Chapter Text
Ben doesn’t really remember smashing the monitor to bits, or the table, or the blind rage he felt as he killed the three goons in the cockpit. He barely remembers telling Amelia to get the fuck out, but he knows the fear on her face was absolutely, 100% real as she jumps out of the plane.
His wits come back to him as he stalks to the back of the plane, trying to find McCone. His heart hammers in his chest, but his mind clears. Reality sets in a little more. Ben pauses in the aisle of economy.
There’s no way that the video Killian showed him was real. Right? Ben already knows they can doctor convincing footage, hell, they’ve done it to him enough in the past two weeks. The aisle spins, just briefly. Ben shakes his head. He has to be sure.
“McCone!” He shouts. “Did you fucking do it, you asshole?”
Of course, he gets no response.
Ben stalks down the aisle, gun raised, as he kicks in each of the bathroom doors. He takes a breath before knocking down the last one, but McCone is nowhere to be found. He pauses, then jumps to the side as a bullet whizzes past his ear.
“Fuck!” He shouts. He hears McCone come up the aisle, not bothering to hide his footsteps.
“Come on, Richards,” the man says, sounding like he’s hiding behind the backmost wall of the plane, out of the way in case Ben decides to shoot through the bathroom wall. “Let’s just fucking end this. The people are watching.”
As if on cue, and honestly, it probably is on cue, two spheres buzz into the bathroom with Ben, slowly circling his head. Ben growls as he snatches one out of the air and stomps on it, relishing the sound of the crack it makes under his boots.
“Did you fucking kill them?” Ben roars.
McCone snorts. “No, you idiot. But you don’t believe me, do you?”
Ben swallows. He’s either about to do something really fucking smart, or really fucking stupid. Maybe both.
“Are there spheres out there?” He yells.
“Oh, everyone’s watching us,” McCone shouts back. Ben flinches into the bathroom as McCone lets a few shots loose towards the door. “Come on, let’s give them a show.”
Ben closes his eyes. “McCone, are there cameras out there?”
“Yeah, one, but who gives a fuck—”
Without a second’s hesitation, Ben shoots the remaining sphere around his head. McCone shoots towards the bathroom door again.
Ben launches himself out the bathroom and into the wall he knows McCone’s behind. He slams into the man full force, knocking them both to the ground. McCone’s gun and knife spin across the floor away from him, and that’s all the opening Ben needs to turn and shoot the last sphere on the plane, sending it rattling to the ground.
“McCone–”
A swift and hard kick to the ribs takes the rest of the words from Ben’s mouth as he grunts and stumbles backwards, McCone getting up and following. Ben throws his gun to the side and holds up his hands.
“Wait–”
McCone sends a fist towards Ben’s face, just narrowly missing as Ben dodges and swings one back, connecting with McCone’s forehead.
“Godammit,” Ben hisses. “Will you just fucking listen, you monumental fucking asshole!” He shouts.
McCone eyes him, then tears off his broken sunglasses as blood drips down from his hairline. “What the fuck do you want!” He roars.
Ben takes a breath and holds out a hand in peace, taking a couple steps back to put space between them in case McCone decides to attack again.
“You’re that runner from season one, right? They offered you a deal?”
McCone says nothing, but his shoulders tense.
“Listen, they offered me the same.”
He takes a step forward. Ben jumps back.
“I’m not gonna fucking take it, Jesus!” Ben shouts. “Don’t you want to take down the system?”
Finally, McCone responds. “You can’t,” he says through a breathless laugh. “You’ll never make it. You’ll die, and you’ll never see anyone you care about. Not unless Dan fucking Killian is torturing them in front of you. And one day, he’ll take it too far, and they’ll die there, and you can do nothing about it because you realize you’re too much of a fucking coward.”
Ben shakes his head. “I can’t believe that.”
“Well, you’ll experience it soon enough,” McCone says, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “Whether you take the deal or not, whether you survive this plane or not, your family will die at the hands of the Network.”
“No,” Ben says. “I’ve seen the people down there. There’s about to be a change. Look, I’m offering you a chance to be a part of that!” He shouts. “You’ve been a victim of the system for long enough! Don’t you want to change that?”
Something like rage clouds McCone’s eyes. “Fuck you.”
Ben barely has time to brace before McCone is running at him, throwing punches left and right. He knocks Ben to the ground, and Ben barely has time to throw his arms over his face before McCone is on him, screaming and throwing fists at him, battering Ben’s arms so much his knuckles have to be bleeding.
The moment McCone slows, Ben launches him backwards and pins him, one hand forcing McCone’s wrists above his head and the other gripping the man’s chin. McCone’s legs squirm underneath him, kicking at the carpet to try and get leverage, trying to get a hook around Ben’s body.
“Stop!” Ben yells. “Don’t make me kill you!”
All at once, McCone stops. “Why?” He asks. “Why me?”
And really, Ben doesn’t have a great answer. The easy one is that they’re both Running Man competitors, two of the best, really, and have both been so majorly fucked over by the Network. He could say that for whatever revolution is coming, having a hunter like McCone on their side could change more minds. He could say that he doesn’t want to kill anyone anymore, and really, he doesn’t. He could say a million fucking things, but he’s worried nothing comes close to the truth, which is something he doesn’t even want to begin to think about.
