Anything But the Good Guy, nc-17
Anything But the Good Guy, nc-17
Ann/Ben, Parks and Recreation
3,000 words
FOR fairytiger's birthday!!! SHE'S THE BEST!
Thanks to Sara and Dennis for the beta.
Ben wants to be the nice guy, but he just can’t, hasn’t even bothered trying in ages.
If this were anything logical, if any of this were to make any sense, one might assume that one or the both parties is under the influence of alcohol. Or drugs. (Drugs are less likely, they’re both goody-two-shoes in that regard.) But one would certainly assume that there are mitigating factors.
One might be able to say something about the lighting - mood lighting, electricians would call it, sexytimes lighting a certain Ms. Leslie Knope might say, too dark to see any-damn-thing Ron Swanson would curse - or even the food in front of them. It’s small, intricate plates that cost more than either of them has business ordering but they do because everything is good today.
Today was a good day. Today was a great day, one could argue.
The Greater Indiana Youth Baseball series had wrapped in Pawnee; it had drawn record crowds, had bolstered the city’s economy, had finally managed to bring some real attention of the city’s many parks. Money had been invested - real money, too, not Girl Scout money, big checks, big projects - and suddenly everything had just turned around.
They’d gotten a write up in not just the Indianapolis Star but a few of the more popular bloggers in the area had all taken it upon themselves to write glowing reviews of the revival of the city’s parks. As far as central-Indiana sensations go, they’re the talk of the town at the moment.
A celebratory dinner was in order Chris suggested, and he’d taken them all to the new, upscale tapas place just on the edge of town. There had been nothing terribly exciting or noteworthy about the dinner except the prices (eleven-fifty for patatas bravas, really?)
And, well, except that Ben’s foot had nudged hers beneath the table and had rubbed quite suggestively. It’d been long minutes before he realized that it was Ann’s foot he was nudging, that her pupils had blown and she’d been staring at him for the duration.
‘Sorry,’ he’d mouthed but the flush on her cheeks, well, well... wasn’t that interesting? (And no, he probably wasn’t sorry, come to think of it, probably not at all, why lie?) Wasn’t that something else, wasn’t that... completely and utterly so not good. Leslie was sitting to her left, talking animatedly at Donna about something he couldn’t hear.
That he honestly wasn’t really trying to hear.
He was underwater, couldn’t hear or feel a damn thing except the warmth that slid languidly down his spine just from the look in her eyes.
And his foot wouldn’t stop moving against Ann’s. A very unsubtle way to flirt with an almost-girlfriend’s best friend. Wrong, wrong, so damned wrong. He’s sorry, he is (nope, nope) because in that instant something sparks in the very pit of his stomach, something raw and real that he hasn’t felt since junior-year econ in college when he’d made eyes with the t.a. and she’d ended up taking him to bed.
They’d fucked on the floor of her tiny walk up and he’d smoked half of her cigarettes before leaving sometime around four in the morning.
Ben’s not a cheater, not really, not at all. It’s not like he and Leslie have defined what’s going on between them, no, not really (and justifying it, doesn’t that just make it all so much worse?) And they haven’t slept together, not yet. They’ve made out a few times and she’s been the one to stop him and, well, and, damn. Damn it all. The thing is, the big secret, what no one knows is that Ben Wyatt really isn’t a good person. He’s not the worst person in the world, but he’s not the best, he’s certainly not the ‘nice guy across the street’ that everyone seems to think he is..
He’s not the nice guy.
Ben wants to be the nice guy, but he just can’t, hasn’t even bothered trying in ages.
---
If anyone asks - and no one does or will because no one is going to find out about this - she would say she’s a pretty bad person as well. She is Leslie Knope’s best friend, has been pretty vocal about that fact in the past and Leslie makes that a well-known relationship.
Ann Perkins and Leslie Knope are best friends.
