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“Whoever planned this ought to be shot.”
Armitage glares out at the sea of people, mostly men, all writhing and dancing to the very latest in club pop, attempting to manifest his surroundings into a high end wine bar by force of will alone and failing miserably. Mitaka fidgets beside him, because Armitage knows damn well Mitaka was the one that organized this particular outing. The monthly social gathering of the city’s LGBTQ bar association is something that the members trade off organizing for the sake of their workloads and fairness in selection of the venue.
Mitaka has opted for… this.
Firstly, Kanjiklub is not the sort of club Armitage would usually be caught dead in. While it walks the line of prestige in name, it’s the sort of place known for musical sing-along nights and drag shows. Nothing against the latter, but Armitage wears tailored suits to club in, thank you, not ripped tight jeans and unicorn t-shirts or leather vests and chain wallets.
Secondly, it is apparently also a celebratory evening for the local “Bear-elled Over” rugby league and for some god-forsaken reason his compatriots seem excited about this. Unamo has already found a butch looking woman with a buzz cut she’s chatting up by the bar, and most of the others have bailed on the group’s claimed table to dance and mingle with men in dirty, worn sports attire .
Ugh.
“I, er. The rugby group wasn’t, you know. Listed. On the events page.”
Armitage rolls his eyes. Mitaka has a penchant for groveling, and it doesn’t seem to matter who he’s groveling to, but at least he is aware of Armitage’s distaste for all this. “Next time, we-”
“Hey, cutie,” a voice murmurs from the other side of Mitaka. A couple, it looks like, both built with more muscle than Mitaka, a Latino man smiling in the front and his taller black partner behind him, hand on his shoulders. “You wanna dance?”
They aren’t talking to him, which Armitage feels simultaneously grateful for and bitter about, not that he’s here to pick anyone up. But, really, they want Mitaka? There’s no accounting for some people’s taste.
Mitaka flushes all the way to his ears, stammering something incoherent out and looking over to Armitage like he wants some sort of permission . Armitage just rolls his eyes and flaps his hand dismissively. He doesn’t require Mitaka’s company, after all. He’s doing just fine by himself. “Go on, then. Everyone else is.”
The younger man seems more than happy to vanish off with his new friends, leaving Armitage alone at the bar association’s empty table, continuing to glare out at the world like a dark cloud keeping everyone else away, especially when he realizes that his drink is empty. At least this place is known for its extra strong Long Island Iced Teas. If nothing else, he can get completely hammered and call the night a wash.
Or, at least, that was the plan.
Armitage can almost see the catastrophe before him playing out in slow motion. He raises his arm to signal the bartender just as one of the big, towering rugby frames pulls up beside him- there’s cold condensation on his hand, the tip of the glass unbalancing with shifting, sloshing liquid. He knows it’s going to go bad from there, he can feel the flash of neurons that translate to oh for fuck’s sake just before ice and beer rains down over his head and onto his tailored, bespoke jacket.
He can feel the pause in the bar’s boisterous atmosphere, the muttered laughter buried behind the music, and he takes one long, steady breath to make sure he doesn’t get his license to practice law revoked by reaching up and throttling the looming figure next to him. The man in question seems stuck there, rather startledly holding up the offending glass like he might be able to summon its contents back in, frozen with a stupid half-smile across his face.
One breath is enough for Armitage to realize the drink in question is beer. But not only that, though beer is in and of itself offensive enough. No.
It’s shitty beer.
“Are you. Fucking. Serious, ” he growls, feeling the cold liquid trickle down over his collarbone.
“Um.”
Armitage looks up. This is precisely why he told Mitaka this was a foolish idea. Drinking surrounded by rugby idiots. Ugh. He knew something like this would happen.