The truth that fuck, he feels for McCone, knows he could’ve ended up just like him. That what he feels isn’t just pity or some sick twisted admiration but maybe something more which is so fucked up– Ben is fucking married and loves his wife, and McCone has tried to kill him no less than a billion fucking times, and fuck!
He’s hesitated too long. “Uh–”
McCone pitches his hips up, and Ben has to try really hard to not think of the way that feels as he tips sideways and McCone crawls away, scrambling for his gun and pointing it at Ben as he stands.
“I’m taking the chute,” he says, slowly backing up into the main area of the plane. He cocks the gun. “You’re staying here to clean up this fucking mess.”
“Not gonna kill me?” Ben asks, getting to his knees and nonchalantly reaching under the seat next to him for the glimmer of McCone’s knife he spotted as McCone kicked him off.
A shot rings out as a warning, and Ben feels the hot ooze of blood as the bullet just barely clips his ear. He reaches a hand up, and his fingers come back wet.
“Well, you know what they say,” Ben says. “Can’t outrun Fate. Or Destiny.”
Ben launches the knife at McCone, hitting him in the shoulder and making him swear and drop the gun. Ben gets up and tackles McCone to the ground, hitting the man square in the temple and knocking him out cold.
A collision warning sounds from the cockpit, bringing Ben back to the fact that he’s currently on a plane controlled by a very powerful man who wants him very, very dead.
“Fuck!”
He takes McCone’s gun and shoves it in the waistband of his pants, before grabbing McCone by the ankles and dragging him to the hatch in the center of the floor, leading to the crew escape pod.
Thank God those stupid Network trivia shows loved showing off their expensive toys. Ben straps in a still very unconscious McCone as best he can, then straps himself in and presses a bunch of buttons in what he hopes is the correct order. He spares a moment to think about the innocent people in the Network building, then the pod launches, and all he can think about is the pit in his stomach.
Everything after the pod lands is also a little fuzzy. It lands okay, and the community helps him with chants of “Richards lives!” as they collect him from the pod. Ben screams at them when they find McCone, still out cold, and pull guns and knives and hammers on him. He throws himself between the crowd and McCone, but falls to his knees as a stray bullet hits him in the stomach. He hears shouting, and feet thudding, and spares one thought to hope he sees his family again before the world turns black.
~~
Ben wakes to bright lights and white walls. He jerks, then groans in pain as fire erupts along his abdomen.
“Hey, hey,” a voice says. “It’s okay, we’re here.”
“Sheila?” Tears well up in Ben’s eyes. “Cathy?”
“She’s safe,” Sheila responds, softly taking Ben’s hand.
“Where–?”
“They got you out of the city. You’re in a hospital. Don’t ask questions, someone knew someone who knew Molie, who got to me. We’re safe,” Sheila says.
Ben nods, then groans in pain.
“Yeah, you have a concussion,” Sheila says, rubbing her thumb along Ben’s hand. “Minor, but still. And you got shot, do you remember?”
The memories are hazy, but they’re there just the same. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Sheila says. “They… they say you were protecting him. Why, Ben?”
Tears spill down Ben’s cheeks. “I don’t know,” he whispers.
“Okay,” she says. “Look, I’m– I’m very, very happy you’re okay, and Cathy’s okay, and we’re safe, but–” she sighs. “I’m very angry with you, Ben. And I think maybe it’s best me and Cathy stay away for a while.”
Ben closes his eyes. Logically, his brain agrees that they should stay away, he’s sure Killian at least has an idea of where he is, and anywhere he is right now is not a safe place for his family. But it still hurts.
They were having an argument when he left for tryouts, and now she’s leaving, and it feels like nothing’s resolved.
“Can I see her?”
Sheila nods. “Of course. I’ll send the doctors in, and you can see her when they’re done.”
Ben looks at the ceiling. “Thank you.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll go get your doctor.”
Ben barely listens to what the doctors tell him, but he gets the gist. He’s one organ lighter, his spleen having ruptured from the gunshot. He’s lucky to get away from The Running Man with only one severe gunshot and a mild concussion, everything else is pretty much just scrapes and bruises. Albeit big ones, but superficial.
They also tell him that McCone is still alive, the crowd having been so shocked at Ben’s best sacrifice that they tied up McCone and took him here with Ben instead of just killing him outright. They are keeping McCone moderately sedated, so he’s pretty out of it, but he is alive.
Sheila brings Cathy to him, and stays for a couple more days so Ben can have time with his daughter in between physical therapy, meals, and naps. The day Sheila leaves is hard, but expected. And maybe it’s been a long time coming.
That night, he bribes the guards to let him into McCone’s room and let off McCone’s sedation during the day so he’s back to himself by nightfall. Ben hobbles down the hall with crutches and is careful not to tear or pull on his stitches, a hard feat considering he can barely walk.
As he pushes open the door to MCone’s room, it hits him that this is probably the most vulnerable anyone has seen the Hunter. McCone is in a bland hospital gown, covered in a thin blanket, and paler than he should be. He’s got the remnants of a black eye, stitches along his hairline, his shoulder bandaged and arm in a sling. Ben swallows as he understands that all of McCone’s injuries are from him.