Here’s the thing though, Ann tries to rationalize this too: it’s not like Leslie hasn’t used her in the past. She’s not the best person on the planet either. Not that any of that matters at all, not that any of that erases the immorality of what she’s doing in the here and now.
And what she’s doing in the here and now is reaching down to grab Ben Wyatt’s ass and hold him in the vee of her thighs. “This is wrong,” and she says it because she has to and that’s just what you do in situations such as this. It doesn’t make anything any better or make the friction feel anything less than amazing but you say it because that’s what people do.
It does nothing for the guilt, either.
If it was so wrong, Ann thinks as Ben leans in to sink his teeth just below her ear (dear fuck, christ), then she would have stopped him when he’d grabbed her hand in the parking lot and had wordlessly steered her to his car.
And christ, that had been hot.
The point is that they’re both culpable in it and even if they both concede that this is entirely wrong it’s not going to change a damned thing; she’s still going to let him fuck her in his tiny motel room with the television droning the eleven o’clock news in the background. She’s taking what she wants for once (really, just for once) and it’s going to be just fine.
Ann tries to rationalize this away - she’s just lonely, she just needs it, she’s wanted him from day one but has been too chickenshit to say anything to Leslie - but she makes it about as far as thinking of his full name before he pulls back, breathless and says, “Take off your shirt.” And since when is Leslie just allowed to call dibs, since when is it okay for him to walk into town and Leslie call dibs?
(Ann knows that’s not how it happened, but that’s what she’s going with for the time being.)
“Ann, shirt, now,” he demands once more.
Maybe that directive, maybe that command lights her right up, maybe that does her in. Maybe this is all working in all of the right ways for her. Ben’s hair sticks up at odd angles and his eyes are the darkest she’s ever seen them and damn it, she’s going to admit it, isn’t she?
The fact that this is wrong is doing things for the both of them.
Ann thanks any deity listening that she wore a simple t-shirt today and she lifts it over her head, doing her best to toss it towards where his jacket lies on the floor. Controlled chaos, she supposes as he groans, his hands find her shoulders and nudges her back on the bed.
He’s on the bed next to her and it’s not the most graceful, it’s not as fluid as they could be, but when he shuffles out of his chinos and shirt and lays out, she spreads herself alongside him, hooking a leg around his right and pulling him close.
The only light that bothers to disturb them (aside from the aforementioned eleven o’clock news) is the grainy castoff from the sodium arc in the parking lot; the shadow pattern is disturbed by a construction truck parked just so, patches of diamond light and shadow fractured by a ladder.
Ben focuses on the patterns as her teeth find his nipple because if he doesn’t, he’s going to look down at her and he’s going to be found out and that will fuck everything up. It’s only just the slightest bit less wrong if this is a quick fuck with a friend that has nothing attached to it (regret, commitment, feelings.)
Yes, he keeps his gaze trained on the shadow-light play when she reaches into his boxers and frees his cock with one long stroke.
He hadn’t thought about a point of no return, so there’s no reason to even bother denoting this moment as being it, but he does.
Ben almost screams when her head dips and laps at the precome at his tip. And there it is, and fuck it all because this is just about everything he wants in this very moment and so for once, Ben’s just going to go right ahead and take it.
He’ll worry about the guilt some time much later. Probably tomorrow (probably tonight if he’s being honest with himself).
Ann’s hands splay against his hips and Ben wiggles up, as far out of his boxers as he can manage without sliding to sit against the headboard; good enough. Her mouth is quick and hot and she moves like she means it, like she wants to punish him.
It’s surprisingly short minutes before she has him at the edge and he cards his fingers into her hair carefully and gives a tiny, warning tug. She hums along him, a sweet little tune that reverberates somehow up through his spine and rings clearly in his head. It’s stunning, it’s intoxicating and he almost forgets the condom. But when she slicks off with a sweet little pop, his hand flails hard, knocks against the wood of the flimsy bedside table.
Ann handles it.
Of course she does, they’re both culpable, remember?
