Work Text:
The thing between them has been going on for several brain-breaking weeks when Benson leans over the counter and says you should let me eat you out.
Randy nearly chokes on his own saliva; his hand balls into a nervous fist around the rag he’s using to wipe down the soda machine. He knows his cheeks and the tips of his ears have gone a brilliant, flaming red.
“Like… tonight?” They’re the only ones in the store; the sun has gone down and when they’ve finished their close Benson will crowd him against the door of his car and kiss him rough in the middle of the parking lot.
“You got something better going on?” Benson leans on his mop, raises one eyebrow.
“No, but I…” Randy says, coming back down to an unfortunate, logistic-based reality wherein he has a body (this body). “I can’t tonight.”
“Why not?” Benson abandons the mop and crosses his arms expectantly. His gaze is so bright and intense that Randy has to look down at the shiny tile floor.
“I, um, have my period,” he says after running through the mental pro-con list of trying, and inevitably failing, to pull one over on Benson. “It started last night.”
Benson hmms, takes off his cap, puts it back on the wrong way round.
“I could, uh —” Randy, only recently devirginized, stumbles over the words in his mouth, their weight still embarrassing and strange. “Like, blow you? Or something? If you want.”
Benson actually laughs at that, and Randy digs his nails into his palms and imagines the ground swallowing him up. Laid to rest below Burgers, Burgers, Burgers in his ugly polyester uniform. Randolph Bradley, 1987-2008, humiliated to death.
“Randy, come on,” Benson drawls. “You think I care about that?”
Randy’s confusion must be written all over his face because Benson rolls his eyes and continues.
“I’m a hunter. I like my steak fuckin’ blue. I don’t give a fuck about a little blood.”
“I…” Randy stammers, face so hot that he’s sure smoke will start pouring from his ears like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Something twinges low in his gut. “Isn’t that, like… unsanitary?”
“Jesus Christ!” Benson barks out a laugh. “Randy, you’re fuckin’ unbelievable. Shut up and stop sabotaging this for yourself.”
So Randy shuts up, goes back to his rag and the bucket of sanitizer, working so quickly that it sloshes up over the edge and dampens the front of his shirt, the scent strong and antiseptic. Benson laughs again.
—
Benson locks the restaurant door and guides Randy across the lot and into his Chrysler. For the way he keeps to himself at work, bristling like a feral cat at anyone who happens to wander into his self-imposed bubble, Benson is shockingly tactile. When he wraps a rough hand around the back of Randy’s neck Randy has to physically suppress the urge to go limp in his grasp, to roll over and show his belly and jugular.
There’s a deserted, burnt-out gas station a few miles down the road that Benson had parked behind the other times. Randy on his lap in the backseat, hips held in place as Benson rocked up into him; Randy on his knees in the gravel, Benson languid against the hood of the car above him, dick in his mouth as tears and saliva mingled on his face.
Tonight, though, Benson doesn’t take the exit.
“Where are we going?” Randy asks, his mother’s voice in his head suddenly, infuriatingly: this is why we don’t get in cars with men who have guns!
“My place,” Benson says as if it’s obvious. “Like I would let you bleed on my fuckin’ leather seats.”
Benson’s house strikes Randy as a kind of fairy-tale location, as incorporeal as the Bermuda Triangle or the Hundred-Acre Woods. Even now, the only details Randy has managed to glean about his personal life are surface-level and banal — the kind of beer he drinks (Heineken), the cigarettes he smokes (Camel Reds), the music he listens to (loud). Randy’s heart speeds up at the idea of Benson taking him home, taking him to see the place where he showers and sleeps and gets dressed in the mornings.
“Besides,” Benson continues, procuring and lighting a smoke, “I need space to spread you out.”
“Oh,” Randy breathes, stomach flipping anticipatorily. He’s wet right through the blood. “Shit.”
“Can’t wait to taste your sweet fuckin’ pussy,” Benson says around the butt of the cigarette, voice easy and even like he’s discussing the traffic on I-10.
“Benson.” Randy squirms in the passenger seat, synapses blanking and firing.
“It’s cool if I call it that?” Benson glances over, ashes his smoke. Randy watches his fingers move, big and deft, knuckles rubbed red. The first time he put them inside Randy in the employee bathroom, Chris and Jess and Hardy on the other side of the door, Randy shredded the inside of his cheek trying to stay quiet as he came. “Your pussy?”
“What?” Randy is so dazed with need that Benson might as well be speaking Latin. “Oh. Yeah, whatever. I don’t care.”