McCone warily looks at Ben when he enters the room, then blinks and stares at the ceiling.
Ben drops into the chair in the corner, wincing as the move tugs on his stitches. He doesn’t say anything for a minute.
“How are you?”
McCone glares at him. “Fuck you.” He raises his arms carefully, showing off the thick leather cuffs surrounding both wrists, leading to chains wrapped around the hospital bed.
“You wouldn’t have to have those if you weren’t such an asshole,” Ben quips. “I didn’t get any.”
“Funny, because you’re one of the biggest assholes I know,” McCone bites back, letting his head fall back onto his pillow and turning to look at Ben.
A laugh works its way out of Ben, surprising them both. “You know, I think if the world wasn’t so fucked, we could’ve had a beer together.”
McCone scoffs. “In your fucking dreams, maybe.”
Ben chuckles, and wishes he had a beer in his hands right about now. “How you holding up?” He asks, a little awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say.
“They’re scared of me,” McCone says. “Rightly so, of course, but they keep me drugged like some sort of circus animal. This is the first time I can actually count to five in… fuck, how many days has it been?”
“Almost a week,” Ben says. “That’s what I’ve been told.”
“And the Network?”
“Looking for us, I’m sure,” Ben says. “We’re out of Co-op City. I don’t know exactly where, but we’re protected. Away from the DNA things in the streetlights.”
“They’ll still track us.” McCone sighs. “And you dragged me down with you, you fucking fucker.”
Ben feels anger rise in him. “You’d rather I just fucking kill you? God, you are so infuriating!” He shouts as he stands and stomps to McCone’s bedside. “All that shit you know? All that shit about how the Network finds the runners, and anyone else they want to royally fuck? You could tell someone and actually help people here. I’m trying to make a fucking change, take down the system, and trying to help some selfish fucking asshole who’s as much a victim of it as any of us here!” His abdomen twinges painfully, and he half collapses onto McCone’s bed. “Fuck!”
McCone’s brows furrow. “Fuck happened to you? I didn’t shoot you on the plane, much as I wanted to.”
For a moment, Ben thinks about lying, saying that of course McCone shot Ben, he just doesn’t remember. Instead, he sighs and says, “When the escape pod landed, the people wanted to kill you. And I didn’t, uh, want that. So, when someone shot at you– at us– I… reacted.”
McCone blinks at him. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Uh huh,” Ben says. “You’re fucking welcome.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
McCone’s lips part to hurl another insult, but Ben doesn’t hear him. One of the butterfly closures on McCone’s forehead is coming loose. Ben smoothes a thumb over it to stick it back down before he fully realizes he’s doing it. McCone freezes as Ben trails his thumb lightly along his hairline, over the split in the skin.
Something small and sharp presses to the side of Ben’s neck. He looks down as much as he can without moving his head.
“Now, how the fuck did you get a syringe?”
“Tell the guards to keep a better eye on me,” McCone says, keeping the point of the needle against Ben’s jugular even as Ben moves closer in. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Tell me you don’t want me,” Ben breathes. “And I’ll stop. I’ll leave and you never have to see me again. Tell me you haven’t thought about me in your bed, using me, or me using you, however you swing. Tell me.”
McCone’s eyes wildly search Ben’s for something. The needle drops from his skin just a centimeter, and that’s all the confirmation Ben needs before he’s slotting their mouths together.
McCone kisses like he fights, aggressive and hard, every move calculated. He bites Ben’s lips, not quite enough to bleed, then licks them better as he tries to work his way into Ben’s mouth. Ben lets him, and doesn’t care that he’s leaning too far down and pulling his stitches, or that pain spreads like fire across his stomach, he’s so lost in the feeling of the man below him.
And, for the record, Ben gives as good as he gets, knocking their teeth together as he doesn’t let McCone completely get the upper hand, one hand sliding behind McCone’s head and tugging on his hair to keep him in place as they lick into each other’s mouths.
It’s Ben’s turn to bite at McCone’s lip, only he bites a little too hard, drawing blood, and he doesn’t fucking care. McCone groans into his mouth as Ben licks up the blood, then presses his tongue against McCone’s, making him taste the result of their kisses.
It’s only when Ben feels wetness seeping through his sweatshirt that he pulls back.
“Fuck,” he breathes, leaning back to see blood slowly staining his thin sweatshirt.
McCone’s hand darts out and presses against it, just for a moment, making Ben yelp and slap his hand away.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
McCone shrugs and wipes his bloody fingers on Ben’s arm. “Force of habit. Wanted to make sure it was real.”
“Yes, I got fake shot, just for you, no biggie,” Ben replies, deadpan.
McCone cocks his head up at Ben. “Don’t you have a wife?”
Ben lets his eyes slip closed, but blinks them open as he realizes he probably shouldn’t ever take his eyes off McCone when they’re this close.
“Yeah,” Ben sighs. “Pretty sure she left me, though.”
“Hm,” is McCone’s only reply. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, still a little bloody from where Ben bit it. “So, you gonna do that again, or what?”
Ben blinks at him. “I think I tore my stitches.”
“The fuck do you want me to do about that?”
“I should probably go,” Ben says, looking down at his sweatshirt.
“I’d keep you here all night if I could, Richards,” McCone says, a predatory glint in his eye. “You could bleed for me instead.”