Her pelvis presses against his as she stretches over, torso sliding against Ben’s and oh, this is what he remembers, this is what he’s forgotten. The anticipation, the warm, solid heat in the pit of his belly, the itch in his palms to touch, never stop touching. Ben takes a moment, turns over his wrist, loosening it (wouldn’t do to pull a muscle, no matter how small) before he flicks open the hold of her pants and gives a little tug at the zip.
Ann’s head flips up and she slithers back, condom clutched between shaking fingers. “One sec.”
She makes quick work of divesting herself of her slacks and underwear and he likes that. He likes everything about her, but he likes this in particular, he eager attitude, her obvious dedication to be in this just as much as he is. It makes it easier somehow then to sit up on his hands and twine an arm around her and bring her in quickly to lick a long stripe across her collarbone.
“Ben,” she gasps, almost half moans and he can’t have that, loves it, isn’t sure he can handle it.
He breathes out against her skin and bites just above her left breast. “Just don’t... please-”
“Okay,” she agrees, nodding her head, chin brushing against his forehead.
Her bra has to go and it does. He fumbles as would be expected but she chuckles through it and she follows, alleviating a bit of the tension that’s managed to creep in somehow, But brushing the straps down her shoulders and allowing her to shuck it off kicks things straight into gear. This isn’t going to be gentle or slow, there’s no possible way for there to be any real pace or purpose to this. There is an end goal and nothing more and so he can’t help it that he’s just the least bit rough when he presses her back against the bed, secures his lips around a nipple.
It’s almost too good, the way she responds, digging her nails just beneath the nape of his neck, just sharp enough to sting and tease, not drawn blood. She knows just where to touch him where it won’t show.
He moves his left hand up to cup against her other breast, pressing his right down along her hip, across her lower abdomen and touches her, lightly.
“Can we-” he gasps as he finds the unabashed wetness there, hears her delicious low groan before she cuts him abruptly off.
“Just, fuck, Ben, just, now, come on, just come on,” and it’s like this because if this is fast and hard and rough there’s no room for emotions (untrue.) And if he doesn’t keep touching her intimately then this isn’t foreplay and if there isn’t foreplay, well, this isn’t anything but needy and desperate, isn’t it?
And that would be much easier to languish in.
So just like that, with one hand, he finds the abandoned condom and rips into the foil packet with his teeth, spits out the refuse audibly and shakes it from the packet. It’s messy and stupid and something he would have tried when he was a pre-frosh but he does not give a shit.
Again, with one hand, he rolls it on and helpless to her (she’s wrapped her legs around his waist and fuck, yes, alright) he brings his cock against her and waits, waits.
Ann rolls her hips.
It’s just, just, just as good as he expected. Not that he’s expected much, not that he’s thought about it or fantasized about it (he hasn’t, not really, not until about an hour ago) and he almost wishes he had; his fantasies would pale in comparison, of this he is sure.
Ben leans almost lazily into her, halts, withdraws.
It’s only when the sharp edges of her teeth dig into his bottom lip that he stutters back to the present, out of his head. “Just fuck me,” she demands, eye wide, totally open. “Faster, I’m not made of glass.”
He almost wants to tell her no, to stop, to slow, so unlike he felt just a moment ago (ready to fuck her through the mattress to the floor, beyond, something entirely too crass) because this is something that Ben wants to think about because, jesus, right now, it’s perfect.
His hair tickles along her forehead delicately and he sucks in a breath, pulling away from her mouth, feeling a pinch and tasting blood. He doesn’t think of Leslie, doesn’t think of what she means to Leslie (okay, he does, he does, of course he does; he’s not a nice guy but he has a conscience, a subconscious, he has fucking morals and of course they choose right now to crop up.)
Ben’s eyes won’t focus, he can’t think, but he feels her squeeze against his cock and dig her fingers into his shoulders and hears her say, “Stay with me, stay with me.”
