends’ a couple of times, hadn’t you? ‘Good people’. 

Maybe that’s how you see him. Just a friend. Someone you really like but - not like that.

Better not to do something stupid and get hurt. Better to insulate yourself from the possible blows.

That, after all, is why Ben Morales’ dating history seems so empty to those who work alongside him. He’s no monk - far from it, as the occasional hook-ups and one night stands (at conferences, or trips out of town, of course, because everyone knows everyone around here) prove. But better to do that than go all in, and risk his heart and his self-esteem being crushed. 

Again.

At least, that’s what he’d felt until you came along. He was happy, content with his life. He wasn’t lonely or looking for anyone.

Now, he’s not so sure if his self-preservationist approach is really the right course of action any more. Because of you, and because of what he feels for you.

He looks at you, profile peeking out from underneath your soft knitted hat and hands gesturing as you talk. 

You just need to tell her. Say it. Say the words. 

He steels himself. She’d have come on to him before now if she felt anything. Right?

He reminds himself of all the times you mentioned being ‘friends’. He pushes the feelings that swell his heart down, down deep, so that he can keep putting one foot in front of the other.

You part halfway between your place and his. It’s not very late, and you refuse to have him go out of his way just to walk you to your building.

“I know it’s the theme of the day, but - thank you. Best Thanksgiving ever.” 

He raises an eyebrow when you’ve separated, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Isn’t this your only Thanksgiving ever, Lydia?”

“And nothing else will ever compete. Pie, movies, parades, your mom saying I was sweet and pretty - what more could anyone want?”

He groans at the memory of his mother’s questions to you - and to him, though he hopes you didn’t hear and understand those. “I’m sorry. But it did capture some of the familial tensions of a traditional Thanksgiving.”

You wave away his apology. “Seriously, I’m so grateful. I hope you know.”

You move a step closer and reach out to hug him to say thanks. You can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, trying to memorise the feeling of safety and warmth that comes with embracing Ben, however briefly.

He smiles. “I know.” He turns his head to one side, as if he’s mulling something over in his mind.

“Okay, well…good night.” You lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek that’s facing you, remembering his gesture the night of your birthday.

Maybe it’s your timing. Maybe it’s the angle. Maybe you startled him. 

In the split second it takes you to move towards him, Ben turns his head. Instead of the softness and bristle of his cheek, your lips meet his.

The kiss, if you can call it that, can’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds before you break apart, startled and apologetic. 

“Oh fuck Ben I’m - I’m so sorry, I was going for your cheek and then you turned and -”

He’s blushing, eyes darting around and fingers flexing as they tend to do when he’s nervous or panicking. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Lyd, I didn’t - didn’t mean…shit, I’m sorry. I turned and you were there and your mouth was - sorry.”

You pat him gingerly on the arm, trying to offer reassurance but terrified that if you feel too much of him, so solid and warm, you won’t be able to stop yourself going further.

“Ben, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Your tone is meant as ‘casual and nonchalant’ but is, in truth, very chalant indeed. “At least we got a kiss out of it instead of bonking our heads together and ending up with lovely Thanksgiving nosebleeds, hmm?”

He looks at you from under his lashes and does that half-smile that devastates you. “That’s something to be thankful for.” A pause. “I’d try to kiss you on the cheek again but, y’know, nosebleed risk. Need to keep at a safe distance.” 

You smile softly and start to turn for home. “Good night, Ben. Happy Thanksgiving. And good luck with the conference paper!” He grimaces, remembering that he has to write his paper, then breaks into a grin, salutes, and walks away.

Lying in bed, trying to sleep, your brain returns over and over to the moment your lips met his. Accidental and over in a flash though the kiss might have been, there was no mistaking how his mouth felt - masculine and soft, warm and inviting, still tasting of pumpkin pie and coffee. 

It was an accident. It had to be. But you knew, deep down, that when your lips made contact you’d both lingered just a second too long. You’d pressed your lips to his, and he’d returned the gesture, almost imperceptibly. You definitely weren’t imagining this. Or were you?

Should you have kept kissing him? What would he have done?

The more you thought about it, the more you reviewed every movement and gesture and moment of contact, the more your body began to ache for him. The gnawing pain between your legs demands to be relieved. You slip down your cotton pajama pants, and pass one finger over your slit experimentally. You gasp as you realise how wet and how swollen you already are, just from the memory of his mouth. His touch. His scent. The warmth of his body.

You begin to move your middle finger up and down, up and down, increasing the pressure on your clit, and he appears unbidden and unceasingly in your mind as you close your eyes, almost as real as if he was there in bed with you.

It’s him slipping a hand between your legs, splaying his fingers to create a bit more space as he strokes you. It’s his long, strong finger that’s dragging through the slippery wetness dripping from you. The pad of his thumb that begins to rub at your swollen nub in tight circles while he starts finding your entrance with the tips of his fingers.

