A/N: Okay! So, this is my first AHS fic, and of course it's for this hell ship. I've been really interested in the ways their relationship could go since I first watched Murder House years ago, and it isn't exactly surprising that it came out in the form of this - written in one lump sum at approximately one in the morning.
But, hey, maybe I'll write more fics for them - whether they're more or less wholesome than this one is still up in the air.
(Although, please feel free to leave a review if you liked this and want to see more!)
Further warnings: Mentions of self-harm, strong language, Daddy kink, infidelity, the general bad things that would come with Ben and Tate engaging in a sexual relationship.
Tate is fucking loud.
No matter what they're doing, whether Ben is quickly jerking him off or if he's pounding into him hard enough to make the sound of their skin slapping together echo throughout the office, Tate always sounds like a bitch in heat. Maybe it's because he's young, or because he's inexperienced, or just because no matter what it's rough to have a man three times his age showing him absolutely no mercy, but he lets out the most obscene sounds in an endless, wanton stream. Whines and mewls and moans as he throws his head back and curls his toes and grips onto anything within reach like he's trying desperately to keep himself grounded.
Ben is addicted to it.
At the start, every sinful and dreadfully wrong thing they'd done had been quick and as close to silent as possible. He'd hiss orders at Tate to be quiet, for fuck's sake, but he'd usually end up with a large hand covering most of the boy's angelic face as they fumbled together.
They figured out early on that Tate liked sucking dick - what an irony - and it was also an effective way of keeping him quiet. He still let out those desperate little noises around Ben's thick cock - he'd whimper and let out obscene choking noises as he slobbered and deepthroated and shamelessly experimented, and by the end of it it was usually Ben who was moaning and groaning and cursing to high heaven.
Because, despite Tate's apparent addictive innocence when actually performing any sexual act, he really seemed to know what he was doing.
Or, perhaps it was the whole 'clumsy, inexperienced young boy' thing that really got Ben going.
He had been pretty confident in leaving that question up in the air, until Tate had first pulled his spit-covered lips off of Ben's cock and hoarsely whimpered 'Daddy' and Ben had cum on the spot, all over Tate's pink lips and doe eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
He always cried when he sucked dick.
It didn't take long to find out that he cried even harder when he got fucked.
Really, Ben had been adamant the very first time that Tate had got on his knees that it was going to be a one-time thing - just so Tate could get it out of his system - and then maybe they could go over the whole host of issues that led to Tate being so desperate to spread his scarred thighs for male authority figures.
But then Tate had looked so pretty after he'd clumsily made Ben cum, and then Ben had jerked him off, and from then it just kept happening, escalating every time, until the first time Tate recited the usual stream of 'please fuck me's midway through sucking Ben's dick, and Ben had finally nodded.
It wasn't ideal. Ben didn't keep lube in his office, as often as he jerked off in there, so a lot of time was spent soothing Tate while he fingered him slowly with spit-slick fingers.
If Ben had thought Tate was pretty with a cock in his mouth, it was nothing compared to the sight of him on his back with his hole slowly being filled. He was so tight, so hot and inviting even though it was almost claustrophobic - particularly with the lack of lubrication. But then Ben got three fingers inside and Tate's eyes started getting all glossy and teary and he arched his back so prettily as he begged.
"Oh, God, please, Daddy."
Ben hadn't lasted long. He'd made sure that Tate came first, and he did - all twitchy and jerky and loud like the virgin he surely was - and then Ben had finally allowed himself the shamefully-fantasised pleasure of cumming inside Tate, filling him up and watching the expression on his sweaty, exhausted, tear-streaked face change with the sensation of being owned so intimately.
Ben usually helped to calm Tate down after their more intimate encounters - even though those encounters usually sparked in the middle of their normal sessions.
Even if they'd only jerked off, he'd just sit and hold Tate for a while, stroke a large hand slowly up and down the kid's skinny back until Tate stopped shaking or crying. After the first time they fucked, though, he held Tate in his lap for what was surely hours, and - for the first time - he spoke. He whispered the words that felt right, called Tate a good boy and said he was proud, said that it was okay, said that Tate was loved and safe right here and that he didn't have to think or feel guilty or worry about anything at all.
They ended up falling asleep together that first time.
They'd both slept on the sofa before, but never together. Ben slept there when he couldn't bear to go upstairs to Vivian, and Tate slept there on the days he walked into the office looking just that little bit more exhausted and broken, like he was one hairline fracture away from shattering into a million pieces.
Ben wasn't sure how Tate felt, but he knew that sleeping together like that felt so much better to him than sleeping alone.
Maybe it felt better than sleeping with Vivian.
It definitely felt better than sleeping with anybody else he'd cheated on his wife with.
Even if he'd woken up alone, the space beside him cold, and a few dark drops of blood staining the place on the leather where Tate had taken him.
He still isn't sure if that was some sort of turning point, if their relationship - if it could be called that - meant more or less after that.
Tate still comes in for his sessions every week. Sometimes he talks about his mother, sometimes he talks about his classmates, sometimes he talks about Violet. Sometimes he yells and clenches his fists and storms around the room like the blood in his veins has been replaced with pure fury, pure violence, and the only thing that can possible make him feel any better - any less hopeless - is to hurt and break and destroy.
Sometimes he crawls into Ben's arms and cries endlessly like a child, lost and hurt and abandoned.
Either way, Ben usually ends up with his cock inside him somehow. The only real difference is whether he's holding Tate down and making him feel bruised up and owned and used, or whispering sweet praise to him even though it always, always makes Tate sob in the most heartbreaking way.
There's surely something to be prodded at and found in the fact that Tate never cries when Ben grips his throat and throws him around and calls him worthless, but can be crumbled to near hysterics with a single utterance of 'good boy', but Ben can never find the words to bring it up when Tate is fully clothed and sat with his knees pulled to his chest like Ben is just someone else out to hurt him.
Sometimes, Ben wonders if he is.