Chapter Text
Randy stops walking. Doesn’t mean to, doesn’t even notice he’s stopped.
Up ahead, Benson’s dragging a buck from the back of a four-wheeler, then loading it up across his shoulders and gripping its ankles in both hands. He’s wearing minimal gear and covered in a shiny layer of sweat, his dark hair wet and curling along his hairline. His expression is the same tense neutrality that Randy remembers from the year before, seemingly everpresent, only now he’s pink low on his cheeks, wrapping around to the tops of his ears.
They’re maybe fifteen steps apart on the path toward the building, which houses the dining hall and kitchen. And Randy can’t move, holding his breath, utterly motionless while staring at the older man.
Benson takes the first few steps up the stout stairs to the entrance. Randy jumps when he suddenly turns around and barks, “Bradley! Little help here?” and then nods his head towards the door, breathing heavy, blood trickling behind him from the large animal on his back.
Randy feels his own ears burn as he stumbles forward, meeting him at the doors and keeping one side open by walking his back into it. Benson thanks him with a grunt and averted gaze, and then slips inside, shoulder just grazing against Randy’s chest on the way by.
Randy lingers by the doors once he’s got his feet working again, tapping his walkie in his palm just to use some of the nervous energy rushing through his veins, feeling restless and hot and indecipherably weird.
He almost corrected Benson, really thought he might finally tell someone here that his first name is actually Randy, but his voice wouldn’t leave his throat. Just being near Benson after so long without seeing him at all had completely broken him. Randy was only eyes, drinking in every particle of Benson’s body and now that’s all he sees in his mind: Morning sunlight split through dense trees, thick forearms with strained muscles, high-vis over a band t-shirt, thick and well-groomed facial hair obscuring an almost-scowl.
The campers won’t start showing up until the afternoon, and Randy had decided to pass the time by helping the kitchen staff. He’s mostly there for chaperoning and teaching about wildlife and conservation–hardly a demanding position–so there’s not much else to do. But now that Benson is in there, dropping down his buck for the chef to butcher, Randy collapses into one of the long cafeteria tables and stews in his shame and anxiety.
A couple of minutes pass and then the sounds of squeaking, rumbling wheels make him pull his head up from his hands. Benson has brought out a mop to wipe up the little patches of blood that he trailed in. Randy hadn’t even noticed the blood, hopes he hadn't stepped in it.
He sighs inwardly and tells himself not to stare, but then he catches that Benson isn’t wearing the vest anymore, and there’s sweat soaking the back of his t-shirt, which is just tight enough to see his back muscles and shoulderblades shifting underneath.
And then there’s his arms, sun-kissed and strong; and his hands, gripping and pushing and twisting; and his jeans, hung low, held up by only the curve of–
Randy squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to the kitchen before he can get worked up. Head down, he reminds himself, and then he pushes open the swinging door.
Benson is locking up his guns when he hears Hardy finally leaving his office, the camp manager looking fresh off a raunchy DVD at fucking eight o’clock in the morning. Benson makes a disgusted sound to himself and looks back at the rack, affixing the pins to the backboard that keep the rifles from tipping forward.
“Ready for the big day?” Hardy greets, poking his head into the small space, but he doesn’t linger; he knows Benson isn’t going to give him a reply. He steps back from the storage room to the staff meeting room and starts making noise with the coffee machine, and Benson takes a few measured breaths before he goes after him.
“Bradley’s back,” Benson says, not trying very hard to sound nonchalant, but he does dip his hands in his pockets.
Hardy nods with a lazy, “Yup,” and then flips on the sink to fill the carafe.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why?’”
“Said he wasn’t coming back ‘cause of what happened last year.”
Benson feels rage gushing in his veins as he watches Hardy’s posture go from normal to stick-straight. Bureaucratic. Apathetic. “Well, I don’t think it’s my place to discuss that. But I can assure you there won’t–”
“You can assure me?” he spits, laughing in one bemused bark. “Only thing I’m sure of is you don’t give a single fuck what happens to Bradley long as you can drool over jailbait all summer... And what the fuck is all that, huh? Get a lawyer to write you a fuckin’ speech?”