Ben kind of hates that he finds that attractive.
“I think I’ll keep my blood to myself today, but thanks,” Ben replies.
Ben hesitates getting up, then McCone’s arm reaches as far as it can in his chains, tugging Ben down by the front of his sweatshirt into another bruising kiss, not caring about Ben’s hiss of pain.
The kiss still tastes like iron, but Ben can’t find it in himself to care as McCone licks his way into Ben’s mouth, tracing all parts of him his tongue can reach, spreading the taste of his own blood around.
He releases Ben as quickly as he grabbed him. “Go get yourself fixed up.”
Ben blinks at him, then says, “Yeah. Yeah.”
A grin spreads across McCone’s face. “Obedient for me already?”
“Fuck off,” Ben responds, standing carefully from the bed. He grabs his crutches from the corner, then hobbles his way out the door, only sparing one look towards McCone, who winks and flips him off.
Fucking asshole.
~~
Ben fully intends to go back to McCone over the next few days to try and have an actual, honest-to-God conversation with the man, but his doctors are nothing less than absolutely furious at him for getting up and tearing his stitches, so he’s basically put on twenty-four hour bed rest. There’s the exception of the bathroom, bathing, and physical therapy, but everything is under the watchful eye of some kind of medical staff, so he can’t escape.
It’s driving him a little mad.
He’s heard through eavesdropping that they’ve lowered the dosage of McCone’s sedation, so he’s basically back to normal, but they also aren’t really giving him pain medication, Ben thinks as a sort of punishment. It does seem like no one really fucks with McCone after the whole “Ben getting shot by throwing himself in front of McCone for God-knows-why” debacle.
Part of Ben does feel a little guilty for sneaking in the man’s room, kissing him, bleeding on him, then fucking off without a word, but on the other hand, Ben doesn’t give that much of a fuck.
And really, Ben should’ve expected that McCone may not take kindly to being left alone for, oh shit, has it really been a full week? Oops.
Ben blinks his eyes open and squints at the clock on his bedside table. It reads 12:32 A.M. He looks for what could’ve woken him– he’s not in more pain than usual, there’s no one in his room, and– Ah.
A thud sounds from the hall, quiet enough that Ben wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t directly outside his door. He quickly grabs his butter knife from dinner, not that it’ll do much, but it’s better than nothing. He slips it in his hand, then feigns sleep as the door handle turns.
The door quietly closes behind whoever comes in, and soft footsteps pad over to the bed. Ben keeps his breathing as even as he can.
Suddenly, the person hops onto the bed and straddles Ben’s hips. Ben’s eyes fly open as he raises the knife to the person’s throat. The person laughs, an unkind thing, before knocking the knife to the floor.
“A butter knife? Really?” The deep tones of McCone’s voice wash over Ben, even as his heart hammers in something between arousal and fear. McCone reaches over to hit the light switch, turning it to the dimmest setting. “If I were still hunting you, you’d be dead before that knife hit the floor.”
Ben cocks his head. “As I recall, you never actually managed to kill me.”
McCone honest-to-God growls at him. “It was rigged from the fucking start,” he hisses, leaning down closer to Ben’s face. “I could kill you now, slowly, quietly, with that fucking knife, and escape before anyone even knew I was gone. Bleed you like a stuck pig, leave you choking on it as the last you thing you see is me, winning the fucking game.”
“You could. Or you could kiss me and make it really interesting,” Ben says with a grin.
“Oh, you’re not getting me that easily,” McCone says, the angry lilt still in his tone. “I don’t take kindly to something of mine disappearing so easily.”
“I’m ‘something of yours’ now?” Ben asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” McCone says, leaving little room for argument. “You are.”
Something content and maybe a little evil unfurls in Ben’s chest at the ease in which McCone says that, and they’ve only kissed. Ben could press the issue, maybe make McCone say it again, but he drops it.
“I did mean to come see you,” Ben says.
McCone snorts. “Sure.”
“Come on,” Ben groans. “Why are you being such a dick?”
“It’s just part of my sparkling personality,” McCone says, sitting back up and admiring Ben.
“Did you kill those guys in the hall?”
“No. Just sedated them,” McCone says. “They really let their guard down when they think I’m asleep. But not even the god-like, reincarnation of Jesus, Ben Richards himself, could save me if I killed them.”
Ben laughs. “‘Reincarnation of Jesus?’”
“You’re their saviour.”
“And what am I to you?”
McCone cocks his head. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Something fun, I hope.”
McCone hums in response, trailing a hand down Ben’s clothed chest. Ben takes a moment to appreciate the figure of the man above him, finally in a T-shirt and sweats instead of a hospital gown, shoulder still wrapped and forehead still sutured.
“So, what do I have to do to get you to kiss me again?” Ben asks. “I’d sit up and just do it, but you’re kind of in the way, and I think I will actually get murdered if I tear my stitches again.”
McCone smiles above him, and it makes the hair on the back of Ben’s neck stand up. “Ask nicely.”
“McCone,” Ben starts, sliding his hands up McCone’s thighs. “It was super rad kissing you the other day, and I think it would be even more rad if we did it again.”
“That wasn’t a question,” McCone says.