This particular fool is a tall one, perhaps even taller than himself, he realizes as he stands and straightens. His normal glare and height don’t seem to be working as intimidation either, though Armitage would be loath to admit it. The man’s hair is dark and cascading over his excessively broad shoulders like some sort of Crossfit Disney prince, a too-small black tank top with Kylo Rims bedazzled across it in rainbow glitter. He’s aware that there’s also a set of thick thighs farther down trapped in horridly shiny athletic shorts, not that he’s looking .
At least the idiot looks a little apologetic. Or possibly afraid Armitage is about to murder him, which he’s heard on good authority is what his serious-lawyer face looks like. “Is this,” he exhales, “PBR?”
“It’s a, uh. Chaser?” The buff imbecile reaches out and sort of gently pats Armitage’s hair, which just makes the beer slide through his sheen of gel and onto his scalp. “Oh, man, I really got you.”
Armitage swallows a scream and turns on his heel, making for the bathroom. The door slams open with a heavy metallic clang that just barely shuts out the thrum of the bass outside when it closes again. It’s empty, thankfully, so he can assess the damage in peace. His usually pristinely arranged hair has been soaked and, almost worse, tousled , and there is cheap beer running into his underwear.
There’s no salvaging it, he tells himself as he shoves his head under the tap. This isn’t his best suit, but it is tailored, and he’s going to have to get a cab home and book it to the dry cleaner first thing and pray that no stains, or, worse, the lingering scent of cheap beer, have set.
He shouldn’t have come. Armitage knows the others mostly hate him anyway- and, well, they’re lawyers, they all mostly hate each other. Even Mitaka will probably trade his quivering fear for hatred eventually- but this is just not his scene. He’s tried it, and he’s been made a fool of for his trouble.
Why couldn’t it at least be expensive whiskey? Then at least he’d smell decent.
The door clangs open again and he stands up sharply, smacking his head off the faucet. “Uh, hey.” Oh, lovely. Tall, dark and idiotic has followed him to the bathroom. “Are you, um. Alright?”
“Do I look alright to you?” He’s probably being unnecessarily bitchy, but that is more or less what he gets paid to do professionally.
He of the Kylo Rims glitter shirt holds out a cup. “The bartender told me to give you this, but I don’t think club soda works so well on beer.”
Armitage shrugs. “Better than nothing. Thank you,” he adds begrudgingly as he takes the cup.
“Don’t thank me. He said you guys have spent more than most of us have in a month and if I ran you out of here he’d ban me and then break my knees because I started a fight in here last week, so. This is self interest.”
That actually gets a huffed laugh out of Armitage, even though dabbing at his shirt with the club soda does not seem to be accomplishing much. It’s kind of hard to tell with the vague scent of cheap beer in his hair and the dismal lighting in here, though. “Strangely that makes me want to come back here more. ”
“Oh, I see.” Ben leans against the wall, his eyes sparkling through his lashes in amusement. “You’re an evil shit, aren’t you?”
“I hear that title comes with my law degree.”
“Law? Oh, fuck, absolutely. Unless you’re like, one of those pro bono helping-the-meek-and-desperate or fighting-the-man sorts.”
Armitage undoes a few of his shirt buttons just to try and get a little more leverage in seeing if the club soda works, but he really can’t tell if it’s doing a thing. “Unfortunately not. Corporate law. Definitely more of the villain in that sort of scenario, unless you’re pulling for the victory of capitalism over human decency.”
“Ouch. That brutal, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“Hmm.” The man moves closer, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and gesturing to Armitage’s shirt, slouching a bit and glancing up like he’s almost a little shy. “Can I?” He waits for Armitage to nod before he steps closer, taking the damp cloth in hand. It feels strangely intimate, having this broad man so close, his massive hands diligently scrubbing at the fabric as he feels it further away from the pale skin beneath. Armitage feels a little of his irritation fade, that fire replaced by a slower burn of a different sort. “I’m a personal trainer, myself.”
“Gyms and rugby, hm?”
“Well, if I run it off enough I seem to punch people less. Though apparently it hasn’t made my drink catching reflexes any better.” He winks at Armitage, those dark eyes glittering in a way that makes Armitage… hungry.
