Work Text:
“What do you say?”
Before Harry can respond, Ben spanks him again. He can feel the breath leave Harry’s lungs against his legs where he’s sprawled over him. The smack echoes loudly around the room. Harry’s skin is nearly purple, where just a few minutes ago Ben could still make out the outlines of his fingers and palm. Now there’s nearly a solid block of color in the center of Harry’s arse, warm to the touch.
“Thank you,” Harry practically wheezes. Ben’s started to touch him more gently, rubbing where he’s sensitive and sore.
Ben starts again, two slaps in quick succession that make the mottled flesh of Harry’s arse undulate long after he’s pulled back. Harry whispers it this time, voice barely a crackle, “Thank you— thank. Thank you.”
With the way Harry is over Ben’s lap — legs around his waist, facing downwards, palms resting on the floor — Ben has a perfect view of everything, can track every minute twitch of muscle. Harry was holding up his own weight, until his elbows gave out ten spanks in. The two of them look like they could be doing some kind of odd couples yoga pose, aside from Harry being entirely nude and the fact that Ben has two fingers wedged in Harry’s arse. When Ben spanks him again, one of the hardest ones so far, Harry clenches and forces Ben’s knuckles together where he was keeping them spread.
He alternates between peaks of stimulation and dips where he takes the time to let Harry breathe. He’s very easy to read, all things considered. Even though Ben can’t see his face and Harry is beyond giving coherent answers aside from “please” or “yes”, the lines of Harry’s body do enough talking. He starts to reach the upper limit of his pain tolerance threshold when Ben spanks him six times in a row, not bothering to alternate between cheeks, but instead laying them all over the same spot. It makes his own palm tingle to the point of numbness, his arm actually sore from the force he puts behind it, and it makes Harry’s legs tense so much that Ben can feel him cramp where Harry’s calf is pressed to his side.
That’s when Ben knows it’s time for something else for a few minutes. Harry lets out a long sigh when Ben strokes fingertips over his lower back. His skin is unmarked there, and covered in fine hairs that rise to attention at Ben’s touch. He palms his thighs with his free hand — the other still being clutched by Harry’s insides — going against the grain and making every inch of skin he brushes over break out in gooseflesh. Ben keeps his touch gentle, no matter how much he wants to pinch meatier bits, like the soft and supple insides of Harry’s thighs.
His ring and middle fingers that are inside of Harry have likely gone pruney, drenched in an absolutely ridiculous amount of lube, because it serves to deny Harry the friction he would benefit from with less, and because the dirty slick sounds his fingers make when he moves them are too hard to pass up. Ben keeps them mostly still, but can’t help but curl them slightly, reveling in the way it makes Harry start to tremble.
The next spank is unexpected and the lack of warning does exactly what Ben intended it to do; Harry yelps and nearly slides off Ben’s lap with the force of his full-body jolt.
“Don’t want you getting too comfortable,” Ben explains. He hits Harry again, this time rubbing up against his prostate purposefully with the fingers of his opposite hand at the same time.
“Yes. Yes . Yes, good.”
Ben doesn’t bother asking Harry to thank him anymore. Harry just clings to the word “yes” and keeps repeating it, voice rising in pitch when Ben slaps him lower, where thigh meets arse, the skin there more sensitive and sting-y. Or at least Ben understands it to be that way, only getting limited information out of Harry when he’s tried to talk to him about this , the way that Harry loves having his arse spanked and paddled and reddened by any means necessary.
Harry’s cock is a hot hard line against Ben’s thigh, pressed firmly against denim and his own belly. When he starts to thrust, tiny little shifts of his hips, Ben allows it until Harry starts to get greedy, really rubbing in a way that’s surely chafing more than anything, and while Ben mostly doesn’t want him to hurt himself, he doesn’t want him coming before he’s allowed, either.
“Harry…” Ben warns and slips his fingers free from Harry’s arse. His hole is pink and slightly dilated, shining wetly. Ben strokes his thumb over it, not as a reward, but to watch and feel Harry tense, trying to get him back inside.
