hyacinth

benson kills the entirety of the burgers, burgers, burgers staff, 'cept ol randy. randy cries and whines and tries to refuse getting in the car. just for a moment though. he can't quite refuse when benson shoves him against the passenger side door, his dark, overblown eyes finding randy's.

"i did this for you, bradley. why can't you get that through your thick fuckin' skull, huh?"

after benson shot that waitress, (marcy? mary?) they ran. randy thought he made it, finally found his salvation after the hell that the last 15 hours had brought. but, benson rushed him in the bathroom in the middle of the call. he snatched the phone, snapped the damn thing in half, and grabbed randy by his jaw

"after everything i've done for you, you call the fuckin' pigs, randy?" benson almost sounds sad, randy's almost sure it's desperation instead.

benson stands back, mostly to avoid disfiguring the sweet, sharp figures of randy's face. instead, he rolls his neck, counts the cracks, resets himself. his face, which once held a semblance of emotion, falls.

"goddamn randy!" he huffs like a bull "fuck it! fuck it rand, you want help so bad? go get it"

randy's gut falls at the nickname. that's only something hailey calls him.

benson shoves the boy out of the bathroom. he stumbles into the dim lighting, sees ms beard, sees the waitress, the tiny spatter of other customers. his eyes are wide, scared. he's sweating. his thoughts are racing, his mouth moves. everyone looks at him, stalled. he hears the sirens a distance out. salvation.

"i- i uh-....please- please help" he says, louder than he had expected himself. his gaze averting rapidly to everyone, anyone who'd listen.

a gunshot rings out, the waitress screams and drops to the floor, clutching her leg. he's grabbed by the neck and led, quickly, out of the emergency exit in the kitchen. his brain hasn't quite caught up to the whiplash he's experienced in the past 5 minutes. he swears, somewhere in the muddled mess of bodies, blood, and benson, he hears

"coulda just trusted me, randy."

two weeks on the road, randy almost gets brave enough to talk to a man outside of a gas station near flagstaff. he doesn't even really want to talk to the man, but his body betrays him while he's pumping gas (the gas benson trusted him to pump alone, he remembers, feels guilty). he meekly walks towards the trusted adult, like he was always taught in school. he makes it roughly 8 feet from the guy before benson, who randy swears had just been shuffling through bags of chips, stalks towards them.

a hit, a crunch, a shout, blood.

one more round of the same.

randy isn't even sure he's conscious as he's shoved back into the car. they sped off in silence. the tension alone is nearly enough to make randy puke, hell, he's already silently crying. benson breaks the silence.

"goddamnit!"

he punches the steering wheel.

"god fucking damnit, randy! you had one fucking job-- one! pump the fuckin' gas. stay fuckin' silent!" he screamed, spittle flying, hitting the wheel again. a sob is punched out of the younger.

"that guy was minding his fuckin' business, bradley. why'd you make me fuckin' do that!? huh!?

the hair curls at the bottom of his neck, the air is still hot out in very rural appalachia. it was september, it was sticky and gross. not nearly as bad as louisiana, but also not nearly as relieving as he thought it would be. he has heard about "desert dry", the lack of humidity making it easier to adjust. and, well, randy had found himself wishing they had nestled themselves in a drrryyyy desert out in the west. instead, they had this mosquito filled, wet, dragging heat.

the hair on randy's neck made him intensely uncomfortable. it was sweaty. in a way he hadn't experienced. sweat *anywhere* made him uncomfortable. as a child, he would routinely shower after school and again before bed. couldn't imagine the filth that covered him after a day outside of the house. it disgusted him.

after months on the road, he had learned to deal with sweat. it was heavy in his clothes, heavy on his face. but the feeling of sweat soaked hair on the back of his neck? he hated that more than anything.

you see, he was raised in a religious environment. when he was younger, he never quite understood why Jesus could have long hair, but him and the other boys at his christian school couldn't. truly, though, it never mattered. he figured out after a few months on the road why he never argued with his mother about his haircut. not that he'd argue anyway.

he absolutely despised the way it touched him, wet and wiry. but, benson said no cutting it. strictly. didn't put up any room for argument. randy obeyed, as always. he never understood benson generally, this was just another quirk. another part of power to have over randy.

that was until benson gripped the bottom of his curls while his cock was dragged through randy's throat. it stung, fresh hair being pulled at from the root. the older man kept the grip as he started to fuck the pretty, crying face in front of him. he picked out two, pretty thin, clumps near the base of randy's neck, mimicking two short, short pigtails.

