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Matt throws the covers and rolls over to his stomach.
"Whatever," he says, mumbled, his face buried in Ben's pillow. "It doesn't matter."
"Matt," Ben mumbles, reaching towards him without thought. He peppers a kiss onto Matt's shoulder, forgets the argument for a second.
Matt turns around skillfully beneath the thick sheets, facing Ben once again. "They're gonna catch on anyway."
"So let them," Ben says, his hand running into Matt's golden hair softly. "We don't owe it to them to explain anything."
Matt leans in to the touch but disputes verbally at once: "I don't wanna just be your friend." He pets the hair on Ben's chest and sighs. "What are you, scared?"
"Am I afraid of the ruthless claws of the barbarous media scratching me for dating a man fifteen years my junior?" Ben asks, smiling. "Yeah, a little. Especially when they find out you're producing—"
"Oh, who cares," Matt moans, planting his lips to Ben's cheekbone. "Wouldn't it be nice?" He whispers as his hand comes up to pet at Ben's beard gently. Their eyes meet and Matt knows just how to make Ben melt: slow blinks and his pouty bottom lip. "Going to premieres together." He kisses Ben once, quickly. "Getting a house in Brooklyn or something. Maybe we could even go back to Cambridge. To Boston." His hand rolls down, thumb soothing across the jut of his jaw. "We could go out together. Have some real dates."
Ben wraps an arm around Matt's bare waist. "We go on plenty of dates," he mumbles, leans in close for a pushy kiss.
Matt raises an eyebrow because Ben knows just as well as him that that's bullshit; paying off waiters at Nobu to not spill their location doesn't exactly set the mood for romance. Their hands stay in their laps, not a single hold or kiss. Too risky even with the dim lights and the corner table.
"Hollywood's new It Couple," Matt teases, strumming his fingertips across Ben's neck, smiling when that familiar chill visibly trills through Ben's spine. "We'd blow Brangelina out of the water."
Ben is weak, grips tighter into Matt's waist and hopes it may go unnoticed (it never does). "They'll call me a pervert," he sighs, attempting a chuckle, and closes his eyes to stay honest without seeing Matt's reaction. "More than they already do."
"You care too much about what those fuckwads think," Matt mumbles, bringing his lips to Ben's neck and pressing down soft and wet.
"Fuckwads?"
Matt laughs out and nods. "Fuckwads," he confirms, rounding his palm around Ben's shoulder. "You deserve to have your own life, Ben. And I get it: you're in great movies, you write great movies, you're hot, you've got a big dick—"
"Matty," Ben cackles, blowing a raspberry into his neck.
Matt laughs, smacks down on Ben's bicep teasingly. "But you're still a person. They don't know you. They— they shouldn't control you life."
"They don't," Ben murmurs unconvincingly, kisses Matt again. "I wouldn't be here with you right now if they did."
Matt rolls his eyes. "Ah, yes. The isolated bungalow you bought so nobody in the entire world would ever know we're here together. Fuck everything, lets just spend the rest of our days right here. I'm sure we can pay someone to deliver us groceries—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You big baby." Ben pinches Matt's hip and tuts. "You liked it when we toured it."
"It's a beautiful house. I love the house. The house isn't the issue, Ben." His hand tracks to Ben's chest, stroking the hair there like it's some kind of stress-reliever. He kisses Ben's neck again, lingers at a mole.
("It's on five acres?" Ben asked the realtor again as they walked up to the entrance.
"Yes, five acres. You have a few neighbors, but it's very private." She unlocked the front door. "You've got a spectacular view of the mountains in just about every room."
Ben drowned her out a little as soon they walked in. Unlike every house they'd seen so far, this place had personality: knotted wood, vaulted ceilings, brass doorknobs.
"Jesus," Matt murmured, looking out the large window by the bar nook.
Something would need to be terribly wrong for Ben to not buy it, cash, on the spot.
They toured the rest of the home and took their sweet time — thirty-five minutes despite its meager 800 square feet. Once they were stood on the deck, looking at the sun softly falling behind the mountains, surrounded by desert and cacti, Ben walked up behind Matt and wrapped his arms around his waist.
Matt leaned into the touch, took Ben's hand to kiss.
"What d'you think?" He whispered before pressing his mouth to the side of Matt's face.
Matt squeezed Ben's fingers, chuckled with disbelief. "It's incredible," he murmured. "Far, though. From the city."
Ben shrugged. "It's a beautiful drive." He nipped at Matt's jaw, breathed him in. "Could be like our little escape."
"Wouldn't have to shove a sock in your mouth to keep you quiet," Matt said, low, awarded with a bite to his neck in response. "Not my fault the Hilton takes noise complaints so seriously."
"That was one time," Ben laughed. "You like it? The house?"
"I like it," Matt emphasized and turned around until they were face-to-face, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Ben gently. "You like it?"
"I really fucking like it," he said, kissed back easily.)
"I'll still show you off," Ben whispers as Matt begins kissing down his chest. "You'll basically be my date."
Matt looks up, flattens his tongue against Ben's chest hair and licks. "I dont think it counts if we arrive in separate cars."
Ben wraps his arms around Matt. "Doesn't it?" He breathes in sharply when Matt drifts down further, presses his teeth into the meat of his pec. "You can't use sex to—"
"Can't I?" Matt says, smug, sucking his kisses down until Ben's nipple is warm in his mouth.
The second Matt's hand slides down his hip, Ben knows he's fucked. It's his curse. He's weak for him and Matt knows it, the fucker. This is all on purpose; Ben sees it coming from a mile away but can't bring himself to turn the wheel.
"Are you ever embarrassed?"
Ben squeezes his eyes shut, nails dug into Matt's traps. "Why? Of what?" His cock is swelling slowly while Matt's hand moves in closer as he continues to nip, bite, lick at his nipple.
Matt's hand forms around Ben's testicles, thumbs across his raphe. He's rewarded immediately by a low, tired moan. "Of how easy you are."
"Fuck off," Ben mutters, hiking up a knee to frame Matt's body.
"So catty," Matt tuts, sucking a light mark against Ben's pec. "If you're not gonna let us come out, the least you can do is be nice to me." He bites down hard enough for Ben to cringe, shocking into himself.
It's hot under the sheets. A droplet of condensation runs down Ben's thigh, paints him uncomfortable. His nails drag down Matt's shoulder. He feels like crying before they've even done anything at all. "It's just— it's complicated, Matty. I'm not saying never."
Matt somehow hums sardonically, gives Ben's testicles a squeeze. "Before The Accountant comes out?" He suggests, a whisper.
That's in seven months. Seven months to prepare the world in slow bits that he's dating again, that it's the guy everybody's been seeing him with, that this guy is one of the producers on The Accountant, that he's going to have to accept interview questions about something, someone, deeply personal to him for the next x amount of years. Seven fucking months. That's it? That's his prep time?
"I don't know," he trembles, hand coming up to grip into Matt's hair.
Matt is guilty of cruel and unusual punishment; he feels around, rounds Ben's tip with his hand, and digs the rounded ridge of his thumb's fingernail into Ben's slit.
Ben's neck stretches out, dreaded cry leaving his chest. "Matt," he whimpers, throbbing, the pain sharp.
"Seven months," Matt breathes, kissing down Ben's chest until he's sucking at his abdomen, finally rolling the duvet off both of them. "You always listen so well for me," he manages between breaths, reaching one hand up to twitch his nipple. "You can do this for me, right?"
God, Ben is fucked. He knew it from the day they met, really, but Matt keeps proving it to him, over and over. He can't answer, can't find it in himself to shake or nod his head.
Matt squeezes Ben's tip tightly, looks up at him innocently. "Right?"
Ben whimpers, digs his nails into Matt's scalp, rounds his back off of the bed in delicious agony. "Yes, yes," Ben agrees, nodding forcefully. "Okay, yes— We— I'll bring you. As my date. My partner," he strains, Matt's fist unrelenting, squeezing still.
"You mean it?"
"For fuck's sake, yes. I'll do it, I promise, I will," he whines, hips shifting, hands coming up to his face now to hide himself out of shame. This definitely counts as manipulation, he thinks briefly as Matt finally releases his grip. Fuck, he really is easy.
"My good boy, good Ben," Matt murmurs, his mouth exploring down until he's got his lips warmly wrapped around the tip he was just borderline abusing.
