Southland - Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro...(Cooper/Ben, NC-17, 3/4)
Part I
Part II
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
"You want to go to the Dodgers game with me next Thursday night?"
Ben looks up from stuffing a handcuffed perp in the back of the car. "Yeah," he says, somewhat distractedly. John gets the impression he could've just asked him to go jump off the Hollywood sign and he wouldn't know the difference
John nods and taps on the rolled down window. "Next time do what the rest of the world does," he advises the forty year-old man they just caught trying to hold-up a porn shop in Thai Town. "Watch your porn on the internets."
"Internet," Ben corrects automatically.
John scowls at him. "Whatever."
It's been a very, very long time since John's been on a date. In fact it was last century, which is kind of scary.
After Laura left him, he went out in the world and made some mistakes, had a few blow jobs in suspect places, gave a few blow jobs in even more suspect places, made a friend or two (Cesar), fucked a friend or two, realized the casual thing was not for him, and pretty much just kept his head down, his back in a brace and got on with it.
And then Ben Sherman came along, and now John's sitting on the upper deck at Dodger Stadium at 7:30 at night with a $10 Dodger Dog and $8 plastic cup of Budweiser.
At least they were generous with the beer.
Next to him, Ben's got ketchup in the corner of his mouth and he's watching the game the way you watch something that you're kind of interested in, but mostly just passing the time while you drink.
"You a big Dodgers fan?" John asks.
Ben looks over at him. "Not really, I'm more of a soccer guy."
"Soccer?" John would be less shocked if Ben had said ice skating.
"What's wrong with soccer?" Ben asks.
"The only people I know who play soccer are Mexicans and that pansy ass David Beckham." Not that John would kick David Beckham out of bed.
"In the rest of the world, soccer is a working class sport. All you need is a ball and a place to run."
"Because you rich fucks are so working class," John mocks.
"Soccer doesn't discriminate. You play hard for ninety minutes." Ben drops his voice when he leans into John. "Plus, soccer players have really good endurance."
John clears his throat, trying to distract his brain from the image of Ben on the go for ninety minutes. He'd like to test that one out. "You still play?" he asks a little gruffly.
"Sometimes, in Griffith Park. It's not like in college though."
"You played in college?"
"All four years."
John can just imagine. Ben shirtless, sweaty and running around with a bunch of other shirtless, sweaty guys his age.
Next to him, Ben takes a long drink from his beer. John watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and then John turns back to the game and tries to remember what the hell sport they're watching.
Ben belches next to him. "I'm going to get another beer, you want one?"
"No, but I need to take a leak," John says, getting up.
He jogs down the steps from the upper deck, gets to the upper level and cuts right for the restroom. There's no line for the men's room, but the line for the women's room is seven deep. He always wonders what the hell they're doing in there that takes so long.
A quick pit stop, and he's on his way back up to their seats when he catches something familiar out the corner of his eye: Sherman, holding two beers and talking to some guy. Ben's got the stoic expression plastered on his face again. John hasn't seen that in ages; he changes direction automatically.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear Cesar teasing him for pissing all over his territory.
"Sherman, who's your friend?" he says, interrupting the conversation.
Ben turns to him, his jaw set. "John Cooper, Justin Gaffney. John's my partner on the force. Justin and I went to school together."
Justin Gaffney is just the sort of guy John could see Ben knowing. Tall, tan, blonde, and reeking head to toe of money and entitlement. John hates him already. He shakes his hand anyway, squeezing just a little bit too hard.
He can see the tightening around Gaffney's eyes until he lets go. "Nice to meet you," John says placidly.
"So you're a cop," Gaffney says.
"That would appear to be the case."
"Must suck. I heard the pay is shit."
Out the corner of his eye, John can see Ben flinch. "It pays enough," John says calmly.
"John's one of the best cops on the beat," Ben interrupts.
"He's biased," John says.
"Ben always thinks well of people," Gaffney agrees. "Always sees the best."
John makes a noncommittal noise. "So, you two went to school together?"
Gaffney coughs. "Yeah, we all thought Ben was going to go to Washington and lobby for civil rights or something. Maybe join the Peace Corps. Everybody on Facebook's gone crazy that he's gone 5-0."
John can feel that smile on the face. The one that tends to make perps sweat. "You talk about it with your little friends on the internets, huh? Is that a real interesting concept for you? That he's out there trying to make the world a better place? What exactly are you contributing to society besides sitting on your ass all day and spending your parents' money?"
Ben sets the beers down on the counter behind Gaffney and moves over toward John. "John, it's cool," he says, trying to get between them. "Everybody has their own thing. Justin's an artist, right? You still doing your art?"
Gaffney's mouth drops open at John's litany. "Yeah, I - I paint. And I donate to charity. I know the commissioner's son."
John snorts. "So while you and your friends measure your tiny dicks, you leave the rest of the world to clean up your fucking messes. Yeah, sounds about right."
"Dude, what the fuck is your problem?!"
"Little shits like you," John spits. "You're my problem."
"Fuck you, man, I'll have your badge."
John can see people around them taking notice. Starting to stare. He steps right into the kid's space and speaks in a very low tone. "Kid, you breathe on my badge and I'll hang your nuts from my rearview mirror."
He only steps back when Ben's hand wraps around his forearm. "C'mon, we're leaving now," he orders.
John shakes him off. "The hell we are, I paid good money for these tickets."
"If you weren't such an asshole, I was gonna invite you up to my dad's box, but fuck that," Gaffney sneers.
John opens his mouth, but Ben speaks first. "Justin, you were an asshole at school, you’re an asshole now. The only difference is that now you're an asshole living in your parent's guest house because even your dad can't stand you."
John follows Ben back to the car, laughing the whole way.
By the time they get back to the car, he's finally run out of steam. The car is stuffy inside, and John turns on the engine and lets the air run full blast.
"Sorry about that," he says perfunctorily.
"No, you're not."
"You're right, I'm not." John takes a moment. "I am sorry it fucked up our date though."
"This was a date?"
John clears his throat.
"John."
John looks over at Ben's and he's got that smile on his face again, that that half-shy, half-sex one. "Yeah, Boo?"
Ben gives him this little sigh, and then he shifts sideways in his seat, pushes up the armrest, reaches out and begins unfastening John's jeans. "You are a terrible date," Ben says, pulling down John's zipper and then sliding his hand under the waistband of his briefs.
John sucks in a breath as Ben's hand wraps around his cock. He tries to move out of the way, to give Ben room, and bangs his arm on the window. He was soft about three seconds ago; that's changing rapidly thanks to Ben's thumb and deft fingers.
"What are you talking about?' he says, groaning in protest as Ben pulls his hand away, banging his elbow on the steering wheel. The car horn blares briefly and they both jump. Ben smiles, spits in his palm and then goes back to the task at hand.
"You bring me to the game, you ignore me to watch it, and then you get in a fight," Ben says. John spreads his legs a little more, his foot catching on the gas. Ben's hand slides a little lower, the glide of movement made slick with precome and spit as his fingers brush against John's balls.
"That guy was an asshole," John grits out, trying to fuck Ben's hand.
"I know," Ben says. "That's why I didn't ask him to use his box in the first place. I'd wanted to bring you to a game months ago." Ben's knee is pressing against John's thigh - there is no room for this -- but when John reaches for him, Ben bats his hand away.
John groans as Ben's thumb works over the head of his cock. "God, Ben."
"You can be so fucking difficult," Ben whispers. John can feel Ben's breath against the side of his face and when he turns, Ben's right there.
He wraps his hand around the back of Ben's head and pulls him in to kiss. Ben tastes like ketchup and beer and bread, and he doesn't kiss John back as much as he licks at his mouth, his hand speeding up as John pants against his lips.
"Jesus, fuck," John gasps as he comes in Ben's hand, his spine softening in that spot that always tends to cause trouble in the first place. The doc would say it's his first two visits to physical therapy; John would call it The Sherman Effect. He won't mention that to his physical therapist, Janice.
John inhales to catch his breath, but ends up coughing instead when Ben holds up his hand and licks his wet, sticky fingers. As John watches, Ben leans back against the passenger door, unfastens his own jeans and slips that same wet, slick hand inside his boxer briefs.
"Oh. Fuck. You." John exhales, pushing himself out of his seat and climbing over Ben, banging his knee on who knows what. "I hate sex in the car," he says, trying to brace himself against the door and shove his hand in besides Ben's at the same time. Their fingers tangle together before John pulls back and man-handles Ben to get his underwear down around his thighs.
"There's no room in here," John bitches. "You couldn't wait twenty minutes? Someone always ends up with a near concussion... god, look at you."
Ben's hand hasn't stopped moving during this entire exercise, his thumb swiping messily over the head of his cock, his hips pistoning into his fist. "What the fuck are you doing?" he protests when John pulls his hand away, only to grunt loudly when John replaces it with his own.
"C'mon, Ben," John says, pausing to spit into his hand before giving Ben's dick long, hard strokes. "I know you want it like this. Hard. Tight. Like you're fucking me. Is that what you're thinking about now?" John asks after a particularly wicked twist of his wrist. "You thinking about fucking me?"
Ben's damp hand clamps down hard on John's forearm. "Yes," he hisses, his body arching and his cock jerking in John's hand as John guides him through it, white splatters landing all over his forearm and hand.
John pulls back and looks down at Ben sprawled out half-naked next to him and the mess all over his own fingers and arm. This is a terrible position to be in.
"You're a shitty influence," he says, carefully opening the glove compartment so it doesn't bang Ben's now-stitch-free arm. He grabs a few napkins and uses them to clean up Ben and then himself. "Horny and relentless, and so hot I'm going to end up getting arrested for public indecency," he complains good-naturedly, pulling himself together and zipping up his pants.
Ben struggles to sit up next to him. "I'm the bad influence?"
"The least you could do is cover yourself up so I don't want to do it again," John begins.
"You don't - don't want to do it again?" Ben interrupts. "Why -"
John covers Ben's mouth with his hand. "The least you can do is cover yourself up so that I can get us home where there's a bed so I don't throw out my back again," he explains. "Unless you want to call your uncle and explain that you were so fucking hot that I had to fuck you in the car and you totally undid all that PT work."
Ben's lips open under John's hand and his tongue flickers over John's palm.
John twitches and pulls his hand away. "Right. You. In the backseat. Now."
Ben grins and holds out his hands. "You could just handcuff me."
A shudder goes from the crown of John's head all the way down to his big toe. "Shut up," he snaps. "Don't move. Don’t breathe. Don't even look at me until we get home."
Ben licks his lips, sits up and fastens his seatbelt. All without saying a word.