Hardy shoves the carafe into the machine and flicks the switch. He steels himself and then turns, hands on his hips. “You’re disgusting, Benson,” he snaps. “First god damned day…”
Benson shrugs off Hardy’s meager attempt at looking tough and steps up to the counter next to him, resting a hand on top to take some weight off his blistered heels and aching arches. “You better hope nothing happens. ‘Cause the fucking second I hear Chris starting shit–” He cuts himself off, biting his cheek, fingers digging into the counter. “I want him gone, or I’ll deal with it myself. Understand?”
“And go back to prison?” Hardy asks, smirking like he has anything to feel fucking clever about.
“Yeah,” he replies. He doesn’t know why. He’s pretty sure, if he weren’t two hops and a skip from blind rage, that he’d never go back over some awkward kid who never developed his spine. Thanks to this dumb fucking job, Benson hasn’t needed to resort to petty crimes to keep a roof over his mother’s head. He’s not going to throw her on the street over this.
But something solid and confident fills his gut. Certainty. He still remembers Bradley’s stiff fists grasping at his clothes, those pretty and red-rimmed eyes. Still hears him sniffling and hiccupping as he cowered in the unused bunk room in the boy’s block. The only reason Chris is still alive is ‘cause Benson was the only one Bradley trusted to take care of him after, pleaded with Benson to stay instead of going after him with a gun like he wanted.
All he did was stand nearby and wait for Bradley to pick himself up and shuffle to the bathroom, where Benson sat on the sink counter and twiddled his thumbs and waited. Then he escorted Bradley to the staff block and let him sleep on the floor of Benson’s room, door locked and one of the rifles from storage next to Benson, just in case. And when he woke up, Bradley was packed and gone for the season, three days early.
Benson grudgingly accepts Hardy’s tense nod and fucks off back to the staff block, lets out some frustration on a tree along the path via his boot and regrets it immediately as pain shoots through his foot, forcing him to walk it off with a slight limp the rest of the way.
When he goes in, Donnie and Chris are in the common area with some newbies, teasing them. Benson doesn’t even bother to glare at Chris, just pushes down the hall to his room and locks himself inside.
He lays down and stares at the spot on the floor where Bradley had been that night. He has bad dreams.
It wasn’t that bad. It was inappropriate and cruel, but it wasn’t a crime, so– Maybe it was illegal, actually. Technically. Randy hasn’t looked into it. But he knows, even if it was, nobody would believe him. Nobody would see it as some huge thing that needed punishment, justice. The idea of going through all of that just because of what Chris did is almost laughable.
So he hasn’t looked into it. Or told anyone what really happened. He’s spent a lot of time trying not to think about it at all, in fact. He thinks it’s worse seeing Ms. Beard’s blood-soaked face in his nightmares than Chris’ stupid, self-satisfied smirk. That should mean something, like it wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him, or that he did, whatever. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t good. That’s all. That’s enough.
But his body doesn’t seem to agree, tenses up as soon as he sees Chris in the dining hall surrounded by girls, campers and counselors both. Making them blush and giggle. Pulling pigtails. One of the counselors, Jess, is clinging extra hard to his side looking like she’s ready to beat up every other girl who even looks at Chris.
Randy doesn’t eat. His food goes cold on his tray, and he can’t even look at it without feeling seconds away from vomiting.
He feels sweat drip down his face, his back.
He thought for sure that Chris would’ve been fired for what he did, but now he thinks maybe that’s his fault. He almost can’t believe that he’s here at all, if not for his insistence that it wasn’t a big deal.
He feels like the axis of the Earth has been tilted. Feels like maybe that might’ve been the first time in his life when doing anything would have had a better outcome than doing nothing. And now it has passed.
But he shuts down that thought immediately, stomping on it, shoving his own face in the hypothetical guilt he would feel at being the reason another person’s life was ruined.
He’s working up the courage to brush past the group to the trash bins when Benson slides into the bench across from him and smiles.
Randy feels tears building up in his eyes. Frustrated, humiliated tears. Of course Benson chooses now to talk to him. Just his luck.
“Hey, Bradley. Not hungry?”
Randy shakes his head a little, jaw and throat working, struggling to create sound.
He does feel better having Benson here, a barrier between him and Chris. A barrier that’s strong, that’s safe, that offered to put a bullet in Chris’ head last summer. Randy thinks, I should have let him. Then he berates himself for having the thought.
“‘S too bad,” Benson goes on, looking a little restless. “Caught the catfish myself.”