"Oh my God, I love you," Ben breathes, opens his eyes again and sees Matt's lips spread around him. Matt is so unbelievably worth it. "You're a fucking asshole, but I love you."
Matt laughs around his cock, pulls off with a decent trail of spit following him. "Love you too."
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Ben has been waking up to headlines assuming or insinuating his and Matt's relationship for over a year now.
Ben Affleck and up-and-coming actor Matt Damon spotted getting personal at Starbucks
Young actor Matt Damon gushes about Ben Affleck's acting advice: "He's always just a phone call away."
Ben Affleck and Matt Damon share bro hug on the red carpet
Ben Affleck on his newest protege, Matt Damon: "He's the kind of kid you write a movie for."
Matt Damon seen on the set of The Accountant, insider shares his adorable friendship with Affleck
This morning, as he's making coffee for them both and reaching into the fridge for a container of likely-expired yogurt, he is horribly reminded of the promise he made while Matt was torturing him seven months ago.
Today is the day. October 10th. Premiere day. In mere hours, he'll be standing next to Matt and allowing the hoards of press he's vaguely afraid of to make their own assumptions powered by intention. It makes him desperately want to pour a few glugs of whiskey into his light roast.
But he hasn't had a drink in well over a month now, took Matt's threat to leave as a real reason to change, and reluctantly checked into rehab. Remarkably, the press he's so afraid of hadn't caught wind of his month-long stint in the facility. This is not about to force him back there.
Realistically, Ben is afraid of becoming a frequent rehab flyer. The odds are not in his favor. It's a harrowing realization every time he manages to crash back off of the wagon: this is it, this will always be it. There will always be a part of him that clings onto something he can't have.
(The first day he came back, Matt had been so excited to see Ben acting like himself again that he didn't stop talking the entire three hour car ride back to their place. His hand rested on the inside of Ben's knee, just glad to have him close again, asking about all the wonderful things Ben wanted to do with his new-found freedom.
Ben could only think about cuddling up beneath the blanket Matt's mom knit them for Christmas and watching shitty rom-coms until they both wanted to puke from cliches. So that's what they did. Ben fell asleep with Matt in his arms and had never been so at peace.)
He takes a breath, grabs a banana and a bowl, and tries not to think. Remind yourself what you're doing this for.
Like a savior, Matt walks in with a towel wrapped around his waist. "You okay?" He asks immediately as he rubs Ben's back with a gentle push.
Ben shuts his eyes and leans on the counter, breathing shallow and exhausted. "Yeah. I think so," he says, half-lie, before turning his head to plant a kiss to Matt's cheek. "Just tired."
Matt leans his cheek against Ben's shoulder, wraps his arm around his waist. "We don't have to do it," he whispers, breaking the tension into shards. "You've had a lot of shit going on, Ben. We really don't have to do it."
Something shallow knows that if he doesn't do it now, he may never get around to it. And Matt means to much to him to lose, too much to be another thing he can't have. "No, it's okay. I promised, didn't I?" Ben attempts a smile and knows immediately that it comes off horrendous, crooked and stressed.
"I'm giving you permission to break this one," Matt says softly, pulls him close.
"No, no. We're gonna— we'll do this. What's the worst that can happen?" It's a good question. Ben's brain goes to blacklists, disturbed fans, unnecessary strain, an increase in obsessive intrusion. Pretty bad. He shuts his eyes again and breathes through his nose.
Matt slips between Ben and the counter, smoothing out Ben's t-shirt. "Would it help…" he starts, rounds his palms to Ben's shoulders, rubbing, "…if I told you what to do?"
Ben's eyes open and Matt is smiling so brightly it threatens to blind him. Despite his brooding, his contemplation, Ben finds himself fighting not to smile back. "What, you wanna boss me around on the red carpet?"
"I think TCL has a black carpet," Matt corrects, grinning. "But, yeah. Take a load off, you know? So you don't have to think so much. Always thinking so much," he says, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Ben's temple. "Except when I tell you what to do."
"I'm not confident they're gonna let you fuck my face in front of the theater," Ben teases, but he can feel himself easing up already.
"Maybe not. But I can tell you what to wear," Matt says, kisses Ben's ear, licks at his earlobe. "I can tell you where to walk. How to pose."
"Yeah?" Ben asks, shivering even in the heat. "You would do that for me?"
Matt kisses down open-mouthed until he's got his lips against Ben's Adam's apple, rubbing circles into his shoulders. "Of course, puppy," he says. "Anything for you."
Anything. Ben shivers again, is unfortunately horny despite the fact that he knows he isn't getting shit right now; Matt just showered and Matt never fucks with wet hair. "Hate when you do this," he mumbles, feels Matt's hands wandering until they're tucked against his hips, mouth still hot against his skin.
"Can't handle a few kisses without getting all worked up?"
Ben shakes his head. His dick throbs, no doubt already worked up to a semi. "Could you just— just let me have your hand."
Matt tsks, pets Ben's beard. "You've gotta shave a little before the premiere," he whispers. "The beard's just for me." He sucks on Ben's jaw like he's staking claim on his facial hair, rolls a hand over to his cock. "You want my hand?"
Ben nods, whimpers when Matt palms him on top of his flannel pants. "Please."
"But we've got such a busy day ahead," he tuts, pulls Ben's head down to kiss him once. "Wouldn't want you to use any unnecessary energy."
"Matt, please," Ben murmurs, licks against the side of Matt's tongue in that way he knows he likes, hands back on the counter behind him. "I'll be so fast."
"Oh, I know you will," Matt laughs, nails digging into Ben's nape. "But not right now, baby. Not yet. You gotta be patient for me."
Ben groans, heat pooling in his abdomen because Matt's hand is still giving soft pressure despite his less-than-encouraging words. "You're such a dick."
"Go take a shower," Matt says as he removes his hand. "Don't touch yourself. Come to the bedroom after."
"Shower first?" Ben clarifies, slow-blinking, forgetting all about their lukewarm coffee and the potentially expired yogurt.
Matt nods, rubs his hand across Ben's jaw quickly with a smile spread across his face. "Don't shave yet. I need to say goodbye."
"To my fucking beard?"
"Yes. Now go, I'll see you soon. Don't rush."
Ben limps over to the bathroom, uncomfortably hard, and stares in the mirror. God dammit. Matt's done it again.
He's got this power over him that makes Ben forget, makes him go all woozy and single-minded. It certainly doesn't hurt that he's the hottest person Ben has maybe ever seen, which says a lot given the unfortunate amount of people he's met in his life, but it's more than that. Less than that. Being able to surrender his control forces him to drift off mindlessly while staying so present he'd be able to recite every word Matt said to him.
It's good. It's fucking great, really, is what it is. Even when Matt decides to exercise cruelty and makes him rock hard only to deny him a simple handjob.
His hard-on drops down to a semi while he's in the shower. He's staring at it like he's somehow willing it away by consistent eye contact.
When Ben gets to the bedroom, Matt is perched on the armchair in the corner in a pair of loose joggers and one of Ben's many t-shirts, typing on his phone, and there is a spread of clothing laid out on top of the sheets.
Matt does not look up. Ben is standing in the doorway with nothing but a towel around his waist, picking at his fingernails and waiting for further instruction.
"We're leaving in two hours," Matt says suddenly. "I called Pat to make sure the car would be here by one."
Ben bites down on the inside of his cheek. "Thanks, Matty." He rocks on his heels.
"And I have something for you," he says.
"Oh?"
Matt grins, motions for Ben to step forward. He hands him a small paper bag stuffed with tissue paper. He sits back and waits for Ben and his facade cracks slightly as soon as Ben's fingers begin to reach for the paper. "If you don't like it, I can return it. It's really not a problem. We've never talked about this. If you—"
"Matty," Ben laughs, lightheaded from just watching Matt ramble. "I got it. We can return it if I don't like it."
Matt nods curtly, folds his hands in his lap to pretend like he doesn't care, but his lip biting gives him away easily.
He digs through the layers of tissue paper and feels something soft on the other side, almost satiny, pulls it out slowly and watches the despair on Matt's face spread. Ben blinks in shock when he sees them.
A pair of black, indeed satin, panties. There's a lace panel on each side, a little bow plastered to the front. Ben notices his dick twitch. "Oh," he manages, throat dry.