John looks him over suspiciously. Oh, Jesus. "Pull up your pants too!" he explodes. Ben's grin is huge, considering he's still exposed.
"God, what did I do to deserve you?" he mutters to Amy's steering wheel as Ben pulls his underwear and pants back up.
A little voice says that he must've done something very, very good.
That night, Ben stays over again. They make out in the kitchen like teenagers. And in the living room, like very horny teenagers. And again in the kitchen, like very horny adults, but there's no sex. The only thing that gets removed until it's time for bed are their shoes and socks.
It's perfectly chaste, except for all the grinding against each other they do in their clothes, and strangely perfect.
John takes a shower and then leaves a clean towel and a change of clothes by the sink for Ben. "I left you some stuff," he says vaguely, waving toward the bathroom when he emerges feeling strangely uncertain.
Ben looks over the back of couch at him and nods, and then he stands up and turns off the TV. John wasn't watching whatever was on, and he stands perfectly still as Ben moves by him on his way to the bathroom. Their hands brush against each other, and then Ben disappears into the bathroom and John looks around his house like he's never even seen it before.
The shower cuts on and John shakes it off. He moves around, tidying up the kitchen and reorganizing his remotes. He opens his front doors, looks up and down the street for a few minutes and then locks up the house and turns off the lights, except for the one in the hall.
He goes to his bedroom, gets into bed and waits. He doesn't wait long. In what could only be considered a brief amount of time, Ben's knocking on his bedroom door, and John clears his throat. "Why the hell are you knocking?" he hollers gruffly.
"Because you closed the door," Ben retorts as he opens the door, steps inside and shuts the door behind him. "Maybe you had your other boyfriend in here, I don't know."
Ben's hair is a damp, fluffy mess and he's wearing the sweatpants John left for him, which makes John strangely pleased. There are rivulets of water still running down his chest, which means that had to be one of the fastest showers on earth.
"I don't have an 'other' boyfriend," John says, watching as Ben crosses towards the bed and then hesitates at the foot.
Ben looks up at him, blue eyes intent. "Do you have 'a' boyfriend?" he asks blithely, his thumb pulling at his waistband belying his cavalier attitude.
John rolls his eyes. "I'm not 12. I don't have boyfriends -- I have a man."
Ben's mouth opens a little bit and then his cheeks flush.
John scoots over to the right side of the bed, giving Ben plenty of room to occupy the place where John normally sleeps. "C'mon, I'm exhausted. Fucking 23 year-olds wearing me out."
The mattress shakes and shifts as Ben climbs in beside him. "I'll be 24 in December," he says, slipping under the covers.
John settles on his stomach as Ben curls up next to him, blocking the light from the lamp on the bedside table.
John reaches out and rubs his thumb over Ben's mouth. His lips are puffy, like he's been kissing someone for a very long time, which is only fitting since John's entire jaw is tight with stubble burn and his nipples are bruised and sensitive from Ben's roving hands. John approves.
"Turn out the light," he says, closing his eyes.
The bed shifts again, the faint glow behind John's eyelids disappears, and then there's a soft exhalation as a hand slides across his back and curls around his waist, pulling him in close.
It's entirely too hot to sleep wrapped up in Ben like this, but John doesn't bother to protest.
The problem with little voices is that they don’t always tell you what you want to hear. Sometimes they tell you things that you're afraid to hear, that you don’t believe and know aren't true, but can't helping picking at anyway. Especially when you've got a Beverly Hills native slumming down in Echo Park.
John James Cooper is a 40 year-old, gay, flatfoot, honorably discharged Marine with a bad back, an ex-wife, a mortgage, and his whole life wrapped up in his job. Being gay is a characteristic that John has, but it's doesn't define him. He may prefer men, but it doesn't mean that he has to have one. He'd like one -- but John's not going to let someone in his life just because he's lonely.
And he's not even that lonely. Not really. Not anymore.
Not when John wakes up at 6 a.m. to see Ben watching him, and then when he opens his mouth to mock, Ben kisses him until he shuts up and falls back asleep again.
Not when, the next time he wakes up, Ben's banging around in his kitchen, making omelets and bacon and hash browns before John's even brushed his teeth.
But Sherman is 23. And mostly straight - although his sexual enthusiasm with John might change that to "somewhat" straight. He's young and rich. He could leave the force anytime and he'd have his whole life ahead of him. If this goes badly, Ben Sherman won't be the one who suffers for it.
Which is why John needs to cool things down with him.
Or at least try to.
That particular resolution lasts four days, three nights - at home, alone -- two dinners that John cancels at the last minute, one physical therapy session that John fabricates, and one very, very, very long shift.
Whether the shift is made long by the missing, possibly kidnapped child that had actually gone down the street to see his grandma, or by the way that every time they get in the car there's another call, John can see the frustration etched into every fiber of Ben's body.
Because it's not just that John's cutting out on their plans, it's the way he's keeping his hands to himself and the way he's not really smiling anymore. The inside of John's jaw is sore from all the times he's bitten his cheek to keep quiet and his palms have little half moon shapes from the effort of not touching. The lack of encouragement, tactile or otherwise, could confuse anybody, and Ben is most definitely confused. And probably a little bit pissed off.
At least, if John were him, he'd be pissed off. He didn't even come up with a good excuse for canceling dinner. He said something about doing his laundry.
And then the shift is over, and they're off the clock. Ben finally opens his mouth to yell or accuse, while John's trying to drive, and they manage to pass by an aggravated assault at the intersection of Washington and Crenshaw that looks like it's about to turn into a full blown riot.
Ben's out of the car before John's even finished throwing it into park. And whether he can't hear John yelling after him to stop or wait, or whether he's just so irritated that he's ignoring John and his stupid behavior, John doesn't know.
What John does know is that is he has to stay behind and yell at dispatch that six-Adam-forty-three has a 34 that's possibly about to become a 404 and they better Code-3 all available units in the area before things really turn out bad.
And in the 36 seconds it takes to do that Ben disappears into a melee of young white guys and young black guys and young Mexicans, and then John's out of the car with his weapon drawn while dispatch is still trying to get him to copy.
John'll be damned if anything happens to Ben Sherman now.
"HANDS UP NOW!" John says, firing a warning shot into the air.
And then things get really crazy.
In the aftermath of an argument over a girl - because it's always about ass, John learned that in the Marines - there are nine arrests, six bloody noses, seven black eyes, two broken iPods, eight broken cell phones and one idiotic kid who ends up with a concussion because he sucker punched Ben when John fired off his warning shot.
The corner is practically vomiting uniforms, and somewhere in the middle are Chickie and Maria, taking names, slapping on handcuffs and talking shit.
"How did I know that I'd find you here?" Chickie says, shaking her head at John. "I thought you two were off duty."
"Rambo over there," John snaps, pointing at Ben sitting with the EMTs, "jumped out of the car when I was still driving it. I swear to god, I'm going to put a choke leash on him and tie him to the car."
Maria whistles low. "Breaking out the sex toys already?"
John scowls at her. "Shut up, Lu."
Maria looks up at him. She's got blunt black bangs and a little nose that wrinkles when she smiles broadly. "You know you have to break them in right when they're young and impressionable like this, or their shit just gets completely out of hand."
John looks from Maria back to where Ben's getting cleaned up. "You know, I think you might be right. You girls got this?"
Chickie nods her head. "Go on and take care of Sherman. But remember he's already injured. If you bang him up more, it won't help."
John flexes his hands. "I'll remember that."
The medic looks up at John as he stalks over to the ambulance. The world is entirely too small, because the medic in question is Mr. Black Glasses from the Brangelina mess.
"Is he okay?" John barks.
Ben's head is tilted back against the side of the ambulance. His eyes are closed, and he's got paper stuffed up his nostrils from a bloody nose.
"Tony," the guy says, offering his hand. "My name's Tony."
"Tony, right now I don't care if your name is Donald fucking Trump. Is. He. Okay?" John can feel his nerves fraying badly. His fingers itch to touch. To check Ben over himself, to see with his own eyes what damage has been done.
"He'll be okay," Tony says, pulling off his latex gloves with a snap. "He's got the makings of a nice shiner, a scratch on that pretty face and a bump on the head. He probably shouldn't sleep for a while. You hear that, Ben?"
Ben lowers his head and opens his eyes. Even with tissue stuffed up his nose and a scrape along his cheekbone, he's still stupidly hot. He's clearly warped John's brain.
"I'm fine," Ben says dully. "I heard you."
John narrows his eyes. "The hell you are. C'mon, I'm taking you home."
Something flares briefly in Ben's face and then it's gone. Shuttered back behind that blank face John hasn't seen in a long time. "I'm fine. Don't we have to do the paper work on this?"
John glares at Tony, who looks away meaningfully. John puts his hand up on the ambulance wall above Ben's head and gets in Ben's face. "If you don't stop almost getting your ass killed, I swear to God I'm going to fuck your shit up, Sherman."
Ben looks up at him defiantly. "Like you care."
John sucks in a breath. He deserved that.
Ben has that look on his face; he's totally itching for a fight. John… is not going to give it to him. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I've been an asshole. I know it -- but you're injured. Let me take you home. You can yell at me in the morning."
And just like that Ben's face opens up: the hurt, the uncertainty, the hope. "I don't want to yell at you."
John purses his lips and glances over his shoulder. Tony's feigning organizing his medical supplies. That little eavesdropping shit. "You said he has to stay up for a while?" John snaps.
Tony looks up innocently. "Yeah. At least for the next six hours. If his vision gets blurry or his head starts to hurt, I want you to go directly to the ER."
John nods and looks back at Ben. And then he leans down and whispers in Ben's ear. "If you're not going to yell at me, maybe I can get you to yell for me."
Ben's eyes are enormous when John pulls back, his mouth open just that little bit in shock. John straightens up and clears his throat. "C'mon, rookie, let's get you home," he says gruffly, turning away and heading towards the car.
He looks behind him once, just to make sure Ben's there.
He is.
They make a stop by the precinct to switch cars and give the shift commander a brief run down. They'll do a full work up in the morning. They leave Ben's motorcycle and take Amy instead. On the drive to Ben's place, John rolls down the windows and puts Frank Sinatra on low.
Ben's slumped in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Every ten minutes or so John touches Ben's forearm just to have Ben turn his head and open his eyes. His smile is small, but genuine. He's removed the bloody tissue from his nose, but his face has definitely taken a beating.
John could break someone for that.
Driving through L.A. during prime time is a nightmare, and it takes almost an hour and a half just to get Ben home. By the time they pull into Ben's driveway, the sun's almost set. John takes Ben's keys out of his hand, fumbling with the locks when Ben wraps an arm around his waist and rests his head on John's back.
The weight feels good. "You're tired," John says.