"oh, there you go, pretty girl. taking me so good."

the frail frame looks up at benson, stiff body, eyes bugging. somehow, he humps his shoe faster.

"oh, you like that, huh? like being my pretty girl, randy?"

randy came almost immediately, muffled moan, spilling over the black work boot he had been desperately grinding against. that didn't mean benson was through, ohhh no.

"you fuckin' whore, you like bein' my girl, rand! who woulda thought, little repressed randy bradley- fuck! likes being treated like a bitch-"

his thrusts grew harder, randy was choking violently.

"good girls can take it, are you a good girl randy? huh? you my good girl?"

randy tries to nod but his face is uh, preoccupied. benson knew though. he let out a groan, thrusts speeding up and grow erratic.

the older spat out a mix of praise and new raised anger

"fuck, baby, gonna cum down your fuckin' throat, you wan' that?"

randy's too busy being choked to react, blissed out on feelings he can't fully recognize, fuzzy.

a smack rings him somewhere near reality.

"come on, you fuckin' whore. answer me!"

he pulls out, bradley heaves a breath in. he coughs once, twice. another smack. a hand grips his hair.

"i said answer me, bitch!" a growl, the look in his eye again. violent. angry.

"puh-" randy coughs again. he wants to keep his composure. he wants to be good.

"please!" pathetic, voice cracking from abuse.

a less than half hearted chuckle left benson. randy anticipated another hit. instead, a hand, soft, found his jaw, making him look directly into the older man's eyes.

"please what, baby?"

as randy looked up, and for the first time, benson's eyes almost looked sweet, safe. like you could tell him every deep, dark secret and he'd turn it into a beautiful new way of living your life. randy almost got lost in every crevice on the outskirts of benson's eyes, the sweat between his brows, the outgrown hairs on his mustache. oh no.

"pl-please come down my throat. i want it, please. please"

he knew he sounded outlandishly desperate and sad. more akin to someone pathetically begging for their life than someone begging for come from their captor. it was enough for benson, who shut off air for randy by holding his nose closed while he jammed his cock down his throat. he wants to make randy choke on it. wants him to feel how benson owns every part of him. loves the way randy's body relinquishes to him.

after, he runs a hand through randy's hair, wipes his tears, kisses his forehead

"you're all doing THIS WRONG" "no you don't understand this character" "none of you get it why are none of you doing it right" oh my god. guys. why. why are we doing this in the main tags so much now. post whatever you want on your own blogs ofc (i know i do lmao) but seeing it so often in the main tag now is just so unpleasant?

especially when you're ragging on like, specific fics. guys this is such a small fandom the author is gonna see thaaaaat. you don't have to like everything you read but authors check the tag too, you know. i just don't think tagging your fic criticisms is very kind

again, post what you want on your blog, it's yours, but this is a really small fandom and i feel like tag has become super negative in this sense over the past year or so and i truly don't think it has to be this way? i wrote a little more about my perspective as a fic writer in the passenger fandom here and it's much more eloquent than i'm feeling today lol

oh my god who are you i love you

So instead of Benson grabbing at the back of her neck he tugs on one of her braids roughly.

one night, closing with donnie and benson, some stupid fuckin kid had somehow tripped and fell into benson. it left his shirt heavily stained with ketchup. he grumbled a "fuck." and tore the thing off.

fuck it, they were near closing anyway and if anyone had shit to say about him not having his uniform shirt on, they could talk to him. bradley watched where it piled up in the corner of the stock room. mentally noted it.

randy always brought a bag to work. it wasn't really filled with anything to aid him throughout the day, mostly just some headache medication, a bottle of water, sometimes a protein bar if he felt *crazy*. but tonight, that bag served a different purpose. while he was "clocking out", as benson and donnie grabbed their things, he snatched the shirt and stuffed it down into his bag. his stomach churned in a way that had been far too familiar recently.

randy wasn't weird -- he was just gonna wash it for him. yeah, wash it and return it nicely folded the next day. an act of gratitude, even.