"I bought them a while ago. When I was in New Mexico. And I— I mean, I saw them at this sex shop and I thought of you," Matt rambles again, his face swiftly running red. "If you don't like it, I can return it." That is obviously a lie now.
"No, no, it's—" Ben fingers the fabric. He chooses to ignore that Matt went to a sex shop in New Mexico. "I've never tried them. Always assumed, y'know—"
"That your dick was too big?"
A blush scatters across Ben's neck in faux humility, but he nods. "Kind of, yeah."
"The girl said these are, uh, made for… well-endowed men," Matt chuckles, points his eyes down to Ben's towel-wrapped dick. "So they should fit. If you like 'em."
"I do," Ben says quietly. "Thank you, Matty."
Matt smile beams against Ben's retinas, proud and adorable. He's so pretty like this, all casual and scruffy. "I thought you could wear them. Under your suit."
"Today?"
Matt nods and crosses his legs, but Ben catches the bulge in his sweats like a prize. "Our little secret."
"Okay," Ben agrees, there comes that mindlessness again, holding onto the underwear as if it's about to fly away. "Should I try them on?"
"No, no, just wait until you're ready to change. Don't let me see."
"What if I want to show you?"
"Don't." Matt stands up at last, his chub painfully obvious. He holds onto Ben's jaw and pulls him close. "Save it for after."
Ben nods, leans forward to kiss Matt quickly and refuses to let it escalate. It's much too easy to let it escalate.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
"I think I'm gonna throw up," Ben says, leaning against the car's leather interior with braced hands. His eyes hurt. His ears are ringing. "Matt, I think I'm gonna fucking throw up."
Matt unbuckles his seatbelt and ignores a pointed look from the driver. He scoots over to Ben, takes his hand in his own. "You're okay," he whispers, soothes circles into the webbing between his thumb and pointer. "I'll be there the whole time."
Ben looks over and barely sees a thing, vision clouded with shine and spirals. His breathing is angry, loud. Why the fuck is he doing this? Matt gave him an out. Why wouldn't he take the fucking out?
It's getting stuffy. "Open a window, can you open a window?" Ben begs Matt, squeezing his hand like he's trying to merge them together.
Matt reaches across his lap and lowers the car window. Ben sticks his head out like a dog.
"Better?" Matt asks, loud to break past the barrier of the wind whooshing, still rubbing circles despite Ben's death grip.
Ben closes his eyes and nods, momentarily relieved from the suffocating scent of clean laundry air freshener. He's got his ear pressed to the back panel of the window. This is no return. Ben does not welcome no-returns. Options are safe, ever-changing; finality doesn't guarantee anything but stagnation.
"I'm here for you," Matt says. He leans his head against Ben's shoulder. "You just follow my lead, okay? I'll tell you want you need to do."
Ben nods again, jaw pulsing. The breeze feels nice against his shocked skin. Matt's warmth is comforting against his tuxedo. His heart is shivering.
"We can order in tonight if you want," Matt says, assurance. "Or I can throw that chicken pot pie you love in the oven."
"Okay," Ben says quietly, opening his eyes again. He's immediately surrounded by Matt's softness. He looks extra young like this, all concern and frowned eyes, soothing.
When they pull up to the theater, Ben almost tells their driver to turn right the fuck around. He can hear the swarms of paparazzi clicking away outside, yelling out questions and over here! He looks over at Matt with panicked eyes.
Matt brings his hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles before unfolding their hands. "You got this," he whispers. "Open the door for me."
With a convinced nod, Ben opens his car door and steps out. He runs to the other side and opens the door for Matt, too, feigning indifference at the simple fact that every photographer in a two foot radius is already on them. He can hear overlapping choirs of Ben! Ben! Matt Damon! Ben! Matt! Damon is here! MattBen!
Matt walks in front of him, confident and poised, and Ben cowers behind like a lost puppy. His hands are folded in front of him, nails digging into the skin of his wrist. A microphone is shoved in his face.
"How are you feeling about the premiere, Ben?"
He scratches out something incoherent and feels Matt's hand subtly resting on the small of his back. He stutters his way into an answer. Matt smiles at him while he talks.
A question gets thrown out about action sequences, about working with J.K. Simmons, about what it meant to play a neurodivergent character. He breezes through them, finds it all so much easier when he notices that nobody is freaking out, that nobody even gives a fuck about him and Matt coming together, or Matt's hand not leaving Ben's back.
And maybe those fucks will come later. Maybe everybody is just pretending right now, and that's fine too. Ben is happy to pretend with them.
He sees Anna and exchanges happy hellos, hugs her tightly and lets Matt take his turn for pleasantries as well. He wants a drink. He can't have one. His eyes feel glossed-over. Fuck, what if they're gonna spin this, assume that he's drunk on the carpet again. He fingers his pulse and pretends his ears aren't ringing.
Matt leans up to whisper: "Straighten out your back. Put your right hand in your pant pocket."
Ben does as told, quickly, smiling helplessly at the cameras surrounding them.
A new kind of horror arrives; Ben had not considered the possibility that maybe this is not actually enough to come out. Matt is a producer after all. He could just be here as his best friend, his coworker.
He wraps an arm around Matt's shoulder, rubs against his nape. Make it more obvious.
Matt covers his mouth from view when he whispers again. "Smile, Benny."
He does. Matt's hand slips to the small of his back again, rubs two small circles like praise. He smiles wider.
And just as they're heading inside for the movie, a reporter accosts them at the door and asks: "You brought Damon as your date for tonight, then?"
Matt is about to say something when Ben makes a split-second decision and steps up to the plate first. "Yeah. Matt's my arm candy."
Matt is glowing next to him, turns a shade of pink only subtly visible under all his makeup.
"Well, you both look fantastic. Looking forward to seeing the movie, Ben."
And that's it. She's gone. She's gone and Ben is still breathing. Beaming, even.
Maybe it'll get played off as just another cute little bit. That's not his concern anymore. He did it. He did it. And Matt is holding onto his arm as they walk into the theater's lobby like they're glued together eternally.
"Arm candy, huh?" Matt teases, somehow squeezes tighter.
"I mean, have you seen yourself?" Ben murmurs back, grin impossible to miss.
It takes fifteen minutes to get their popcorn and Ben is a leaf refusing to get blown away.
Anna spots them pouring butter over their shared tub and looks down at their linked arms once, quickly, before smiling brightly with some kind of adoration. A silent congratulations.
They're seated in the middle, surrounded by cast and crew, critics, and other casual spectators, and Ben still wraps his arm around Matt, welcomes Matt's hand resting against the inside of his knee. For the first time in a long while, his head is quiet and content.
They receive a standing ovation at the end, and nobody is clapping louder than Matt. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles, embarrasses Ben as any good boyfriend would, and Ben pulls him in for a greedy embrace despite the eyes on them. It's worth it. This will always be worth it.
The night is long and winding. By the time they get back into a car to go home, Ben is both exhausted and buzzing.
Matt can't help himself. It's clear. He brings Ben's face against his own and kisses him with dignity, pride. He draws his thumb across Ben's limited facial hair, tugs at his hair gently. "Did such a great job," he whispers against Ben's mouth, clearly not aware of the driver's eyes wandering over to them every couple of seconds, or perhaps not quite caring. "Can't believe we've gotta wait two fuckin' hours now."
Ben laughs, kisses back needily. "You're relentless."
"Maybe," Matt admits, roams his hand down until he's caressing Ben's waist.
Ben gets a text. The ping vaguely horrifies him, but he fishes his phone out regardless.
Casey. A screenshot of a tweet building close to 15K likes in just a few hours.
its not a joke anymore i think these two are fucking
The photos attached are from behind them on the carpet, Matt's hand resting on Ben's back, and their embrace during the standing ovation. It's pretty fucking damming.
The video reply visible makes his chest shrink.
Affleck called Matt his arm candy. Look how flustered Matt gets.
Matt is staring down at it with him, trying to gauge Ben's reaction as Casey's three dots linger.
Ben is not sure how to feel. Giving this to other people feels both exciting and cruel. He wraps an arm around Matt and pulls him close, waits for Casey to finally stop typing.
You literally brought him as your date and people are still just speculating. Next time, grab his ass or something. Make it more obvious.
Ben laughs, a surprised cackle. Matt follows in tow as Casey types again.
See you guys for dinner Sunday?