“Oh,” Randy replies, blinking, feeling impossibly stupid. “Sorry.”
Benson narrows his eyes a bit, biting his cheek. “I didn’t really, I was just trying to get you to eat.”
Randy feels like he’s an ant under a magnifying glass, cheeks heating up, wondering why the hell Benson would care and not liking any of the answers he comes up with nearly as much as his heart seems to.
They’re quiet long enough that Randy’s eyes drift back to Chris, but then Benson asks, “You wanna head back?”
“Uh, yeah, I– think I just need to get some sleep,” he fumbles out, slowly rising.
Benson grabs the tray before Randy can and stands after him, saying, “I’ll take care of this, then I’ll walk back with you.”
He can hardly hear Benson over the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. He makes a questioning noise, glancing at Chris when he sees the group disperse, relieved that Chris is walking to a different table, then sits with his back to Randy.
When he looks back, Benson is already halfway to the trash bins, so Randy awkwardly shuffles to the door, hesitating while he waits, ripping the skin off his bottom lip with his teeth. And when Benson meets him there, it’s with his hand on the back of Randy’s neck, startling him, guiding him out into the dim light of the sun low in the sky and dampened by the dense forest.
Insects buzz around them while their feet crunch along the path. Randy misses Benson’s touch as soon as it’s gone, but knows it’s probably better this way. He doesn’t need to embarrass himself any more than he already has.
“So,” Benson drawls, “you came back.”
Randy watches as Benson lights up a smoke, tracking the small movements of bringing the filter between his pursed lips.
“Yeah,” he replies.
Benson nods, his own eyes going back to the path, cigarette between his teeth and leaking smoke into the air. “C’mon, man, you’re really gonna make me drag it outta you?”
Randy gulps in air and lets it back out shakily. “I like it here,” he says, like it’s half-lie and half-truth.
“Hm. Well, you know what I think?”
Randy’s head snaps over, eyes wide. “...What?”
“I think you just don’t have anywhere better to be,” he says, ignoring Randy’s quivering lip and red face as he keeps talking. “And if sleeping down the hall from the man that molested you for the next four months is the best you got, then…” Benson shakes his head, licks his bottom lip. “Shit. Must be pretty bad, wherever that is.”
“He didn’t–” Randy’s voice shatters as soon as it starts and he clamps down on it, lips pressed tight together, teeth probably grinding.
Benson feels rage bubbling up, turning his stomach, making his bones ache. “No?” he asks harshly. “You might’a convinced the rest of ‘em, Bradley, but me? I don’t fuckin’ buy it. I saw you. I was there.”
He stops walking, crowds Randy against a tree and cracks his neck, almost crumpling his cigarette in his hand before he tosses it on the ground and lunges, grabbing Randy by the head, almost petting him. Randy trembles, eyes wet and red, throat bobbing endlessly.
“I smelled you,” he growls, their eyes locked together. “I smelled his rancid fuckin’ spunk on you, his nasty cologne, and you didn’t want anyone there but me, and when I grabbed my rifle and told you I’d take him out for good, you wanted to say yes. So bad I could see it in your whole body, hear it when you breathed. So yeah, he fuckin’ did, Bradley. He did. And you can keep running away from that fact until it kills you, or you can get your head screwed on straight and survive it. You fuckin’ get me?”
Randy is breathless, like he’s just gone for a jog, cheeks wet and splotchy, nose dripping, chest heaving. Benson looks at his own hands then, wondering when the fuck they made their way to Randy’s neck and jaw, swiping his tears, squeezing his muscles. But he doesn’t let go, not right away, not until Randy nods and croaks, “I get you…”
And then he steps away, bends down to retrieve his cigarette, smoking like it’ll empty his mind of all the rot he just brought into it. Takes the edge off, at least.
They walk the whole rest of the way to the staff block in silence. Randy’s no doubt coming to terms with this only just now, the seriousness of it, and that’s one mess Benson’s sure as shit not gonna help him sort out more than he already has. He’s got enough bullshit to deal with.
Benson feels bad for him, he really does, but he needs a god damned therapist, not some sad sack thirty-something with no goals and nothing to his name.
He shoves the butt of his cigarette into the brick wall next to the front door, putting it out, and drops it in the trash once they make it inside.