He tries, he does. Glances at her breast, the sheen of sweat between them, the bit of moisture that’s collected against the hollow of her throat. Ben doesn’t think she’s perfect and Ann doesn’t think he’s anything close to what she needs but everything right now is about what they want.
Ann rolls her hips again, keens against him, her clit glancing off of him just so and he feels her right as she feels it. Ann is greedy and wanton and keeps her hips angled in that exact way and presses up into him just as he presses into her, hard, fast, hard, hard, hard.
Fingers dig into the curve of his ass just as humid breath pants in his ear, “Fuck, come, come on Ben, come the hell on.”
It might be that she’s impatient because she wants to close her eyes on it and if he wasn’t so suddenly in the very moment he might very well think that. But Ann is hard against him and swearing and pulling at him, sliding her hands into his hair and tugging hard.
He wants to come more than he can remember ever having possibly wanting.
“Fuck,” he says, tucking his face into her neck and snapping his hips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Yeah,” she cries, “Just, yeah,” and her body tenses as she comes, her breasts against his chest, legs impossibly tight against him. So tight, so hot, and so he follows her right over.
Ben allows himself a few breaths (he counts steadily to twenty) before he shimmies up and off, moving to the bathroom to divest himself of the condom and smooth his hair down a bit. There’s no nerves and he doesn’t have to steady himself before reentering.
He finds Ann balling up a tissue and securing her pants at the waist. She glances at him with an expression that screams of nothing and she bends to search the floor for her bra. As she dresses, he moves to the dresser and finds a pair of pajama pants, a clean shirt and tugs them on.
When he turns back to her, she’s got her bag slung over her shoulder and her eyes are shining. “We don’t need to have the talk, right?” Ann asks, her voice loud, clear, no fear, no turning back.
“No,” Ben agrees and Ann just nods, lets herself out.
They’re not good people but they’re sated and satisfied for now and what a startling compromise that is.
Neither of them mention the whole, ‘How’d we let it come to this?,’ because they’re both stunningly familiar with how retribution works.
Ann/Ben, Parks and Recreation
3,000 words
FOR fairytiger's birthday!!! SHE'S THE BEST!
Thanks to Sara and Dennis for the beta.
Ben wants to be the nice guy, but he just can’t, hasn’t even bothered trying in ages.
If this were anything logical, if any of this were to make any sense, one might assume that one or the both parties is under the influence of alcohol. Or drugs. (Drugs are less likely, they’re both goody-two-shoes in that regard.) But one would certainly assume that there are mitigating factors.
One might be able to say something about the lighting - mood lighting, electricians would call it, sexytimes lighting a certain Ms. Leslie Knope might say, too dark to see any-damn-thing Ron Swanson would curse - or even the food in front of them. It’s small, intricate plates that cost more than either of them has business ordering but they do because everything is good today.
Today was a good day. Today was a great day, one could argue.
The Greater Indiana Youth Baseball series had wrapped in Pawnee; it had drawn record crowds, had bolstered the city’s economy, had finally managed to bring some real attention of the city’s many parks. Money had been invested - real money, too, not Girl Scout money, big checks, big projects - and suddenly everything had just turned around.
They’d gotten a write up in not just the Indianapolis Star but a few of the more popular bloggers in the area had all taken it upon themselves to write glowing reviews of the revival of the city’s parks. As far as central-Indiana sensations go, they’re the talk of the town at the moment.
A celebratory dinner was in order Chris suggested, and he’d taken them all to the new, upscale tapas place just on the edge of town. There had been nothing terribly exciting or noteworthy about the dinner except the prices (eleven-fifty for patatas bravas, really?)
And, well, except that Ben’s foot had nudged hers beneath the table and had rubbed quite suggestively. It’d been long minutes before he realized that it was Ann’s foot he was nudging, that her pupils had blown and she’d been staring at him for the duration.