Ben types quickly, blurry and fuzzy. His hands are shaky. Matt wraps his fingers around his own, soothes him like nobody can, and rests his head on his chest.
"How long until we've gotta make a statement, you think?" Ben asks, tongue-in-cheek but secretly wondering if they really will have to.
"We'll probably still be in the car," Matt muses teasingly, kisses Ben's knuckles gently. "We don't have to say anything. We did our part."
Ben has no idea how he could have ever thought it was more complicated than that.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
As soon as they close the front door, Ben's back is pushed up against it, crowded by Matt's determined eyes and pushy hands.
"I'm stronger than you, you know," Ben breathes, grinning.
Matt's fingers press deeper into Ben's wrists and his knee slots between Ben's legs, eyebrow coaxed up. "What're you gonna do with all that strength, then, Ben?" He teases, pushes his knee up against Ben's crotch.
The soft satin rubs against him, the pressure combining ruthlessly with the cool slide of the fabric. His thighs tremble.
Matt brings his mouth to Ben's jaw, kisses open-mouthed. "So easy," he says. His knee draws circles. "Always know exactly what you need, right?"
Ben whimpers when he nods, rocking against Matt's knee. "Tell me what I need." His eyes shut tightly when Matt sucks on his neck, does it to leave a mark, stern in his own desperation.
"You're gonna go into the bedroom," Matt says it against Ben's ear, a whisper turning megaphoned. "You're gonna take off your blazer and your tie." He brings one hand down to palm at Ben's dick, breath hot on his ear. "And you're gonna wait on the chair for me until I come to you."
Ben's free hand flies to Matt's shoulder immediately, pressing. "That's it?" He asks, balls dragging helplessly against Matt's leg, sending him into a deep shiver.
"For now." Matt kisses at his neck again, the same slobbery spot. "M'gonna take care of you tonight." He smooths his hand to Ben's cheek and runs his thumb across comfortingly. His knee draws back and he laughs at Ben's hips twitching forward in an attempt to remain stimulated.
In an instant, Matt is gone, padding off to the bathroom and shutting the door behind him with resonance.
With shocked breaths, Ben leans his head against the door and sighs loudly. Always baited. Matt has too much on him. Somehow, he manages to pick up his feet and walk over to the bedroom. He can't remember if Matt said anything about shoes; he keeps them on just in case.
After shimmying his blazer off, he folds it across the back of the chair and tugs at his tie ruthlessly before draping it on top. His hands are sweaty, tainted with uneasy excitement. He contemplates wiping them on his slacks but maybe Matt wants to feel how nervous he is, how much this somehow means to him, so he lets it stay and props himself into the arm chair.
The seconds feel like hours. The bathroom sink is running and Matt is humming to himself loud enough for Ben to hear it, certainly on purpose. Ben's leg bounces, vibrates, hands folded in on themselves in his lap. This is unnecessary torture. His chin feels shaky.
Finally, the bathroom door swings open and drops back closed. Ben peeks over to see Matt walking out and towards the kitchen. He takes a staggered breath and shuts his eyes, tries not to get annoyingly worked up.
Matt is filling a glass of water from the tap. He opens up the fridge and grabs something, sticks it in the microwave.
Ben grinds his teeth. He runs a palm across his clothed boner and hisses, the feeling soft and familiar. There is an ugly truth that runs through him immediately — I could just take care of my goddamn self, then, Matthew — and he fights his consciousness to stay in control.
A plate hits the table. Ben can hear a fork scraping; it smells like last night's leftovers. Nervously, he calls out: "Matty?"
There is no answer. He rubs his palm back across his erection, breathes shakily. Matt is eating. Surely he won't notice if Ben just—
He bites down on the inside of his cheek wantonly, intends for it to hurt. His hand moves by itself, all quiet pressure against his desire, brows furrowed as he keeps sound-tabs on Matt's eating.
Ben hisses when he reaches down, cups himself and presses harder. The smooth slide of satin is slippery and filthy. He throws his head back and lets out another breath, quieter still, hiding. All he wants to do is walk up to Matt and stand beside him doing exactly this, refusing to allow him to touch. Attempt to give him a taste of his own medicine. After trying before… unsuccessfully.
("Don't touch," Ben said, wanted to see the appeal. He slapped Matt's hand away from his hair and kissed up his thighs.
"Oh, really?" Matt laughed, clearly amused, conceding quickly. He put his hands up behind his head and watched Ben's lips work. "Big boy's taking charge?"
Ben bit a patch of his skin, maybe his favorite pastime, and nosed at Matt's cock. "Mhm. See how good you are at listening." He sucked his tip into his mouth and savored the hissed breath he received in response.
Matt was a great fucking listener, as it turned out, didn't try to grab Ben once. Ben popped his mouth fully off after two minutes and huffed. "Pull my hair," he mumbled, kissed down while looking up.
"Oh, really?" Matt repeated, smug, hands still behind his head. "I thought I couldn't touch."
Ben pinched him, his second favorite pastime. "And now you can. I want you to."
"How long did that last? A minute?" He responded, self-satisfied and annoying.
Ben pinched him again. "Just pull my fucking hair, dickhead.")
His hand slips inside his trousers, somehow, pulling at his cock right on top of the silken fabric. He drops a moan and immediately covers his mouth with his free hand. This is impossible. His abdomen twitches as he slides deeper into the chair, already so stupidly gone just thinking about Matt walking in here and seeing him, scolding him, reminding him that this was not the deal.
Part of him wants to get caught. Needs to.
He thumbs across the wet spot building against his tip. His face drops, squeak forcing itself past his lips, barely muffled against his mouth. He imagines Matt walking in, shaking his head, and slipping into bed without him, all dissapointed. His chest rises unevenly, thrusting into his own palm, the chair creaking below him.
And then he hears Matt's plate clatter into the sink and he pulls his hand out immediately, drops them both to his side, panting. He re-tucks his shirt, tries to even out his breathing and ignore the throbbing. His cock is obscenely swollen, so obvious it may as well have a neon sign above it screaming slut.
Matt appears after mere seconds. He tilts his head. "You've been waiting, right?" He asks, crossing his arms and taking a quick pace forward.
Ben swallows and nods, can't imagine being truthful any more than he can imagine lying. He's been waiting, mostly.
"C'mon, Benny," Matt teases, eyes down at his boner with an expected eyebrow raise. "You expect me to believe you weren't touching yourself?"
"I— I wasn't." He swallows dryly.
"Look at how hard you are," Matt tsks, steps forward again. "Look down. Look at yourself."
Ben obliges, looks down at himself and whimpers with shame. He's wet. Matt's gonna feel it.
"You got there without any help at all?" He asks, entertained, his arms crossed.
"Just a little bit, just for a second," Ben spills with very little contest, eyes darting across the room to avoid contact. "You were— I mean— you were eating." He's exasperated, clearly comfortable with excuses.
"I asked you to wait, didn't I?" Matt rounds closer and then sharply sits on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off. Their eyes meet and it's louder than bombs. "I was gone for, what, ten minutes? You couldn't contain yourself for ten minutes?"
Ben breathes unevenly, shakes his head.
"Use your words, Ben." Matt takes his belt off, followed by his tie and blazer, dropping them beside himself on the bed.
This is humiliating. Ben's dick twitches. His jaw trembles. "I couldn't. You— I thought you weren't coming."
"That's bullshit," Matt laughs, easy, as he walks over to Ben, then turns on his heel to shut the door to the bedroom. "I told you I'd be here. Have I ever lied to you?"
Ben shakes his head, gripping the chair's arms tightly. He sees Matt's expectant head-tilt — Use your words — and adds, quickly: "No, you haven't."
Matt drops to his knees in front of Ben. He kisses Ben's clothed calf, runs his hands up and down his legs like electricity. "And to think I was gonna fuck you tonight," Matt tuts, pursing his lips in disappointment.
"Please," Ben whispers, cracked. "You can't— Please. It was only for a second. Please."
Matt rests his cheek against Ben's knee, looks up with wistful eyes. "I thought you might need it after being so tense all day," he continues cruelly, takes off Ben's shoes blindly. "All I asked was for you to sit here and wait for me. And you couldn't do that. Right, puppy?"
Ben's chest shocks warm at the nickname. "I'm sorry," he manages, feeling ridiculous and shamed. His cock twitches again, tip wet and leaking against his pubis.