He grabs both cheeks then, giving them a firm squeeze with rough fingers, digging his nails in a bit. Harry’s skin is scorching and firm under his hands, but also yielding, like putty that can’t make up its mind. It makes Harry keen.
Ben slides his hands around to his hips, pushes them up to Harry’s waist, touching him luxuriously because he sounds like he needs it, whimpery and quiet. “What’s your color, love?”
It takes a full minute for Harry to respond. He takes in a shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. His voice is wet when he speaks. Ben didn’t know that he was crying.
“Mmm. Green.”
“Are you sure?” Ben asks. He always double-checks, afraid that Harry might be saying one thing while meaning another when he gets fuzzy like this.
“Green,” Harry says immediately.
“Okay. Do you want me to start again? Or have you had enough?”
“ Green .”
Harry shifts, the muscles in his back bunching and twisting and glinting with sweat, but it’s more a wiggle of emphasis than an attempt to remove himself from Ben’s lap.
“Shh,” Ben soothes, and punctuates it with a slap.
Harry jumps but relaxes just as quickly, voicing his approval with a noise that sounds like it’s being tugged up from the depths of his lungs.
They fall into a similar pattern as before. Ben keeps the hits centralized to the middle of Harry’s cheeks, where the most color is sitting prettily and where he’s the most sensitive after a small break. Harry’s more vocal this time around, letting out a near-constant stream of whines and grunts, body almost lax and completely docile.
Ben keeps things interesting and unpredictable by saving certain hits for different spots, like the top and bottom of his arse. He’s careful to never stray too low or too high, but instead remains measured in his delivery. He spreads Harry’s cleft and lays a slap right over the pink of his crack and hole, getting the best moan from Harry so far, loud and drawn-out, vibrating against Ben’s thighs.
It always seems like a lot when they go this hard and for this long, but Ben isn’t worried. Harry’s taken far more hits before — has asked for far more hits before, whining pitifully “another, another, another ” until Ben left him bruised and sated. They’re getting close to that territory now, with the marks that have already formed and with the way Harry is letting himself slip into the space that he craves.
Ben keeps spanking him. “You’re being so good. Such a good boy.”
Harry doesn’t whimper or cry, no audible change from the low sounds he keeps making, completely out of his own head with the pain. Ben feels like he could keep this up forever, could keep bringing his hand down against Harry’s skin until the sun rises the next morning, but he gradually starts to lessen the intensity of the slaps, along with the frequency, until he’s doing nothing more than gently patting Harry’s arse.
Harry’s not being punished — he barely does anything punishable, and when it happens, it’s usually carefully orchestrated on his part, intentional. Even if he was, they would have stopped sooner; Harry’s tolerance decreases when he thinks he’s done something wrong. Ben suspects it’s mostly psychological, but then again he doesn’t know much about what might be going through Harry’s head; what makes him beg to be slapped on his arse until he can barely walk, just for the pain and submission of it, or what makes him moan and cry like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Just the same, Ben is more than happy to oblige Harry’s wishes.
Ben keeps his touch light and teasing. Harry’s panting still, rib cage expanding and contracting rapidly. They’re going to have to keep this part quick. Ben’s starting to worry about his blood flow from being nearly upside down for some time now. So he gives Harry his fingers again, immediately curving the two of them to reach for Harry’s prostate and giving it a firm massage. He lets Harry rub off against his thigh, not stopping him this time when he starts to scoop his hips and put his whole body into it, shoulders and obliques tensing while he grinds and twists. Ben uses the thumb of his opposite hand to press against Harry’s taint, giving him stimulation from both sides.
Within seconds, Harry comes while still splayed over Ben’s lap, going completely silent and rigid before turning into a human puddle of goo, all of his strings cut at once as he gives Ben his full weight, trusting him to make sure he doesn’t fall to the floor.