"Not that tired," Ben's words are muffled against John's shirt.
"Tony said --" John begins as Ben's other hand slides around and both of Ben's hands begin fumbling with John's pants.
"Tony said you had to keep me awake," Ben says, unzipping John's pants and sliding a hand inside. His fingers brush against John's bare thigh before moving back and rubbing John's cock leisurely through his briefs.
John clutches Ben's keys in his hand. "Ben."
"You said something about making me scream," Ben mumbles. He's mouthing John's shoulder through his shirt.
John places both hands on the door and pushes back, feeling Ben pressing up against him. Feeling Ben's erection rubbing up against his ass. He… he could do that with Ben. Maybe not tonight. But one day.
"John?"
John shakes his head. "You. Inside. Now," he orders, extracting himself from Ben and handing over the keys.
"What's wrong?" Ben teases, turning the tumblers in the last lock. "Can't open the door and get a hand job at the same time?"
John puts his mouth right next to Ben's ear. "No, can't open the door, shove you down on the floor and fuck your perfect ass at the same time."
Ben's still staring at him when the door swings open and the security alarm goes off.
John smiles toothily. "You gonna get that or do I need to call 911?"
Ben's grin is all predatory. "I heard if you dial 911, you can make a cop come."
John just laughs.
John wants to take his time, go slow. Peel off Ben's shirt, his pants, his underwear and put his mouth on every last bruise, lick every scar, learn what makes Ben's breath hitch and what makes him moan. What happens is more like assault by mouth.
The minute they're inside Ben's front hall and the alarm's been turned off, John shoves him against the wall, insinuates his leg between Ben's thighs and revisits the first time Ben showed up at his house, kissed him and turned his world upside down.
Ben's eyes go dark as John leans in and brushes his mouth against Ben's. Ben's tongue flickers out, slips along John's bottom lip and John captures it with his teeth.
Ben's fingers tangle in John’s hair, and John lifts him up, takes firm hold of his ass and lets Ben ride his thigh, feeling how hard Ben is, how he's trying to wrap his leg around John. Just trying to get enough.
And then it's Ben pushing John away, and John bangs against the opposite wall. A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "I am so fucking tired of you not being naked," he says, kicking off his shoes and yanking his shirt over his head.
John just stares at Ben as the shirt falls from his hand and lands on the hardwood floors. Ben's shirtless in the hall of his million dollar home, waiting for him.
Under John's gaze, Ben pops the button on his jeans and shoves them down to his knees and kicks them off. Then he hooks his fingers into the boxer briefs, and John's hand shoots out and grabs Ben's wrist. "Stop," he says. "I'll do it."
Ben exhales this long shaky breath, and then he closes the space between them and kisses John again. The first kiss is just a hard press of lips, and then it’s Ben sucking on John's bottom lip, and then there's another kiss and another. John can't keep up with Ben's mouth on his and Ben's mouth on his chin, his neck, and then Ben's fingers are unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling with the white buttons as he exposes John bit by bit.
Every button opened is followed by Ben's mouth on John's bare skin, licking, nipping, and Ben watching John as Ben moves down until he's on his knees.
John's hands ghost over Ben's scalp, over the fine hair and the soft skin of his forehead. When Ben's hands go to his zipper, John stills him again. "Not tonight."
Ben's forehead wrinkles. "You are going to take these off though, right?"
John tugs Ben to his feet, reaches down and palms Ben through his underwear. "It's very important to you that I take off my clothes, isn't it?"
"Do you... know... how... fuck," Ben's breathing is harsh. Forced. His hips are rolling into John's hand, and when John tightens his grip just that little bit, Ben makes this keening noise and his hand clamps down on John's wrist. John gives him an amused grin.
"Are you unhappy with my performance?" he mocks.
Ben shakes his head. "Do you know how hard it is to get you naked?" he grits out. "I just - fuck."
John can feel the surprise on his face. "You're getting laid on a pretty regular basis, but you're upset that I'm not naked."
Ben's looks somewhere near John's right shoulder. "Yeah. I just..." Ben's voice dies off and John has to parse it together himself.
Ben's… exposed.
John licks his lips before tugging his hand free of Ben's hold. He unfastens the buttons at his wrists, and then pulls his shirt the rest of the way off, letting it fall on the floor near Ben's.
And then he turns around and walks into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead lighting.
"Where are you going?" Ben asks as John pulls out a stool and sits down.
"I'm taking off my shoes," John says matter of factly, removing his left boot and then his right. "Boots don't just come off on their own," he adds, removing his socks and wriggling his toes.
He stands up and raises his eyebrows at Ben, who seems to be all eyes and no lip. When John unfastens his own pants, pushes them down to his ankles and steps out of them, he can hear Ben's deep inhalation.
"I'm not fucking you in the kitchen," he says, beckoning Ben over. "At least not the first time. However..."
John finishes his 'however' by hooking a finger into waistband of Ben's boxer briefs, sliding his hand inside and wrapping his hand around Ben's cock. It's only his other hand on Ben's ass that keeps Ben up when his legs buckle. "Oh, fuck, John." Ben wraps a hand around John's bicep and digs in his nails as John jerks him off.
"I've been thinking about this," John says quietly as Ben gasps against his bare shoulder. Ben makes these soul-destroying groans as John's fingers cup his balls, roll them and then his hand moves back as far it can go, rubbing, pressing. Ben rises up on his toes, spreading his legs just a little more, but it's the wrong angle and the underwear is too confining, much to Ben's very vocal dismay.
John can do something about that.
One minute they're standing in the middle of the kitchen, and the next John's got Ben bent over his kitchen island with his underwear down around his ankles.
"You want me to do this," John says, getting to his knees very slowly. His back'll be okay if he doesn't rush it. He's waited too long to rush now.
Ben has a long white scar that extends from just above the curve of his right ass cheek to two inches down the back of his thigh. John traces it with his fingers. "What happened?"
"Life," Ben says. It's a reminder from that day when he was ten. John would put money on it. "Don't fall through glass tables."
John inhales sharply, he can feel Ben quivering as John kisses his way down the scar, leaving little red suck marks in his wake.
He spreads Ben open with both hands, absorbing the shudders when Ben's whole body quakes. John licks at the juncture of Ben's left thigh and then at his right, laving at his scar. Ben shudders again, and then John blows air softly over Ben's asshole and Ben makes this choking noise. "Fu - fuck."
"Eventually," John says before blowing again.
Ben makes the same choking noise, and John lets go with one hand to suck on his middle and index finger. He rubs the saliva over Ben's hole and something falls with a clatter. "You okay?" he says, looking at the straining line of Ben's back.
"You want me to talk?" Ben asks incredulously.
John chuckles and rubs more. Teasing. Brushing. Sucking on his fingers, rubbing and repeating over and over again. Ben whimpers, sometimes softly, sometimes muffled.
"I want you," John says with blatant honesty. "I want you to tell me what you want. I want you to be loud. I want everything," he admits. It's easier to say it when he's not looking at Ben, and then he spreads Ben opens again and replaces his fingers with his mouth and something lands on the floor really loudly.
It's possible that it shatters.
John doesn't stop, his tongue pressing and licking, spitting, pressing in more, taking what he wants. He listens for the gasping, moaning cues coming from Ben and the way that Ben keeps pushing back and then pulling away.
John moves his hands from Ben's ass to his hips, holding him still until Ben pries the fingers of one hand away from his hip and wraps them around his cock. Ben's skin is hot under John's palm, the head of his dick slick. Ben clamps his own hand down over John's, and John stands up, pulling Ben back again him as Ben fucks both their fists.
Their hands are a blur of motion, the finger pads of Ben's other hand digging into the counter as John holds him close and talks him through it. He's beautiful. And perfect. And John wants him. He wants him so much. John cranes his head down, lets Ben bury his face in John's neck, begging please. Please.
Ben's entire body wracks with it when he comes, semen landing on the counter and their hands. When John lets him go, Ben collapses on the kitchen island, resting his head on his forearms.
John strokes his back and lets him recover. Everything Ben does, he gives everything to.
It's amazing. And not a little unsettling.
There are long minutes where the only sound is Ben's harsh inhalations, and then they too even out and he stands up and turns around. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, but he has that smile on his face. The one that makes John's long neglected cock think that now, finally, it's going to get some attention.
What John gets is a hand on his chest pushing him backward and another on his wrist directing him. He takes one step back. And then another. "Where are - where the fuck am I going?" John says, trying to look over his shoulder.
"Look at me," Ben says. "Trust me." It's an order. It sounds like an order. John does it.
John lets Ben lead him backwards down a hall, a turn, through a doorway and then John knows where he is. Knows that huge piece of bluegreenorange art and those messy sheets. They stand there beside Ben's bed and then Ben opens the nightstand drawer and pulls out three things: a box of condoms, a bottle of lube and a white piece of paper.
He hands John the paper first. "What's this?" John asks, opening the paper and scanning it quickly and then a lot slower. A name, a date, a Social Security Number, a blood type, and results. Lots of results. All of them negative.
"You… you got tested," John says, looking up at Ben closely.
Ben shrugs. "I wanted to know. I thought you might want to know too."
John sits down on the bed hard. "You didn't have to do that," he says handing Ben the paper. "I trust you to tell me. I don't have a paper, but if you --"
Ben's eyes crinkle at the corners as he pushes John flat on the bed. "I trust you, too," he says straddling John's hips. "I'd be a lot happier if you'd take off this fucking underwear though."
John snorts. "Well I'd be a lot happier with my cock up your ass, so we're even."
Ben's mouth falls open a little and then there's that smile. That predatory one. And the next thing John knows, he's been separated from his briefs and Ben's dumping lube all over both of their hands.
"You do know this isn't lotion?" John says, wiping a liberal amount on Ben's sheets. He reaches for the condoms, but he gets distracted when Ben ignores him, rising up on his knees and reaching behind himself.
John doesn't have to see it happening to know exactly what Ben's doing; the way his arm is pistoning slowly is pretty obvious. He can feel his own lips parting in surprise. The angle looks a little off, but Ben seems pretty happy with it, and even happier when he does something else, probably adding a second finger if the way he's wriggling and the little groans are any indication.
It's so pornographic that for long seconds, all John can do is watch. The twist of Ben's shoulders, the tilt of his hips. The way his breathing stutters.
John reaches out and stops him. "You're going show me your technique later," he says, his voice scratchy, "right now, though," and then he removes Ben's fingers and replaces them, slowly, with one of his own.
Ben's makes this long groan as he rises up on John's finger and then slides back down. "Okay?" John asks.
In answer, Ben plants a hand on John's chest and begins riding his finger in earnest. If John was shocked before, now he's speechless. The grip of Ben around his finger, the heat, the way Ben's head falls back and he gives this little cry when John crooks his finger just so.