He licks his lip, shifting more into the man’s space. “So what’s your name, oh paragon of chivalry?”
Dark eyes flick up at him from their work, a slow smile creeping on those pleasingly soft and wide lips. “Ben.”
“Really? I was going to guess ‘Kylo Rims.’”
Ben laughs. It’s a good laugh, softer than a big muscled frame like his would suggest. “That’s my rugby name. We all have team names- like drag names, sort of, but stupider.”
“Oh? I was guessing some sort of deep, philosophical or literary reference-”
“Shut up,” Ben mutters at him, but he’s blushing and Armitage can tell he doesn’t mean it. “I bet I could come up with a good one for you. Ginger Menace, maybe.”
“Not Ginger Men-ass?”
Ben’s smile widens. He is cute, in his way. Most people think Armitage’s type would be some slim, petite twink, but he’s never felt like he had to pick people smaller than him just because he prefers to top. Big men, beefy men, gym rat men- that’s a real challenge to get bent over and begging for him. “See, that’s good. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
“True, but probably not in the realm of rugby. I prefer my exercise a little more naked and in a bed.” He watches as the thought ripples across Ben’s face, making him blush more. Just as I thought. “I’m Armitage, by the way.”
“Armitage? That’s a mouthful.”
He dutifully lifts a brow and smirks. “Yes, I’ve heard that before.”
The blush reaches Ben’s ears. Yes, this will more than make up for what has been a tremendously shitty night so far.
He’s trying to decide which pick-up line would be best when, somewhat surprisingly, Ben beats him to the punch.
“I hate to say it, but I don’t think this is working.” For a second Armitage thinks he’s read this wrong, but then he takes in the press of Ben’s teeth to his lip and realizes he’s not talking about their banter. Ben sighs and looks up, his fingers idly running over the beer-stained fabric of Armitage’s shirt. “You could- and I realize this sounds like a come-on, but you could come back to mine. I’ve got white vinegar and an at-home dry-cleaning kit, if you’re willing to wait a little for a dryer cycle.”
Armitage laughs out of genuine surprise. “That’s not a come-on? ‘Oh, baby, come home with me and let me clean your clothes?’”
Ben snorts. “Well, if you’re gonna be rude about it-”
“No, no, I’m not here to kinkshame you and your cleaning fetish.” He laughs as Ben playfully shoves him in the shoulder, using the opportunity to wrap his hand around Ben’s waist. It’s wide and muscular and Armitage imagines it would give him excellent leverage to rail Ben through a bed. “Though, if you insist on cleaning up for me, I suppose I can’t refuse such a kind offer.” He makes sure his thumb trails up the bone of Ben’s pelvis, easily done through the thin tank top. “Do you live close?”
Armitage watches as Ben’s adam apple bobs when he swallows. Audibly. Delightful. Armitage is going to have fun with this one. “Yeah. Just, uh, a couple blocks over.”
He smiles, and draws his hand up, trailing it over those perfect abs and broad chest until he reaches Ben’s chin, pulling it up from the man’s natural slouch. “Perfect.”
***
Armitage has to admit it: Ben’s place is a lot nicer than he expected. The size of the loft suggests that maybe mommy and daddy funded this, at least a bit. The dark color scheme and home workout area with occasional touches of glitter and rainbows says, I was a gay goth in high school, fight me about it.
“Do you… want something to drink?” Ben asks cautiously, a little edge of nerves evident in his voice. Maybe he doesn’t bring many people home. It’s possible, though anyone who would turn that body down is an idiot. “I’ve got stuff for cocktails. Or… tea?”
“Are you asking about tea because I’m British?” Armitage brings his fingers up to his collarbone like he’s some kind of socialite about to tease a non-existent pearl necklace. “That’s adorable .”
“Shut up, ” Ben laughs. “I am being polite.”