‘Sorry,’ he’d mouthed but the flush on her cheeks, well, well... wasn’t that interesting? (And no, he probably wasn’t sorry, come to think of it, probably not at all, why lie?) Wasn’t that something else, wasn’t that... completely and utterly so not good. Leslie was sitting to her left, talking animatedly at Donna about something he couldn’t hear.
That he honestly wasn’t really trying to hear.
He was underwater, couldn’t hear or feel a damn thing except the warmth that slid languidly down his spine just from the look in her eyes.
And his foot wouldn’t stop moving against Ann’s. A very unsubtle way to flirt with an almost-girlfriend’s best friend. Wrong, wrong, so damned wrong. He’s sorry, he is (nope, nope) because in that instant something sparks in the very pit of his stomach, something raw and real that he hasn’t felt since junior-year econ in college when he’d made eyes with the t.a. and she’d ended up taking him to bed.
They’d fucked on the floor of her tiny walk up and he’d smoked half of her cigarettes before leaving sometime around four in the morning.
Ben’s not a cheater, not really, not at all. It’s not like he and Leslie have defined what’s going on between them, no, not really (and justifying it, doesn’t that just make it all so much worse?) And they haven’t slept together, not yet. They’ve made out a few times and she’s been the one to stop him and, well, and, damn. Damn it all. The thing is, the big secret, what no one knows is that Ben Wyatt really isn’t a good person. He’s not the worst person in the world, but he’s not the best, he’s certainly not the ‘nice guy across the street’ that everyone seems to think he is..
He’s not the nice guy.
Ben wants to be the nice guy, but he just can’t, hasn’t even bothered trying in ages.
---
If anyone asks - and no one does or will because no one is going to find out about this - she would say she’s a pretty bad person as well. She is Leslie Knope’s best friend, has been pretty vocal about that fact in the past and Leslie makes that a well-known relationship.
Ann Perkins and Leslie Knope are best friends.
Here’s the thing though, Ann tries to rationalize this too: it’s not like Leslie hasn’t used her in the past. She’s not the best person on the planet either. Not that any of that matters at all, not that any of that erases the immorality of what she’s doing in the here and now.
And what she’s doing in the here and now is reaching down to grab Ben Wyatt’s ass and hold him in the vee of her thighs. “This is wrong,” and she says it because she has to and that’s just what you do in situations such as this. It doesn’t make anything any better or make the friction feel anything less than amazing but you say it because that’s what people do.
It does nothing for the guilt, either.
If it was so wrong, Ann thinks as Ben leans in to sink his teeth just below her ear (dear fuck, christ), then she would have stopped him when he’d grabbed her hand in the parking lot and had wordlessly steered her to his car.
And christ, that had been hot.
The point is that they’re both culpable in it and even if they both concede that this is entirely wrong it’s not going to change a damned thing; she’s still going to let him fuck her in his tiny motel room with the television droning the eleven o’clock news in the background. She’s taking what she wants for once (really, just for once) and it’s going to be just fine.
Ann tries to rationalize this away - she’s just lonely, she just needs it, she’s wanted him from day one but has been too chickenshit to say anything to Leslie - but she makes it about as far as thinking of his full name before he pulls back, breathless and says, “Take off your shirt.” And since when is Leslie just allowed to call dibs, since when is it okay for him to walk into town and Leslie call dibs?
(Ann knows that’s not how it happened, but that’s what she’s going with for the time being.)
“Ann, shirt, now,” he demands once more.
Maybe that directive, maybe that command lights her right up, maybe that does her in. Maybe this is all working in all of the right ways for her. Ben’s hair sticks up at odd angles and his eyes are the darkest she’s ever seen them and damn it, she’s going to admit it, isn’t she?
The fact that this is wrong is doing things for the both of them.
Ann thanks any deity listening that she wore a simple t-shirt today and she lifts it over her head, doing her best to toss it towards where his jacket lies on the floor. Controlled chaos, she supposes as he groans, his hands find her shoulders and nudges her back on the bed.