"More," Ben snaps, and John just shakes his head and gives him another finger, twisting them slightly, first one way and then another looking for that perfect angle. And then Ben's face goes slack and he inhales sharply. "Oh, god, that's good," he breathes, stroking his cock.
John's entire brain goes blank, there is nothing else but this and all he can do is watch as Ben's entire chest flushes with the effort of him riding John's fingers and jerking himself off.
John's cock twitches against his stomach, neglected, and John has to get resituated. He strokes his own cock a few times, and Ben actually stops what he's doing to watch John's hand moving up and down. He reaches a bit further, tugs on his balls, and Ben's hand reaches down and stops him. "Now," he says simply.
One thing leads to another and several moments later, John finds himself with a condom on and Ben's hand around the base of his cock, holding on as he lowers himself slowly onto John's dick.
It's too much to look at when he can feel the heat and tightness beginning to consume him, but when he closes his eyes, everything becomes so overwhelming that he has to watch, that he has to get as much as he can.
His fingers slide up Ben's thighs to anchor his ass, straining to brush against that pale scar and hold Ben as he slides down slowly. Too slowly. He's so unyielding that John can hardly breathe. And then he's down, cock at half-mast and eyes locked on John's own.
And then Ben rolls his hips, grinding his ass against John and making John see little stars. Ben rises up again, only about half way and slams back down. John's eyes roll back in his head and all he can do is hold on as Ben Sherman fucks himself on John's cock.
His fingers tighten on Ben's ass automatically, this is nothing like he thought it would be. God. Ben wants, and he's taking and John's been waiting and not ever did he think he'd be at Ben's mercy like this. That he'd be held still by Ben's moans and Ben's litany of "more" and "harder" and "please, god, John, please" as John’s balls slapped against Ben's ass.
And then he realizes that he's not at any anybody's mercy. That Ben's just as caught as he is. It's all over his face and the breathless noises he's making. When John slides his hands up Ben's ribs, his thumbs brushing over Ben's nipples, Ben's entire body shakes.
John can get Ben to lean in for a kiss with just a look, and then he rolls Ben onto his back, pins his wrists beside his head and fucks Ben until Ben comes all over himself with a cry. Without anyone touching him at all. The white splatters stand out in relief against Ben's flat stomach and golden skin. John lets go of Ben's left wrist just to rub his fingers through the semen on Ben's stomach, which makes Ben groan loudly.
It's only after Ben has come that John really begins to get what he wants: the pliable nature of Ben Sherman. Ben soft and happy and reaching for him. Ben spreading his legs more and begging. Demanding that John fuck him. What he wants is Ben underneath him, gazing up at John like everything starts and ends with them.
And then his orgasm sneaks up on him like a blow to the back of the head, and he's coming, hard and silent. It's so strong that he can't even make a noise beyond a choked off cry. He tries to avoid crushing Ben, but Ben's limbs are wrapped around him, holding him there, so he guesses it doesn't matter much.
With this, nothing else seems to matter much.
He has to leave early to go home before their shift starts, but he wakes up stuck to the sheets and stuck to Ben and he honestly doesn't want to make the effort. He grunts and buries his head underneath his pillow.
Except now there are fingers drawing patters on his shoulder and he grunts again. "It's 8:35," Ben's voice permeates John's cotton cave. "We have to be in at 10."
John shoves the pillow away and turns in the direction of Ben's voice. Ben's right next to him, his hair everywhere like someone pulled on it for a very long time. He's got a wicked black eye from last night's little party on the corner and a smile that's threatening to split his face in half.
The smile might have something to do with the proprietary hand John has on his ass.
John growls and turns away, but his hand stays where it is. "Fuckin' horny rookie," he grumbles, squeezing Ben's ass.
Ben hoots. "What was that?"
John turns back to Ben and raises an eyebrow. "You heard me," he says around a yawn, propping himself up on his free elbow.
Ben's forehead wrinkles. "Did you really call me a 'horny rookie'?"
John yawns again. "Yeah, I did." He removes his hand to reach out and run the tips of his fingers from Ben's collarbone down to his left nipple. Ben inhales sharply as John tweaks his nipple and then soothes it with his thumb.
Something pokes against John's thigh insistently. Ben's dick.
"You are definitely a horny rookie," he says, shifting his weight, and in three moves pining Ben to the mattress again. "But you're my rookie, so I guess I'll have to deal with it," he says, mock aggrieved.
Ben purses his lips, his cheeks bright with color even as he rubs his dick insistently against John's stomach; John leans down and kisses him anyway.
There's a faint ache in his lower back from all the acrobatics, but it's nothing compared to what he's used to. This - this he can live with.
"That seat's not too hard, is it?" John asks blandly on their way to lunch.
It's a little after three in the afternoon, and they're heading to Machos Tacos in Los Feliz. The sky is overcast and the air cool. For L.A. it's almost chilly, but it's October; the weather is typical. John only has the windows down halfway.
A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "It's fine."
"That's good."
Silence.
"You feel all right?" John baits again. "Not too tired?"
The muscle jumps again. "I feel fine."
John pokes his tongue in the corner of his mouth and glances over at Ben. Ben, whose perfectly impassive face and calm demeanor, are driving him up the fucking wall.
John has to give him credit: Ben's gotten through the first five hours of shift flawlessly. He hasn't smiled much. Is just as quick as ever. He was by the book with his first arrest of the day, a prostitute missing four teeth, and in general, is just as pleasant and nondescript as the Academy could possibly want.
And it's annoying as fuck, because John knows Ben has finger-shaped bruises on his hips and a giant mouth-shaped bruise on the inside of his left thigh that perfectly matches John's bite radius.
"You seem real attached to the word 'fine'," John says.
"I think that really depends on your definition of fine," Ben says, shifting in his seat and spreading out his legs.
John swallows and keeps his eyes on the road. Not thinking about his place between those legs just this morning. "And what's your definition of 'fine'?"
"I'm 'fine' with my sore ass as long as we do it again. Tonight would be good."
John slams on the brakes before he breezes through a red light and kills them both in the intersection. "Don’t say shit like that when I'm driving," he snaps irritably.
"You asked."
"Don't let me ask anymore."
"I understand. I wouldn't want to hear about how I want to suck your cock right now either." John shifts in his seat uncomfortably. "Or how I'm thinking about you fucking me over your kitchen table. I mean, I'm thinking about it all the time. In the back of the squad car. In the locker room. My backyard. Your backyard. My sofa. Your sofa. My kitchen. The bathroom."
John reaches out and slaps a hand over Ben's mouth. "You think too much."
Ben says something and John pulls his hand away. "I think about you naked a lot," Ben agrees.
"Jesus, Sherman," John breathes.
And then dispatch crackles over the line. John's never been so grateful for a 7-11 hold-up in his entire life.
Forty-five minutes later, John's got a twenty-two year-old white kid with greasy hair bent over the trunk of the car. He slaps on the handcuffs, sticks the perp in the car, and walks around the front to where Ben's perched on the hood, his cheeks pink.
"What's up with you?" he says. "You didn't even have to run anywhere." Ben mutters something and John has to lean into hear him. "What?"
"I liked watching," Ben says in a low tone.
"Watching what?" John has a very sneaking suspicion he knows what's coming next.
"You think you'd want to handcuff me later?"
It's John's turn to feel warm. "I think, as your training officer, that you need to work on your technique first," he says. He has no idea where that suggestion just came from.
Ben's eyes are bright. "I could do that." His voice is husky and it sends all sorts of inappropriate signals to John's body.
John rubs his forehead. "Sherman, did Freud know about you?"
"Did I say lift your leg?"
"No, but I know you're about-"
"Which is my job. Stop doin' my job. Did I say you could talk?"
"No, but --"
"Boy, you better stop giving me lip."
John sighs. "I didn’t even say anything."
"You better stop trying to turn those blue eyes on me; I'm immune to the charms of anybody between the age of 15 and 65 unless his name is Samuel L. Jackson, Daniel Craig or that fine young thang on Leverage."
"What's Leverage?"
"Boy, don't you watch TV?"
John lifts his head to look at his physical therapist. "Janice, I'm a cop. I get enough sordid shit during the day."
John flinches when he's slapped on the thigh. "What did I tell you about that language?"
John shakes his head and goes back to letting Janice lift his leg.
Janice Scripps is John's physical therapist. She's a 50-something black woman who favors blue streaks in her hair and fuchsia lipstick. She looks about thirty-five, but likes to act as though she's John's mother.
Things might've been a little different if she had been.
"You and my baby left the Marines, left good jobs, with medical, to go out and do stupid shit like being cops and firemen. Budget cuts in the city all screwin' up people's pensions. Military don't never go out of business though -- I'm not playing, John Cooper, you move that leg one more time and I'll break it."
John digs his fingers into the padded therapy bench underneath him and tries to hold still. He hates this part. "Good," Janice says, holding his leg at a 45 degree angle. "Keep it there," she says, letting him go.
Every muscle in his lower back and abs is on fire as he braces his body to keep his leg there.
"Janice."
"Hurts don't it?"
"Fuck, yes."
This time he's expecting it when he gets slapped.
"3...2…1," Janice counts. "And down."
John lowers his leg and then looks over at Janice in her electric blue scrubs with the pink elephants. She would have made an excellent sergeant in the Marines. John's not quite terrified of her, but he doesn't see the point in testing her unnecessarily.
Janice scribbles something down on a piece of paper and then looks up at him. "Okay, you can sit up now."
John sits up and slowly swings his legs over the side of the bench.
"Look at how good you're doing," she says, scribbling something else in a folder. "And you're all happy. First time you came in here, you were the most sour looking white boy I ever saw. Lookin' like you were still mad about the ending of that last Twilight book. What's made you all happy? You got a new woman?'
John blinks. Twilight? What? He shakes his head. "No."
"You got a new man?"
John can feel the tightness around his eyes as Janice closes the folder, sets a pen on top of it and looks up at him. "What makes you think I do that?"
"Baby, this is L.A.," Janice says. "Everybody does something. Long as everybody's consenting and happy, I don’t judge."
"Ah."
"So, that's a 'yeah' then? You got a new man?"
John looks somewhere over Janice's left shoulder. "Yeah, I've got a new man."
"Well, good for you. Now on your feet. I want you to do ten deep knee bends for me, right now."
"I hate those," John says, sliding off the table and moving over to the support bar on the wall.
"I know you do. That's why I said ten and not five."
John scowls and Janice smiles. "Just think of all the things you can do now that you're in therapy that you couldn't do before. I bet your man is real happy."
John shakes his head. "Point," he says, slowly beginning his first bend.