"night, bradley."

a gruff, actively smoking voice called at him as he left. randy waved to him, feeling the bag carve a piece of his soul out hearing the words.

just wash it. wash and return it. you're a good person. you just wanna help him.

randy gets home that night, the ache in his stomach undeniable. he threw his bag down, showered, changed, and put a cd on. he didn't really know the band. didn't care. he tried to just lay down, listen to the music, relax maybe.

his brain had a different idea.

it kept playing visions of benson. benson at work when he'd reach for something on a high shelf, shirt riding up a bit, showing his happy trail, defined hips.

sometimes, when randy fucks up, benson gets a look in his eye. he can't quite place it. he loves it. it usually results in benson explaining the task to him like he's a bratty child. condescending and mean. he likes that too.

his dick has been half hard since he picked up the damn shirt. his stupid imagination isn't helping.

all at once, he scrambles for the shirt. clutching it felt right. he breathes it deep, it smells like cigarettes and grease and randy swears he can imagine a faint scent of benson's body wash. he nearly passes out.

before he really knows what's happening, he's thrusting into his hand with the shirt pushed directly to his nose. bucking desperately into himself, his stomach coiling tightly.

he wants benson over him, telling him he's a freak, a pervert, a fag. a desperate bitch, huffing his fucking shirt because he can't get the real thing.

he imagines benson smacking him, spitting awful things at him. he whimpers into the shirt.

randy desperately ruts into his own fist, nearly crying when he falls over the edge.

he'll definitely have to wash the shirt now.

au where the murders never happen but they still work at bbb and are still toxic and terrible

randy didn't get complimented much, besides benson's sick way of talking to him (he loves it). one day, someone comes into bbb. they start openly hitting on randy. randy is too awkward to shut it down, instead he just takes the bordering-on-sexual-abuse he's being spatted. to benson, who's been gripping the broomstick for at least 5 minutes now, randy almost looks like he *enjoys* it. like he *wants* to get complimented by others. like he *wants* attention from anyone who walks through the fucking doors. benson could snap the wooden handle in his hands.

many hours later, past the closing of bbb, past the drive to the dive bar around the corner, benson gets randy drunk. he knew the kid didn't drink, didn't care. the sharp look in his eye made randy believe any underlying threat of what would happen if he didn't.

they end up in benson's room. the older man straddles randy as he gives him a stick n poke tattoo.

splatters right below his collarbone

"benson"

the top of the letters poking out where his work uniform would stop covering.

an au where benson stops before he shoots chris. chris wont move, slumped in the dull red booth, absurdly terrified, shotgun directly in his face.

no one moves. nobody. the only thing that dare break the tension was benson's eyes moving to randy's. randy was completely removed mentally, the stress of the situation settling in his bones.

"tell me to do it, randy."

the voice rings out like a church bell from mere inches away. loud, overtaking, buzzing.

a whimper is ripped from jess, chris stays oddly silent.

benson glares at the blonde, trembling frame. pathetic fucking dog, he thought. whimpering, crying over people who made his life a living hell. crying over the man who just made him eat a rotted burger. crying, but never doing anything about it. it made benson sick.

"now. or i blow your fuckin head off."

randy still couldn't calm his breath. couldn't speak, physically. something else entirely had taken over his body. his wasn't fight, it wasn't flight, it wasn't even fucking fawn. it was freeze.

the shotgun's barrel found its way to randy's head. benson knew it was an empty threat, no one else did.

"d-do it!"

weak, trembling, barely above a whisper. benson couldn't help but chuckle, quickly swinging the barrel back to the lovebirds trapped in a booth.

"do what, randy?"

he moved closer to the couple

jess cried out

"tell me what you want"

"please.."

*please don't. please just leave. please just...do anything else but this*

"please what?"

"ple-"

a gunshot rings through the building. blood spatter, intestinal lining, viscera randy had only been exposed to by the shitty horror movies his friend in 7th grade had forced him to watch, graced the floor.

a screech, another gunshot.

randy stood there, trembling. he hoped benson couldn't see it, but that was just a stupid wish. he suddenly felt a hand at the base of his neck.

"knew you wanted this, baby. knew you wanted me."

benson murmured against his ear