Matt catches the movement with his gaze, grinning. "Oh, I know, baby," Matt tuts, hand coming in in in until he's rubbing Ben's thighs right beside his erection, teasing in a way that should be illegal. He's enjoying this way too much.
"Are you mad at me?" It comes without intention. His chin wobbles.
Matt rubs his palm into the meaty part of Ben's thigh. "Not mad at you," he says softly. "Just disappointed in you."
Ben shuts his eyes and rolls his head back in agony. "I'll be— good now. I'll listen. I will, I swear."
Matt softly strums a thumb across Ben's dick, nothing more and nothing less, and it sends Ben into a frenzied hip-thrust. "I know you will." His thumb strolls up, finds Ben's tip clear and obvious above the line of his panties and whispers another stroke.
Ben shudders, has to stop his hands from flying to Matt's hair. The moan he drops from that wispy contact alone is pathetic. "Just your hand," he breathes, cock throbbing. "If I can't— I need it. I need something, Matty, please."
"You need it?" Matt grins, forms his hand down, cupping Ben's testicles and squeezing lightly.
Ben moans again, nodding frantically. "Yes, God, I'll do anything, please," he spills, rolling his hips into Matt's hand while tugging at his own hair in agony.
"So desperate today," Matt murmurs, smile bright. "What d'you think those reporters would say, huh? If they could see you like this."
"I don't know, I don't know," Ben whines, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes as his abdomen lights up. "Matty, please—"
"Please, what? I can't read your mind, Ben."
"Fuck you—" Matt squeezes harder, borders on too hard, and Ben has to knock his knees together in tandem with his gasped shock.
"That wasn't very nice." Matt pries Ben's knees back apart, wide. "Please, what?"
"Oh my God," Ben cries out, nails stuck in the arm's fabric, hips thrusting up. "Touch me, please, please, fucking— I'm gonna come in my fucking pants—"
"No, you're not," Matt says, stern, pushing Ben's thighs into the seat. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
Ben looks down and instantly laments the decision; Matt is frowning, mouth a tight line, palm forming around the base of Ben's cock.
"You're not coming yet," Matt flat-out tells him, raising his brows. "You understand? You need to ask. Take off your shirt."
Ben rushes to undo the buttons, pulling the crisp fabric off of himself, followed by the ribbed undershirt. He tosses it aside, breathes heavily and tries to hold it all in. Matt's hands leave his cock and it genuinely seems like the end of the world.
Instead, they roam up to Ben's waist, squeezing at the dip, grabbing. Matt scoots in closer between his legs until his torso is stamped right against Ben's crotch. Torturous.
"Can I— can I touch?" Ben asks breathily as Matt rolls his thumbs past his nipples.
Matt pinches the sensitive nubs between his fingers, pulls down slightly. He shakes his head. "Not yet. Can you handle that?" It's a sincere question; Ben knows the belt or a tie will come out if it's necessary.
Ben nods, unsure, and lulls his head back when Matt's chest pushes right up against his dick. The grip he has on the chair tightens. A thick bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. Every nerve ending is on fire, and Ben has no idea how to stop himself from spilling in these fucking trousers. "I— Can I come?"
Matt shakes his head, brings his mouth to Ben's chest and sucks his pec like he's really tasting him. "You're too worked up," Matt has the audacity to say, hands roaming his entire torso, his shoulders. "We gotta get you down a little."
Ben whines, wants to wipe his forehead free from sweat but terrified of moving wrong, setting something restrictive into motion. "Are you— are you gonna fuck me tonight?"
Matt grins. "Why, do you want me to?"
"Yes," Ben hurries out, his cock twitching from just the goddamn thought. "Very badly. Yes."
Matt chuckles, scatters kisses around Ben's nipples, soft and attentive. "You gotta listen to me."
"Yeah, yes. Of course," Ben agrees, imagines tangling his fingers into Matt's hair longingly. "I'll be good. I promise, I swear."
Matt's reaction is a satisfied hum, mouth roaming down until he's sucking at his tummy right above the line of his pants. "Are you gonna show me your panties?" He whispers, staring right up at Ben, his fingers tugging uselessly at the belt loops.
Ben swallows a quietly demeaning sound and nods. "Should I—"
Before he can finish, Matt removes himself from between Ben's thighs and says, "stand up."
It takes zero time for Ben to scramble to his feet while Matt seats himself in the chair instead. The switch doesn't make him feel more in control. If anything, he's more powerless than ever.
He unzips his pants, unclasps the button, and takes a ragged breath. What if Matt thinks he looks ridiculous? What if it doesn't live up to the image Matt saw in his head? He feels like breaking from just the thought of it, the potential wrong turns.
"C'mon, show me," Matt urges, leans back with his legs wide open, his own boner outrageously obvious. He licks his lips, switches his gaze between Ben's nervous face and nervous hands.
He drops his pants and is more vulnerable than he is naked. Immediately, his hands fly in front of himself, clasped together, hiding. His cheeks are flushing hot and red. His dick twitches again with humiliation.
"Ben," Matt says sternly. "Move your hands. Let me see."
Ben closes his eyes so he can't gauge reactions, and drops his hands to his sides. He knows his face is less-than-appealing now, squishing everything together, wrinkles no doubt overly defined, petrified.
There are not a lot of firsts left in his life. Matt seems to find them like potions, digging in the attic and dusting off ancient texts just to please him, to confuse him. They seem to be one in the same.
It is quiet for a moment too long, A moment in which Ben is fairly certain Matt is attempting to find a kind way to phrase no thank you. He looks ridiculous. He knew it when he put them on. A grown man prancing around in black panties, dick stuffed inside obscenely. It's fine. He'll take them off if he needs to. He'll do anything for this moment to end.
The drag of Matt's zipper comes out of nowhere, whooshing like a drive-by boomerang. Ben opens one eye.
Matt's cock is heavy in his hand, eyes locked in on Ben's crotch, staring like he may start drooling.
Oh. Okay.
Matt darts his gaze to Ben's hesitant and obstructively nervous face. "Just look at you," he mumbles, strokes himself languidly. "So pretty, Ben. You're perfect."
"Really?" Ben asks, just standing there, other eye opening in tow.
"Fuck yes," Matt breathes, rounds his tip with his palm and strokes down. His lips smack together, mouth dry. "Poor thing. You're leaking."
Ben nods, acknowledges it, stares down at the wet tip of his cock peeking past the panties' hemline.
"Kept thinking about you wearing them. In the theater," Matt spills, always nauseatingly honest during any arousal. "Sitting there with your fuckin' arm around me— pretending to be all tough-guy on the big screen," he breathes. "And nobody fuckin' knew except for me. Nobody knows this is what you really like." His hand speeds, losing any semblance of control he had. He moans into the stale air, eyes bouncing between Ben's face and his cock. "Wanted to drop to my fuckin' knees and take you in my mouth so bad."
Ben's dick twitches involuntarily, obvious.
"You'd fuckin' like that, wouldn't you?" Matt says in response, wiping his forehead free of sweat. "All those people watching you— watching you come down my throat. See— they'll see what a greedy bitch you are."
"Matt," Ben warns, feels pre-come spill, trying to contain himself by digging his nails into the palms of his hand.
Matt groans out, focused on his tip, the sound between his palm and cock indicative of release. "Pull 'em down, let me see your cock," Matt breathes, clearly close to orgasm, the words getting pulled from his chest.
Ben gladly does just that, rolling the front of the panties down beneath his balls. It springs free from restriction, tip angry and red and so wet it seems like some practical effect. He whimpers. "Can I— Can I touch?" He asks shakily, hopes his wretchedness is palpable enough to allow it.
Matt's eyes roll back for a second, his lips separated. "Almost," he manages, fucking into his own hand.
With a final shivering thrust, he comes into his own hand, spilling a few drops onto the rug below his feet. "Come here, on your knees."
Ben rushes forward, opens his mouth and lets Matt's softening cock rest on top of his tongue. His knees hurt like this, fuck getting old, but it's worth it. Matt tastes like skin and sweat, his come tinging on bitter, and Ben forms his lips tightly around him to accept more. Humiliatingly, he feels his cock twitch up again and moans around Matt's dick.
"Jesus Christ," Matt mutters, wipes his hand on his pants and plants his fingers into Ben's scalp. "Such a good boy, Ben. Knew you could do it."