Part IV
Part II
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
"You want to go to the Dodgers game with me next Thursday night?"
Ben looks up from stuffing a handcuffed perp in the back of the car. "Yeah," he says, somewhat distractedly. John gets the impression he could've just asked him to go jump off the Hollywood sign and he wouldn't know the difference
John nods and taps on the rolled down window. "Next time do what the rest of the world does," he advises the forty year-old man they just caught trying to hold-up a porn shop in Thai Town. "Watch your porn on the internets."
"Internet," Ben corrects automatically.
John scowls at him. "Whatever."
It's been a very, very long time since John's been on a date. In fact it was last century, which is kind of scary.
After Laura left him, he went out in the world and made some mistakes, had a few blow jobs in suspect places, gave a few blow jobs in even more suspect places, made a friend or two (Cesar), fucked a friend or two, realized the casual thing was not for him, and pretty much just kept his head down, his back in a brace and got on with it.
And then Ben Sherman came along, and now John's sitting on the upper deck at Dodger Stadium at 7:30 at night with a $10 Dodger Dog and $8 plastic cup of Budweiser.
At least they were generous with the beer.
Next to him, Ben's got ketchup in the corner of his mouth and he's watching the game the way you watch something that you're kind of interested in, but mostly just passing the time while you drink.
"You a big Dodgers fan?" John asks.
Ben looks over at him. "Not really, I'm more of a soccer guy."
"Soccer?" John would be less shocked if Ben had said ice skating.
"What's wrong with soccer?" Ben asks.
"The only people I know who play soccer are Mexicans and that pansy ass David Beckham." Not that John would kick David Beckham out of bed.
"In the rest of the world, soccer is a working class sport. All you need is a ball and a place to run."
"Because you rich fucks are so working class," John mocks.
"Soccer doesn't discriminate. You play hard for ninety minutes." Ben drops his voice when he leans into John. "Plus, soccer players have really good endurance."
John clears his throat, trying to distract his brain from the image of Ben on the go for ninety minutes. He'd like to test that one out. "You still play?" he asks a little gruffly.
"Sometimes, in Griffith Park. It's not like in college though."
"You played in college?"
"All four years."
John can just imagine. Ben shirtless, sweaty and running around with a bunch of other shirtless, sweaty guys his age.
Next to him, Ben takes a long drink from his beer. John watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and then John turns back to the game and tries to remember what the hell sport they're watching.
Ben belches next to him. "I'm going to get another beer, you want one?"
"No, but I need to take a leak," John says, getting up.
He jogs down the steps from the upper deck, gets to the upper level and cuts right for the restroom. There's no line for the men's room, but the line for the women's room is seven deep. He always wonders what the hell they're doing in there that takes so long.
A quick pit stop, and he's on his way back up to their seats when he catches something familiar out the corner of his eye: Sherman, holding two beers and talking to some guy. Ben's got the stoic expression plastered on his face again. John hasn't seen that in ages; he changes direction automatically.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear Cesar teasing him for pissing all over his territory.
"Sherman, who's your friend?" he says, interrupting the conversation.
Ben turns to him, his jaw set. "John Cooper, Justin Gaffney. John's my partner on the force. Justin and I went to school together."
Justin Gaffney is just the sort of guy John could see Ben knowing. Tall, tan, blonde, and reeking head to toe of money and entitlement. John hates him already. He shakes his hand anyway, squeezing just a little bit too hard.
He can see the tightening around Gaffney's eyes until he lets go. "Nice to meet you," John says placidly.
"So you're a cop," Gaffney says.
"That would appear to be the case."
"Must suck. I heard the pay is shit."
Out the corner of his eye, John can see Ben flinch. "It pays enough," John says calmly.
"John's one of the best cops on the beat," Ben interrupts.
"He's biased," John says.
"Ben always thinks well of people," Gaffney agrees. "Always sees the best."
John makes a noncommittal noise. "So, you two went to school together?"
Gaffney coughs. "Yeah, we all thought Ben was going to go to Washington and lobby for civil rights or something. Maybe join the Peace Corps. Everybody on Facebook's gone crazy that he's gone 5-0."
John can feel that smile on the face. The one that tends to make perps sweat. "You talk about it with your little friends on the internets, huh? Is that a real interesting concept for you? That he's out there trying to make the world a better place? What exactly are you contributing to society besides sitting on your ass all day and spending your parents' money?"
Ben sets the beers down on the counter behind Gaffney and moves over toward John. "John, it's cool," he says, trying to get between them. "Everybody has their own thing. Justin's an artist, right? You still doing your art?"
Gaffney's mouth drops open at John's litany. "Yeah, I - I paint. And I donate to charity. I know the commissioner's son."
John snorts. "So while you and your friends measure your tiny dicks, you leave the rest of the world to clean up your fucking messes. Yeah, sounds about right."
"Dude, what the fuck is your problem?!"
"Little shits like you," John spits. "You're my problem."
"Fuck you, man, I'll have your badge."
John can see people around them taking notice. Starting to stare. He steps right into the kid's space and speaks in a very low tone. "Kid, you breathe on my badge and I'll hang your nuts from my rearview mirror."
He only steps back when Ben's hand wraps around his forearm. "C'mon, we're leaving now," he orders.
John shakes him off. "The hell we are, I paid good money for these tickets."
"If you weren't such an asshole, I was gonna invite you up to my dad's box, but fuck that," Gaffney sneers.
John opens his mouth, but Ben speaks first. "Justin, you were an asshole at school, you’re an asshole now. The only difference is that now you're an asshole living in your parent's guest house because even your dad can't stand you."
John follows Ben back to the car, laughing the whole way.
By the time they get back to the car, he's finally run out of steam. The car is stuffy inside, and John turns on the engine and lets the air run full blast.
"Sorry about that," he says perfunctorily.
"No, you're not."
"You're right, I'm not." John takes a moment. "I am sorry it fucked up our date though."
"This was a date?"
John clears his throat.
"John."
John looks over at Ben's and he's got that smile on his face again, that that half-shy, half-sex one. "Yeah, Boo?"
Ben gives him this little sigh, and then he shifts sideways in his seat, pushes up the armrest, reaches out and begins unfastening John's jeans. "You are a terrible date," Ben says, pulling down John's zipper and then sliding his hand under the waistband of his briefs.
John sucks in a breath as Ben's hand wraps around his cock. He tries to move out of the way, to give Ben room, and bangs his arm on the window. He was soft about three seconds ago; that's changing rapidly thanks to Ben's thumb and deft fingers.
"What are you talking about?' he says, groaning in protest as Ben pulls his hand away, banging his elbow on the steering wheel. The car horn blares briefly and they both jump. Ben smiles, spits in his palm and then goes back to the task at hand.
"You bring me to the game, you ignore me to watch it, and then you get in a fight," Ben says. John spreads his legs a little more, his foot catching on the gas. Ben's hand slides a little lower, the glide of movement made slick with precome and spit as his fingers brush against John's balls.
"That guy was an asshole," John grits out, trying to fuck Ben's hand.
"I know," Ben says. "That's why I didn't ask him to use his box in the first place. I'd wanted to bring you to a game months ago." Ben's knee is pressing against John's thigh - there is no room for this -- but when John reaches for him, Ben bats his hand away.
John groans as Ben's thumb works over the head of his cock. "God, Ben."
"You can be so fucking difficult," Ben whispers. John can feel Ben's breath against the side of his face and when he turns, Ben's right there.
He wraps his hand around the back of Ben's head and pulls him in to kiss. Ben tastes like ketchup and beer and bread, and he doesn't kiss John back as much as he licks at his mouth, his hand speeding up as John pants against his lips.
"Jesus, fuck," John gasps as he comes in Ben's hand, his spine softening in that spot that always tends to cause trouble in the first place. The doc would say it's his first two visits to physical therapy; John would call it The Sherman Effect. He won't mention that to his physical therapist, Janice.
John inhales to catch his breath, but ends up coughing instead when Ben holds up his hand and licks his wet, sticky fingers. As John watches, Ben leans back against the passenger door, unfastens his own jeans and slips that same wet, slick hand inside his boxer briefs.
"Oh. Fuck. You." John exhales, pushing himself out of his seat and climbing over Ben, banging his knee on who knows what. "I hate sex in the car," he says, trying to brace himself against the door and shove his hand in besides Ben's at the same time. Their fingers tangle together before John pulls back and man-handles Ben to get his underwear down around his thighs.
"There's no room in here," John bitches. "You couldn't wait twenty minutes? Someone always ends up with a near concussion... god, look at you."
Ben's hand hasn't stopped moving during this entire exercise, his thumb swiping messily over the head of his cock, his hips pistoning into his fist. "What the fuck are you doing?" he protests when John pulls his hand away, only to grunt loudly when John replaces it with his own.
"C'mon, Ben," John says, pausing to spit into his hand before giving Ben's dick long, hard strokes. "I know you want it like this. Hard. Tight. Like you're fucking me. Is that what you're thinking about now?" John asks after a particularly wicked twist of his wrist. "You thinking about fucking me?"
Ben's damp hand clamps down hard on John's forearm. "Yes," he hisses, his body arching and his cock jerking in John's hand as John guides him through it, white splatters landing all over his forearm and hand.
John pulls back and looks down at Ben sprawled out half-naked next to him and the mess all over his own fingers and arm. This is a terrible position to be in.
"You're a shitty influence," he says, carefully opening the glove compartment so it doesn't bang Ben's now-stitch-free arm. He grabs a few napkins and uses them to clean up Ben and then himself. "Horny and relentless, and so hot I'm going to end up getting arrested for public indecency," he complains good-naturedly, pulling himself together and zipping up his pants.
Ben struggles to sit up next to him. "I'm the bad influence?"
"The least you could do is cover yourself up so I don't want to do it again," John begins.
"You don't - don't want to do it again?" Ben interrupts. "Why -"
John covers Ben's mouth with his hand. "The least you can do is cover yourself up so that I can get us home where there's a bed so I don't throw out my back again," he explains. "Unless you want to call your uncle and explain that you were so fucking hot that I had to fuck you in the car and you totally undid all that PT work."
Ben's lips open under John's hand and his tongue flickers over John's palm.
John twitches and pulls his hand away. "Right. You. In the backseat. Now."
Ben grins and holds out his hands. "You could just handcuff me."
A shudder goes from the crown of John's head all the way down to his big toe. "Shut up," he snaps. "Don't move. Don’t breathe. Don't even look at me until we get home."
Ben licks his lips, sits up and fastens his seatbelt. All without saying a word.
John looks him over suspiciously. Oh, Jesus. "Pull up your pants too!" he explodes. Ben's grin is huge, considering he's still exposed.
