there was an entire kylux plot to this where hux was a sudden, wealthy, pretentious benefactor to ben’s busted-ass community library (his baby which he would kill for). the microfiche is an important part of the supporting cast. it was maximum extra.
*sucks in breath*
BUT THATS NEVER SEEING THE LIGHT OF DAY SO HERE’S JUST A SNIPPET.
“Really?” Ben sighed, passing a misplaced copy of A Cry of Players, which sat carelessly thrown, face-down, atop his much beloved microfiche machine.
He backtracked to snatch it, narrowing his dark eyes as he inspected the pages for any damage. Apparently satisfied with its condition, he added it to the top of the stack he had already been carrying. Ordinarily, he would have used his little cart for a task such as this (collecting lost books), but the Wamboldt boys had stolen it last month and put it very much out of commission doing ollies over it in the parking lot. No matter how much epoxy Ben applied, the wheels just wouldn’t stay on anymore.
Ben sometimes wished for the Wamboldt boys to be kidnapped by one of those terrifying European folklore monsters. No specific one because they are pretty much all sufficiently nightmarish. At the very least, someone could summon a Krampus to slap their shit around with some birch branches.
Of course, daydreams wouldn’t bring back his cart so, for now, he carried the books.
It was the coldest part of the year in his small town, Ben the librarian was never seen without his signature, very-comfy, knit sweaters. He preferred calm earth tones, naturally, for his cozy attire. It was just about the only soft thing about him.
Speaking of being a prickly bastard.
“Barbara. Look at me, Barbara.”
Ben stopped his brisk pace to address an elderly woman copying recipes from a cookbook onto index cards at a glacial pace. Everything - especially her hands - seemed to rattle and shake with her age, like there was an extremely lively skeleton trying to escape from inside of her.
“Jesus, Ben.” She adjusted her tiny bifocals. “Scared me,” she said, mumbling even more curses in a tone most crotchety.
“If I find that cookbook in the Travel section again, Barbara, I’m going to go to your house and set your shed on fire,” his perpetually intense gaze didn’t relent. He could hear the flutter of her floral print muumuu and the shuffling of her slippered feet beneath the table.
Clearly unphased, Babs didn’t take her eyes off her book and only dryly replied: “You need therapy, kid.”
For a rare moment, Ben smiled, just barely showing his crooked teeth but it was gone in a flash. He reached into the pocket of his warm, pumpkin colored corduroys.
“More cards,” he said plainly, showing her the index cards before setting them down next to her.
“Good lookin’ out,” she murmured. And that was just about as sweet as Barbara could be. Maybe that's why they got along so famously.
Satisfied, he stalked off, winding through the tight, dusty corridors of shelves. He’d already checked the reference section, of course, but sometimes he did a second tour just for the smell.
The smell of paper was his anti-drug. Useful, as life in a town as small as his could drive anyone to the hard stuff.
His curiosity got the best of him as he finally approached the main counter. With a heave, he set the sizable stack of misplaced books onto the counter and reached for A Cry of Players. Who could possibly have selected this for reading recently? Maybe there was a stamp on the card with a date from this decade.
Ben flipped it open to reveal the yellowing inner cover and scowled with a glare fit to set fire to the book.
The Dick Doodler struck again. This classic play had been utterly defaced with a crudely drawn phallus. How undignified a state for such a piece of drama to be in. It was one thing when they victimized the Dan Brown novels, but this- this was just sick.
He wanted to roar and raise hell but he was in a library- his library, for heaven’s sake - so he settled for breathing deeply through his rapidly flaring nostrils and making gnarled claws out of his own hands like he was strangling those damn Wamboldt brats (his main suspects) himself. His mouth twisted into an unspeakably hideous expression of pure hatred and his eyes opened a little too wide.
“Pardon,” came a hesitant voice. “I was just looking for the, uh, proprietor.” The last word was enunciated with clear undertones of doubt.
Ben’s eye twitched. Once. Twice.
He took a deep breath and turned to fully face the visitor. The towering librarian attempted to do away with his terrible visage but it probably wasn’t working wonders for him.
Before him stood a crisply dressed man with an icy air. He raised an arch and starkly strawberry blonde eyebrow at the display, disgust playing ever so faintly on the down-turned corners of his mouth. One didn’t need to be a bloodhound to smell the old money on this guy.
Tourist, thought he in a manner most uncharitable.
“Yes,” the scary book procurer confirmed slowly and through gritted teeth which he couldn’t seem to loosen. “I. Am. He.”
This was Ben Solo playing it cool.
“I see,” replied the man indifferently, becoming momentarily distracted with a spot of dust on the counter, which he swiped at with delicately prodding fingers, swathed in obnoxiously expensive looking leather gloves. No doubt they were lined with some equally pretentious fur for warmth.
Baby seal, perhaps? Endangered Peruvian Tree Skunk?
“Well,” he began, blonde lashes fluttering as he resolved to turning his attention back to a deranged looking Ben, “I was looking for a little diversion on my visit here. I was told I could trust your recommendation by the concierge- I’m staying at the Old Mill, you see. Do you know of it?”
“Do I know of the only hotel in town?” Ben asked, laying the sarcasm on thick. Yup. Tourist alright. As if he needed any more confirmation. His accent stuck out like a drunk nun at a christening.
Although, big ups to Roger at the Mill for complimenting Ben on his book-selection skills. Who knew he had any taste considering his choice to make his hotel bar clown themed. It almost made big Solo blush.
The fancy-pants ginger sniffed, pressing his lips into a thin line and raising his eyebrows.
“Right, well, I’m partial to Medieval philosophy lately-”
“Follow me,” Ben replied gruffly, turning on his heel before Tourist could get another word in.
If he wore a cape, he would have flourished it to great dramatic effect.
Why is like 90% of monsterfucking smut so friggin straight with the man being top. Give me a femboy getting railed by a werewolf, or a witch who gets seduced by the local vampire queen or something. Please, I can't read this shit anymore.