“McCone,” Ben begins again. “I think it would be kind of hot if we made out with your mask on, but you don’t have that, so I think we should just try making out like this instead. What are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts are that you didn’t ask kindly enough,” McCone replies. “Though we can tuck the mask idea away for a later day.”
“You haven’t even made out with me properly, and you’re already thinking about doing it again?” Ben asks, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe I should be making you ask me nicely for a kiss.”
“Hm,” McCone hums, trailing a hand lightly over Ben’s stomach. It comes to rest just over his stitches, a silent threat. “Try again.”
“McCone,” Ben starts. “Please fucking kiss me.”
“Mm,” McCone breathes, leaning down again so his face is just over Ben’s. “That wasn’t a question. Again,” he says, just barely pressing his fingers into Ben’s stitches.
“Fuck,” Ben curses, hating that the pain is turning him on. “Please, will you kiss me?”
“Please, what?” McCone asks, pressing just a touch harder.
“Please, McCone, will you kiss me?”
McCone presses again, just a touch harder. “Again.”
Ben wracks his lust-addled brain for McCone’s first name. “Evan,” he says, enjoying the dilation of McCone’s pupils at his name coming out of Ben’s mouth as a groan. “Will you please kiss me?”
“Say my name again,” McCone whispers, letting the pressure up just a touch as he leans even more forward, his face so close to Ben’s that their noses brush.
“Evan.”
McCone trails his hand up Ben’s body, away from his stitches, and moves his face that last few centimeters to press his lips to Ben’s, who groans as the man’s stubble rubs against his own. One of Ben’s hands snakes to the back of McCone’s head, fingers fisting in the long strands of hair as he deepens the kiss, not wanting McCone to decide he’s had enough.
If anything, McCone has decided the opposite– he grinds his hips into Ben’s as they kiss, one hand resting on, but not squeezing, the base of Ben’s neck. Ben gasps into McCone’s mouth, and the man takes that as an invitation to lick into Ben’s mouth, claiming it as an extension of himself.
Ben’s lips chase McCone’s as the man pulls back.
“Normally,” McCone says, unbothered by the frustrated noise Ben makes. “I’d make you take the pain. But I’d rather you not get mauled by doctors for fucking up your incision. So,” he continues, cocking his head. “How can I best fuck you so that doesn’t happen?”
Ben’s breath hitches in his throat as his brain stutters to a halt. “Uh–”
“Let me guess,” McCone says, rolling his eyes as he continues in a mock-impersonation of Ben’s voice, “Oh, please, Mr. McCone, I’ve never been fucked before, I’m a man who has never taken a dick in the ass, take it easy on me.”
“Not what I was going to say,” Ben says. “And also, wrong. Don’t forget, pegging exists. Sheila liked it.”
McCone actually looks surprised for a moment before jealousy overtakes him. “First of all, good for you. Second of all, never, and I do fucking mean never, discuss anyone else when you’re in my bed. Yes?”
Ben hides a smirk. “Technically, you’re in my bed.”
McCone growls and ducks back down to kiss Ben again, harder this time, more teeth and tongue than lips. He rubs his hips against Ben’s with more force, and when Ben feels the hard outline of McCone’s cock brush his own, he nearly whites out.
Ben plants his hands on McCone’s chest and shoves him backwards. “Hey!” Ben says at McCone’s angry look. “You could fuck me like this. Or, you could ride me, like this.” Ben plants his feet on the bed and rolls his hips upward into McCone’s, succeeding in making the man groan above him.
“You do make a compelling argument,” McCone says, sounding just a touch breathless. “I suppose that would be easier on your stitches, but then again, I would love to remind you of who you belong to now, have you so thoroughly fucked you feel it tomorrow.” McCone tilts his head. “Maybe you need a pretty little collar. That way, even when I allow you to fuck me, you still have a reminder.”
Ben gulps.
McCone flashes him a smile. “Dont worry, baby, all in good fun.”
“Now, maybe, get to it?” Ben says, dropping his legs back onto the bed and flexing his fingers on McCone’s thighs.
McCone sighs. “We really have to work on you asking nicely.”
“Okay, can we do that when it’s not the middle of the night and when neither of us are recovering from severe bodily harm?” Ben asks, a little exasperated. “You can make me your perfect little bitch later.”
“Mm, be careful making promises you can’t keep,” McCone says. “I will hold you to them.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Ben says, lifting his arms above his head. “Now, help me take my shirt off? I can’t do it by myself.”
McCone does so, slipping his hands under Ben’s shirt and carefully lifting it over his arms and head. “You have to let me know if your incision hurts. When you’re all healed, we can get to me causing you pain on purpose, and I will, and you will take it, and you will like it, but for now, get better so we can get to the fun parts quicker.”
“Yessir,” Ben says with a mock salute, not quite expecting the way McCone’s pupils eclipse his irises at the title. Interesting piece of information to file away.
McCone lets his hand wander down Ben’s chest, thumbing over each nipple as it passes, dipping into his navel and skirting around the waistband of his sweats. Ben notices that McCone is really only using his left hand.
“You know,” Ben says, running his hands along McCone’s thighs again. “You also have to tell me if you’re hurting. You’re only using your non-injured arm.”