You let yourself imagine what he would say to you, conjuring up the aural memory of his voice. 

“You’re this wet for me already, baby? Is that what I do to you?”

You can’t even form the word, so you whimper and nod.

“I think you like this, don’t you? What about having my fingers inside you?”

Your hips buck upwards slightly as you pick up the pace and try to slip a finger inside yourself. It could never be a match for those hands: so strong and broad but so gentle and kind.

You can feel the coil tightening within you as you get closer and closer to coming.

“Or would you prefer my cock inside you, my love?” 

Such is the wetness between your legs that the sound of your fingers working yourself to climax is loud and obscene. You’re so close now, getting nearer and nearer the edge as you imagine what it would be like to feel him bury himself in you, covering you with his broad body as he fucks you senseless.

The man in your head offers one final instruction to get you there and send you crashing over the edge: “Come for me, Lyddie.”

Across town, around the same time, the memory of your voice is issuing the same instruction to him as he seeks his own relief, unable to shake the lingering trace of your lips on his and frustrated at himself for not being brave enough to show you how he ought to kiss you. How you deserved to be kissed.

“Come for me, Ben.”

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: They're getting there. Slowly. But they're getting there. All that frustration has to work itself out before the end of the semester, right? And the next chapter sees them about to head into the longer break for the holidays... ahem.

If you haven't seen Truffaut's The 400 Blows (Les 400 coups), then please track it down if you love movies. It's wonderful. If only I could go and watch it in a small college town movie theatre with Ben Morales, sigh...

#snl #chaptered #ongoing #read

[toomanytookas]

Aaah this is so fun, Kate! Congratulations on this milestone!!

I voted for Loose Change because a busker!reader sounds like so much fun. 🎻💕

600 Followers Celebration

Y’all!! This is wild. I realized the other day that I started writing my first fic in my notes app on my phone on 4/11/23. I posted the first chapter of that fic in July last year! I am so grateful for each and every one of you. I get so emotional every time someone reads one of my fics. Thank you for being here and being amazing. And I’m so glad you all like fandom bingo (which is still open)!! 🧡🧡🧡

I wanted to do something fun to celebrate. There are two parts -- vote and ask! I'll tag every post for this celebration with #bte600.

💗 VOTE: vote on the poll under the cut!!  A week or so ago I did an ask game where people sent me made up fic titles and I told you what I would write for them. Well, I got a little carried away and came up with some ideas I'm actually pretty excited about. So now I want you to vote on which one I should actually write next! The poll will be open for a week.

🧡 ASK: Send me any of the emojis below – send me as many as you’d like! But please send one at a time.

❣️shout out Spread the love around and tell me about a fic, author, fan art, or artist on here that you love!

📜fic rec Give me a fandom and a direction and I’ll give you a fic rec. I’ve got more than 9000 bookmarks on ao3 lol bet I can find something! let me know preferences about ships, ratings, content, etc.

(fandoms I’ve read a lot in over the years: all the Pedro boys, Inception (Arthur/Eames), Captive Prince, LOTR/Hobbit, MCU, X-Men, 00Q, Star Trek (various ships), Mass Effect, The Raven Cycle (pynch), Teen Wolf (lol), Stranger Things, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Check Please!, The Witcher, The Sandman, Sherlock, Stargate Atlantis, RWRB, Merlin, ATLA… and more?)

❓question Send me any question, FMK, ask about a headcanon, ask about one of my fics, how I write, ask for commentary on a scene or line, whatever you’d like – I’ll answer it!

Remember, 💗 vote on the poll under the cut!! 

Let's vote! Which one of these ideas should I work on next? (see more about each at the link) I had to cut one so I cut one of the Frankie ones that was very similar to something I just wrote.

🧡🧡🧡 thanks for being here!

tagging some mutuals for funzies:

@katareyoudrilling @beardedjoel @maggiemayhemnj @goodwithcheese @djarins-cyare

@jupiter-soups @undercoverpena @tightjeansjavi @morallyinept @trulybetty

@gasolinerainbowpuddles @huffle-punk @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @jay-zzle @sheepdogchick3

@joelsgreys @davnittbraes @ghotifishreads @iknowisoundcrazy @jobean12-blog

@punkette1026 @macfrog @skittlesfics @morning-star-joy @futuraa-free

@sempersirens @theywhowriteandknowthings @pr0ximamidnight @janaispunk @toxicanonymity

@chronically-ghosted @beefrobeefcal @ladamedusoif @ilovepedro @javierpena-inatacvest

@kiwisbell @iamasaddie @mrsmando @corazondebeskar @minimeiser

@mermaidgirl30 @kedsandtubesocks @covetyou @nedgooel @wildemaven

@secretelephanttattoo @theclairvoyage @sawymredfox @julesonrecord

...

#author: burntheedges