“Never seen a smoker who didn’t litter,” Donnie quips, drinking a light beer on the other side of the common area, a hockey game on the TV. “That the only rule you follow?”
“Yeah, well, it’s this or go back to flipping burgers, so…”
“Oh, yeah, fuck that.” Donnie nods enthusiastically, gesturing for Benson and Randy to join him. He pulls out a beer from a case on the floor and Benson cracks it as soon as it’s in his own hands, chugging half in one go. Then he falls into the sofa beside Donnie and kicks off his hiking sneakers, groaning like an old man in relief as he cracks his ankles. He glances at Randy, who’s standing awkwardly at the perimeter, picking at the skin of his thumb.
“Jesus fuck–!” Donnie yelps, grimacing and scrambling to the far end of the sofa. He covers his nose with his t-shirt. “You got fucking gangrene or some shit?”
Benson cackles and peels off one of his socks, showing off the battle wounds on the backs of his ankles. Donnie gags and drags his shirt the rest of the way over his face like seeing it makes it smell worse.
“This’s what happens when you spend a whole week working like a real fuckin’ man, Donnie.”
“You don’t think cleaning boats is real work?” Donnie snaps back, finally dropping the shirt to glare at him. “And fuck that– Benson, that is not normal.”
Benson takes a deep breath, cheeks hurting. “Sure it is, man…”
“Benson,” Randy interjects, quiet as a mouse, but the two men look up at him anyway. Randy pales under the attention, stammering, “You should– take care of–”
Benson raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me, Bradley,” he says, and then winks. Because he can’t help himself, not with Randy.
Randy turns from bleached fucking white to crimson like the world’s most conspicuous chameleon.
Benson feels sick to his stomach. He feels a lot of things, but that’s the one he can convince himself has a rational, acceptable explanation.
Randy flops into bed and squeezes a pillow against his face, groaning. Embarrassment and shame and need thrum in him like the chiming of bells, shaking metal bones, he can feel it in his teeth.
He’d rarely ever touched himself before…before Chris. And now, after, he can’t stop.
Hearing Benson use that word to describe it, what happened last summer– He feels disgusting, disgusted with himself. Knows there’s something really not right inside of him, and he doesn’t know if it’s worse than what he recognized in himself in second grade. Or if it’s just the same thing, the same twisted-up wrongness, seeping into the house of him like gas from a leaky pipe.
Is he going to burst into flames?
Randy wraps his hand around his dick and squeezes, thrusting his hips forward and down into his hand, into his bed. In his mind, Benson’s hand is on the back of his neck again, big and warm and rough, pressing him down. Pressing him into a trunk of a tree in the dark, snarling in his ear, engulfing him in heat and air and darkness.
“Just can’t help yourself,” Benson chides in his mind, and Randy feels spit spill from his mouth onto the pillowcase, bed creaking quietly, holding his breath so he doesn’t make a sound.
He comes quickly and it isn’t satisfying. Still feels like he’s vibrating, his dick only flagging a little, still hopeful for more.
He wonders if Benson smokes to quiet his insides. Maybe he should start. Maybe he should just go back out there and grab a beer while he’s at it. Destroy his lungs and his liver, give him something that feels real to feel bad about.
He knows he won’t. Best he can do is imagine it. Same with Benson.
He flips over and uses his own cum to stroke himself again, feeling revolting for it, but it only turns him on more. Broken thing, wrong and twisted up inside and sick. Benson wouldn’t touch him like this, if he knew who Randy really was, what he really wanted.
But, God, does he want it. Needs it, needs it like air and sunshine and rain.
Needs to lick up the sweat and blood and gunpowder on Benson’s skin, tobacco-flavored tongue down Randy’s throat, shotgun slung over his back, surrounding Randy in violence and heat and filth, filling him up with it. Sex like butchering, consuming, spitting out each others’ bones.
Mud and blood and cum and rain and sunshine.
He thinks that if it had been Benson who took him into that cabin and forced him to strip down, put his hands on Randy’s cock and balls and squeezed until he thought they might pop, made Randy get on his knees and open his mouth to swallow his come–Randy would have wanted it. If it had been Benson.
He wants it now. He would let Benson do anything to him, and he would do anything to Benson. Anything.
Randy is almost hyperventilating when he finishes again, throat dry and raw, head spinning, tears dripping.