McCone pauses, like he’s unused to someone caring or telling him what to do. “Fine.” He carefully extracts himself out of his shirt, going slowly to not exacerbate his right shoulder.
Ben has the urge to wolf whistle at him. Logically, he knew McCone would have a good body, but it’s a little insane just how much he’s Ben’s type.
He’s muscled but not overly so, abs perhaps a little less defined than Ben’s, but Ben would bet they’re just as strong, if not stronger. Scars litter his torso and arms, though only one or two seem big enough to be from a gunshot or anything similar. Ben allows himself a moment to run his hands along McCone’s chest before saying anything.
“Have I now given you your largest scar?” Ben asks, nodding to the bandaged slash on McCone’s right shoulder.
“Probably,” McCone says.
A bolt of possessiveness strikes Ben in the chest. “Good,” he says, before he even knows he likes it that much. McCone gives him a grin, then leans down to kiss him again.
As they trade sloppy kisses, Ben letting his hands roam over McCone’s torso as much as possible, one of McCone’s hands slips beneath the waistband of Ben’s sweats and underwear.
Ben gasps as McCone— maybe Ben should really start thinking of him as Evan— thumbs over the tip of his dick, already dripping with precum.
Evan pulls back just enough to say, “You know, if you cum before I fuck you, I’m still going to fuck you. I’m not done with you until I cum, and maybe not even then.” He kisses Ben firmly, then says, “But I’m a little impatient today, too.”
Evan slides down Ben’s legs, shimmying Ben’s sweats and underwear off as he goes.
Ben swallows in anticipation and a little anxiety. He’s pretty sure Evan will get his wish of Ben feeling it tomorrow, especially when Evan stands from the bed and removes the last of his clothes, letting his cock finally spring free.
Ben’s mouth waters at the sight of McCone’s cock standing proud in a short nest of dark curls. His dick isn’t majorly long, but it is thick enough that Ben will absolutely feel it tomorrow, especially if Evan makes good on his promise to fuck Ben real nice.
“Get the fuck over here,” Ben breathes, spreading his legs.
Evan does, but sinks his teeth into the flesh of Ben’s inner thigh. Ben bites his knuckles to keep from crying out, not wanting to alert anyone outside.
Evan does the same to Ben’s other thigh, and though neither bite is enough to break skin, it still stings when Evan lifts his head up.
“What have I repeatedly told you about asking nicely?” Evan asks angrily. “You are so, so, incredibly lucky you’re injured and I’m feeling so fucking generous tonight. On a normal night, that could earn you a few nicks with my knife, or me bending you over my knees to slap that fine ass of yours until it’s near bleeding, or any number of other things that you’d need to do to apologize for the sheer fucking disrespect you’re showing me right now. Understand?”
Ben nods.
Evan raises an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, I understand,” Ben says, a little breathless. Part of him is screaming at him to push back, to fight, to not take this shit, but another part of him is possessively curling around the ever-growing feelings for Evan that have taken root in his chest, willing to take whatever the man gives him.
“Good.”
Without warning, Evan leans down and takes Ben’s cock in his mouth, sucking hard on the tip before working the rest of his cock down his throat.
Ben chokes on a moan, remembering at the last second to not cry out. Evan raises an eyebrow at him from where his lips are stretched around Ben’s dick.
“I– fuck– don’t want anyone to hear,” Ben pants as Evan sucks him to the root.
Evan doesn’t respond verbally, but digs the fingernails of his left hand into the meat of Ben’s thigh, and Ben would bet a lot of money that he’s this close to drawing blood.
“Come on,” Ben pleads. “I don’t want– ah– them to think you’re hurting me. Oh, fuck,” he gasps as Evan’s tongue swirls around his cock.
Evan’s fingers dig deeper into Ben’s thigh, nails lightly tearing into the flesh, then release to slap the spot they were just digging into, making Ben groan. Evan pops off Ben’s cock long enough to nod to the bedside table and say, “You got oil or ointment or something?”
Ben can barely nod and reach over and grab the tiny tub of body oil, left for putting on his incision should it get too dry. Evan takes it from him, then wastes no time in sucking Ben down to the root again.
One of Ben’s hands shoots out to lock onto the back of Evan’s head before he even thinks about it, and Evan’s hand comes up instantly to pry it off and pin it harshly to the bed. Ben gets the message.
Ben doesn’t hear the pop of the cap opening, or realize Evan’s spreading oil on his fingers until Evan circles his hole once, then twice, before pushing in. It’s not what Ben would call rough, especially by McCone’s standards, but it isn’t too kind either.
Ben tries to remember to relax, and Evan’s mouth on his cock is definitely helping that, though it’s also bringing him closer than he’d like to cumming.
Another finger joins the first, making Ben hiss in a combination of pleasure and pain as Evan scissors his fingers roughly. Evan hums around his cock, like he’s chuckling at Ben writhing around as much as he can on the bed, fingers fisted in the bedsheets, close to tearing them.
When Evan adds a third finger, Ben groans loudly before he can stop himself, and he swears that’s a laugh coming from McCone, even while sucking cock. Ben takes a chance to look down at Evan, who’s looking straight at him. The man fucking winks at Ben as he continues fingering him open and sucking his cock. Ben hates him so fucking much.