“Mmm.” Armitage reaches out, cupping his cheeks and bringing their lips together in something that soft but hardly chaste- it’s far more of a promise of what’s to come. Ben’s lips part to let him in, easy and receptive to Armitage’s lead. “How about we work on your cleaning kink first, then we see about drinks,” he adds in a purr.
Ben blushes, again. It really does go straight to his ears. Fascinating. “Alright. Do you wanna- um-”
Truly, he is too sweet. “Come here,” Armitage says, taking those thick, calloused hands in his own slender pale ones and lifting them to the lapels of his jacket. “You made this mess, so you get to take it off me and clean it up. Gently, hm? The fabric is… delicate.”
“Oh,” Ben breathes. It’s the sort of sigh that almost seems reverent, and oh if that doesn’t rush in a thrill southward in Armitage’s blood. He takes the lapels, gently sliding the jacket off of Armitage’s shoulders.
“That’s it,” Armitage gently encourages. He lets his fingers wander again, tracing the line of those shiny athletic shorts. “I like feeling like a present sometimes, you know?”
“A present?”
“Mmmhm. I enjoy being unwrapped.”
The huff that leaves Ben sounds more like the wind’s been knocked out of him than a chuckle. He folds the jacket over his arm delicately before starting on the buttons, each one revealing the pale, soft skin below. Armitage may not be classically handsome in a leading-man sort of way, but he does pride himself on being in decent enough shape for his age. His stomach is strong, even without working out much- yoga and a decent diet are about all he has time for. But he likes the way Ben looks at him, not treating him like he’s some twinkish boy or frosty conquest but an equal. An equal worth looking at. Someone’s whose requests (or orders, if you believe those that have called Armitage bossy ) are worth following.
He likes watching Ben’s face as he peels the layers away. The shirt is next, the rush of cool air on damp skin a little chilling, but worth it to see the hopeful glimmer in Ben’s eyes as his fingers skip over hard nipples.
Ben pauses when he gets to the pants, looking up with a soft flush on his cheeks. That’s sweet. He wants permission. “It’ll be easier on your knees,” Armitage says, mostly to see what Ben will do.
It’s deeply, deeply pleasurable to see Ben’s eyes on him, wide and open, as he lowers to his knees.
He takes his time about it, drawing down the zip so slowly it seems he expects someone to tell him to stop, but Armitage only smiles. “What a find you are,” he murmurs.
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
“For a thoughtful strip-down and concierge laundry service? Of course. Especially since you’re doing so well at it.” Ben glances down, a pleased look in his eyes though he’s trying to hide it behind a smirk. He lowers the pants and gets off Armitage’s shoes and socks, then reaches back up with a questioning look as his hands pause just beside Armitage’s slim hips. It’s the sort of hesitation that makes Armitage want to offer an out, just in case he’s read this wrong. He doesn’t think he has, but sex is the sort of thing someone should be absolutely sure about, in his book. “Only if you want to,” he offers gently. “No strings, promise.”
Ben blinks, then nods, like he’s making sure of something to himself, before that sly grin crosses his lips again. “I wasn’t really hoping for a string, to be honest. Maybe something a bit thicker.”
Damn his ginger skin, but that does make a flush run through him, especially when Ben starts slowly sliding his briefs lower. “Just a bit?”
“Mmm.” On his knees he’s at the perfect height to get an eyeful of Armitage’s half-hard cock as it’s freed, which is not, Armitage is happy to say, too bad as far as cocks go, and he has seen a number as a point of comparison. “A bit.”
“You have a bratty side, don’t you?” Ben doesn’t deny it, he just flutters those ludicrously long lashes, so Armitage laughs and steps out of the pile of clothes, fully naked and strutting around someone else’s flat like he owns it. “For that, you can jump right into cleaning, and I’ll see about getting myself a drink.”
He taps Ben’s nose with one long finger, which makes the larger man laugh, a pleasant pink flush still on his cheeks. “Of course, your majesty. Right away.”