"God, what did I do to deserve you?" he mutters to Amy's steering wheel as Ben pulls his underwear and pants back up.
A little voice says that he must've done something very, very good.
That night, Ben stays over again. They make out in the kitchen like teenagers. And in the living room, like very horny teenagers. And again in the kitchen, like very horny adults, but there's no sex. The only thing that gets removed until it's time for bed are their shoes and socks.
It's perfectly chaste, except for all the grinding against each other they do in their clothes, and strangely perfect.
John takes a shower and then leaves a clean towel and a change of clothes by the sink for Ben. "I left you some stuff," he says vaguely, waving toward the bathroom when he emerges feeling strangely uncertain.
Ben looks over the back of couch at him and nods, and then he stands up and turns off the TV. John wasn't watching whatever was on, and he stands perfectly still as Ben moves by him on his way to the bathroom. Their hands brush against each other, and then Ben disappears into the bathroom and John looks around his house like he's never even seen it before.
The shower cuts on and John shakes it off. He moves around, tidying up the kitchen and reorganizing his remotes. He opens his front doors, looks up and down the street for a few minutes and then locks up the house and turns off the lights, except for the one in the hall.
He goes to his bedroom, gets into bed and waits. He doesn't wait long. In what could only be considered a brief amount of time, Ben's knocking on his bedroom door, and John clears his throat. "Why the hell are you knocking?" he hollers gruffly.
"Because you closed the door," Ben retorts as he opens the door, steps inside and shuts the door behind him. "Maybe you had your other boyfriend in here, I don't know."
Ben's hair is a damp, fluffy mess and he's wearing the sweatpants John left for him, which makes John strangely pleased. There are rivulets of water still running down his chest, which means that had to be one of the fastest showers on earth.
"I don't have an 'other' boyfriend," John says, watching as Ben crosses towards the bed and then hesitates at the foot.
Ben looks up at him, blue eyes intent. "Do you have 'a' boyfriend?" he asks blithely, his thumb pulling at his waistband belying his cavalier attitude.
John rolls his eyes. "I'm not 12. I don't have boyfriends -- I have a man."
Ben's mouth opens a little bit and then his cheeks flush.
John scoots over to the right side of the bed, giving Ben plenty of room to occupy the place where John normally sleeps. "C'mon, I'm exhausted. Fucking 23 year-olds wearing me out."
The mattress shakes and shifts as Ben climbs in beside him. "I'll be 24 in December," he says, slipping under the covers.
John settles on his stomach as Ben curls up next to him, blocking the light from the lamp on the bedside table.
John reaches out and rubs his thumb over Ben's mouth. His lips are puffy, like he's been kissing someone for a very long time, which is only fitting since John's entire jaw is tight with stubble burn and his nipples are bruised and sensitive from Ben's roving hands. John approves.
"Turn out the light," he says, closing his eyes.
The bed shifts again, the faint glow behind John's eyelids disappears, and then there's a soft exhalation as a hand slides across his back and curls around his waist, pulling him in close.
It's entirely too hot to sleep wrapped up in Ben like this, but John doesn't bother to protest.
The problem with little voices is that they don’t always tell you what you want to hear. Sometimes they tell you things that you're afraid to hear, that you don’t believe and know aren't true, but can't helping picking at anyway. Especially when you've got a Beverly Hills native slumming down in Echo Park.
John James Cooper is a 40 year-old, gay, flatfoot, honorably discharged Marine with a bad back, an ex-wife, a mortgage, and his whole life wrapped up in his job. Being gay is a characteristic that John has, but it's doesn't define him. He may prefer men, but it doesn't mean that he has to have one. He'd like one -- but John's not going to let someone in his life just because he's lonely.
And he's not even that lonely. Not really. Not anymore.
Not when John wakes up at 6 a.m. to see Ben watching him, and then when he opens his mouth to mock, Ben kisses him until he shuts up and falls back asleep again.
Not when, the next time he wakes up, Ben's banging around in his kitchen, making omelets and bacon and hash browns before John's even brushed his teeth.
But Sherman is 23. And mostly straight - although his sexual enthusiasm with John might change that to "somewhat" straight. He's young and rich. He could leave the force anytime and he'd have his whole life ahead of him. If this goes badly, Ben Sherman won't be the one who suffers for it.
Which is why John needs to cool things down with him.
Or at least try to.
That particular resolution lasts four days, three nights - at home, alone -- two dinners that John cancels at the last minute, one physical therapy session that John fabricates, and one very, very, very long shift.
Whether the shift is made long by the missing, possibly kidnapped child that had actually gone down the street to see his grandma, or by the way that every time they get in the car there's another call, John can see the frustration etched into every fiber of Ben's body.
Because it's not just that John's cutting out on their plans, it's the way he's keeping his hands to himself and the way he's not really smiling anymore. The inside of John's jaw is sore from all the times he's bitten his cheek to keep quiet and his palms have little half moon shapes from the effort of not touching. The lack of encouragement, tactile or otherwise, could confuse anybody, and Ben is most definitely confused. And probably a little bit pissed off.
At least, if John were him, he'd be pissed off. He didn't even come up with a good excuse for canceling dinner. He said something about doing his laundry.
And then the shift is over, and they're off the clock. Ben finally opens his mouth to yell or accuse, while John's trying to drive, and they manage to pass by an aggravated assault at the intersection of Washington and Crenshaw that looks like it's about to turn into a full blown riot.
Ben's out of the car before John's even finished throwing it into park. And whether he can't hear John yelling after him to stop or wait, or whether he's just so irritated that he's ignoring John and his stupid behavior, John doesn't know.
What John does know is that is he has to stay behind and yell at dispatch that six-Adam-forty-three has a 34 that's possibly about to become a 404 and they better Code-3 all available units in the area before things really turn out bad.
And in the 36 seconds it takes to do that Ben disappears into a melee of young white guys and young black guys and young Mexicans, and then John's out of the car with his weapon drawn while dispatch is still trying to get him to copy.
John'll be damned if anything happens to Ben Sherman now.
"HANDS UP NOW!" John says, firing a warning shot into the air.
And then things get really crazy.
In the aftermath of an argument over a girl - because it's always about ass, John learned that in the Marines - there are nine arrests, six bloody noses, seven black eyes, two broken iPods, eight broken cell phones and one idiotic kid who ends up with a concussion because he sucker punched Ben when John fired off his warning shot.
The corner is practically vomiting uniforms, and somewhere in the middle are Chickie and Maria, taking names, slapping on handcuffs and talking shit.
"How did I know that I'd find you here?" Chickie says, shaking her head at John. "I thought you two were off duty."
"Rambo over there," John snaps, pointing at Ben sitting with the EMTs, "jumped out of the car when I was still driving it. I swear to god, I'm going to put a choke leash on him and tie him to the car."
Maria whistles low. "Breaking out the sex toys already?"
John scowls at her. "Shut up, Lu."
Maria looks up at him. She's got blunt black bangs and a little nose that wrinkles when she smiles broadly. "You know you have to break them in right when they're young and impressionable like this, or their shit just gets completely out of hand."
John looks from Maria back to where Ben's getting cleaned up. "You know, I think you might be right. You girls got this?"
Chickie nods her head. "Go on and take care of Sherman. But remember he's already injured. If you bang him up more, it won't help."
John flexes his hands. "I'll remember that."
The medic looks up at John as he stalks over to the ambulance. The world is entirely too small, because the medic in question is Mr. Black Glasses from the Brangelina mess.
"Is he okay?" John barks.
Ben's head is tilted back against the side of the ambulance. His eyes are closed, and he's got paper stuffed up his nostrils from a bloody nose.
"Tony," the guy says, offering his hand. "My name's Tony."
"Tony, right now I don't care if your name is Donald fucking Trump. Is. He. Okay?" John can feel his nerves fraying badly. His fingers itch to touch. To check Ben over himself, to see with his own eyes what damage has been done.
"He'll be okay," Tony says, pulling off his latex gloves with a snap. "He's got the makings of a nice shiner, a scratch on that pretty face and a bump on the head. He probably shouldn't sleep for a while. You hear that, Ben?"
Ben lowers his head and opens his eyes. Even with tissue stuffed up his nose and a scrape along his cheekbone, he's still stupidly hot. He's clearly warped John's brain.
"I'm fine," Ben says dully. "I heard you."
John narrows his eyes. "The hell you are. C'mon, I'm taking you home."
Something flares briefly in Ben's face and then it's gone. Shuttered back behind that blank face John hasn't seen in a long time. "I'm fine. Don't we have to do the paper work on this?"
John glares at Tony, who looks away meaningfully. John puts his hand up on the ambulance wall above Ben's head and gets in Ben's face. "If you don't stop almost getting your ass killed, I swear to God I'm going to fuck your shit up, Sherman."
Ben looks up at him defiantly. "Like you care."
John sucks in a breath. He deserved that.
Ben has that look on his face; he's totally itching for a fight. John… is not going to give it to him. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I've been an asshole. I know it -- but you're injured. Let me take you home. You can yell at me in the morning."
And just like that Ben's face opens up: the hurt, the uncertainty, the hope. "I don't want to yell at you."
John purses his lips and glances over his shoulder. Tony's feigning organizing his medical supplies. That little eavesdropping shit. "You said he has to stay up for a while?" John snaps.
Tony looks up innocently. "Yeah. At least for the next six hours. If his vision gets blurry or his head starts to hurt, I want you to go directly to the ER."
John nods and looks back at Ben. And then he leans down and whispers in Ben's ear. "If you're not going to yell at me, maybe I can get you to yell for me."
Ben's eyes are enormous when John pulls back, his mouth open just that little bit in shock. John straightens up and clears his throat. "C'mon, rookie, let's get you home," he says gruffly, turning away and heading towards the car.
He looks behind him once, just to make sure Ben's there.
He is.
They make a stop by the precinct to switch cars and give the shift commander a brief run down. They'll do a full work up in the morning. They leave Ben's motorcycle and take Amy instead. On the drive to Ben's place, John rolls down the windows and puts Frank Sinatra on low.
Ben's slumped in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Every ten minutes or so John touches Ben's forearm just to have Ben turn his head and open his eyes. His smile is small, but genuine. He's removed the bloody tissue from his nose, but his face has definitely taken a beating.
John could break someone for that.
Driving through L.A. during prime time is a nightmare, and it takes almost an hour and a half just to get Ben home. By the time they pull into Ben's driveway, the sun's almost set. John takes Ben's keys out of his hand, fumbling with the locks when Ben wraps an arm around his waist and rests his head on John's back.
The weight feels good. "You're tired," John says.
"Not that tired," Ben's words are muffled against John's shirt.