Benson chuckles, though Randy isn’t all that sure what’s funny.
“You get so fuckin’ dumb when you’re horny. It’s cute.”
“Um.” Randy isn’t sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment, but he flushes hard regardless. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Kid, we gotta work on your dirty talk. You’re killing me here.”
“Sorry.” Randy looks at his hands in his lap as Benson parks and kills the engine.
“Here we go,” Benson sighs, cracks his neck. “Home sweet fuckin’ home.”
—
Benson’s house is packed to the gills with stuff; the ceilings are low and the dusty blinds are drawn tightly against the world outside. In the weak yellow lamplight Randy can see the shape of a very thin woman on the pull-out couch.
“This is Randy, ma,” Benson offers, tossing his work cap to the dining room table; Randy looks away from a stack of bills marked PAST DUE in red ink. “We work together.”
“Hello, ma’am,” Randy says, still a good Southern boy at heart regardless of what the last month with Benson has taught him about himself. “Thank you for having me.”
Benson’s ma gives him a long look, her eyes surprisingly clear and lucid. She says nothing.
“Hey.” Benson crosses the room and stoops to kiss her cheek, presses a cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes into her bony, blue-veined hand. “Here you go, ma. We’re gonna watch a movie in the back. C’mon, Randy.”
Randy is so oddly endeared by the scene that he has to duck his head to hide his smile while following Benson down the claustrophobic wood-paneled hallway.
Benson’s bedroom is dark and warm and small. There’s a CD player on the dresser, a chair piled high with clothes, a quilt on the bed that looks handmade. Benson turns on the lamp on the nightstand and sits at the edge of the bed, leaning down to untie his heavy work boots. Randy hovers near the door, heart hammering, unsure where to go or what to say. The whole room smells so strongly of Benson — smoke, fryer oil, bleach, underlaid by the sharp tang of his sweat — that Randy feels liquid and lightheaded.
He checks his phone for something to do with his hands and to see if his mom has responded to the text he fired off in the car about catching a movie with his new work friend Bella, a surefire way to get her off his back for an evening. I’m so glad you’re making more female friends, honey, you were always such a tomboy. Maybe Bella wants to go to the mall. Maybe Bella wants to come over and do mani-pedis. Randy imagines Benson buffing his nails and has to swallow his laughter.
“God.” Benson rolls his eyes, shoes now off. There’s a hole in the toe of his right sock. “C’mere.”
Randy sits next to him on the bed. The box springs groan in protest. For a moment or two Randy’s breaths are the loudest thing in the room.
Then Benson says Jesus Christ in this irritated, clipped voice and knocks Randy onto his back in one swift motion; Randy almost bites his tongue off as he goes down amongst the toss of blankets. He’s whining instantly, humiliatingly, straining up into the solid weight of Benson’s body. When Benson’s tongue presses into his mouth he makes a guttural, desperate sound straight from his belly.
“Get these fuckin’ clothes off,” Benson mutters, almost to himself. Randy’s trembling fingers find the buttons of his work shirt. The first time they fucked he was so nervous that Benson had to undo it for him. “There ya go.”
Benson hauls his own shirt off by the collar, still halfway laying on top of Randy. The muscles in his arms are visible in his worn black tank top and Randy sucks in a hungry breath.
“You like what you see?” Benson is so talkative during sex that it’s almost funny. Randy, shirt hanging open over his binder, nods deliriously. Benson’s hands come down and undo Randy’s belt.
Randy can smell his own blood when Benson yanks his underwear off, the pad half-soaked. It embarrasses him; he cuts his eyes up towards the ceiling. It embarrasses him to be naked save for his binder and socks when Benson is fully clothed on top of him, too, but there’s something perversely thrilling about it.
“What about — I don’t wanna get it on your sheets,” Randy mumbles, gaze still averted.
“Shut the fuck up,” Benson says, so gruffly that Randy obeys instantly. “Open your fuckin’ legs.”
Randy lets his knees fall apart, lets Benson manhandle him into position. His heart is hammering in his throat. Benson has him dragged down to the edge of the bed, feet dangling, spread out and exposed.
“Throw me that pillow,” Benson murmurs. Randy obliges; Benson tosses it down onto the carpet and kneels between Randy’s legs.
“Oh, fuck,” Randy sighs, pushing up onto his elbows to look down at Benson’s hunched frame. The sight sends a sharp, electric jolt through his body that crests and doubles when Benson presses his hot, open mouth to Randy’s inner thigh.