Ben pulls his fingers out slowly once he’s sure Harry is entirely done and holds his waist with both hands, squeezing him softly. He doesn’t let Harry recover fully, quick to tsk and say, “That’s no good, Harry. You’ve got my jeans all wet.”
Harry doesn’t apologize, just gurgles inarticulately against Ben’s shin. With an arm under his belly, Ben pulls Harry up against his chest, so they’re back to front, keeping him as steady as possible while he threatens to tip over, head lolling on his neck. He’s flushed from sternum to forehead, his entire front damp from a combination of sweat and come, thick opaque globs of it still clinging to his skin and Ben’s jeans. Harry keeps his eyes closed through Ben lifting him up and laying him flat out on the bed, face-down to keep his bruised arse on display.
There’s a new sound filling the room now, as Harry hums contentedly, rubbing his face into the sheets.
“Do you feel good?”
Harry’s eyelids flutter but they still don’t open. Ben doesn’t think he’s going to respond at all until Harry speaks softly enough that — if Ben weren’t paying attention — he wouldn’t have heard it at all.
“Yeah. Good. Yes.”
“Good,” Ben says. He tugs off his own shirt and damp jeans, sliding his boxers off as well and leaving them a heap on the floor.
He knee-walks to Harry on the bed, trailing fingers over the backs of his thighs as he shuffles himself in between them, effectively splitting Harry open. There’s a trickle of lube running from his hole to the crinkle of his balls, probably still body-warm. Ben swipes a knuckle through it and pushes it back up and then in, retreating as soon as Harry clenches. He’s clearly still sensitive.
Leaning over Harry’s back, Ben grabs the lube from on top of the bedside table, sitting back on his heels and spreading a liberal amount over his cock.
Up until now, it’s been very easy to ignore his own hardness. Having Harry at his mercy seems to always have that effect. But now there’s not just the impending promise of a fuck. There’s the immediate promise of one spread out in front of him, and Ben feels nearly mad with desire.
With his cock poised and ready, held loosely in his own hand, Ben asks, “Do you want me to fuck you, Harry?”
Harry tilts his arse up and spread his thighs even more.
It’s encouraging, but Ben wants a real answer. He pinches one of Harry’s cheeks, right over a deep red mark. Harry half-moans, half-sighs.
“Yes. Yes ,” he pauses to suck in air. “Yes. Fuck— fuck me. Please.”
Ben angles himself and pushes in without preamble, one fluid slide that has his hip bones pressing into Harry’s arse after only a few seconds. Harry tightens against him but relaxes quickly, turning his face into the mattress and bending his arms like he’s about to push his upper body into cobra pose. He doesn’t get very far, especially when Ben pulls back until just the tip of his cock is inside before slamming forward.
The contact against his sore arse makes Harry drop back down to the sheets, and he doesn’t try to lift up again, Ben starting a near-brutal rhythm right away.
The angle isn’t the best, though. While it allows him to get moderately deep and thrust with as much force as he pleases, Harry’s hips effectively braced against the bed, it’s not very comfortable for Ben’s back. He can feel a twinge starting at the base, slowly working its way up the middle, so he straightens up and tries to take Harry with him, settling him so he’s on his knees but with his shoulders still pressed to the sheets.
It feels loads better but Ben only manages a few thrusts before Harry’s knees slide out from under him and he collapses back down, whimpering nonsense and clutching at air.
Ben improvises; he keeps himself upright and grabs Harry’s hips, keeping them flush together while he gets Harry’s legs around his waist, almost like how they were before except now, Ben has to hold Harry up. However it gives the added benefit of him being able to move Harry how he likes. He slides him forward and nearly off his cock entirely, and then pulls him back quickly, Harry’s subsequent moan getting caught halfway in his throat.
He does that for a bit, using Harry the way Harry likes being used, especially after he’s already come. It feels unbelievably good, Harry’s silky insides the perfect amount of loose and tight, warm and slick.
But Harry starts to push back, meeting Ben halfway and whimpering when the brief contact of his arse and Ben’s hips ends. Ben figures it out quickly, after testing what he thinks might be going on, pressing Harry’s arse cheeks to his front roughly, hammering against his sore flesh.