He’s on the bed next to her and it’s not the most graceful, it’s not as fluid as they could be, but when he shuffles out of his chinos and shirt and lays out, she spreads herself alongside him, hooking a leg around his right and pulling him close.
The only light that bothers to disturb them (aside from the aforementioned eleven o’clock news) is the grainy castoff from the sodium arc in the parking lot; the shadow pattern is disturbed by a construction truck parked just so, patches of diamond light and shadow fractured by a ladder.
Ben focuses on the patterns as her teeth find his nipple because if he doesn’t, he’s going to look down at her and he’s going to be found out and that will fuck everything up. It’s only just the slightest bit less wrong if this is a quick fuck with a friend that has nothing attached to it (regret, commitment, feelings.)
Yes, he keeps his gaze trained on the shadow-light play when she reaches into his boxers and frees his cock with one long stroke.
He hadn’t thought about a point of no return, so there’s no reason to even bother denoting this moment as being it, but he does.
Ben almost screams when her head dips and laps at the precome at his tip. And there it is, and fuck it all because this is just about everything he wants in this very moment and so for once, Ben’s just going to go right ahead and take it.
He’ll worry about the guilt some time much later. Probably tomorrow (probably tonight if he’s being honest with himself).
Ann’s hands splay against his hips and Ben wiggles up, as far out of his boxers as he can manage without sliding to sit against the headboard; good enough. Her mouth is quick and hot and she moves like she means it, like she wants to punish him.
It’s surprisingly short minutes before she has him at the edge and he cards his fingers into her hair carefully and gives a tiny, warning tug. She hums along him, a sweet little tune that reverberates somehow up through his spine and rings clearly in his head. It’s stunning, it’s intoxicating and he almost forgets the condom. But when she slicks off with a sweet little pop, his hand flails hard, knocks against the wood of the flimsy bedside table.
Ann handles it.
Of course she does, they’re both culpable, remember?
Her pelvis presses against his as she stretches over, torso sliding against Ben’s and oh, this is what he remembers, this is what he’s forgotten. The anticipation, the warm, solid heat in the pit of his belly, the itch in his palms to touch, never stop touching. Ben takes a moment, turns over his wrist, loosening it (wouldn’t do to pull a muscle, no matter how small) before he flicks open the hold of her pants and gives a little tug at the zip.
Ann’s head flips up and she slithers back, condom clutched between shaking fingers. “One sec.”
She makes quick work of divesting herself of her slacks and underwear and he likes that. He likes everything about her, but he likes this in particular, he eager attitude, her obvious dedication to be in this just as much as he is. It makes it easier somehow then to sit up on his hands and twine an arm around her and bring her in quickly to lick a long stripe across her collarbone.
“Ben,” she gasps, almost half moans and he can’t have that, loves it, isn’t sure he can handle it.
He breathes out against her skin and bites just above her left breast. “Just don’t... please-”
“Okay,” she agrees, nodding her head, chin brushing against his forehead.
Her bra has to go and it does. He fumbles as would be expected but she chuckles through it and she follows, alleviating a bit of the tension that’s managed to creep in somehow, But brushing the straps down her shoulders and allowing her to shuck it off kicks things straight into gear. This isn’t going to be gentle or slow, there’s no possible way for there to be any real pace or purpose to this. There is an end goal and nothing more and so he can’t help it that he’s just the least bit rough when he presses her back against the bed, secures his lips around a nipple.
It’s almost too good, the way she responds, digging her nails just beneath the nape of his neck, just sharp enough to sting and tease, not drawn blood. She knows just where to touch him where it won’t show.
He moves his left hand up to cup against her other breast, pressing his right down along her hip, across her lower abdomen and touches her, lightly.
“Can we-” he gasps as he finds the unabashed wetness there, hears her delicious low groan before she cuts him abruptly off.