Ben doesn't dare pull off even as Matt goes almost fully soft, staying put and waiting for further instruction. His dick is suffering from the neglect, throbbing painfully.
Matt removes him by pulling him back and a long line of spit follows Ben's mouth, drips down his chin. He tilts Ben's chin up to look at him, strokes his thumb across Ben's cleft. His eyes are shimmery, determined as if considering his next move.
"Matty," Ben whispers, voice cracked. "Please?"
Matt pets the side of Ben's head and lets the corners of his mouth perk up. "On the bed," he whispers, and Ben scrambles like a dog in heat, tosses himself into the pillows without hesitation. "Shameless," Matt laughs, undoing the buttons of his shirt and shimmying out of his pants.
"Says you." Ben looks over and grins at Matt, who thankfully seems endeared and not enraged by his catty comment.
"Turn around," Matt laughs, smacks Ben's side as he climbs next to him.
Ben pouts, arms suspended above his head. "But I wanna see you."
As if considering this with sickening earnest, Matt bites down on the inside of his cheek and narrows his eyes. He rubs his hand against Ben's hip, watches as Ben spreads his legs open and the panties snap back over his testicles around the stretch. "Okay," he concedes before swallowing a lump in his throat. He runs his thumb across the soaked satin with widened eyes.
Matt grabs the hem of the panties, shimmies them down until Ben is freed. He brings them to his face, breathes in.
This is torture. Once again, Matt has found a way to torture Ben.
Leaning over to the right nightstand, Matt procures a bottle of lube and lays it beside Ben. He spreads his legs further, runs his hand across his thighs. "You're gonna ask, right?"
Ben nods, gripping the sheets below him tightly. "I'm gonna ask."
"Good boy," Matt purrs, kisses Ben's knee and lathers two fingers generously. He teases the fingers across the base of Ben's cock, rolls down to his testicles, presses against his perineum like he's purposefully delaying this as much as humanly possible.
"Come on," Ben whimpers, his cock twitching against his abdomen. Quiet torment. His eyes meet Matt's, pleads for pity with his welling ducts.
Sometimes, Matt can be merciful. He pushes his middle finger inside of Ben and doesn't break his eyes away from him for even a second, determined, watching for changes and responding with shocked breaths. "Need it so bad, don't you?" He whispers, as if to himself, hooking his finger inside of Ben.
Ben drops his jaw slack and nods, hand flying to his throbbing cock.
"Hand off," Matt murmurs, gripping Ben's wrist and dumping his arm back against the sheets.
"God, Matt, please," he urges, breathing uneven. "Fuckin' hurts. I have to—"
Matt thrusts his finger inside, once twice thrice, grips Ben's thigh with painful intention. His ring finger joins in quickly.
The subtle stretch has Ben reeling, trying to fuck down onto Matt's fingers. "Please, please," he cries out, cock leaking without permission, unable to even ask. He tries his best, tenses his pelvis until he's shaking, tingling.
Matt forms his hand around Ben's dick and squeezes at his tip, staves off his orgasm ruthlessly while fingering him open. "Come on, be good for me, Ben. You can do it, I know you can," he encourages, kissing his knee.
Ben's back arches off of the bed, smelling, hearing, feeling Matt all over. It's impossible for him not to whine, tears brimming in his eyes, so sensitive and so needy. Be good. Be good. Be good.
"God, fuck, fuck, I can't—" Ben cries, thrusting his hips up into Matt's fist and back down onto his fingers, the wait excruciating and painful. "Matty, please. Please. I'll do anything, please."
Matt pulls his fingers out, lets go of Ben's cock and switches to peppering kisses across his thighs. "Hold it."
"I can't," Ben whines, wiping the tears and sweat off his face, looking down and seeing his cock rock-hard and angry, pre-come glowing at his tip.
"Yes, you can, baby," Matt assures him, soft, his fingerprints trailing patterns into Ben's hip.
Ben takes an uneasy series of breaths, shuts his eyes and focuses on the circles being stamped into his skin. He can do this. He can do this. He reaches for a pillow and hugs it close, eyebrows knitted.
"There we go," Matt whispers. His mouth trails over Ben's hipbone, wet and welcoming. "Just breathe for me. You're okay."
"Okay," Ben agrees, broken. His toes are tingling and his hips lift up off the bed in a head-strong attempt to keep Matt happy. He breathes in shakily.
Matt whispers his fingertips across Ben's hip, smiles at his desperate writhing. His hand reaches back for the lube blindly and pops the cap. "You ready for me, puppy?"
Ben lolls his head to the side and feels his heart rate rising as he watches Matt lube up his cock. God, is he fucking ready. He nods, words escaping, and hugs his pillow tighter.
It's practically already game over as soon as Matt drags his tip across Ben's straining testicles to tease. "Still want you to ask," Matt murmurs, pressing against Ben's perineum. "Try to hold on as long as you can, okay?"
Ben nods again, hikes his legs up and chews on the skin around his thumb's nail to find something else tactile to focus on. "Can I touch you?" He asks, broken.
Matt presses inside slowly, torturously so. "Yes, yeah, you can," he breathes, holding onto Ben's thigh. "God, you're fuckin' tight."
Taking immediate advantage of his permission, Ben roams his palm across Matt's shoulder and leans into the stretch. Finding a balance between relaxing enough to get fucked and tensing enough to not come immediately is challenging, to say the least. "I know," Ben says, tossing the pillow aside and wiping his sweaty forehead. "Fuck, just keep going," he assures Matt, digs his nails in.
"More lube?" Matt proposes, hips rocking gently, still working on those first couple inches.
Ben shakes his head, mouth agape. "I'll fuckin' kill you if you pull out," he says, rounding his back and whining with the stretch. "I can— I can take it."
Matt laughs, charges forward to push a kiss to Ben's mouth before leaning back and spreading Ben's legs wider, pressing deeper inside and moaning out nice and low. "Jesus, wish you could see yourself," Matt breathes, his grip tight on Ben's thigh. "You're good? I'm not—"
"Yes," Ben interrupts, eyebrows knitted as he whimpers. "Yes, I'm— Please, Matty, I want—"
"You want more?" Matt asks, shocks his hips, stops easing now that he knows Ben can do this.
Ben moans out a tired breath and trembles, cock leaking again without permission. He rolls his hips down onto Matt's dick, takes every sloppy thrust. His nails are helpless daggers in Matt's back, dragging and dragging. "Yeah, more. Please, fuck," he cries, throbbing all over, tears prickling in his eyes again. He needs to come. He has to, but he's trying so god damn hard to please Matt, to make him proud.
Matt bottoms out, lets out a deep groan and plants his mouth to Ben's face, any part he can get access to. "So perfect, Ben," he whispers, sends shivers straight to Ben's cock. He thrusts hard, slow.
"Oh, God," Ben whines, fucks himself down on Matt's cock, tries to chase the moments in which his prostate gets that sensitive hit. His nails are coasting down so deep into Matt's back he's certain it'll leave marks, but Matt really doesn't seem to be complaining. "Fast— faster."
Matt laughs against his cheek, but follows instructions quickly.
Ben can't help it now; his mouth hangs open, whiny moans dropping without even realizing, without a first thought, arching off the bed in anguish. His cock is agonizingly hard, still leaking, throbbing alongside his heart.
"Look at that fuckin' cock," Matt groans, staring between them at Ben's twitching erection, fucking into Ben like he'll leave him otherwise. "Been such a good boy for me, Benny. So— so patient."
Ben nods, his tacky hands coming up to his face and rubbing tears and sweat away. "I can't anymore," he cries, stares down alongside Matt and nearly passes out from the sight. His abdomen is cramping up, the build-up shocking him. "Can I— Could I please? Matt, please?"
"Yes," Matt breathes, plants his wet mouth to any part of Ben he can get. "Yeah, come for me. Show me what you— what you've been holding in." Like the last sprint before the finish line, Matt fucks him with all the stamina he has left.
One of Ben's hands immediately flies to his cock, so goddamn relieved, tugging two times before crying out all whiny and spraying his abdomen full of an obscene amount of come. His hips stagger, the orgasm continuing to build and build even after he's done coming, thrusting into the open air with a greed he didn't know he possessed. "Oh fuck, God— Matt, I'm—" Ben says shakily, nonsensical, eyes closed and lids trembling, one hand gripping tightly onto Matt's waist and the other continuing to sloppily jerk his overstimulated cock, sending him writhing.