Armitage wiggles his ass at Ben as he walks off. He sashays over to the sideboard, surveying the offerings and pointedly ignoring any sounds of white vinegar spray and dry cleaning kit being applied to his suit. There’s a lot to learn about someone from their stock of liquors, albeit not as much as one can learn from their taste in books. Ben has some dusty wine that Armitage would class as old, untouched housewarming or holiday gifts. The selections that show more signs of use are traditional, mid-range casual liquors: everyday drinks, not too pricey, but not cheap shit either. A few are more… unconventional. Peach schnapps, a cranberry gin, a few legitimately expensive whiskeys, and… ah. Now that’s interesting. He plucks the bottle of Domaine de Canton out and meanders toward the bed, setting it aside and sprawling out in an artfully relaxed pose.
“You make yourself comfy fast,” Ben notes as he returns, standing at the end of the bed with his hands on his hips, taking in the sight. His eyes are hungry, but the way his eyes linger on Armitage’s frame it’s almost as if he’s surprised he’s being allowed to look, let alone touch.
Armitage smiles indulgently. “Planning to join me? I believe some nefarious man has made off with all my clothes.”
“Nefarious? Coming from a lawyer?” Ben grins slyly and crawls onto the bed, padding over Armitage’s form like some sort of massive, curious cat. “That sounds like a bold accusation. Am I going to need legal counsel?”
“Mm. And I require a rather hefty retainer, actually.” He lets Ben lick up his pecs, kissing up to his throat before he wraps his legs around that tree-trunk waist and turns them with one hand on Ben’s shoulder, guiding him onto his back. “Think you can pay up front?” Armitage kisses Ben roughly, biting into his lip as he takes over. It’s messy and hard, nearly bruising. Ben’s gasping, those soft lips wide as he lets Armitage claim his mouth. Armitage loves this - feeling Ben go pliant under him, taking whatever he’s willing to offer, his broad hands stroking along Armitage’s spine but never guiding, never insisting the way Armitage himself is. Armitage drags his hands over Ben’s glittery tank top and squeezes those big, pillowy pectorals - it’s worth it despite the shower of glitter he gets as Kylo Rims crumples over him. He can feel Ben’s nipples hardening under his hands, thick fingers twitching with want, curling on his back.
He slides his lips to Ben’s ear and bites- just a nibble on the lobe, enough to feel Ben arch against him and exhale. “ Fuck , Armitage- I’m gonna make you feel so good, fuck you just right-”
“No,” Armitage says succinctly, biting again and pulling, just a little, and dragging his teeth down Ben’s throat. He tastes just a little salty from the sweat of the club, with a dash of wintery woody pine that could be from soap.
Ben’s explorations hesitate. “No?”
“No, as in,” he bites the curve of that sturdy throat in emphasis, “I am going to fuck you just right.”
“Oh.” Ben pulls back so he can study Armitage’s face, which is set with smug determination. He knows what Ben’s going to say next, because he’s heard it before. “But- I mean, you’re kind of a-”
He nips at the band of muscle between Ben’s throat and shoulder, this time harder, leaving little red teeth marks in his wake. “If you say twink I will leave, naked or not.”
Ben’s mouth works, clearly banishing the word mid-stride. “Well- I mean-”
“I have no interest in being someone’s pretty little boy. I would, however, like to rail you through your mattress. If that’s something you are amenable toward.” He watches as those pretty long lashes blink rapidly. Ben’s a bit sweet, really. Usually this sort of conversation ends with Armitage’s defenses up, verbally knifing whatever fool has insisted that he has a cute little twink butt, but something about Ben makes him feel more… open. “You aren’t asked to bottom much, are you?”
Armitage doesn’t miss that Ben chews his lip as he glances away. “I- well, I think most people-”
“Look at the size of you and want to be fucked against a wall?” He traces his fingers down lower, just gently teasing the line of skin above Ben’s glossy shorts that do absolutely nothing to hide the insistent hardness that’s now trying to escape it.
