ʀᴇɴ

Ben had been worried, his eyes obscured by the white lenses of his mask, when he saw you, his partner, in the crowd.

Mobsters had robbed a bank on the same street you happen to work, his fear of losing you distracting him from the fight at hand.

And yet, despite his warnings to the entire crowd to stay back, there you are interfering, antagonising one of the mobsters and just narrowly avoiding being beat to death before he swoops in. He nearly has a heart attack mid-fight.

Once the criminals are tied up and left for the cops to find, he wordlessly lifts you into his arms and carries you away from the scene, swinging you to a nearby rooftop as you scream and curse.

Ahh, right. Most people are not a fan of heights. Somehow, he always manages to forget that.

As he settles you down, he steadies you, his worry and frustration bubbling up and steadily building to their boiling point until, suddenly, he just can’t hold back any longer.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” He reprimands, his voice purposefully low. “What were you thinking?”

You blink at him owlishly, feeling like a scolded child. From your perspective, a masked man you don’t know is shouting at you like you’re his loved one.

“Do I know you…?” You ask naturally, still taken aback.

He stops mid-tirade, his gloved hands pausing midair in a failed gesture of emphasis. You can see the cogs turning in his head.

“No.” He answers, panicked before he reaches out to cup your jaw, petting the scrape you received from hitting the concrete when he yanked you to safety. “I just hate to see a pretty thing like you hurt for no good reason.”

Having been momentarily softened by his touch, you regain your senses, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I’m a grown adult. I can handle myself.” You bite back, pulling away from his oddly soothing hands.

Despite being unable to see his eyes through his thick lenses, a shiver travels up the length of your spine, feeling his wandering gaze burning into your skin.

“Is that so?” He drawls, back straightening as he appears to inspect you from head to toe.

“Yes.” You answer quickly, defensively as he begins to circle you like a vulture.

“And you aren’t even going to thank me for saving your life…?” He continues expectantly.

You frown at the thought, recognising the truth in his words. Stubbornly, you ignore his point.

“Why should I?” You shrug, watching as he steps behind you.

The clouded grey sky overhead suddenly feels suffocating, like you’ve been tossed under a giant blanket, struggling to breathe but still impossibly comfortable. The chill air burns your lungs as you inhale deeply, exhaling as your tongue goes dry.

“Maybe I oughta force an apology out of you, then.” He prompts, giving the control over to you despite the palpable hunger behind his words.

Any rational person would take the out; play it off like a joke, demand to be returned to the city street below and get back to your average day of work before anyone notices you’re missing.

You swallow thickly.

You are not a rational person.

“Make me.” The words leave you like a sigh, feeling so right despite the claustrophobic atmosphere, despite the possible danger ahead.

The Spider’s hands are on your waist before you even see him move, and all at once your world is tipped on its side.

He takes a seat on the edge of the roof, wordlessly tugging fabric down your legs until your backside is bare, manoeuvring you like an object as he bends you over his knee.

He can’t believe he’s really doing this. Even as plain old Ben, he’s never done this with you, never hurt you. But, darn it, he wants to.

He couldn’t stop himself now even if he tried.

Leather both dulls and amplifies the sting as he strikes you, making contact with your trembling flesh as you bite your own knuckles to remain quiet.

He winds his hand back and hits again, and again, and again until strings of drool coat your chin and your own hand.

You make muffled noises of pleasure as his spanking is interspersed with curious, ungloved fingers dipping into you, then out, then back in again.

He fills you with two thick digits, curling until you see stars, sobbing freely as he lands another painful strike on your abused backside.

“Apologise.” He grunts, his voice thickened with desire.

You writhe on his lap, hot tears slipping down your cheeks as you press back against his hand for more.

“M’sorry.” You mumble pathetically, your voice quiet and wet. “Thank… thank you for saving me…”

And, for the first time since he was a teenager, Ben nearly comes in his pants. He resists the urge to, but only just barely.

Refocusing on you, he works the pads of his fingers into that spongey spot inside you until you can hardly breathe.

“So good for me.” He mutters proudly, his wrist aching now, continuing to plunge his digits into you as your toes curl in your shoes. “Come.” He orders softly. “You’ve earned it.”

And you obey, making a filthy mess of his trousers as you grind yourself against his thigh like a bad dog.

By the time he slides his fingers out of you, he knows he needs to do this with you again.

It starts out innocently enough. He takes photos of you when you go out on dates, usually outside the movie theatre or when you go on a stroll through the park, always moments of domestic bliss.

You don’t mind. It’s romantic, even! He wants to memorise something as mundane as you drinking your morning coffee? What’s the harm!

But, gradually, he becomes fixated on using his camera, his focus squarely on your body from behind that sinful lense.

