ALL HAIL THE FIRST GENERATION OF TREKKIES -- THE ONE'S WHO BLAZED THE SCI-FI FANDOM TRAIL.
PICS INFO: Mega spotlight on a teenage girl in "STAR TREK" Vulcan cosplay, as well as an entire cosplaying assembly of "Original Series"-era Vulcans, photographed at the World Science Fiction Convention in New York, NY, USA, c. 1967.
DEAN DI LAURENTIS TEXTS -> ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS TEXTS (with secret feelings?) PT 7
'who dis?: offcampus!dean di laurentis x afab!reader
summary: you and dean really get on each others nerves, yet you're always each other go to fuck buddy, but is that really all? the after math.
warnings: mentions of sex, mentions of getting sick
note: this is the biggest text dump ever you’re welcome. i really hope everyone likes the different people in conversation! i tried to make it interesting. this was slightly rushed so if anything’s corny.. im sorry. I LOVE YOU ALLLL
finalizing a name for this soon, thanks for all your suggestions!! next post will be harry headcanons (ruby if you see this i 💓 you)
wordcount: 2078
summary: Ben was always around, even back then. Your tiny hands and selfless love entranced him from the start, molding the hardened veteran into a softer version of himself. Now, you’re back home and the feelings you once had for each other start shifting.
warnings: (dead dove-ish?) dbf!soldier boy, fem!reader, slowburn soldierboy x reader, age gap (early 20s & middle 40s), nostalgia, normal au (veteran soldier boy), swearing, banter, ben realizes he’d got a conscience, emotional intimacy, forced proximity-ish (they’re close but let’s be real– no one’s forcing them, that’s all u bae), guard dog benjamin– think that’s all for now !!!
(really quick author's note) so sorry it took me so long to update, life's been a bit up n down lately... other than that, i hope y'all like it + please please PLEASE let me know what u think/what u wanna see/what Y'ALL think should happen next?
The barbeque started sometime around noon, or maybe eleven? Truthfully, nobody in this town had ever been particularly strict about time– people simply... appeared. Besides, it’s not like there was a formal invitation or anything, just your dad saying: “Swing by next mornin’ for a couple beers” to like fifty different people.
Pickup trucks lined the dirt driveway one by one, lawn chairs unfolded beneath the crooked trees of your lawn, somebody dragged out two folding tables that had probably seen every single family gathering since the invention of the Constitution. Your dad stood on his designated spot over the grill like it was a military mission, barking at anyone who got too close to ‘his domain’ for his liking: "Don't you touch the damn burgers" Literally nobody had. "M'lookin' at you, Carl"
"I ain't touched nothin' "
"You’re thinkin' about touching 'em" Your dad retorts, pointing his spatula at the poor, innocent man. Carl looked personally offended but used to his antics all the same, Ben just snorted into his beer, quietly enjoying the show– mainly because for once, he wasn’t the one bickering with your father.
The July heat settled over everything like a heavy blanket. It wasn't unbearable, per se– it was just enough to make everybody’s shirt cling to their backs and get another cold drink every fifteen minutes in order to survive. You weren’t an exception, to say you were melting was an understatement. Maybe that’s why you’d asked Ben to help you with your hair first thing in the morning, before people even started walking into your yard– his hands (cool from constantly holding beer cans) had eased some of the heat as they pulled the sweaty strands from your neck. Sure, it wasn’t much compared to the searing temperatures but it’d been enough to keep you up and running for the hours you had to spend preparing everything. Not that you’d had to do much work by yourself, specially given the second you tried to do something: "Doll"
You looked up at the sound of Ben’s voice, attention shifting away from the stack of paper plates balanced on your hip. "What’s up?"
"Lemme" It didn’t matter whether he asked nicely or not, because you could even ask what he meant– he was already taking the plates from you.
“Ben” You try to protest. "They weigh like three pounds maximum"
"Mhm" He hums dismissively, already walking away from you as he carries them to the tables set up outside .