Ben half-shrugs as he nods, swallowing. “Well, I mean. Yeah.”
That, Armitage understands. Assumptions. He slides his fingers along Ben’s back, soothing through the cloth. I understand. “Are you open to it?”
“Sure, I just- don’t do it as often.”
Armitage smiles. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be gentle.” He leans forward and licks a stripe up the curve of Ben’s throat, feeling it draw taut as Ben arches into it, quietly moaning. “But you do need to get out of these clothes first.”
He savors sliding his hands up those spectacular abs as they’re revealed. Ben is broad , even in the waist, and broader still at the shoulders, and it’s clear from the comfortable ease he has as he pulls off his tank that the man knows he’s well built. He even shows off a bit, gliding the shirt over his head and stretching the fabric, his eyes on Armitage the whole time. Armitage can see the elation in them when he murmurs, “Gorgeous,” and slides lower, his slim fingers tracing the lines of the deep vee in Ben’s pelvis. It’s such a gentle touch, but Ben’s whole body arches up against him, seeking it out. Armitage smiles, kissing the trail of hair that leads farther down, and praises him further. “Look at you. Just perfect.”
He reaches for Ben’s shorts. They’re easy to slide down, and Armitage doesn’t even try for subtlety as he cups that smooth, muscular ass- all bare skin. He shouldn’t be surprised to see it, but Ben is wearing a rainbow jockstrap. It’s a feature Armitage associates much more with porn than actually going to the gym, but it turns out seeing one in person is definitely working for him. He squeezes at that curve of muscle, fingers tracing the straps. “Very easy access, hm?”
“You know they are actually useful for support-”
“And getting railed after your matches.” He snaps the band above Ben’s thigh. “Get on your stomach. I’m going to eat that gorgeous ass out.”
Ben’s lips part and freeze there for a moment, wide-eyed, looking like he’s just been told he’s allowed to have a whole cake for his cheat day. “Are you- but we were just at the club-”
“Yes, yes, I know. Just roll over.” Ben hesitates, so Armitage pins his nipple between his teeth and tugs in encouragement. “I promise you that you’ll like this. Probably almost as much as me.” He bends down, nipping at the big curve of muscle before reaching for the Canton. “You have decent taste in liquor. Fortunately for you, so do I.” Armitage carefully opens the bottle- there’s no point in wasting any- and pours a little in the dip just above Ben’s ass. He licks it, savoring the mix of ginger and alcohol and skin. Yes, brilliant idea, well done me.
As he laps, a little of it spills into Ben’s crack, and he feels the shift as Ben registers the wetness. “Is that- oh my god- ”
“I told you I’d take care of getting myself a drink.” He draws his tongue lower. “Hold yourself open for me?”
Ben makes a soft noise that Armitage would classify as a whimper (though not out loud, because he’d like this to continue and he feels pretty sure that Ben would take offense) as he spreads himself. Armitage, meanwhile, is grateful that the angle means Ben can’t see his smirk.
He traces his finger through the gap before him, pausing over the delicate furl that marks Ben’s hole. The pouring liquid follows it, drizzling through the swath of skin and down to his balls, settling in the dips. Armitage starts slow, lapping it up from his balls and gliding upward with kitten kisses until he reaches the center of this exercise, softening it. Ben tightens up at first, no doubt in response to the strange sensation, but soon enough he relaxes into it, quietly gasping from time to time as Armitage’s tongue presses closer.
Once he’s more relaxed, Armitage pours a little more on, licking it in.
It takes a moment for there to be an effect.
Ben’s breath catches. “Holy fuck- what-”
“It’s a ginger liqueur.” Armitage swirls his tongue. “Nowhere close to pure ginger, but there’s a little, mm. Zing.”
“It has.” Ben inhales shakily. “Literally. Never. Crossed my mind to pour booze in my ass before.”