Benson takes himself to his little shack where he spends most of his time kissing boo-boos and splinting broken limbs. Everybody calls it the Sick Bay, bunch of nerds.
It’s late and he’s buzzed. Didn’t pay attention to a single second of the game, just thought about that dumb fucking kid while mindlessly inhaling beers until the swarm of counselors coming in for the night made him aware of the time.
He drops onto the exam table and takes his shoes off, then his socks. The smell really is rank, but that’s what he gets for putting this off.
He shakes his head at his poor feet and hisses in relief at the press of cold tiles against his overheated skin. He digs around in the cupboards and drawers until he’s got a nice pile going on the counter next to the sink. He hikes up his pants and shoves his feet in the basin one at a time to give them a thorough scrub, then towels them off until his thighs are shaking from the strain and he has to hobble back to the table to sit before his legs give out.
The rubbery cushion squeaks as he settles with his armful of supplies. He makes quick work of the ointment and band-aids, then begins the tedious process of wrapping his feet up and taping it all down. Not looking forward to doing this several times a day for however long it takes.
He hates it, but his only option for footwear at the moment is a pair of gay ass boat shoes Donnie lent him, so he’ll just have to deal for a few days until he can get his hiking shoes clean and dry. He’ll have to head into town and go to a laundry mat proper, because if he fucks up the machines at Burgess, he’ll be the one who has to fix them or face the wrath of a hundred-odd teenage girls who can’t wear their bikinis to the lake to impress the cute boys.
He slips off the table and chokes down some Tylenol and an edible, hoping it’ll knock him out good and long. If he’s lucky, he’ll still feel a little floaty when he wakes up.
That night, Benson dreams a lot, most of it probably nonsense, but upon waking the only thing he remembers is dirty blond hair and pink cheeks and plush lips down the sight of his rifle.
Randy is on life-guard duty a few days into camp, perched on a wide, white chair in the brown sand shore of Lake Burgess, protected from the sun by a little umbrella and a thick layer of sunscreen. He survives the morning, relieved when Carla comes to swap for the afternoon shift. He climbs down and passes over his whistle to her and she gives him a smile in return.
“Hey, um, Carla?”
“Yeah?”
“D’you know… I mean, has– has Chris said anything about–”
Carla frowns at him, twisting her fingers in the whistle’s lanyard. “Chris is gonna stay away from you, Bradley, don’t worry.”
Randy nods, swallowing against a lump in his throat. “G-Good.”
“Y’know, I’ve been wondering…” Carla pauses, biting her lip. “Why didn’t you go to the cops?”
Randy sucks in a breath, chest hot and tight, itching to turn and run. He swallows air and says, “Didn’t, um. Didn’t want to, y’know… Make a big deal about it.”
She stares at him, brow furrowed.
Randy hurriedly compensates, overexplaining, rambling, “It just– It wasn’t that bad… It was just– bullying. Y’know…?”
Carla looks sad, worried, a little bit confused. She glances around the beach before saying, “Sometimes things are just a big deal whether you want it to be or not.”
Randy escapes without crying in front of her and all the kids, but he has to take a detour on the way back to his room to dry-heave into the leaf litter, drooping against a tree trunk, skin clammy and eyes throbbing with the pain of trying not to have a complete breakdown.
He winces as his palm snags on a sharp bit of bark, blood trickling down his wrist. He stares at it, doesn’t think anything in particular as he licks the line of red to the source.
Other hand still on the trunk, he pets it absently at first, relishing the soft burn of rough bark against his delicate skin. Then he digs in, in, harder and harder until he gasps and spasms and stumbles back like he’s just put his hand in an open flame.
There is a lot of blood. More than he’s seen come out of his body in, well, possibly ever. Nausea returns, curls beside arousal in his gut.
His feet take him to Benson.
Benson frowns at Randy from his desk. Kid’s holding his hands weird, palms up but facing himself, shaking like leaves in the wind.
“What’s goin’ on, Bradley?”
Randy opens and closes his mouth before turning his hands around.
Benson resists the urge to make a face, choosing instead to wave him over to the sink. He lets the water run just past lukewarm, but Randy doesn’t do anything, just stares at the stream unmoving, eyes glassy, wired.