“Christ, you smell good,” Benson grunts. His facial hair scrapes over sensitive skin, over parts of Randy that nobody had ever touched before. “Gonna make you come on my tongue, baby. Gonna lick it all up. Every last drop.”
Randy’s head falls back; his whole body shudders; the heat between his legs has become an unbearable, pulsing ache.
“Benson, please, Benson…”
“Aww,” Benson coos, voice dripping with faux sympathy. “I know. You always get horny on your period?”
“Ah—” Benson runs the flat of his tongue over Randy’s hipbone, stealing the words straight from his throat. “I don’t … I don’t know.”
Never in his life has Randy been as desperate for it as this past month, gorged on a steady diet of dick and his own hand stuffed in his pajama pants during every night spent alone. His body had always felt like an ungainly weak mistake of a thing — something he didn’t want to look at, so why would anybody else? And then Benson shoved him up against the dumpsters behind the restaurant and hissed if you want it, fuckin’ say that. Otherwise you keep staring and I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.
I want it, Randy had said with tears in his eyes. I want you.
Benson makes a low, satisfied noise and slots a big hand behind Randy’s left knee, shoving it up and back. His other hand comes up and — finally, finally — settles between Randy’s legs. Randy warbles and cants his hips up uselessly, right leg hooking over Benson’s shoulder on its own accord.
“Shh, Randy. Be a good boy for me and settle down.” Benson is grinning toothily. His thumb rubs a lazy circle over Randy’s clit and the contact coupled with the words makes Randy’s vision blink and fuzz like he’s staring into the sun.
“Oh, god, Benson,” Randy says thickly, wriggling against the mattress like a hooked fish. He can feel a mess of fluid dripping out of him, running warm and sticky over his bare ass. “Please.”
Benson is looking at him like a dog with a bone; he’s looking at him like he’s squinting through the scope of a rifle. Randy shivers. He’s so turned on that it hurts, everything swollen, twin heartbeats throbbing in his cunt and his ears.
When Benson rears his hand back and slaps Randy across the pussy — more of a tap, really, nothing close to the full force Randy knows he could employ if he wanted to — Randy cries out so loudly that he has to stuff his own fingers into his mouth. He thinks of Benson’s ma down the hall; he wonders if she’s used to this, her son bringing skinny, nervous 20-somethings home to fuck. He hopes not.
Then Benson is dragging his hand across Randy’s lower belly, smearing him with his own blood, and Randy can’t wonder anything anymore.
“Making such a fuckin’ mess,” Benson murmurs. “Look at you.” There’s a note in his voice that Randy can’t quite understand; something soft and reverent and awed. Randy resists the urge to cover his face.
“Benson. You said you’d… put your mouth on me. Do it, come on, please.” Randy’s need has reached an incoherent peak; the words stumble and trip over one another.
He expects Benson to growl, or balk, or hit him again, but he just laughs lowly and says goddamn and presses his nose into Randy’s sparse, blonde happy trail. Randy can feel Benson’s mustache scraping and mingling with his own pubic hair and the sensation is so good and new and strange that he wants to laugh.
Benson cups the backs of Randy’s sweaty thighs in his palms and dives in; it’s sloppy and unceremonious, the slick drag of his open mouth from Randy’s pubic bone to his asshole. Randy imagines his blood on Benson’s face and writhes and moans.
The thing itself, Benson’s mouth on him, doesn’t actually feel like much — everything is so slick already that he might as well be pouring a shot glass into a swimming pool. Randy is trying not to feel disappointed when Benson suddenly abandons the long, slow licks and stiffens up his tongue and zeroes in on Randy’s clit and — oh. Okay. Yeah.
“Fuck!” Randy doesn’t mean to say it; it just rips out of him. He can feel Benson chuckle. He’s doing something with his tongue, flicking it in these fast little up-and-down strokes, and his beard is chafing against the thin skin between Randy’s labia and his thighs, and it’s all so new and overwhelming that Randy tries to force his legs shut against it. Benson doesn’t let him.
Benson is humming out these happy little noises that vibrate over Randy’s cunt and his reaction intensifies everything, making Randy lightheaded with how much he clearly enjoys doing this.
“Benson, oh my god,” Randy pants, hands fisting in the sheets. He’s sweating right through his binder. “You’re so good at that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Benson says, pulling back just enough to speak. Randy whines at the loss of contact, but the noise dies out when he catches a glimpse of Benson’s face — blood-smeared from nostrils to chin, filthy and cannibalistic. His eyes are so blown that they’re nearly black. Randy feels the thrill of fear course through him.
