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05 September 2008 @ 11:07 am
 

Hi!  *waves*  I’m new here and new to lj, so it might take me awhile to get the formatting down.  But tada!  Here it is!


Title: 189.2514 Days
Pairing: Mickey/Ben, Cole/Ben, Fisher/Ben
Rating: R (??)
Warning: Spoilers for the movie. And there's sex.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: I wrote this immediately after I saw 21 in theaters, but had no lj. So, many, many months later, here it is. First fic! Please be gentle.

The thing about Mickey is that he has that voice.  That here now knees voice.  The kind of voice that makes time stop, and makes Ben extremely aware of thud of his heart and the blood thundering through his veins. 

Since he’s met Mickey, he’s spent more time on his knees than counting cards.  And the fact that their relationship is more of a convenient arrangement never really made sense until Mickey left.  No disobedience.  Ever.  It was unacceptable by Mickey’s standards.  Of course, Ben had known, but he hadn’t expected Mickey’s departure to hurt quite this much.

The odd thing is that now, when Cole’s beating him into a very bloody pulp, there seems to be more care, more concern in his voice, then there’s ever been in Mickey’s voice.  Ben can’t help but be very aware of the hand that lingers on the back of his neck or the legs that brush against his knees.  And when Cole starts hitting him again, he’s a little turned on and despite that being very very wrong, Ben’s a bit disappointed that Cole doesn’t hit him with those rings.  So yeah, he’s turned on, but it’s not like he could actually do anything about it because a) he’s sure Cole is very straight or b) Cole has got a raging hard-on for Mickey.

Back in Boston, he calls Cole, sets the thing up.  Goes crawling back to Mickey and gives him head above the alumni gathering in an upstairs office and thinks of gold rings while being fucked over a chair.

In Vegas, Jill and Ben are home free–until Cole stops them with a gun and Ben realizes how incredibly fucking tired he is.  He tells Jill to leave and Ben to go back to the hotel suite.  Ben does.

Cole calls at four pm sharp to say he’ll be swinging by at eight.  He tells Ben that he doesn’t have to be there.  Won’t follow him if he’s not.  Your choice.  Ben spends all afternoon canceling his seven o’clock flight, then rescheduling, then canceling again until the girl on the telephone states that his flight will be at seven tomorrow morning and tells him, politely, to fuck off.

As eight comes, Ben’s freaking nervous, moving furniture and thinking what if Cole does want to kill him, and then calculates the odds of that actually happening.  He sits down and buries his face in his hands until the door opens, then shuts, and locks with a snickt. 

Cole seems nicer when Ben isn’t tied to a chair.  It’s almost weird.  Asks stuff regarding consent and smiles maliciously when Ben stutters a question about Mickey.  Soon, Ben’s down on his knees again, arms crossed at the wrist behind his back, the way Mickey liked them, and carpet surprising rough even through his jeans.  At 8:20 Cole needs to make a phone call and moves into another room after telling Ben to write out a list of dos and don’ts.  Ben’s list of don’ts isn’t very long.

They hit dirty talk when Cole appears to be attempting to fuck Ben through the glass separating them from the glaring Vegas lights and a drop of 25899.764 feet.  And when comments about Mickey start flowing, they burn, twisting knots in Ben’s stomach until a sob escapes from his throat.  It’s not like Cole is supposed to care, really.  At least, Ben didn’t expect him too; Fisher had liked it.  But Cole’s fingers gripping his hips loosen and stroke soothingly instead.  Embarrassingly enough, Ben passes out after he comes.

Ben wakes up two hours later.  He notes the bed he’s in, and the glass of water standing silently next to the blueberry muffin on the nightstand.  He downs the water and looks at the muffin warily, expecting it to be poisonous.  Naked, he wanders into the main room, finding Cole doing paperwork, and picks at the muffin.  It’s good. 

“So,” he starts, “the muffin?  Not poisonous, is it?”

Cole responds by saying that there are much more interesting ways to kill someone, making Ben laugh and return to his muffin, before adding, “Besides, you give good head.”  Ben chokes on his muffin.

What Cole doesn’t say is that the blueberries mask a type of forget-me drug that will steal away Ben’s memory of the past few hours the next time he falls asleep.

They have more sex, a lot of sex, until Ben isn’t sure he’ll be able to walk and Cole informs Ben he needs to begin getting ready for his flight, but yes, they have time for a few quick fucks and it’s Ben’s turn to pick from his kink list. And ever so silent, Ben asks, “Can you . . . with your rings?”  Cole raises an eyebrow in an unspoken command.  “Hit me,” Ben clears his throat, feeling like a child, composure lost, continues “Hit me with your rings.”

Cole fucking knows this will undo the blueberry muffin he had to threaten the kitchen staff to make and says dryly as a last attempt, “It won’t go away.”

Ben nods, a hint of cockiness slipping into his voice, “Maybe I don’t want it to.”  His breath hitches as Cole removes the rings from a velvet bag and slips them on his fingers.

Cole drops him off at the airport and when they fuck in the bathroom, Ben thinks of Fisher.  He remembers his face against the cool off-blue tile and the money that was shoved into his pants before hand.  He thinks of the janitor’s closets at MIT and the smell of cleaner as Fisher came down his throat before fingers up his ass fuck yeah jolt him back to the here and now.

Ben has a royal flush on the inside of his upper right thigh when he settles into seat 34C on the airplane.  He falls asleep, head resting against the window, and remembers nothing when he wakes up.

Then 189.2514 days later, Ben remembers and catches the next flight to Vegas.




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