Singularity || Ben Drowned x reader
content warning(s): implied established relationship, pedophilia mention (in conversation, non-sexual context), slight body horror? (it's Ben don't look so surprised), weed smoking, explicit sexual content — inebriated sex (high, both parties), light power dynamics, oral(blowjob), spit, piv, relatively wholesome compared to my other stuff💚
word count: 3.4k
author's note: another one for my man, my man, my man, my baby, my babyyy~✨I grabbed the gif myself from joji's PIXELATED KISSES music video very proud of that🥹
There was a difference between Ben forgetting he had a body and Ben forgetting he had a body.
There was the kind we all did. When you get lost in thought and bite your lip, or get carried away by the flow of activity and start to tap your foot.
Then there was the kind only Ben did. When he just… ceased to exist within one. Stepped away, like leaving a car running with no one inside. A sock puppet with no hand. A mannequin with a pulse, alive but without consciousness.
He left it in your apartment once, and it was one of his few quirks that actually disturbed you. He promised not to do it again — that if he was going to be there, he was going to be there.
A fraction of him, at least.
He was currently at the desk in the corner of your living room in a form that was almost right. Blonde hair that moved like it was underwater even while he sat still, eyes that flashed between brown and that eerie molten red when the illusion misrendered. Fingers flying across a keyboard at a monitor that wasn't even plugged in, because he didn't need it to be. The screen glowed anyway, code cascading down in streams that made your eyes hurt if you looked too long.
You sat on the couch with your sketchbook — an abstract piece that had started as pencil shading practice and devolved into trying to capture the way he flickered at the edges. The way he looked flat and three-dimensional, both digital and real, the way his shadows didn't throw right and your brain couldn't place what was wrong.
You tried to copy the shape of him. His bony frame, his narrow shoulders and narrower hips. His long legs and thin fingers. You could see the profile of his face. Skin deathly pale with grayish-blue undertones, lips an unnatural rosy pink, lashes girls would slaughter for.
He was beautiful in a haunting way. The kind that drew you in before you realized it cloaked something dangerous, like nectar from a Venus flytrap.
But somehow you kept walking away unscathed.
You realized, with the sudden clarity of a match striking, that you were aching for him. You wanted him right then. Not later, not after he finished whatever he was compiling or corrupting or creating. Now.
But you knew better than to ask for his attention outright. That was how you lost with Ben — he would insist on five minutes, and his idea of five minutes was fifty hours.
"Whatcha doin'?" you asked instead.
A voice, boyish and light, almost echoed out of him. "Oh, ya know, the usual. Generating new malware, mining hella crypto, managing nine separate DDoS attacks, corrupting some asshole's hard drive in Iceland, monitoring police scanners in London, emailing the FBI about three more pedo rings it took me two minutes to sus out. Like, you ever wonder why it takes the FBI actual lifetimes to find pedo rings? 'Cuz half of them are pedos. You know what? Fuck that, I'll just pass these to Sally to pick off... Oh, and I'm playing chess with myself. And I'm downloading the entire contents of—" The words tumbled out too fast, the movement of his lips lagging behind.
"Okay, okay," you couldn't process anymore. "Jesus Ben, reel it in."
"Why? Wanna make out?"
You didn't answer, just rolled your eyes. Yeah, duh, but he didn't need to know that. If Ben's ego got any bigger he'd start destabilizing governments.
You set your sketchbook on the coffee table, reached for your rolling tray, and got to work. Breaking, grinding, tapping, arranging the weed with practiced fingers. You rolled it, lit it, took a puff just to make sure it burned even. The smoke filled your lungs with earth and skunk and something that made everything soften just slightly. You stood and crossed to the desk.
Ben's fingers never stopped moving. Code raced behind his vacant stare. You stood behind him, close enough that your hair brushed his ear, and pressed the blunt between his lips.
He inhaled automatically, deeply, and you felt his shoulders ease. The lines on the screen slowed fractionally. His hair fell in a way that convincingly obeyed gravity. His entirely red eyes blinked back to normal brown for a few seconds.
He held the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary — didn't need to breathe but did it anyway for this — and when he exhaled, his whole form stabilized. Became more there.