Nobody ever really questioned it, nobody even looked twice. Because to be fair, this was normal– if you carried something… Ben eventually ended up carrying it instead. Hell, it’d been happening since you were little enough to stand on your own two feet. Blame it on his southern gentlemanly-ness or whatever. (Even if he was an asshole the other 80% of the time)
A while later, almost everybody was there, most of them already munching on your dad’s cooking. Somebody asked where the ketchup was, you answered before anyone else could: "Blue cooler by the fence" Your dad pointed at Ben in a silent ‘go fetch’, but before Ben could even stand up– you were already halfway to the cooler. "I got it"
"Mhm" The veteran grunts, despite following you anyways, getting up from his lawn chair with one of those strained, old-man noises.
You glanced back at the familiar sound of his joints. "...Ben"
"What?"
"I know where the ketchup is"
"So do I" He hums simply, shrugging one of his broad shoulders.
You can’t help but chuckle, shaking your head in fond disbelief at his blunt, simple logic. "Then why're y'coming with?"He stopped for a second, acting as if he was actually thinking about it before shrugging once more. To be fully honest, he genuinely hadn't realized he'd followed you– he just trailed behind because that’s what he did. Your own personal shadow-bodyguard or guard-god, permanently one step after you from the moment y’all met.
That happened quite a few times throughout the day. You wandered inside for lemonade? A minute later Ben suddenly remembered he needed another beer. (From the inside fridge cause apparently the ones outside just didn’t do it for him despite how he’d been chugging them all day) You walked toward the shed looking for citronella candles for the goddamn mosquitos? Ben decided he oughta check on the extension cord, just in case the light went out. You disappeared around the side of the house? Ben somehow ended up there too.
After a while though, he eventually drifted back to your dad and his buddies. Their conversations ending in fishing or tractors was it? Hell, maybe both– he wasn't really listening, just nodding along and adding a few jabs here and there while Wilson somehow managed to turn replacing brake pads into a forty-minute story that was apparently worth everybody's time. "...Then the whole machine—" He rambles on.
"No shit"
"Whole damn thing, swear to God"
"Hm" Ben leaned one shoulder against the porch fence, beer hanging lazily from his fingers, nodding to himself. You wandered over– didn't interrupt, didn't ask either, your hand simply reached toward the bottle. Without even looking, the man glances down at you: "There y'go, sweetheart" He lifted the bottle to your lips.
You took a sip and made a face. "Warm"
He huffs softly in amusement. "Been ninety-eight fuckin’ degrees all damn day"
"Fair enough" You hummed, handing the drink back to him before walking away once more, something about one of your friends calling out. Ben didn’t think much about it, he simply brought the bottle to his own mouth– the bitter taste of beer mixing with something sweeter that was distinctly you.
The men’s conversation never stopped. "...Cost me eight hundred bucks" Most of them chuckling with mumbled curses and ‘Christ’s. "...Worth every penny, y’hear?"
Ben nodded automatically. Half listening, half… mostly not, nothing new. It wasn't until fifteen minutes later or so that something quietly clicked in the back of his head: Huh. He'd shared that beer without thinking. Again. Shit, wait– again? Jesus fuck, how many times had y'all done that? Twenty? Two hundred? Probably since before you were old enough to drink legally. (The veteran had snuck you your first beer on the back of his truck, back when you were seventeen) Never seemed strange, not once. So why did it suddenly feel different? Sure, he’d been a bit more guarded ever since the whole… boner-incident, but he hadn’t allowed himself to think about it too much– thinking was never really his strong point. He rubbed hard at the stubble on his jaw, hair scratching against his palm. Habit, nothing more.
Except… that wasn't entirely true. Across the yard you were laughing at something your aunt said, head tipped back, sun catching loose strands that'd escaped the braids he’d carefully tied down hours ago. Ben looked over at the sound of your laugh, his reaction completely automatic by now– same reaction he’s had every time he heard you laugh for the last twenty-something years. Always checking, always making sure you were alright. Only that this time, he didn't look away as quickly this time. Instead, his eyes drifted over your shoulders, bare from the heat. The skin at the back of your neck, damp from the humidity. The loose tank top you'd thrown on that morning because July didn't give anybody much choice other than loose clothing. Nothing remarkable, nothing inappropriate, nothing he hadn't seen a hundred summers before. So why the Hell… "Benjamin" The veteran blinks as your dad’s barking voice snaps him out of his trance. "Burger"
"...Huh?"