Benson sighs and grabs his wrist, shoving it under the soap dispenser and pumping it out for him. Randy makes a pained sound as the soap runs over the scrapes, and Benson rubs soothing cirlces into his back, saying, “I know. It’ll be over soon, just gotta make sure it’s clean. Don’t want you getting all that infected.”
Randy nods morosely, gently rubbing his palms together with his face screwed up, breathing hard and fast. The water’s clearly worse, making him yelp, but he stays put when Benson reaches in and helps him wash off the suds.
Benson silently, telepathically promises Randy that he’s definitely gotta do this, has no choice, isn't trying to be a pervert or anything. Two truths and a lie.
Hands clean and dry, he points Randy to the exam table and the kid trots over, scooting up onto the cushion awkwardly without the use of his hands.
Benson’s already got supplies gathered up and tossed on the table by the time Randy’s settled, and he gets to work with haste.
“My first name isn’t Bradley,” he says, unprompted and almost too soft to hear.
Benson leans back in his stool to look at Randy’s face. “What?”
Randy sighs and says, “My full name is Randy Bradley.”
Angry again, Benson takes a deep breath. “And you just let us all call you the wrong name because…?”
“It’s just what my nametag said at orientation. Hardy wrote them, and I just…”
“Didn’t give a shit?” Benson probes, feeling lost.
But Randy shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
The anger evolves into something like hysteria. “You’re fuckin’ pathetic, man. Can’t even correct someone about your damn name?”
Randy finally looks at him, and those puppy-dog eyes are big and wet and hurt.
Benson’s chest wrenches inside. “Randy,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue, trying to make up for telling this poor kid the truth a little too bluntly. “Don’t seem like a Randy.”
Randy shrugs, eyes downcast. “Well, I am.”
Sassy little shit. Benson has the distinct urge to kiss him and swallows it down before he can risk it actually happening–but it’s a near thing and now he’s feeling suicidal.
“Well, okay then, Randy. Nice to finally meet you proper. Mind telling me what the hell happened here?”
Randy nods hesitantly, averting his gaze again. “I tripped…c-caught myself on a tree.”
Benson squints at his hands. “Sure you didn’t climb it and slide down the whole damn thing? ‘Cause that’s what this looks like. Like fuckin’ rope burn from– barbed wire or some shit.”
Randy doesn’t even try to respond, staring at his hands all sullen and red in the face. Benson wants to throttle him, wake him the fuck up.
“Sorry,” he says finally, and Benson just shakes his head as he gets back to work.
Randy feels like he’s losing his mind.
Benson’s sleeveless t-shirt has a wide collar and Randy has been staring down it for the last five minutes, soaking in the soft swell of Benson’s chest and the trail of hair down his stomach. And in-between his ogling of Benson’s torso, he’s also appreciating the two gorgeous, muscular arms on display from shoulder to fingernail, and Randy feels dizzy with want.
He wants to grope and bite and lick and suck. Rub his blood all over Benson’s skin and clean it up again. Suck on his fingers and plunge his nails into Benson’s biceps and his teeth into Benson’s chest and–
He doesn’t really start freaking out, not even when his dick gets hard, until he realizes he’s never felt this way about women’s breasts before. At least, not that he can remember. Never felt this nearly psychotic urge to bury his teeth in the flesh of anyone else at all.
Just Benson.
He grinds his jaw and squeezes his thigh muscles and prays, for the first time since he was eight years old, that he makes it out of this room alive.
“All good, Randy,” Benson says, slapping his knee as he stands to toss the wrappers and put away the rest.
Randy stays exactly where he’s been, heart thudding.
“You can leave now,” Benson repeats, speaking slower, eyeing him.
Randy gulps in air and thinks if he’s quick enough, there’s not even a chance Benson will notice his erection.
But Benson steps in front of him just as he slides off the exam table, and puts the back of his hand on Randy’s forehead, then his neck. His fingers are ice-cold, giving Randy chills that spill over each other across his skin, the confluence of the oceans Fear and Pleasure.
Seemingly dissatisfied by the temperature of Randy’s skin, Benson tuts and nudges Randy’s chin up, feeling around the lymph nodes on his neck.
“Well, you’re probably not sick, so that’s good. But doesn’t explain what’s got you all…” Benson trails off, waving a hand lazily. “Weird,” he decides.