"Thanks," he murmured. Distant but calmer.
You plucked the blunt from his lips, took another hit, tapped the ash into the tray on the side table. The weed was already wrapping around your thoughts, making everything feel slightly muddy, slightly dreamy. You lifted it back to him and he took another pull without prompting.
You could see why he smoked so heavily. You could watch it happen in real time — the THC forcing his consciousness to slow, narrowing his existence to something almost room-sized.
This time when you took it back, you set it in the ashtray and dropped to your knees between his legs.
That got a millisecond pause in the typing. A hesitation where his thought stream snagged on your physical presence.
You worked his belt loose slowly, the leather sliding through metal with a whisper. Popped the button of his jeans. Drew the zipper down tooth by tooth.
"Don't let me distract you," you said, tone sickly-sweet. "Just keep doing what you're doing."
Ben's eyes narrowed slightly. An eyebrow twitched. "Uh-huh." He knew what you were doing. Reverse psychology, oldest trick in the book, and it was working because you'd made it a game.
You tugged his jeans down just enough, pulled him free. Already half-hard, his body responding even if eighty percent of his mind was allegedly elsewhere. You wrapped your hand around him, stroked once, slow and firm, root to tip.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. You could hear electronics humming louder in your apartment, feel the static charge building in the air.
You leaned in and dragged your tongue along the underside of his cock, tracing the vein, tasting salt and skin and something not quite human. Felt him hardening fully under your hold.
"Still here?" You asked innocently, pressing a kiss to his tip.
"I'm in seventeen places right now." His voice was strained, fighting to stay level. "You're number four. Maybe five."
"Huh. Better work harder then."
You took him into your mouth without warning, sank down until he hit the back of your throat, and swallowed around him.
His hands spasmed, lifting from the keyboard entirely. You heard something pop in the unit next door, a muffled squeal of confusion through the wall. Ben's head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut, and for one perfect moment he was singular. Just here, all yours.
It didn't last.
You felt him fracture again almost immediately, awareness splintering back across networks. His hands came up — one buried in your hair, gripping maybe too tight, the other resuming its phantom typing in midair.
You pulled off with an obscene sound, lips slick and gasping. "You're not making this easy."
"I'm trying not to blow up twelve server rooms. Just- just hold on—"
You licked a stripe up his length and studied his face. A rare crease of concentration on his brow. Watched his form buzz and fray at the edges, pieces of him going in and out like a bad signal, before he dragged himself back together through what looked like sheer willpower.
Then he was solid. Flesh and... you weren't sure if he had bones.
His eyes dropped to yours. All the way brown.
You smiled up at him, all false innocence. "Welcome back. Who won at chess?" You didn't give him the chance to answer as you took him completely in your mouth again.
You took your time, drew it out, rolled your tongue around his tip. Tasted the salt of him and that not-quite-human taste that had stopped being strange months ago and started being just his.
You heard his breath catch. Utterly involuntarily.
You gripped the base, jerked and sucked in rhythm, and felt his nails at your scalp. Not pushing, like he needed something to hold.
You took him all the way down your throat again. Gagged. Came up and used the new wet to stoke him faster.
"Fuck—" The word came out fragmented, layered, like two voices echoing out of sync. His form blurred then cleared, then blurred again. His eyes were fighting for brown and losing.
"Focus, Benny," you cooed, only slightly teasing, but it wasn't a request. You were taking something from him and he was going to let you have it.
His jaw tensed. Something crackled in the walls. And then, slowly, laboriously, his form bled solid. His irises settled back to brown. Hair fell with gravity in mind.
His hand tightened in your hair. Tilted your head back, just a little, so your eyes would meet.
"You're evil," he said, voice rough, finally natural-sounding. "And annoying."
You smiled. Took him back down to the root.
You'd think about the way he twitched in your mouth later.
He dragged you up by your hair, crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that tasted like smoke and pixels. His hands — so textured, so deliberately real, engineered down to the last ridge of a fingerprint — gripped your hips, mapped your waist, nails dragging down your sides hard enough to make you gasp into him.