When it’s been a couple minutes of fingering, Ben squirms on the bed, trying to get Evan’s fingers to brush more closely against his prostate or get the hint that he’d really like to get fucked now.
Evan chuckles around his cock again, and Ben hates how much that turns him on. After a final swirl of his tongue, Evan pulls off Ben’s cock, though keeps lazily thrusting his fingers in and out of Ben.
“My, my,” he says. “Good job for holding out, Richards. You really want to cum on my cock, huh? That desperate for it?”
Ben refuses to answer, to let the whine that’s built up escape his throat. Instead, he bites, “Fuck you.”
“Oh?” Evan says. “Oh, really? You know, I don’t have to fuck you. I can bring you real fucking close with just my fingers, then tie you up and leave you here so you can’t even finish the job. If you’re still mouthing off, I can just feed you my cock, maybe that will finally shut you up.”
Ben glares at McCone. “Don’t.”
“Don’t, what?” Evan asks, shoving his fingers harshly into Ben, hitting his prostate.
“Don’t leave me here,” Ben pants, screwing his eyes shut in pleasure as those calloused fingers reach deep inside him. “Please.”
Evan’s other hand comes up to caress Ben’s jaw, then he grips it hard. “Then lose the fucking attitude.”
Ben nods and bites back a moan as Evan crooks his fingers inside Ben. He nearly sobs when Evan removes his hand, but lets his knees fall further apart as Evan slides in closer, smearing lube on his cock.
He pushes into Ben without warning, and Ben’s orgasm hits him like a fucking bus.
His whole body goes taut as he gasps out McCone’s name– his first name– and clenches down around his cock, spurting all over his own stomach. McCone has half a thought to cover Ben’s incision with his hand so none of Ben’s mess gets on it, though that means he’s also pressing on it, and that makes the feelings so much more intense. Ben had no fucking idea how close he was, but McCone looks all too fucking pleased with himself.
Ben doesn’t get time to come down from his high or say anything, because McCone is shoving his fingers, soiled with Ben’s own mess, into Ben’s mouth and pulling out and pushing back into Ben’s tight hole.
Ben moans around Evan’s fingers, and feels like he could sob, he’s already so overstimulated.
“So desperate for my cock, huh, baby?” McCone breathes above him, setting a slow but punishing pace. “My beautiful cock whore, Richards, that’s what you fucking are. Fuck, why were we wasting all that time trying to kill each other when I could’ve just been using your pretty little hole, huh?”
Ben groans as he licks Evan’s fingers clean. When Evan deems them clean enough, he replaces his fingers with his tongue as he leans down to kiss Ben filthy, nearly bending him in half, and cock nearly spearing him in two.
Ben gasps and throws one arm around McCone, blunt nails scratching down his back as McCone fucks into Ben, whose cock is nearly fully hard again. Ben’s stomach twinges uncomfortably, so he tries shoving at Evan, but the man doesn’t budge, being near two hundred pounds of muscle.
Evan does let him break the kiss and turn his head enough for him to gasp, “Stitches,” as he rakes his hand down Evan’s back once more.
McCone immediately sits up and rests on his heels, giving small thrusts into Ben. “Better?”
Ben nods. “Yeah.”
“Good,” McCone says, picking up the pace as he pulls all the way out to slam back in, setting a faster and harder pace now that he’s back to having a little more leverage.
Ben forgets the pain quickly as he’s consumed once again by feelings of lust and fullness and a sharp shard of possessiveness. He wants to keep scratching down Evan’s back, but settles for looping an ankle around his lower back instead and fisting his hands in the bedsheets. He’d try to touch his cock, but he’s not sure he’s ready for whatever Evan would do should he so much as try without permission.
Finally, Ben feels like McCone is losing his composure, too. His thrusts are becoming more erratic and less controlled as he lets instinct take over, fucking into Ben and a little fixated on watching his cock disappear and reappear.
“Fuck,” McCone gasps. “Oh, I’m fucking keeping you tied to my fucking bed, Richards. Fuck!”
Ben groans with him, overstimulated in the best way, cock bright red and leaking again, begging for more attention.
“McCone,” he moans, feeling like he’s so close to cumming but so fucking far away.
One of McCone’s hands scratch harshly up Ben’s thigh, leaving angry red marks. “What?”
“I’m gonna cum again,” he groans. “Touch me, please.”
“See,” McCone groans, breathless. “Not so hard to be nice. But I deserve more. Beg me for it, Richards. Beg me to let you cum on my cock for the second time. Convince me.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ben moans, all sense of dignity lost to the night. His anger wells beneath him at the injustice of the situation, but his lust clouds it. “Please, fuck.”
McCone looks down at him through hooded eyes, like he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm by listening to Ben. “Again,” he breathes.
“Come on, Evan, please,” Ben moans. “Cut me up later, tear me to shreds, I don’t fucking care but make me fucking cum, Christ.”
“Oh, fuck, Richards,” Evan gasps as he cums with a shudder, spilling deep into Ben as he grips Ben’s thighs so hard his fingernails break skin again, his hips making small aborted thrusts into Ben as he groans and throws his head back.
“Fuck, baby,” McCone says as he comes down from his high, loosening his grip on Ben’s flesh. “Oh, you are so fucking coming home with me.”
“Evan,” Ben pleads.