"It's burnt to Hell"
Ben looked down, sure enough… the meat was practically coal by now. "Shit"
Your dad looked at him for a long second, suspiciously cocking his head. "Y’alright?"
"Mhm" The veteran grunts simply.
"Sure don’t look like it"
"Burger distracted me" Weak. Ass. Excuse. (And they both knew it) But your father either didn’t notice or just didn’t care enough to call him out on it. Instead, they wrapped up the grilling before heading back to the main area where people were sitting around. It was a familiar, crowded sight– people squeezed around the only two tables on the yard, the rest rounded up into their own little circles of chairs by the shade. You dad and his friends had their own, personal spot, same one they’d guarded for as long as you can remember. Nothing fancy, just a couple of lawn chairs denting into the lawn (your dad will complain about the marks tomorrow morning), beer cans at their feet while they laughed at their old stories– stories they always tell at every barbeque.
Bored (and honestly missing Ben’s company), you walked over and sat on the arm of his chair. Not because there weren't enough seats, but because there never had to be a chair just for you. You'd done this same arrangement since you were a toddler– quietly invading his personal space, which never was only his, as much as it was both of yours. The conversation drifted somewhere toward hunting licenses, then taxes, then somehow circled back to football. Nobody could've paid you to care.
You sighed quietly, leaning just a little more of your weight against Ben– it happened automatically, always had. His hand adjusted on the small of your back without thinking, fingers spreading wide to steady you before taking another drink from his beer. Comfortable, familiar, easy. You didn't even notice you'd started absentmindedly tracing your fingers over the faint scars on his forearm, the freckled muscles flexing under your touch.
Ben did notice though. Christ on a cross.
You weren't even looking at him, your attention had drifted back toward whatever story Wilson was butchering across from y’all, your digits mindlessly following the pale line of one old scar before moving onto the next like you were reading braille. You'd done this before. Hell, you’d probably done it a hundred times ever since you were little. Back then you'd trace the scars and ask where every single one came from: Did this one hurt? What about this one? Have you always had that one?… The veteran always made something up. Bar fight. Bear. Your daddy tried fixin' the lawn mower.
Anything except the violent truth of what he’d seen on the field. He swallowed hard at the memory, because now your fingers were doing the exact same thing they'd always done but for some reason– his body was reacting differently than it ever had before. The warmth of your fingertips lingered against his skin long after you'd already moved to another scar. Jesus fucking Christ. He took another drink from his beer, longer than necessary in an attempt to snap himself out of it. (Spoiler alert: didn’t change a thing)
Your dad notices the familiar sight, calling out. "Girl" You hummed without looking up from your path along Ben’s skin. "Y'know there're about fifteen empty chairs around this yard"
You glanced around like you'd only just realized where you were sitting, though it didn’t matter much. (At least not to you) "...Yeah?"
"Then why're you smothering Benjamin?" He asks with a chuckle, more messing with y’all rather than asking for a real answer.
You shrugged, like the answer couldn't possibly be more obvious. "M'comfortable"
Dad just laughs, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Spoiled rotten"
Ben grunts automatically, finally joining the conversation after (what felt like) hours of silence and the occasional nodding. "She ain't spoiled"
Your father points his beer at him, mockingly accusing the man. "That's cause m’here to stop you from ruining her for the rest of us"
The words land with a strange weight over Ben’s shoulders. Because even though your dad says them with affection– teasing, nothing more. But despite that, the veteran suddenly started replaying the entire day. How he carried the plates, how he followed you to the cooler, how he trailed behind you into the house, how he took every heavy thing out of your hands, how he steadied you the second y’all sat down together… Didn't even think about doing any of it– just came instinctively to him.
His gaze drifts down to where your hand is still resting against his forearm. He doesn't move it, doesn't tell you to stop– Hell, he doesn't even want you to.
Shit.
That might just be scarier than if he did, and a man like him definitely doesn't scare easy.