"This what you wanted?" He pulled back just enough to speak, mouth down your jaw, your throat. "My full fucking attention?"
"Yes—"
He grabbed you by the ass and hauled you up onto the desk in one fluid motion. The keyboard went flying. The monitor tipped and crashed against the wall — he didn't even glance at it. Didn't need any of it anyway.
You barely had time to brace before his fingers hooked into your waistband, yanking your shorts and underwear down at once. Tossed them somewhere behind him. Left you bare from the waist down, legs dangling, pulse hammering.
Ben's eyes — still brown, still here — dragged over every inch of newly exposed skin with an intensity that made you want to close your legs. He looked at you like he was cataloging the details. Like he knew exactly where every vulnerability was and was deciding where to start. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" You aimed for casual. Landed somewhere closer to constrained. "You've seen a thousand OnlyFans models with better bodies than mine."
"Don't start." He stepped between your thighs before you could overthink it, hands sliding up to grip them, thumbs brushing maddeningly close to where you were already wet. "There's not a thing I could give them to make them see me the way you see me."
Then his mouth was on your throat, your collarbone, your sensitive spots, in what was obviously an attempt to shut you up.
You let him try. Your words came out shaky anyway. "Yeah? And how's that?"
He smirked against your skin — teeth too sharp for a second, then perfectly even — his breath grazing your ear.
"The man in the machine, I guess. Or just some guy who knows how to push your buttons."
While you failed to find anything to say to that, Ben reached past you and plucked the forgotten blunt from the ashtray. Placed it between his teeth, didn't bother searching for a lighter. Just held up his index finger and produced a spark, cherry blooming orange.
He took a long drag, held it in his lungs while his free hand resumed its torturous path up your inner thigh. Your breath caught. His fingers got close enough to feel the heat of you radiating against his palm.
Then his hand changed course. Wrist snapping up, palm flat and open, right in front of your face.
He exhaled with his demand. Smoke clouded your vision, hazed your already-foggy thoughts.
"Now spit."
Your brain was a skipping record.
The sudden obscenity of it, the casual dominance in his voice. Like he already knew you'd obey.
And he was right, because you did. You leaned forward and let saliva gather on your tongue, dribbled it into his waiting palm. Watched it pool there, mixing with the faint hum that always seemed to emanate from him.
"That's my girl," he murmured, voice low and distorted just enough to shiver through your spine. He brought his hand down between your legs without breaking eye contact, spreading the wetness over you in one smooth, filthy glide. Fingers sliding through your folds, coating you in your own spit and the slick that had already been there, waiting for him.
You gasped, hips rolling involuntarily. He circled your clit once, twice, teasing, just to watch you move — then dipped lower. One finger pushed inside easily, then two, curling in exactly the right place.
"Ben—" Breathy, broken.
The blunt still burned between his teeth, smoke curling lazy around his face as he took another drag and exhaled it slow across your skin. Everything felt heavier. Slower. His thumb pressed firm against your clit in rhythmic circles that matched your pulse. His other hand squeezed your thigh tight enough to leave marks — pale fingerprints that might glitch and vanish, or might stay as bruises you'd trace in the mirror.
"You know this thing has settings I haven't even tried," he said, voice coarse and sultry and somehow casually clinical. "Nevermind all the sensors and nerve density and thermal calibration." His fingers curled deeper, deliberate. "I figured I overdid that part a little."
You couldn't form words, just whimpered and ground down onto his hand. The hallway light flickered, but his eyes stayed brown. Stayed on you.
He transferred the blunt to the ashtray before pulling his digits out, making you whine, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean with a brazen slowness, tongue working around each one while he stared you down.
Then he lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging hot and impossibly hard against your entrance.
He pushed in slow. Steady. All the way.
The moan that left you let him know just how desperate you felt. Your head dropped back, your palms seized the edge of the desk for something to hold onto. There was nothing to adjust to, he was so precise, having already calculated the exact angle. Optimized the pliability of him to the stretch of you.
"Eyes on me."
Your head came up. The intensity of his gaze was so total. All that scattered attention collected and aimed.
It was almost too much. You'd wanted exactly this and now that you had it the magnitude was almost hard to breathe through.