“Well, generally speaking,” Armitage murmurs into ginger-scented skin, “it’s not the best idea to pour it directly in. But as a little accent, well. I’m a fan.”
He teases and circles his tongue, adding his finger after a while, gently pressing and stroking until he’s certain Ben is loose enough that he can work in a second finger. “There we go. How does that feel?”
“Nnnh. Good. Oh, wow.” Ben’s hips shift - he’s doing his best to keep still, but he must have the urge to move already. “Real good.”
“Excellent.” Armitage licks around his fingers, curling his tongue up under Ben’s balls. “Thank you for keeping still for me. I know how hard it must be for you,” he notes idly, curling his fingers with intent. He watches as all of Ben’s copious muscles lock to keep him from moving as the man turns to bury his face in the pillow, muffling a keening, desperate sound, his fingers white-knuckled around his own arse, still holding it open. Just as I asked. Beautiful. “Ah, that’s the spot, hm? I’ll keep that in mind.”
Armitage reaches into the nightstand- fortunately Ben is the type of man to keep his condoms and lube in plain sight, bless him- and plucks up a plastic packet. The condoms aren’t anything special, but the lube isn’t cheap shit from a drug store, so, much like his alcohol, clearly Ben has standards in some areas. “Do you think you can take me on your back? I’d like to see your face.”
It’s not the most comfortable position for everyone, he knows, but Ben’s already rolling over. “Yup, yeah. I can do that.” Personally, Armitage loves this angle. Being able to see someone’s desperate face as he holds their hips- yeah. It’s good. “Just- start slow, okay? It’s been a while.”
“I know, big guy. Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.” Armitage coats them both, fingering a fair bit of the lube inside Ben and adding a few drops to himself before he puts the condom on and coats that as well. It’s a nice feeling, being slick inside of his plastic safety net, and one Armitage has never begrudged. He’s a lawyer, after all. He knows the balance of risk and reward.
Armitage lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock against Ben’s lubricated hole. “Remember to breathe. I’ll go slow.”
Ben exhales, only a little shaky. “Okay.”
The initial press is very slow indeed. He’s not expecting it to be fast- Ben will need a minute to relax again- but maybe he’s savoring it a bit too. He takes a deep breath and- there’s the rush of heat and the tension around the head of his cock. It’s one of Armitage’s favorite feelings, that first slide in. He’d live in that rush of adrenaline and dopamine if he could.
It takes a moment to realize he’s closed his eyes, but when he opens them again, Ben’s lashes are fluttering, his mouth gently parted.
God, he really is gorgeous like that.
Armitage runs his hands over Ben’s chest, tweaking his nipples and making him moan. “That’s it. Breathe. Nearly there.”
He rolls his hips back, just a little bit, and urges himself forward again. It feels like he’s shaping Ben around himself, making the space for his own pleasure. He sighs with contentment as he fully sheathes himself, pausing just to feel the gentle pulse of hot flesh around him. “How’s that feel? Alright?”
“I’m- I’m good.” Ben’s hair is falling everywhere, his plush lips are parted - it looks like he’s the center of a Renaissance painting. Perhaps that was the secret of the old artists - every man they painted looking awed by the face of god was really just well fucked. “I’m good. You can move.”
“Okay.” Armitage isn’t too interested in the pounding, forceful fucks of pornos and people who seem overly interested in trying to imitate a piston. He rolls his hips, slowly drawing back and canting them forward again, setting up a rhythm carried by a core he’s toned through ages of yoga. This, he can keep up for a long time, if he feels so inclined.
He stays that way for a while, easing them both into it with his hands wrapped around Ben’s hips. Ben is taut as a bowstring under him, arching up, his moans deep and guttural. “Oh- fuck, Armitage- yes-”
“That’s it, hm? You like that?” Armitage leans into it, listening for the angle that makes him keen and sliding his hands up further to wrap in that ridiculous Disney prince hair. He wants his teeth on Ben’s skin, he wants to touch him everywhere, all at once. His lips reach Ben’s throat, feeling him gasp in his kiss, and closes his teeth over the curve of the tendons in his neck. It’s glorious seeing this big package of masculinity quivering and near-wrecked, just for him.