"Tony said --" John begins as Ben's other hand slides around and both of Ben's hands begin fumbling with John's pants.
"Tony said you had to keep me awake," Ben says, unzipping John's pants and sliding a hand inside. His fingers brush against John's bare thigh before moving back and rubbing John's cock leisurely through his briefs.
John clutches Ben's keys in his hand. "Ben."
"You said something about making me scream," Ben mumbles. He's mouthing John's shoulder through his shirt.
John places both hands on the door and pushes back, feeling Ben pressing up against him. Feeling Ben's erection rubbing up against his ass. He… he could do that with Ben. Maybe not tonight. But one day.
"John?"
John shakes his head. "You. Inside. Now," he orders, extracting himself from Ben and handing over the keys.
"What's wrong?" Ben teases, turning the tumblers in the last lock. "Can't open the door and get a hand job at the same time?"
John puts his mouth right next to Ben's ear. "No, can't open the door, shove you down on the floor and fuck your perfect ass at the same time."
Ben's still staring at him when the door swings open and the security alarm goes off.
John smiles toothily. "You gonna get that or do I need to call 911?"
Ben's grin is all predatory. "I heard if you dial 911, you can make a cop come."
John just laughs.
John wants to take his time, go slow. Peel off Ben's shirt, his pants, his underwear and put his mouth on every last bruise, lick every scar, learn what makes Ben's breath hitch and what makes him moan. What happens is more like assault by mouth.
The minute they're inside Ben's front hall and the alarm's been turned off, John shoves him against the wall, insinuates his leg between Ben's thighs and revisits the first time Ben showed up at his house, kissed him and turned his world upside down.
Ben's eyes go dark as John leans in and brushes his mouth against Ben's. Ben's tongue flickers out, slips along John's bottom lip and John captures it with his teeth.
Ben's fingers tangle in John’s hair, and John lifts him up, takes firm hold of his ass and lets Ben ride his thigh, feeling how hard Ben is, how he's trying to wrap his leg around John. Just trying to get enough.
And then it's Ben pushing John away, and John bangs against the opposite wall. A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "I am so fucking tired of you not being naked," he says, kicking off his shoes and yanking his shirt over his head.
John just stares at Ben as the shirt falls from his hand and lands on the hardwood floors. Ben's shirtless in the hall of his million dollar home, waiting for him.
Under John's gaze, Ben pops the button on his jeans and shoves them down to his knees and kicks them off. Then he hooks his fingers into the boxer briefs, and John's hand shoots out and grabs Ben's wrist. "Stop," he says. "I'll do it."
Ben exhales this long shaky breath, and then he closes the space between them and kisses John again. The first kiss is just a hard press of lips, and then it’s Ben sucking on John's bottom lip, and then there's another kiss and another. John can't keep up with Ben's mouth on his and Ben's mouth on his chin, his neck, and then Ben's fingers are unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling with the white buttons as he exposes John bit by bit.
Every button opened is followed by Ben's mouth on John's bare skin, licking, nipping, and Ben watching John as Ben moves down until he's on his knees.
John's hands ghost over Ben's scalp, over the fine hair and the soft skin of his forehead. When Ben's hands go to his zipper, John stills him again. "Not tonight."
Ben's forehead wrinkles. "You are going to take these off though, right?"
John tugs Ben to his feet, reaches down and palms Ben through his underwear. "It's very important to you that I take off my clothes, isn't it?"
"Do you... know... how... fuck," Ben's breathing is harsh. Forced. His hips are rolling into John's hand, and when John tightens his grip just that little bit, Ben makes this keening noise and his hand clamps down on John's wrist. John gives him an amused grin.
"Are you unhappy with my performance?" he mocks.
Ben shakes his head. "Do you know how hard it is to get you naked?" he grits out. "I just - fuck."
John can feel the surprise on his face. "You're getting laid on a pretty regular basis, but you're upset that I'm not naked."
Ben's looks somewhere near John's right shoulder. "Yeah. I just..." Ben's voice dies off and John has to parse it together himself.
Ben's… exposed.
John licks his lips before tugging his hand free of Ben's hold. He unfastens the buttons at his wrists, and then pulls his shirt the rest of the way off, letting it fall on the floor near Ben's.
And then he turns around and walks into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead lighting.
"Where are you going?" Ben asks as John pulls out a stool and sits down.
"I'm taking off my shoes," John says matter of factly, removing his left boot and then his right. "Boots don't just come off on their own," he adds, removing his socks and wriggling his toes.
He stands up and raises his eyebrows at Ben, who seems to be all eyes and no lip. When John unfastens his own pants, pushes them down to his ankles and steps out of them, he can hear Ben's deep inhalation.
"I'm not fucking you in the kitchen," he says, beckoning Ben over. "At least not the first time. However..."
John finishes his 'however' by hooking a finger into waistband of Ben's boxer briefs, sliding his hand inside and wrapping his hand around Ben's cock. It's only his other hand on Ben's ass that keeps Ben up when his legs buckle. "Oh, fuck, John." Ben wraps a hand around John's bicep and digs in his nails as John jerks him off.
"I've been thinking about this," John says quietly as Ben gasps against his bare shoulder. Ben makes these soul-destroying groans as John's fingers cup his balls, roll them and then his hand moves back as far it can go, rubbing, pressing. Ben rises up on his toes, spreading his legs just a little more, but it's the wrong angle and the underwear is too confining, much to Ben's very vocal dismay.
John can do something about that.
One minute they're standing in the middle of the kitchen, and the next John's got Ben bent over his kitchen island with his underwear down around his ankles.
"You want me to do this," John says, getting to his knees very slowly. His back'll be okay if he doesn't rush it. He's waited too long to rush now.
Ben has a long white scar that extends from just above the curve of his right ass cheek to two inches down the back of his thigh. John traces it with his fingers. "What happened?"
"Life," Ben says. It's a reminder from that day when he was ten. John would put money on it. "Don't fall through glass tables."
John inhales sharply, he can feel Ben quivering as John kisses his way down the scar, leaving little red suck marks in his wake.
He spreads Ben open with both hands, absorbing the shudders when Ben's whole body quakes. John licks at the juncture of Ben's left thigh and then at his right, laving at his scar. Ben shudders again, and then John blows air softly over Ben's asshole and Ben makes this choking noise. "Fu - fuck."
"Eventually," John says before blowing again.
Ben makes the same choking noise, and John lets go with one hand to suck on his middle and index finger. He rubs the saliva over Ben's hole and something falls with a clatter. "You okay?" he says, looking at the straining line of Ben's back.
"You want me to talk?" Ben asks incredulously.
John chuckles and rubs more. Teasing. Brushing. Sucking on his fingers, rubbing and repeating over and over again. Ben whimpers, sometimes softly, sometimes muffled.
"I want you," John says with blatant honesty. "I want you to tell me what you want. I want you to be loud. I want everything," he admits. It's easier to say it when he's not looking at Ben, and then he spreads Ben opens again and replaces his fingers with his mouth and something lands on the floor really loudly.
It's possible that it shatters.
John doesn't stop, his tongue pressing and licking, spitting, pressing in more, taking what he wants. He listens for the gasping, moaning cues coming from Ben and the way that Ben keeps pushing back and then pulling away.
John moves his hands from Ben's ass to his hips, holding him still until Ben pries the fingers of one hand away from his hip and wraps them around his cock. Ben's skin is hot under John's palm, the head of his dick slick. Ben clamps his own hand down over John's, and John stands up, pulling Ben back again him as Ben fucks both their fists.
Their hands are a blur of motion, the finger pads of Ben's other hand digging into the counter as John holds him close and talks him through it. He's beautiful. And perfect. And John wants him. He wants him so much. John cranes his head down, lets Ben bury his face in John's neck, begging please. Please.
Ben's entire body wracks with it when he comes, semen landing on the counter and their hands. When John lets him go, Ben collapses on the kitchen island, resting his head on his forearms.
John strokes his back and lets him recover. Everything Ben does, he gives everything to.
It's amazing. And not a little unsettling.
There are long minutes where the only sound is Ben's harsh inhalations, and then they too even out and he stands up and turns around. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, but he has that smile on his face. The one that makes John's long neglected cock think that now, finally, it's going to get some attention.
What John gets is a hand on his chest pushing him backward and another on his wrist directing him. He takes one step back. And then another. "Where are - where the fuck am I going?" John says, trying to look over his shoulder.
"Look at me," Ben says. "Trust me." It's an order. It sounds like an order. John does it.
John lets Ben lead him backwards down a hall, a turn, through a doorway and then John knows where he is. Knows that huge piece of bluegreenorange art and those messy sheets. They stand there beside Ben's bed and then Ben opens the nightstand drawer and pulls out three things: a box of condoms, a bottle of lube and a white piece of paper.
He hands John the paper first. "What's this?" John asks, opening the paper and scanning it quickly and then a lot slower. A name, a date, a Social Security Number, a blood type, and results. Lots of results. All of them negative.
"You… you got tested," John says, looking up at Ben closely.
Ben shrugs. "I wanted to know. I thought you might want to know too."
John sits down on the bed hard. "You didn't have to do that," he says handing Ben the paper. "I trust you to tell me. I don't have a paper, but if you --"
Ben's eyes crinkle at the corners as he pushes John flat on the bed. "I trust you, too," he says straddling John's hips. "I'd be a lot happier if you'd take off this fucking underwear though."
John snorts. "Well I'd be a lot happier with my cock up your ass, so we're even."
Ben's mouth falls open a little and then there's that smile. That predatory one. And the next thing John knows, he's been separated from his briefs and Ben's dumping lube all over both of their hands.
"You do know this isn't lotion?" John says, wiping a liberal amount on Ben's sheets. He reaches for the condoms, but he gets distracted when Ben ignores him, rising up on his knees and reaching behind himself.
John doesn't have to see it happening to know exactly what Ben's doing; the way his arm is pistoning slowly is pretty obvious. He can feel his own lips parting in surprise. The angle looks a little off, but Ben seems pretty happy with it, and even happier when he does something else, probably adding a second finger if the way he's wriggling and the little groans are any indication.
It's so pornographic that for long seconds, all John can do is watch. The twist of Ben's shoulders, the tilt of his hips. The way his breathing stutters.
John reaches out and stops him. "You're going show me your technique later," he says, his voice scratchy, "right now, though," and then he removes Ben's fingers and replaces them, slowly, with one of his own.
Ben's makes this long groan as he rises up on John's finger and then slides back down. "Okay?" John asks.
In answer, Ben plants a hand on John's chest and begins riding his finger in earnest. If John was shocked before, now he's speechless. The grip of Ben around his finger, the heat, the way Ben's head falls back and he gives this little cry when John crooks his finger just so.