Randy’s eyes are moving around so fast they hurt. He’d have to turn his head all the way to the side not to see Benson, vision overwhelmed by the sight of him, nostrils full of his scent, body closed in, everything Benson, Benson, Benson.
He thinks pretending to pass out might be his only solution here, but then he plays the scenario out in his mind and realizes he’d be both unconscious and fully erect, and that would be even harder to explain. And another lie to make his stomach churn.
“Please,” Randy squeaks, a hail mary, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Why’re you freaking out on me, Randy? Talk to me.”
Randy shakes his head firmly.
Benson’s hands return, resting light on either side of his neck, more than big enough to fully encircle his throat if he stuck out his thumbs. The thought, the touch, the proximity–it all goes straight to Randy’s cock. He breathes out shakily, voice box vibrating just enough to make some kind of wretched noise, mortifying and undeniable and inexcusable.
“You’re okay, kid, just breathe,” Benson soothes, thumbing over Randy’s pulse.
His breath smells like cigarettes. Randy wants to drown in his voice. Suffocate.
“Benson, you’re– you’re making it worse,” he rasps.
Benson frowns at him, uses his thumbs to tilt Randy’s head back by his jaw, forcing eye contact.
Benson’s hip brushes Randy’s cock and he wants to scream, chokes it down, shuddering, crying humiliated tears.
Benson gives him a hard, inscrutable look from head to toe and up again. He lifts a hand from Randy’s neck and Randy tries to brace for it, for the slap, punch, gunshot–whatever his fate is. He tries to be ready, accept his punishment, his cosmic consequences.
But it never comes.
Then Benson slips his hand over the front of Randy’s jeans, palm heavy on his aching cock. Randy gasps, spit catching in his throat, making him cough a bit.
“All this for me?” Benson drawls, low and easy, lips pulling into a small smile.
Randy blinks away tears, searching Benson’s face for the joke, the punchline, but all that he finds is heat.
Heat.
He doesn’t get time to process–Benson squeezes his dick through the denim, pressing down hard. Randy meets the pressure, bucking into his hand with a groan, his own arms flying up to grip Benson’s. He hisses at the burning pain in his palms and thrusts hard into Benson’s hand, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable, intoxicating.
He feels close already, gasps when he thinks he might go over the edge, but Benson lifts his hand away and grips his hip with it instead, stilling him, gaze boring into Randy.
“Answer the question,” Benson says.
Randy nods frantically, clawing at Benson’s soft skin and firm muscles and whimpering with every twinge of pain that shoots into his fingers and down his wrists. “Y-Yes,” he adds, when Benson doesn’t respond for too long. “For you.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” he murmurs, leaning forward to hum the words directly into Randy’s ear. “Got a little crush on me, Randy?”
Shame makes him want to deny it, but then Benson slides his thigh between Randy’s legs and his mind goes utterly blank for the first blissful grind of his dick against Benson’s thick thigh. He whines, almost a sob, “Yes.”
Benson’s breath hitches, lips brushing the shell of Randy’s ear, sending chills down his back and arms. “Got you all hot and bothered just from taking care of you?”
Randy nods, rolling his hips in short, frantic jerks.
Benson takes the hand from Randy’s hip and wraps it around to his ass, squeezing hard, the other grabbing up a loose fistful of his hair. “It’s alright, just let go. I got you.”
Drunk on desire, Randy manages to extricate one of his own hands from Benson’s arm, runs it under the shirt through the cut-off sleeve to grab Benson’s pec and squeeze and the pain is searingly hot, throbbing and surging out from his palm. And then he’s coming, pulsing hard in his pants, gasping for breath. Benson chuckles airily against his neck, pressing kisses to his jawline and temple, making him shiver and whimper and sag in Benson’s embrace.
“Fuck,” Benson whispers, lips grazing Randy’s cheek, then up into his hairline. “Randy fuckin’ Bradley.”
“Oh my god,” Randy breathes, rolling his forehead on Benson’s shoulder.
“Can I– touch you?”
Benson shakes his head, words suddenly lost to him. Randy stiffens, possibly horrified at the implication and no doubt feeling like a fool, which is Benson’s fault but it doesn’t change the facts. And the fact is, Benson’s not letting anybody’s hands near his dick.
“It’s nothing against you,” he says, keeping Randy’s head trapped against his shoulder so he can’t look at him. “Just don’t want that kinda thing.”