Matt grunts, fucks him with purpose now, sucking a deep kiss into the side of Ben's neck until he comes inside of him, sticky and personal and bound together.
Ben can't regulate. His heart is whooshing between his ears, dick throbbing unevenly, chest rapid and angry in its rising, hands shaky as they explore Matt's very well-explored shoulders and neck. He wipes his forehead on the pillow beside him, barely processes it when Matt pulls out and dumps himself on the bed next to him. His ears are ringing.
"Fuck," Matt breathes, running a hand through his damp hair.
Ben nods, can't breathe a full breath just yet. "I can't think," Ben confesses, reaching out next to him to thumb at Matt's shoulder.
Matt laughs, taking Ben's hand and immediately pushing two kisses to his knuckles. "C'mere," he murmurs, pulling until Ben gets the hint and lays his head on his chest. "You scratched the shit out of my back."
"I'm sorry," Ben says, still exhausted, choosing to ignore the lather of come across his abdomen in favor of curling his arm around Matt's waist.
Matt kisses the top of Ben's head. "No need," he says. "So fuckin' worth it."
"Get me— cigarette," Ben breathes, scattering Matt's shoulder in kisses helplessly.
"You gotta clean yourself up first," Matt chuckles. "I'll get you a towel—"
"No," Ben whines, wrapping himself around Matt needily. "I'll wash up later. It's fine."
Matt glances at him for a second, at the obscene display, his leg and arm swung across Matt as if he's nothing more than two feet tall. He chuckles, kisses Ben's forehead, and shakes his head fondly. "You're not gonna complain?"
Ben shakes his head, heart still beating out of his chest. "I won't. I swear."
Matt concedes and leans over, slips out of Ben's solid grasp for a second to open the nighstand's drawer. He procures their shared pack of after-sex cigarettes and a shitty old Bic lighter Ben swears is older than Matt. He taps out a cigarette for Ben and places it between his lips, handing him the lighter.
"Light it for me," Ben murmurs, the filter bouncing between his lips.
"Princess can't even light his own cigarette?" Matt laughs, but he lights it for him without any physical adieu before lighting his own.
Ben kicks Matt's shin, takes a short inhale. God, that's good. "You get extra bitchy right after you've fucked me. You know that, right?" He teases, smiles widely.
Matt cackles. "It's just so easy when you're all scatter-brained." He takes a drag. "This is practically the only time I'm actually smarter than you."
"You wish," Ben murmurs back, grinning brightly. "Thanks for today," he says suddenly, earnest, still attempting to regain bodily control. He doesn't dare look over at Matt, keeps his eyes focused on the small peel of wallpaper on the wall across from them. "I really thought it was gonna be some kind of herculean task. But you, uh, you made it— you know, pretty painless."
He can see Matt smiling out of the corner of his eye. Proud, perhaps touched.
Matt leans forward and pushes his mouth to Ben's shoulder thrice. "Anything for you," he whispers, a repeat that makes Ben melt every time, lets it hang around them. "Unfortunately, you might be stuck with me now."
Ben inhales another round of smoke, finally does look over and sees that same kid he saw at the Critics last year, all round-edged and beautiful, but now familiar too. He presses a palm to Matt's cheek, rubs his thumb against his soft cheek. "Sounds good to me."
"Can we just—" Matt sits up a little, scratches the side of his nose with his pinky. "Let's just stay here. For a while, at least."
"The house?" Ben asks, brows slightly knit. Matt nods. "What about Brooklyn? Your big brownstone dreams?"
"There's still time for all of that," Matt reasons with a shrug before putting out his cigarette in a glass of untouched water beside the bed. "I don't know when we'll get the chance to, y'know, have this again."
Ben joins his cigarette into the glass, leans over and buries himself inside of Matt's arms as if he's not well past six foot. "The privacy, you mean?" He asks, hand roaming softly across Matt's chest.
Matt runs a hand through Ben's hair, seems to be blissed out just the same. "The privacy, sure. Everything that privacy brings. I think they're getting bored of you. I like it that way."
"Really?" Ben grins, looks at Matt like he's being totally antithetical to his previous beliefs, which may as well be true — Mr. Let's Come Out. "I fucking hope they're bored of me. Bringing you as my date probably didn't do us any favors."
"Maybe," Matt says. He keeps playing with Ben's hair, fingers light and nimble. "But if we have this place, there'll always be somewhere to go back to. Somewhere we don't have to… to hide." He cringes at himself. "This may all be a bit, I don't know, touchy-feely, but—"
"No, not at all," Ben assures him as he wraps a leg back around Matt's. "I mean, I guess we never really talked about how we want to move forward, right? How public we're taking it."
"I'm flexible. You know that." Matt shrugs, twiddling a couple of strands of Ben's hair between his fingers. "You should stop dyeing it," he notes. "The gray's hot."
"You've got a fetish," Ben says, bites Matt's bicep.
"You're the one with the fuckin' fetishes," Matt laughs back. "Right, puppy?"
Ben cackles, rolling his cheek across Matt's chest in a helpless attempt to stifle his clear embarrassment. "Says the guy that bought me panties," he mumbles against his skin.
"Says the guy that wore them." Matt runs his hand down Ben's back, voice full of smile. "We can keep going. I guarantee you'll lose."
"Yeah, yeah," Ben concedes, because Matt might have a point there. "We should make a list."
"Of fetishes?"
"No, idiot," Ben laughs fondly. "Of things we're comfortable with doing in public. Comfortable unearthing to other people."
Matt thinks for a second, draws soft circles into Ben's skin.
The way the seconds are moving, Ben is comfortable staying put for another thousand years. Just Matt and their bed and the faint scent of cigarette smoke.
"Sure." Matt sits up a little, forces Ben to move alongside him. "Showers first, though. I'll make you some food while you're in there."
Ben is filled to the brim with outlandish luck. He squeezes Matt once, nice and close, before separating. "Or you could order McDonald's?" He suggests, sheepish.
Matt beams at him, nods into a hum and leans forward to kiss Ben quickly. "Sure, baby."
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
It's ten days later, on the set of The Legend of Bagger Vance, that Ben inadvertently puts an end to the wondering.
Matt is all in his head, rubbing his palms into his eyes and groaning at every little fumble with unsustainable frustration. He's intimidated, no doubt, surrounded by Will Smith and Charlize Theron.
Ben is standing behind the A.D., witnessing it all helplessly, scratching at his beard evenly and hoping for a switch to flip. Hoping to get Matt's eyes and assure him that he's okay with a glance. It's not surprising when Redford steps in and tells everyone to take ten.
Matt comes hobbling over to Ben, defeated. He shrugs his shoulders, brows knit and dissapointed. "I'm ruining the whole fucking shoot," Matt murmurs, walking right into Ben's open arms, nuzzling his face into his shoulder.
"You are not," Ben assures him, kisses the top of his head and wraps his arms tightly around him. "You're putting too much pressure on yourself, Matty. Take a few minutes, take a breath."
Matt groans, loud, suddenly seeming so immature and insecure despite his usual sureness. He breaks the embrace slightly, looks up at Ben with a pouty bottom lip.
Ben leans in before he can think twice about it, kissing Matt quickly and softly, smiling. "Better?" He asks, selfishly teasing.
But Matt just nods, leans up to peck him again, before collapsing his head back onto Ben's chest.
"You got this, baby," Ben says, assured, and squeezes Matt one more time before separating. He glances at him, that same shy little look on his face, chest pulling magnetically right towards Matt's.
"Thank you." A light scatter of blush builds against Matt's already blushy cheeks. It's all new and familiar at once, Ben's favorite in-between for moments to exist. "Love you." He leans in for a final side hug before jogging over to his co-stars huddled over by the crafty.
By the end of the day, photos of him and Matt kissing are plastered across every possible gossipy news outlet. It's invading every social media account he has, blowing up his notifications with reposts and tags.
Strangely, Ben is almost relieved.
Once they get home, Matt sits between his legs on the chaise lounge and scrolls Twitter, shows him a few highlights every couple of minutes. Obnoxiously, Ben can't keep his mouth off of Matt's neck, his shoulders, kissing without any desire to get something in return. He's just— he's partially eased. And he's so stupidly lucky that he decides to try and pinch himself with no wake-up in sight.