“Oh my god,” he whispers again.
“Like seeing me covered in your blood, baby?” Benson flashes a smile and his teeth are red. It’s better than any pornography Randy has ever seen. The whole room smells like iron; he wants Benson to rip out his throat.
He nods desperately because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. His hands, moving of their own volition, drop the sheets and twist into Benson’s dark, choppy thicket of hair. In the lamplight, for the first time, Randy can see the silver thread running through it. His chest squeezes fondly.
Benson bristles slightly under the touch; Randy is afraid that he’s made a wrong move, that he’s ruined this. He moves to pull away, to apologize, but then Benson is licking his gleaming lips (licking Randy’s blood off his lips) and lowering his head again.
Randy is sure the way he’s pulling Benson’s hair must hurt but Benson doesn’t complain; if anything he’s working with a renewed vigor. He’s sucking on Randy’s clit now, the suction of his hot mouth like a fucking revelation, and then he’s adding the little sharp kitten licks back into the mix and Randy is gone.
“I’m gonna—” Randy hiccups, “gonna come if you keep — fuck — doing that.”
Benson hums, self-satisfied, and doesn’t let up. His hand comes up and drags through the gory waterfall between Randy’s legs, smearing it across his thighs, closing it around his wrist, leaving a ring of red fingerprints like a crime scene. Before Randy can process that, Benson’s fingers are shoving inside him, deep and forceful, no warning.
Randy moans through his gritted teeth, hands now busy holding Benson’s head down; his spine arches up like he’s being electrocuted. Benson is doing the thing with his fingers that Randy likes best — not moving them in and out, just crooking them up deep inside his cunt like he’s gesturing c’mere.
“Right there, please, right there, Benson, don’t stop.” The combined effort of his mouth and fingers is dizzying; Randy thinks he might fall right off the face of the earth if he lets go of Benson’s hair. “I’m gonna—”
Benson digs his fingers hard into the meat of Randy’s upper thighs. It fucking hurts — Randy will bruise, and will jack off with his fingers pressed into those bruises for the next week. He yelps and comes.
He’s fucked mercilessly through it, body wracked and stiff, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and threatening to fall, stomach muscles tensing and contracting, fingers tearing at Benson’s scalp.
When Benson finally pulls back, fingers sliding out with such a loud, wet noise that Randy feels suddenly self conscious, he’s grinning, flushed and sweaty and wolfish. Drying blood is flaking on his cheeks; his facial hair looks dyed, like a bad Halloween costume.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” Benson says finally. Randy has a difficult time believing that to be true, but as he watches, chest heaving, Benson lifts three bright red fingers to his mouth and sucks. Randy’s cunt gives a pathetic, overused flutter at the show happening in front of him. Benson’s eyes close, those ridiculous, thick lashes sleeping on his cheeks as he cleans himself like a cat; his throat works as he swallows a mouthful of Randy’s blood.
“Jesus Christ,” Randy gasps, voice scratchy and disbelieving. Benson smirks and stands, knees cracking audibly — Randy studies the water-stained ceiling to keep himself from giggling at that.
“So?” Benson asks. When Randy looks back at him he sees that the fly on Benson’s work pants is down and his cock is hard and visible in his black briefs. He sees that a drop of blood has run down Benson’s neck and disappeared under the collar of his tank. “What’d you think? Good?”
Randy thinks it’s fucking sweet, the way that Benson asks every time. Did you like that? How was it? Didn’t hurt ya, did I? He would never voice that thought out loud; just nods shakily and says yeah, Benson, Jesus, so good. He can feel where the skin on his thighs has been rubbed raw from Benson’s beard, a pleasant sting, like a hangnail or a skinned knee. When Benson leans down for a kiss Randy can taste himself, all salt and pennies and, below it, the familiar musk that he’s sucked off Benson’s fingers. He pulls a face.
Benson reaches down and adjusts himself unsubtly, making Randy snort.
“Lemme go clean up a little, and then I’m sitting you on my cock and fucking you ‘til you cry.”
“Wait,” Randy shoots an arm out to grab Benson by the wrist. “Leave it.”
Benson’s bloody face splits into a slow smile; he drops his pants. Randy squeals when his wrists are pinned down into the mattress, Benson dark-eyed and maniacal above him.
“You’re such a fuckin’ freak, Randy Bradley.”
Randy grins and shrugs as well as he can beneath a hundred and fifty pounds of ropey redneck muscle. Benson’s laugh is as clear and lovely as a church bell.