McCone shifts his hips forward again, dragging his slowly softening cock over Ben’s prostate before taking Ben’s dick in hand and tugging at it roughly, calloused hands hitting the sensitive skin in all the best ways.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Ben moans. “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he gasps, cock spurting out whatever it has left over McCone’s fingers.
McCone pulls out but keeps his hand rubbing at Ben’s cock to the point of absolute overstimulation, and Ben grips his wrist to try and get him to stop. He does, but doesn’t move his hand off Ben’s dick.
“C’mere,” Ben says, and for once, McCone goes willingly. Ben kisses him a little roughly, trying to pour emotion into it and tugging McCone closer, but the man puts too much weight on his bad shoulder and collapses onto Ben, who half catches him, thanking his lucky stars that his surgical site is on the other side of his torso.
“You good?” Ben asks.
“Fuck you,” McCone says, though it lacks some of its usual heat. He sits up slowly, but Ben doesn’t let him sit up straight yet. “What?” McCone asks, exasperated.
“Well damn, I was gonna offer that you stay,” Ben says.
McCone huffs a laugh. “You’re just saying that because you can’t go piss without help.”
“I’m not the one who was talking about keeping me tied up and with you all the time,” Ben shoots back.
McCone eyes him warily. “Why do you want me to stay?”
“I had fun, you had fun, we somehow like each other at least a little tiny bit under all the rage, and I’m like 80% sure you won’t kill me in my sleep,” Ben replies.
McCone looks at him, as if he’s contemplating something, then shrugs off Ben’s arm and hops off the bed to pull his briefs back on. He disappears into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a couple of the small wash cloths Ben uses to get clean, since he can’t fully shower yet. He nods for Ben to spread his legs, then cleans up the drying cum and lube as much as he can before swiping it gently over Ben’s stomach. He tosses that one towards the trash can, and Ben’s a little impressed that he lands the shot.
With the other cloth, he gently dabs at the places along Ben’s thighs where he drew blood, wiping away the dried pearls that formed from his fingernails. He tosses that to the trash, too, then smears a thin layer of Vaseline over the crescent shaped cuts.
Ben watches him very, very carefully, not at all expecting the level of aftercare he’s getting.
“You can have me for a few hours,” McCone says. “Sedation on the guys outside should wear off right before shift change at seven this morning, so you have,” he pauses as he glances at the clock. “Five hours and forty-two minutes.”
“That’s enough for a little REM sleep,” Ben says, tugging on the underwear McCone offers. “This bed is big enough.”
“No, it’s not,” McCone says, but he crawls in nonetheless, crossing his arms and laying stiffly on his side as Ben turns off the light and sets the alarm for 6:30. Ben carefully turns to face him.
“You don’t sleep next to people often?”
“People are generally more into the fucking part,” McCone answers truthfully. “Too scared of me to close their eyes for more than a quick orgasm.”
“Rightly so,” Ben says. “Trust me, I’m pretty sure I’m out of my fucking mind here.”
“That makes two of us,” McCone mutters.
“Truce?” Ben says, holding out a hand.
McCone rolls his eyes but takes Ben’s hand and shakes it.
“Can I ask a potentially strange question?” Ben asks. “I promise I’ll be nice.”
“What?” McCone grunts.
“You took care of me, after.”
“Not a question,” McCone responds.
“Yeah, you didn’t let me finish,” Ben says. “I was just wondering why.”
“I take care of my things when they break,” Evan responds honestly. “Not as fun when you can only get hurt once.”
“I just… didn’t expect it.”
“Stop fucking talking, Richards,” McCone says, clearly not wanting to be any more vulnerable than this.
Ben obeys him, for the millionth time that night. It bothers him less and less each time, like maybe listening to McCone isn’t a bad thing. Maybe having someone to rip him apart and put him back together isn’t a bad idea for the future, especially if Ben is going to be the face of a fucking revolution.
These thoughts make him poke McCone lightly in the shoulder and quietly ask, “What’s your plan?” a few minutes later, even with Evan shutting his eyes and pretending to go to sleep.
The man squints one eye open at Ben. “What’s yours?”
“Lie low for a while. Maybe fuck this new guy I found, he’s pretty handsome, and he has this amazing dick, but he has tried to kill me more times than I can count,” Ben says.
“He probably won’t try to kill you again,” McCone says, letting his eyes slip closed once more. “Unless you fucking deserve it.”
“See, I knew you were a big fucking softie under there,” Ben says with a grin.
“Don’t fucking push it,” McCone says. “I’ll go get that butter knife.”
Ben laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”
Evan huffs in response, then gently manhandles Ben so his back meets Evan’s chest and their legs intertwine. “Now, will you shut the fuck up and let me sleep?”
“No,” Ben responds.
McCone slaps his ass.
“Fine,” Ben says, feeling the pull of sleep drag him down. “Don’t fucking kill me.”
“Ditto,” Evan says, breath brushing the hairs along Ben’s neck.
Feeling brave, Ben lets out a quiet, “Goodnight, Evan.”
For a moment, there’s no response, then McCone huffs out an even quieter, “Goodnight, Ben,” and possessively wraps an arm around Ben’s chest.
It’s so, so, incredibly fucked up, but Ben thinks he’s exactly where he needs to be.