Before Ben can ask, Harry is nearly shouting, “ Yes . Good, good . Please.”
Ben holds Harry in place and lets his hips do all the work, giving quick rabbity thrusts that keep pushing the air out of Harry’s lungs as his bottom gets hot again from the assault of contact. The sound of skin slapping skin is loud, reaching Ben’s ears like the best soundtrack he’s ever heard, the noises that Harry seemingly can’t control acting as the icing on the cake.
It doesn’t take much longer for Ben to feel the stirrings of orgasm in his pelvis. Harry’s practically milking it out of him, draped over Ben and the bed like a ragdoll, allowing himself to be pushed up towards the headboard with each new thrust, Ben putting his full weight behind them.
“Yeah. Good boy, Harry. Such a— good . Boy .”
Ben doesn’t pull out. He fills Harry up while he comes for what feels like forever, shivering and eyes rolling back. When he looks down, he notices how tight his hold on Harry’s waist is, the skin around his fingers white and pale. So he makes himself let go, leaving pink marks in his wake, and soothes over them with gentle, careful touches.
Harry’s practically purring. He arches his back as Ben slowly pulls out, hums softly when he drags a finger through the mess around his hole.
“God,” Ben sighs. “Look at you.”
As if it’s a challenge, Harry gives Ben something to really look at, tightening his abs and forcing Ben’s come out so that it slides down and past his balls with a few pushes.
It does Ben’s head in. He’s very tired, suddenly, and would like nothing more than to stretch out next to Harry and nap for the foreseeable future. But Harry isn’t back with him quite yet, and Ben needs to do a few things before they’re officially done.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” Ben says, sweeping a sweaty, limp curl off Harry’s forehead. Harry mumbles some nonsense word back.
Ben fills a glass with water and sticks a straw in it — a bendy one because Harry likes those best — and grabs a few snacks, before depositing them on the bedside table. After relieving himself and wetting a washcloth with lukewarm water, he tasks himself with wiping Harry clean, taking the top-down approach and starting with his face, steadily working his way down until he’s dabbing around Harry’s hole, washing away any remnants of himself. Harry barely makes a sound throughout the whole process, cooperative and sweet, letting Ben take care of him.
It takes a little while, and after some coaxing in the form of quiet words, praises of “You’re so good” and “Lovely boy” and “You make me so happy and proud”, Harry finally comes back down to earth.
Ben makes sure he drinks and has something to eat, scratching his scalp and watching him the entire time like an overbearing mother. It makes Harry glow, pleased as punch with glittering eyes, holding back happy, overwhelmed tears.
Before Ben lets Harry flip over, he re-examines the marks on Harry’s arse. The sight of them makes Ben’s breath catch — deep reds and pink spots, the faint impressions of his fingers and palm. To anyone else they might look cruel, but Harry wears them willingly and proudly.
“So pretty, love,” Ben whispers. Harry shivers, lips curling up at the corners.
The scent of orange blossoms fills up the space as Ben methodically and reverently works lotion into Harry’s skin, apologizing profusely whenever Harry winces or lets out a harsh breath. Harry assures him it’s fine, but Ben makes a point to be even more careful.
When he’s finished and satisfied with his work, he cleans up, throwing away the granola bar wrappers, tossing the used washcloth into the sink, and putting away the lotion.
Harry’s nearly asleep by the time Ben crawls into bed next to him, pulling the covers up over them both. But Harry’s eyes open, meeting Ben’s gaze, and he looks surprisingly clear-headed.
“You good?” Ben asks.
Harry tucks his face into Ben’s neck and kisses him there. “Yeah,” he says. “‘M good. Great. Thank you.”
Saying “You’re welcome” would sound cheap compared to how Ben feels about the way Harry not only lets them do this, but is more than enthusiastic about asking for it. So he doesn’t say anything. He simply wraps his arms around Harry and presses his lips to the top of his head.