Gift Details ♥
Reader Style: cisfem - tall, but it ended up being not explicitly mentioned.
Character: Benn Beckman
Vibe: you said toss a coin, and the coin landed on its edge
AU: Coffee AU
Prompt: Shower 

Summary: It all started with a cup of coffee.

Content Notes: None really, suggestive, not specific.

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

It had all started with a cup of coffee.

You'd been buried up to your eyes in books for research, and by the time you'd realized the time, the sun was coming up. Bleary-eyed, disheveled, fingers stained with ink and smelling of leather and paper, you'd wandered into a small café near campus only because the campus one wasn't open yet.

You hadn't even ordered anything all that interesting. Just the biggest, and strongest cup of coffee they were legally allowed to serve you.

The warm chuckle in response had tickled down your spine and woke you up enough to notice, and appreciate, the older man behind the counter. Beckman, Benn Beckman, owner of the Red-eye café. A name that was both a play on red-eye flights, and bulls-eyes.

He'd asked you to return the next day and allay his fears about your survival. A small price to pay for the cup of coffee that helped keep you up the rest of the day.

Plus, the man himself was alluring enough.

And so, the next day you had returned - offering thanks and providing reassurances that the monster cup of joe he'd provided you with hadn't, in fact, exploded your heart.

You went back again, and again, and again. Days to weeks, weeks to months, and after nearly half a year, Beckman had done what you'd been too unsure of yourself to do.

He asked you out.

It was the next logical step. In all your time at the café you'd exchanged views on everything. From politics to philosophy, you spoke at length about books you cherished, and even video games and movies you'd both enjoyed. He'd begun reading more so he could talk to you about the books you loved, and you even watched a few movies you'd never heard of before.

You hadn't even liked some of them, but just to be able to talk.

To hear that silky deep voice, gruff from too many years of smoking, drifting across the table, it was worth watching all the old campy movies you could stand. The glint of joy in his eyes as the two of you got into the weeds about all manner of nuance and frustration.

It wasn't just that he was pleasing to listen to, it was that he also listened to you.

The date had been so old fashioned, that you'd nearly teased him for it. But it was also perfect. He arrived a little early, but not by much, and had brought a small few flowers that you not only liked, but that dried well so you could preserve them. He'd taken you to a place that you ended up enjoying, and that wasn't far from your house.

The conversation had been just as easy before, and if it wasn't for the natural smile on his face, and the look in his eye, you'd almost have forgotten that it was a date. There was a flutter in your chest, but it was so comfortable, so warm, so gentle, that it didn't make you nervous.

The movie had been one suited to your preferences, but he didn't ignore it. He asked if he could put his arm across your seat, and smiled when you asked if you could hold his hand instead. You did little more than place your hand on top of his, and he did little more than shift his fingers beneath yours a couple times through the movie, but it was enough.

When he walked you back to your door and asked to kiss your hand, you asked to kiss his lips. The brief look of shock on his face was worth every single butterfly in your stomach, and the sweet smile on his lips was the last thing you saw before their warmth was against your own.

He had turned down the offer to come in, but only because he had to open the café the next day, and hadn't wrangled someone to cover for him in time. Promising to plan better next time, he apologized for not being young enough to go without sleep, and at the end of it you had simply decided that you'd go to the café first thing in the morning.

The second date at been him cooking for you at your place.

Dinner at shifted easily into dessert, and that's what you were. Sweet words had slipped easily into innuendo, and the teasing banter between you had stopped when that rough silky voice, less like smoke and coffee and more like bourbon and honey, had pressed warm against your skin. Calloused fingers were impossibly soft against your arms, and the heat in his breath sunk into your bones.

At every turn he asked for permission. Sometimes it was "May I," sometimes it was "Let me do this," a few times it was "I'm going to," and the affirmation from you had been the trigger. His fingers mapped your skin, committing everything he could to memory. Every line, dip, and curve. Every coarse breath that left you, and every shiver that dug your nails into his skin.

His hands unraveled you twice before he did anything more. Sweat plastered hair to your skin as the sure grin on his face praised you silently. The deeper he went, the brighter the lines you etched into his back. He held you steady as you moaned his name, reveling in the different ways pleasure painted itself on your face while he was inside you.

The intoxicating sound of his name on your lips as he brought you to the peak a third time. It was a sound unique to you, unique to that moment.

Uniquely for him alone.

The care afterward had almost caught you off guard. Standing beneath the warm cascade of water, shaky limbs held in place by strong hands. The gentle way he helped you get cleaned up. The soft kisses, the way he washed your hair that almost made your knees buckle again. Fingers wandered over skin once more, but with less fervor, tempered by a deep need for sleep.

Sheets, hands, fingers, arms, legs - how or what you were tangled up in didn't matter. Rest took you easily, and comfort found you in the morning.

Stormy eyes promising more, and a warm cup of coffee to start your day.

And all the days thereafter.