"More," Ben snaps, and John just shakes his head and gives him another finger, twisting them slightly, first one way and then another looking for that perfect angle. And then Ben's face goes slack and he inhales sharply. "Oh, god, that's good," he breathes, stroking his cock.
John's entire brain goes blank, there is nothing else but this and all he can do is watch as Ben's entire chest flushes with the effort of him riding John's fingers and jerking himself off.
John's cock twitches against his stomach, neglected, and John has to get resituated. He strokes his own cock a few times, and Ben actually stops what he's doing to watch John's hand moving up and down. He reaches a bit further, tugs on his balls, and Ben's hand reaches down and stops him. "Now," he says simply.
One thing leads to another and several moments later, John finds himself with a condom on and Ben's hand around the base of his cock, holding on as he lowers himself slowly onto John's dick.
It's too much to look at when he can feel the heat and tightness beginning to consume him, but when he closes his eyes, everything becomes so overwhelming that he has to watch, that he has to get as much as he can.
His fingers slide up Ben's thighs to anchor his ass, straining to brush against that pale scar and hold Ben as he slides down slowly. Too slowly. He's so unyielding that John can hardly breathe. And then he's down, cock at half-mast and eyes locked on John's own.
And then Ben rolls his hips, grinding his ass against John and making John see little stars. Ben rises up again, only about half way and slams back down. John's eyes roll back in his head and all he can do is hold on as Ben Sherman fucks himself on John's cock.
His fingers tighten on Ben's ass automatically, this is nothing like he thought it would be. God. Ben wants, and he's taking and John's been waiting and not ever did he think he'd be at Ben's mercy like this. That he'd be held still by Ben's moans and Ben's litany of "more" and "harder" and "please, god, John, please" as John’s balls slapped against Ben's ass.
And then he realizes that he's not at any anybody's mercy. That Ben's just as caught as he is. It's all over his face and the breathless noises he's making. When John slides his hands up Ben's ribs, his thumbs brushing over Ben's nipples, Ben's entire body shakes.
John can get Ben to lean in for a kiss with just a look, and then he rolls Ben onto his back, pins his wrists beside his head and fucks Ben until Ben comes all over himself with a cry. Without anyone touching him at all. The white splatters stand out in relief against Ben's flat stomach and golden skin. John lets go of Ben's left wrist just to rub his fingers through the semen on Ben's stomach, which makes Ben groan loudly.
It's only after Ben has come that John really begins to get what he wants: the pliable nature of Ben Sherman. Ben soft and happy and reaching for him. Ben spreading his legs more and begging. Demanding that John fuck him. What he wants is Ben underneath him, gazing up at John like everything starts and ends with them.
And then his orgasm sneaks up on him like a blow to the back of the head, and he's coming, hard and silent. It's so strong that he can't even make a noise beyond a choked off cry. He tries to avoid crushing Ben, but Ben's limbs are wrapped around him, holding him there, so he guesses it doesn't matter much.
With this, nothing else seems to matter much.
He has to leave early to go home before their shift starts, but he wakes up stuck to the sheets and stuck to Ben and he honestly doesn't want to make the effort. He grunts and buries his head underneath his pillow.
Except now there are fingers drawing patters on his shoulder and he grunts again. "It's 8:35," Ben's voice permeates John's cotton cave. "We have to be in at 10."
John shoves the pillow away and turns in the direction of Ben's voice. Ben's right next to him, his hair everywhere like someone pulled on it for a very long time. He's got a wicked black eye from last night's little party on the corner and a smile that's threatening to split his face in half.
The smile might have something to do with the proprietary hand John has on his ass.
John growls and turns away, but his hand stays where it is. "Fuckin' horny rookie," he grumbles, squeezing Ben's ass.
Ben hoots. "What was that?"
John turns back to Ben and raises an eyebrow. "You heard me," he says around a yawn, propping himself up on his free elbow.
Ben's forehead wrinkles. "Did you really call me a 'horny rookie'?"
John yawns again. "Yeah, I did." He removes his hand to reach out and run the tips of his fingers from Ben's collarbone down to his left nipple. Ben inhales sharply as John tweaks his nipple and then soothes it with his thumb.
Something pokes against John's thigh insistently. Ben's dick.
"You are definitely a horny rookie," he says, shifting his weight, and in three moves pining Ben to the mattress again. "But you're my rookie, so I guess I'll have to deal with it," he says, mock aggrieved.
Ben purses his lips, his cheeks bright with color even as he rubs his dick insistently against John's stomach; John leans down and kisses him anyway.
There's a faint ache in his lower back from all the acrobatics, but it's nothing compared to what he's used to. This - this he can live with.
"That seat's not too hard, is it?" John asks blandly on their way to lunch.
It's a little after three in the afternoon, and they're heading to Machos Tacos in Los Feliz. The sky is overcast and the air cool. For L.A. it's almost chilly, but it's October; the weather is typical. John only has the windows down halfway.
A muscle in Ben's jaw twitches. "It's fine."
"That's good."
Silence.
"You feel all right?" John baits again. "Not too tired?"
The muscle jumps again. "I feel fine."
John pokes his tongue in the corner of his mouth and glances over at Ben. Ben, whose perfectly impassive face and calm demeanor, are driving him up the fucking wall.
John has to give him credit: Ben's gotten through the first five hours of shift flawlessly. He hasn't smiled much. Is just as quick as ever. He was by the book with his first arrest of the day, a prostitute missing four teeth, and in general, is just as pleasant and nondescript as the Academy could possibly want.
And it's annoying as fuck, because John knows Ben has finger-shaped bruises on his hips and a giant mouth-shaped bruise on the inside of his left thigh that perfectly matches John's bite radius.
"You seem real attached to the word 'fine'," John says.
"I think that really depends on your definition of fine," Ben says, shifting in his seat and spreading out his legs.
John swallows and keeps his eyes on the road. Not thinking about his place between those legs just this morning. "And what's your definition of 'fine'?"
"I'm 'fine' with my sore ass as long as we do it again. Tonight would be good."
John slams on the brakes before he breezes through a red light and kills them both in the intersection. "Don’t say shit like that when I'm driving," he snaps irritably.
"You asked."
"Don't let me ask anymore."
"I understand. I wouldn't want to hear about how I want to suck your cock right now either." John shifts in his seat uncomfortably. "Or how I'm thinking about you fucking me over your kitchen table. I mean, I'm thinking about it all the time. In the back of the squad car. In the locker room. My backyard. Your backyard. My sofa. Your sofa. My kitchen. The bathroom."
John reaches out and slaps a hand over Ben's mouth. "You think too much."
Ben says something and John pulls his hand away. "I think about you naked a lot," Ben agrees.
"Jesus, Sherman," John breathes.
And then dispatch crackles over the line. John's never been so grateful for a 7-11 hold-up in his entire life.
Forty-five minutes later, John's got a twenty-two year-old white kid with greasy hair bent over the trunk of the car. He slaps on the handcuffs, sticks the perp in the car, and walks around the front to where Ben's perched on the hood, his cheeks pink.
"What's up with you?" he says. "You didn't even have to run anywhere." Ben mutters something and John has to lean into hear him. "What?"
"I liked watching," Ben says in a low tone.
"Watching what?" John has a very sneaking suspicion he knows what's coming next.
"You think you'd want to handcuff me later?"
It's John's turn to feel warm. "I think, as your training officer, that you need to work on your technique first," he says. He has no idea where that suggestion just came from.
Ben's eyes are bright. "I could do that." His voice is husky and it sends all sorts of inappropriate signals to John's body.
John rubs his forehead. "Sherman, did Freud know about you?"
"Did I say lift your leg?"
"No, but I know you're about-"
"Which is my job. Stop doin' my job. Did I say you could talk?"
"No, but --"
"Boy, you better stop giving me lip."
John sighs. "I didn’t even say anything."
"You better stop trying to turn those blue eyes on me; I'm immune to the charms of anybody between the age of 15 and 65 unless his name is Samuel L. Jackson, Daniel Craig or that fine young thang on Leverage."
"What's Leverage?"
"Boy, don't you watch TV?"
John lifts his head to look at his physical therapist. "Janice, I'm a cop. I get enough sordid shit during the day."
John flinches when he's slapped on the thigh. "What did I tell you about that language?"
John shakes his head and goes back to letting Janice lift his leg.
Janice Scripps is John's physical therapist. She's a 50-something black woman who favors blue streaks in her hair and fuchsia lipstick. She looks about thirty-five, but likes to act as though she's John's mother.
Things might've been a little different if she had been.
"You and my baby left the Marines, left good jobs, with medical, to go out and do stupid shit like being cops and firemen. Budget cuts in the city all screwin' up people's pensions. Military don't never go out of business though -- I'm not playing, John Cooper, you move that leg one more time and I'll break it."
John digs his fingers into the padded therapy bench underneath him and tries to hold still. He hates this part. "Good," Janice says, holding his leg at a 45 degree angle. "Keep it there," she says, letting him go.
Every muscle in his lower back and abs is on fire as he braces his body to keep his leg there.
"Janice."
"Hurts don't it?"
"Fuck, yes."
This time he's expecting it when he gets slapped.
"3...2…1," Janice counts. "And down."
John lowers his leg and then looks over at Janice in her electric blue scrubs with the pink elephants. She would have made an excellent sergeant in the Marines. John's not quite terrified of her, but he doesn't see the point in testing her unnecessarily.
Janice scribbles something down on a piece of paper and then looks up at him. "Okay, you can sit up now."
John sits up and slowly swings his legs over the side of the bench.
"Look at how good you're doing," she says, scribbling something else in a folder. "And you're all happy. First time you came in here, you were the most sour looking white boy I ever saw. Lookin' like you were still mad about the ending of that last Twilight book. What's made you all happy? You got a new woman?'
John blinks. Twilight? What? He shakes his head. "No."
"You got a new man?"
John can feel the tightness around his eyes as Janice closes the folder, sets a pen on top of it and looks up at him. "What makes you think I do that?"
"Baby, this is L.A.," Janice says. "Everybody does something. Long as everybody's consenting and happy, I don’t judge."
"Ah."
"So, that's a 'yeah' then? You got a new man?"
John looks somewhere over Janice's left shoulder. "Yeah, I've got a new man."
"Well, good for you. Now on your feet. I want you to do ten deep knee bends for me, right now."
"I hate those," John says, sliding off the table and moving over to the support bar on the wall.
"I know you do. That's why I said ten and not five."
John scowls and Janice smiles. "Just think of all the things you can do now that you're in therapy that you couldn't do before. I bet your man is real happy."
John shakes his head. "Point," he says, slowly beginning his first bend.
Part IV