“Just, fuck, Ben, just, now, come on, just come on,” and it’s like this because if this is fast and hard and rough there’s no room for emotions (untrue.) And if he doesn’t keep touching her intimately then this isn’t foreplay and if there isn’t foreplay, well, this isn’t anything but needy and desperate, isn’t it?
And that would be much easier to languish in.
So just like that, with one hand, he finds the abandoned condom and rips into the foil packet with his teeth, spits out the refuse audibly and shakes it from the packet. It’s messy and stupid and something he would have tried when he was a pre-frosh but he does not give a shit.
Again, with one hand, he rolls it on and helpless to her (she’s wrapped her legs around his waist and fuck, yes, alright) he brings his cock against her and waits, waits.
Ann rolls her hips.
It’s just, just, just as good as he expected. Not that he’s expected much, not that he’s thought about it or fantasized about it (he hasn’t, not really, not until about an hour ago) and he almost wishes he had; his fantasies would pale in comparison, of this he is sure.
Ben leans almost lazily into her, halts, withdraws.
It’s only when the sharp edges of her teeth dig into his bottom lip that he stutters back to the present, out of his head. “Just fuck me,” she demands, eye wide, totally open. “Faster, I’m not made of glass.”
He almost wants to tell her no, to stop, to slow, so unlike he felt just a moment ago (ready to fuck her through the mattress to the floor, beyond, something entirely too crass) because this is something that Ben wants to think about because, jesus, right now, it’s perfect.
His hair tickles along her forehead delicately and he sucks in a breath, pulling away from her mouth, feeling a pinch and tasting blood. He doesn’t think of Leslie, doesn’t think of what she means to Leslie (okay, he does, he does, of course he does; he’s not a nice guy but he has a conscience, a subconscious, he has fucking morals and of course they choose right now to crop up.)
Ben’s eyes won’t focus, he can’t think, but he feels her squeeze against his cock and dig her fingers into his shoulders and hears her say, “Stay with me, stay with me.”
He tries, he does. Glances at her breast, the sheen of sweat between them, the bit of moisture that’s collected against the hollow of her throat. Ben doesn’t think she’s perfect and Ann doesn’t think he’s anything close to what she needs but everything right now is about what they want.
Ann rolls her hips again, keens against him, her clit glancing off of him just so and he feels her right as she feels it. Ann is greedy and wanton and keeps her hips angled in that exact way and presses up into him just as he presses into her, hard, fast, hard, hard, hard.
Fingers dig into the curve of his ass just as humid breath pants in his ear, “Fuck, come, come on Ben, come the hell on.”
It might be that she’s impatient because she wants to close her eyes on it and if he wasn’t so suddenly in the very moment he might very well think that. But Ann is hard against him and swearing and pulling at him, sliding her hands into his hair and tugging hard.
He wants to come more than he can remember ever having possibly wanting.
“Fuck,” he says, tucking his face into her neck and snapping his hips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Yeah,” she cries, “Just, yeah,” and her body tenses as she comes, her breasts against his chest, legs impossibly tight against him. So tight, so hot, and so he follows her right over.
Ben allows himself a few breaths (he counts steadily to twenty) before he shimmies up and off, moving to the bathroom to divest himself of the condom and smooth his hair down a bit. There’s no nerves and he doesn’t have to steady himself before reentering.
He finds Ann balling up a tissue and securing her pants at the waist. She glances at him with an expression that screams of nothing and she bends to search the floor for her bra. As she dresses, he moves to the dresser and finds a pair of pajama pants, a clean shirt and tugs them on.
When he turns back to her, she’s got her bag slung over her shoulder and her eyes are shining. “We don’t need to have the talk, right?” Ann asks, her voice loud, clear, no fear, no turning back.
“No,” Ben agrees and Ann just nods, lets herself out.
They’re not good people but they’re sated and satisfied for now and what a startling compromise that is.
Neither of them mention the whole, ‘How’d we let it come to this?,’ because they’re both stunningly familiar with how retribution works.