And, during sex, you notice that familiar glint in his eye that alerts you to exactly what he’s thinking; ‘this would make for a good picture.’

You both hate and love that you wind up indulging this fantasy of his.

He snaps pictures of you while you’re still breathless, laying there on the bed, the sheets tousled around you after hours of fun.

You shoot him an unimpressed look when the flash pulls you out of your post-orgasmic haze, but he looks reinvigorated in a way you’ve never seen before.

He instructs you as he steps around the bed, searching for just the right angle as he reaches out with a free hand, moving your bare leg an inch to the left.

And, just as quickly as you were annoyed, you begin to understand the appeal of it all.

Using the same tender touch he used to pleasure you just moments ago, he guides your body into different poses, silent one minute and praising you the next.

“There we go.” He mutters, speaking to himself as though you aren’t even there. “So pretty.”

It’s all far more erotic than you were expecting, being treated more like a decoration than a human being.

“That’s it, doll. Look up at me, just like that…” He trails off as he snaps another photo, finally noticing how pliant you’re being, how worked up he’s gotten you.

With a sudden movement, he pins your wrists above your head, taking a moment to admire your stunned expression, noting your blown pupils before he shoots out dark grey web, pinning your hands to the headboard.

Expectedly, you love it. Though, he didn’t quite anticipate the begging that follows.

“Please, please, please.” You gasp, your lower half writhing, legs curling around his waist.

And what kind of man would he be if he denied his lover when they’re in need…?

He doesn’t even bother undressing, just unbuckles his belt and pulls his length out of his trousers, stripping you down as you remain helpless beneath him.

His usual slow, sensual pace is abandoned in favour of something deeper, more worshipful, like he’s trying to carve into you and make a home for himself there, your bodies meeting with a dull thud.

Your sweet noises drive him crazy, leaving him too flushed to even look at you, his eyes trained on the slope of your collarbones. He feels like a teenager again, somehow. If he doesn’t try to distract himself, he’ll come undone.

But your back curves into such a pretty arch, and you feel so good wrapped around him, and you’re behaving more wantonly than he’s ever seen you before.

So, when you curse under your breath and warn him that you’re getting close, he slows his pace right down and focuses all his attention on your pleasure first.

Surrendering to the feeling, he holds eye contact with you as he works you over the edge, watching as ecstasy morphs your features into something truly beautiful, all for him.

As he anticipated, it barely takes him another roll of his hips before he’s following your lead, coming undone as he slumps forward, spilling deep inside you.

You chase his lips as he pants, kissing him with more tenderness than he knows how to handle. The moment is simultaneously picture perfect and far from it, the scent of sex lingering in the air, sweat glistening on flushed skin.

He pulls at the web coating your wrists, freeing you before you reach up to lazily loop your arms around his shoulders.

“I think you liked that as much as I did.” You murmur, affectionately teasing him as you rest your foreheads together.

He nods solemnly in agreement, his heart still beating like a drum in his chest.

“We might have a problem on our hands.” He chuckles wryly, though the glint in his eye tells you he means it.

He drinks as he rambles on and on about his latest case, pausing to flick the ash from his cigarette into the half-full dish on the hardwood countertop.

A ghostly white plume of smoke escapes him as he exhales, licking his lips before he takes another hit, the scent suffocating and yet so enticing.

He knows how he must look right now. In his fifties, the hard lines of his face darkened by the bright lights overhead, someone so much younger than him clinging to his arm like a needy thing.

And yet, he can’t get enough of it.

You’re pressed against his side, head on his shoulder, your gaze never leaving him as you study his profile. He isn’t used to the attention, struggling not to fluster.

He takes another sip of his bourbon, hoping for some liquid courage, before his heavy-lidded gaze settles on you.

“Want a smoke?” He asks, simply to have something to say, speaking more casually than he feels.

You nod, lifting your head as he takes another drag, his hand curling around the nape of your neck to hold you still as he blows smoke into your open mouth.

It’s horribly intimate, especially in public, but neither of you find it in your hearts to care.

Instead, as you savour his secondhand smoke, you press your lips to the shell of his ear, whispering to him as you rest a hand on his thigh.

He listens, barely stifling a groan as you tell him every single thing you’re planning to do to him the moment you leave the bar together.

More often than not, that’s limited to sitting on his lap, kissing his neck and keeping him company while he drinks or smokes.

That by itself is inappropriate for an employee and their boss to be doing during work hours, but you’ve done more than just that.

On occasion, his hands will roam along your thighs, groping, slipping under the fabric to work his fingers inside you. He never says much when he gets in this mood, too focused on the feeling of you, on the muffled noises you make, his own breathing heavy as he licks the shell of your ear.

The few times he has spoken to you when he’s pleasuring you, he never fails to say one thing;

“So good for me, doll.”