"People are being really nice," Matt says, popping a chip in his mouth. "They're mostly dissapointed they won't get to fuck us."
"I'd be dissapointed, too," Ben teases, sucks a kiss against the back of Matt's neck.
"No marks," Matt laughs, ducking away.
Ben pouts to Matt's nape, nuzzles his face closer. "Ah, c'mon. Just let them work their movie magic," he reasons, kisses Matt's shoulder wet but short. "Chip."
Matt grabs a chip from the bowl, reaches it backwards until Ben crunches down.
Exceedingly, Ben has spent too much of his life fucking up, self-sabotaging, and attempting to find ways to blame his fears and actions on someone outside himself. It's much easier to continue to please when every awful thing you've done in spite of yourself can, and will, be ascribed to a succinct list of culprits. Jen, or… Jen, or dad, or the media, or God — similarly elusive. And why not throw Pat Riley, the kid who bulled him for three months in Kindergarten, in there?
Being with Matt has had its two-sided moments, Ben's childish desire to please coupled with an inability to take responsibility for himself taking over once in a while, but he's got this good (unbearably fantastic) thing going. And he's, for once, not twisting into himself in a ruthless attempt to maximize his own suffering. Even with the eyes of the world on them, Ben feels like Matt is just for him. It takes the pressure off. With this in mind, he hugs Matt closer still and decides to listen: no marks.
"E! News wrote an article," Matt laughs, leaning into the touch, thumb hovering on top of the link attached to the tweet.
The title is absurd: Who is Matt Damon, Ben Affleck's Controversially Young Boyfriend?
"Oh God," Ben mutters, reaching forward to press the link. Their faces pop up instantly, the opener being a cap from The Accountant's premiere where Matt's hand is tucked against his lower back and his hand is carefully massaging Matt's nape. "Controversially young? You're almost thirty."
"Jesus, don't remind me," Matt laughs, mindlessly scrolling through the article. "They got my middle name wrong."
"Aw, Paige-y," Ben coos, a tease, blowing a raspberry into Matt's neck. "I'll get them to print a retraction."
Matt leans backwards to bite Ben's jaw teasingly before he keeps scrolling. There's a photo of Ben, maybe around twenty-seven, posing on the carpet with a glum little face. He's fresh-shaven, all tired, definitely drunk but already finding ways to hide it. Matt zooms in. "Always so handsome," he murmurs, grabs for Ben's hand to kiss it. "You look fucking miserable, though."
Ben can acknowledge this. He probably was miserable. Alone and exhausted, fearful of living too much or not enough. "Miserable until I met you," Ben coos, and it's a total line, but Matt stirs against his chest and lights up all splotchy red anyway, so he figures it's alright to be a bit overbearing. "I was such a little shit," Ben follows, reminiscing, still amazed by how mature Matt seems comparatively. "Loud-mouthed, obnoxious asshole. I could be thoughtful when I wanted to," he pauses, chuckles. "Problem was: I rarely wanted to."
"You were learning." Matt just shrugs, makes it all seem so easy. "We all are, you know?"
Ben chews on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too brightly. He runs a hand through Matt's hair, kisses his temple.
(The first time Ben visited Matt's childhood home, they had been seeing each other for eight months.
There were several immediate shocks. Their childhoods, though experienced sixteen years apart, had been so closely intertwined it seemed fabricated. Two blocks away from each other, the same Little League team, the same high school, mothers with the same career.
"I'll give him the tour," Matt said to his mom, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "We'll be down to set the table in a bit."
Matt's childhood bedroom was a trip. It seemed mostly untouched, sheets freshly made for their visit, a beanbag plopped in the corner, the stale smell of cigarettes still lingering.
Ben dumped his stuff, looked around to absorb every detail. His eyes immediately wandered to a framed photo on Matt's bookcase — his mother, father, brother, and him. "Sweet," he mumbled, holding up the photo with a smile.
To his surprise, Matt was booked on the other side of the room, practically plastered against the wall. He was visibly nervous: hands tucked behind his back, eyes widened, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, we, uh, that was when we went to Virginia Beach. I think," he hurried out, smile forced.
"What's going on?" Ben asked curiously, almost intrigued. It was not usual to see Matt like this, all tensed and hanging on to something.
"Nothing," he said, remaining staunchly in place even as Ben approached, avoiding eye contact. "It's nothing. I think I heard the oven—"
"No, you didn't," Ben laughed, saw the corner of a poster peeking behind Matt's head. "What, are you embarrassed to show me?"
It didn't make sense; Matt wasn't covering up any of his other posters. All teenagers plaster useless shit on their walls, it's part of the contract of growing up. Frankly, Ben would have been outright disturbed if Matt's walls were bare.
Matt shrugged. "No, just— You don't need to see this one."
"Why not?" Ben teased, laughed, grabbing Matt's shoulders. "C'mon, move aside. Can't be worse than my old Prince poster."
"Oh, it is," Matt barked back a loud laugh.
Ben quirked up an eyebrow, grinning. He pushed Matt aside slightly, easy to do with his brawnier frame gained from frequent, though resistant, gym trips in preparation for The Accountant. Immediately, he recognized it.
A torn out page from People Magazine declaring Ben The Sexiest Man in the World.
"Oh?" Ben said curiously, pulling Matt towards him. "I see."
"Stop," Matt mumbled, cheeks expectedly turning red. "I asked my mom to take it down before you came."
Ben tipped Matt's chin towards him, laughed into a closed-mouth kiss. "Didn't realize you were crushing on me at sixteen, too."
Matt punched his shoulder, kissed him back despite his murderous humiliation. "Shut up," he said, useless. "You're acting like I've been chasing after you for ten years."
As loud-mouthed and obnoxious as the thirty-year-old version of himself, Ben cackled out another laugh and shrugged. "Hey, maybe! Quick, what's my blood type?"
"I'm kicking you out," Matt murmured, mouth soft against Ben's. "Go back to Cottage Street."
"Aw, c'mon." Ben wrapped his arm around the back of Matt's waist and pulled him closer, bottom lip tucked between his own. "I think it's cute. Matty had a little crush."
Matt pinched his waist. "I'll make you sleep on the couch if you keep this up," he threatened, but his hands and mouth began wandering quickly, so the danger didn't feel all too genuine.
The oven, then, did in fact ping downstairs. Matt tore the cutout off and slammed it onto his desk. "We're bringing that back to the house, y'know," Ben said as they made their way downstairs. "That's a relic. It must be protected."
"We'll frame it atop the mantle if that's what you want," Matt cackled back. "Narcissist."
"Love you too." Ben grinned, and knocked their hips together.)
"You think we'll be alright?" Ben asks, nervous, the tough skin around his fingers getting tugged by his canines. "In the business, I mean."
Matt strummed his fingers against Ben's knee, putting his phone down for a second. "We could always write our own movies," Matt says, and it's half a joke, huffing out a breath of ironic air. "Some kinda gay Bonnie & Clyde situation. Sexiest man alive over here is bound to sell some tickets."
Ben laughs. He is vaguely insane, vaguely unable to even see the trouble in getting shunned from Hollywood if it means the rest of his life will look somewhat like this. "We can give it a go," he agrees, finishing the joke, running his palm over Matt's chest and breathing him in. "We gotta be more original than Bonnie & Clyde, though."
"Hmmm, you're right," Matt muses, rubbing his fingers to his chin in fake-intrigue and curling up against Ben, knees to his chest. "Or we could always fuck around with an adaptation. People fucking love adaptations."
"Sounds like a plan," Ben laughs again, squeezes Matt close and bubbles kisses to his face. He can't get enough of him. "We'll find the gayest book imaginable and cast ourselves as the leads."
"Perfect." Matt turns around to sit sideways, his legs sprawling across Ben's, looking back at him like he's something to be admired, studied, treasured.
It will never get easier being seen like this. Ben attempts to accept it either way, pushing his mouth to Matt's gently. "Doesn't really matter, does it?" He says, and he's referring to a million things all at once, brushing a strand of golden hair out of his eyes.
"Not really," Matt smiles back, his hand rubbing against Ben's chest, right atop his heart. "You'll still have me. Even without the adaptations."
Ben grins, kisses Matt once, languid and familiar. "Eh," he shrugs, can't keep the fondness away. "Good enough."