So what if it makes Armitage feel like he’s on a power trip. He deserves it.
“Can you come like this?” He growls somewhere in the vicinity of Ben’s pecs, sucking a bruise into the wide muscle.
“Oh- fuck- I don’t think so- not just- not just this-”
“That’s alright. I’ll get you.” He rocks down harder, starting to chase his own pleasure. Every roll of his hips is electric, the heat trapped between their bodies feels like briefly sharing far more than sweat and moans.
He comes his with mouth on Ben’s, grunting against a tongue that gently coaxes him through it. He knows he’s hanging onto Ben hard, there will be fingerprints in purple left to mark where he’s come. Armitage breathes, resting his head on the pillow of Ben’s pecs for a moment before he gets it together enough to slide downwards, mouthing at those luscious abs and the soft trail of hair that leads further down. “Oh fuck,” he hears from somewhere above when Ben must realize what he’s up to. “This is- shit, I’m not gonna last long-”
“You don’t need to,” Armitage murmurs, sucking a mark into Ben’s tree trunk thigh. This is all his, for a little longer, this broad expanse of man. His to own, just for a little while. His to mark and pleasure and possess.
When his tongue meets the base of Ben’s shaft he has to use a fair bit of his strength to keep the man from arching up, silently begging for it with every inch of his body. He turns his fingernails in, little half-circles of red urging those wide thighs to keep in line. “Be still,” he chides through his smirk. “I’ve got you.”
After that, he doesn’t tease.
Armitage wraps his mouth around that nice, thick cock, sucking and licking and listening to Ben pant in response, his keening whines coming faster and faster until Armitage can start to feel that telltale pulse that means he’s tipping over the edge. That only makes him suck harder, drawing it out of him, making Ben spill hot and bitter and salty into his mouth. He traces his tongue over it, lapping it off Ben’s cock slowly as he twitches through the aftershocks.
There’s a comfort in laying there, his head on Ben’s thigh. It’s one Armitage doesn’t permit himself too often- the time to bask in his conquests. Normally he’s right out the door as soon as possible. He doesn’t… linger.
But as the buzzer of the dryer goes off, he finds himself disappointed that he doesn’t have an excuse to stay longer. Ben shifts gently under him, his breathing having gentled a few minutes back. “Your clothes are done.”
“Mmhm.”Armitage sighs. Ben will ask him to go, and he will, and it’ll be a good Sunday of staring at the ceiling of his apartment before he has to go back to corporate and cutthroat on Monday.
But then there’s fingers in his hair, large and calloused but almost sweet in their caresses. Well, sweet other than what comes out of the man’s mouth. “You too old to go for round two in a bit?”
Armitage peers up, taking in those glittering dark eyes and soft lips and feels a pull in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. “I am in my thirties , you incubus.”
“Well, if you can’t manage it-”
He knows a challenge when he hears it. And God help him, maybe he’s looking for an excuse to stay. “I can manage you just fine.” He nestles back into Ben’s leg. “Set another timer for an hour or so. Some of us require a refractory period.”
Ben laughs. “I think you’re part cat, curled up like that. Will you claw me if I move?” Armitage’s only response is to nip at the thigh he’s leaning on, which only seems to make Ben laugh harder. “How ‘bout I put something on, since I can actually reach the remote. Um…. Westworld?”
Armitage smiles into Ben’s leg. That is not a short show. There are multiple episodes.
He’s being invited to stay.
“I do love Evan Rachel Wood.”
“Right? And the music!”
“Genius covers, absolutely.”
That hand strokes through his hair again as the familiar theme starts. “Do you need to hang up your suit?”
Armitage only nestles in closer, sighing with a contented smile. “That’s alright, Ben. It’ll keep.”