He rolled his hips and the thought dissolved.
He built you up methodically. Pressure and depth and the drag of him pulling back just far enough to feel the loss, only to slam right up against that spot that made your eyes roll and your face tingle, until your legs were shaking around him and the static in the air was so thick you could taste it. The lights in the apartment didn't just flicker now — they pulsed with him, with the rhythm of it, dimming and flaring brighter than they should've been able.
You were grabbing at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. He knew you were close, you didn't have to tell him. He read it in your muscles and your heartbeat and the rake of your nails on his arms and the way your voice broke on his name.
And he used it. Slowed just enough to feel cruel, grinding deep with a precision that shouldn't have been possible and wasn't quite natural. Hips rolling in that specific rhythm he'd identified early on and never let you forget it.
One hand released your thigh to press flat against the small of your back, angling you differently, and the sound that came out of you was embarrassing.
"Right there?" he smirked, as if he didn't know.
He didn't let you adjust. Didn't give you the grace of building back to it slowly. He gave it to you all at once — that angle, that depth, thumb pressing back against your clit. The bulbs pulsed hard, one long flare, ceiling fixture burning white-hot.
"Ben—" It came out wrecked. Shapeless. Just his name as pure reflex.
"Yeah." Low. Distorted. "I know."
You came with your teeth digging into his shoulder and your ankles crossed behind him, a muffled noise against him, your whole body shuddering once like it was shaking something loose. Every lamp strobed in unison before dying to the dimmest possible flicker, barely enough to see by.
The desk cracked its legs against the floor with the force of him not stopping.
He saw you through it with the same terrible attention he'd turned on you since his eyes went brown — not letting you come down, not letting you drift, keeping you right there at the raw edge of too much while your thighs shook in his hold and your nails found his back.
"Still with me?"
You managed something that wasn't quite a word.
Ben would take that as a yes. His grip on your hips changed. Less rhythm, more depth, something he was chasing you could see in the set of his jaw, the crease in his brow. His breath came harder. The static was so thick it raised the hair on your arms, like the air before a lightning strike.
Every device in the apartment started making noise at once. Your phone buzzed itself off the coffee table. The television flickered on, then off. Something in the kitchen beeped a pattern that didn't correspond to any setting.
You felt him start to unravel a second before it happened. His form buzzed, hair lifting slightly against physics, a ringing in your ears.
He pressed in deep and stayed there. Groaned long against your collarbone, the sound of it resonating wrong in the best possible way, like it was coming from somewhere slightly outside him.
The power went out.
The hum of every appliance went quiet at once. The refrigerator, the clocks, the neighbor's television cut to nothing mid-laugh track. Your building had never been this silent.
All you could hear was each other's heavy breathing.
You stayed like that for a time. His forehead resting on your shoulder. Your fingers, which had become knotted in his shirt, slowly uncurled. You became aware of small things — the throb of your pulse in your thighs, the sweat cooling at the back of your neck, the mix of you and him leaking out of you, the faint smell of smoke and ozone and mint.
You could feel him slipping. Not moving, just... splintering. Texture becoming fuzzy in your hold. Hair phasing through matter like fog. Limbs freezing in a way people weren't capable of.
You let him. Your cheek rested against his temple and you just held him.
Then you heard the bustling outside your door. Neighbors coming into the hall. Someone wondering where the breaker was, someone else swearing their Xbox just exploded, a third voice asking if anyone smelled something burning. You opened your eyes to a dark room, every device drained.
You giggled into the crook of his neck. "Did you knock out the whole city?"
The smugness in his voice was audible. "Just your entire complex." He pushed himself upright; his eyes had gone red again. You could feel his focus dilating outward. "I'm telling the power company what parts they're gonna need... And ordering an Xbox."
"Very charitable."
But he was already half-somewhere-else, and you knew better than to try calling him back. You watched his attention scatter across something that existed outside of time, spreading thin across a thousand open windows, and felt the familiar ache of it — not loss, exactly. A small loneliness, the in-between. A price you'd willingly pay over and over if it meant even just a minute of his undivided everything.
And for that moment, you'd have him.
All of him.
Every last glitching piece.
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