Randy’s shoulders relax after that, and Benson sighs, kisses into his messy hair again just because he can.
Then Randy asks, “Is there anything you do want?”
Benson grins at his bravery, thinking maybe Randy isn’t so hopeless after all.
“I’d do,” Randy continues, swallowing hard, “I’d do anything. Anything you want, just…”
Benson sighs, helping Randy right himself on his feet and giving them a couple inches of breathing room. He swipes his thumb on the damp spot of Randy’s jeans and bites his lip at the soft noise it elicits from him.
“I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, and he means to end the conversation, get Randy out of the office before anybody comes in, but Randy looks utterly fucked out and the sight when he finally lifts his head is enough to stop his thoughts like a car colliding with a brick wall.
Randy nods once, slow like he’s not even listening as he stares at Benson’s hard dick straining against his shorts. He looks hungry, looks like he’s damn near salivating, and Benson snorts and grabs it through the fabric, letting him soak in the long, thick outline of what he can’t touch.
“Fuck,” Randy breathes. “Please.”
He works on auto-pilot, setting up his office for maximum privacy. ‘Out on lunch!’ sign on the door that he locks, blinds drawn on the singular window.
When he turns back to Randy, the kid’s feeling himself up, dick hard again, and Benson’s willpower collapses in on itself. He rushes up and slams their mouths together. Randy moans generously, clumsy as hell, but he opens up so sweet and easy for Benson’s tongue, lets him do whatever the fuck he wants in there.
He pulls back, hands grabbing Randy’s hips while he appreciates the slick pink of Randy’s mouth and says, “How ‘bout I grind on your ass ‘til I come? That okay, Randy?”
Randy nods, expression stupid with lust, and it’s a damn good look on him.
Benson almost growls as he flips Randy around, bending him over the exam table. He snakes his hands around his hips to undo his pants, pulling them to his knees.
“Fuck, you been hiding this from me in those baggy jeans?” Benson asks, laughing softly, delightedly, and then smacks one round little cheek.
Randy gasps out a soft, “Ah!” at the impact and melts into the table.
He squeezes his dick through his gym shorts again at the sight, spanks him, this time hard enough to turn the skin red. Randy groans low and broken, rutting against the table a couple times after.
“Oh, you like it hard, baby? Like it when it hurts?” Randy nods frantically, turns his head to look at him with those gorgeous eyes, and Benson can’t drag this out anymore, fear being replaced by a need so hot and urgent he’s already spilling precum into his boxers and has to get his cock out. “Innocent on the outside, slut on the inside. I see you, Randy Bradley…”
He can’t stop talking, but at least Randy doesn’t appear to mind at all. Opposite of minds, even.
Benson spreads open his cheeks and spits, spreading it along the crevice with his own tip, then presses his length along the cleft of Randy’s ass and hums in satisfaction, sliding up and in until he’s caging Randy in from behind and squeezing Randy’s cheeks around his dick, giving him something to grind into.
Randy gasps and pushes back, and Benson is merely a bystander to the praise and filth sliding off his own tongue. He doesn’t have to take his time since he’s not actually inside him, so he just thrusts as hard and fast as he likes from the jump, panting as he bites at Randy’s upper back, licking and sucking at his neck.
He gets his hand around Randy’s cock, pulls only a handful of times before Randy keens, saying, “Benson, I’m gonna–” with a shiver to his words like he doesn’t know that’s the hottest thing Benson’s ever heard of, coming twice just like that, like he’s been starved of touch for half a century all in his twenty-years.
Benson beats him to the punch just from those words in that broken voice, his cum shooting up Randy’s spine, shiny on his cheeks and easing the friction enough to let him thrust all the way through the orgasm.
Randy is slumped over the table, legs shaking, hips jolting every few seconds. Benson doesn’t want to leave this fucking room for the first time in four years. Not if he gets to see this. Not when Randy’s here, exposed and open and begging to be used.
Benson wipes the sweat from his face with his shirt, then drags up his bottoms and holds them under his dick so he can pad over to the sink to get them cleaned up.
After wiping himself down and fixing his shorts, he takes care of Randy’s backside while he just lays there letting out these adorable, soft, pleased noises that make Benson’s head swim.
“You’re just precious,” Benson says, and he means it.
Randy seems to glow under his hands.