angel 💌

he's never really been drunk, had wine at communion, sipped a beer once with his uncle out in west virginia. he was maybe 15, hailey and his mom fast asleep in the guest room upstairs. his uncle ron exclaiming how "he's a man now" and how he needs to "get some hair on his chest". randy never really understood and his mom never knew about it, for obvious reasons.

he decided, well really just acted upon sudden impulse that he'd seemingly only ever had when he's trying to self sabotage, that he was going to go to the dive near his work. he passes it every day, sees the regular cars parked there every night when he's heading home. it terrifies him, really.

he'd had this itch recently. it only reared it's ugly head sometimes. once when he was a child, he'd fully conjured a plan to run away. it wasn't unheard of for 10 year olds to wanna "run away", but randy had a full, thought out plan. when he thought back to it, it was incredibly impressive for a kid that young. luckily for him, or rather incredibly unluckily for someone else, some kid just 5 miles up the road had gotten kidnapped and murdered just days before he intended to enact his plan. that effectively made him give up, his mom put him on lockdown anyways.

nowadays, he was usually content in his every day activities. get up, shower, go to work, come home, eat dinner with his family, maybe take hailey to practice for whatever activity she was currently enrolled in, shower again, go to bed. maybe content was the wrong word. he was passive. everything seemed to work. everything flowed as easily as it could. easier to leave everything as if, god forbid he makes the wrong decision and fucks everything up. again. routines are good for people, he'd read that in a health magazine he'd snatched up in his doctor's waiting room.

somehow though, for the last week, he'd had that fucking itch. the itch to do *something*. it didn't need to be anything crazy, though he'd be lying if he said his first thoughts weren't killing himself violently, for all to see or completely running away. again. somehow, this fucking itch devolved into the want, the need to go to the Scary Bar. he was gonna go to the Scary Bar and he was going to get drunk for the first time. fuck the shift he was scheduled for tomorrow, fuck the lying to his mother, fuck everything. even his thoughts, just like him, had a shaky voice with zero conviction.

he walks. it's really not far, about two miles. a good hour and half for randy to think about if he really wants to do this. spring doesn't necessarily feel nice in louisiana, hell, it's hard for any season to thrive in the goddamn swamp. but it's definitely no sticky, harsh summer air so ultimately, randy can't complain. he had a hand-me-down walkman from his uncle, the one with the shitty beer. he listened to "Queen's Greatest Hits" for the 50th time. it ended and randy just restarted it. focused back on the music. the fastest hour and a half of his life comes to an end when he finds himself in the parking lot of Ryder's.

tunnel visioned, he hands the bouncer his id and walks in. it smells like smoke and rancid, acidic alcohol. randy immediately wants to leave but he's here. he's done this. he made the decision and he's gonna stick it out for at least one drink. he asks the lady bartender what their popular beers are, he's brutally honest (moreso in a word vomit way) that he's never been to a bar, never really had a drink. she's sweet, offers him a vodka cranberry instead. says it's popular with young folk like him. he quickly nods. he didn't think he'd like it, really. he's never found alcohol appealing. but this? it was nice. bitter, but refreshing, almost. he chugs it, fast.

somewhere between the anxiety of being there and sudden onset haziness of two shots of vodka, randy starts to look around at his fellow patrons. mostly just old dudes, a few women scattered about. it's a friday, so they're pretty fucking busy. randy asks for another drink. as he does, a figure appears next to him asking for another whiskey and coke. the voice almost sounds familiar, randy's not even tipsy yet, but his brain isn't exactly working at top speed. he looks to the figure and before he can speak,

"bradley?"

oh. it's benson. obviously it's benson. the voice was gruff, full of smoke, confusion. the vague shape starts to place in his brain and randy can't meet his eyes. benson is here, uniform abandoned for a wrinkled shirt, sleeves cut off, marked "Ween, The Mollusk" with a grotesque creature on the front. his jeans were a bit too big, his hair even more astray now that's it's not confined to a ball cap.

"oh! uh- hi- hey, benson!" randy tries to give a smile, like this is normal, please don't say anything. pleading eyes stuck to the bar. randy wishes benson would scoff and leave, much like any time randy asked anything of him at work. but of course, a sly smirk crosses his face and he claps a hand down on randy's shoulder. he sits down next to him.

"the fuck are you doin' here, bradley? wrong turn on the way to church camp?" his breath smells acrid, he's leaned in far too close. bradley's second drink arrives at this moment.

"i- uh... i don't really uh. know..." he trails on, almost scared to grab the drink in front of him. he feels caught, trapped like an animal with a clamped leg in violent metal. benson is looking at him like he wants an answer. a real one. it's an intensive gaze, he feels stripped down. what is happening?

then, with him seemingly unaware of the spur of emotion deep within randy's gut, benson laughs. like truly fucking laughs. randy has never, ever heard something like this, from him, before. it's deep and nearly triggers a coughing fit. getting a real kick out of the situation. randy wants to call him an asshole. he won't.

"jesus christ, bradley," he wipes a tear from his eye, randy doesn't think it was ever really there,

"c'mon, i'm over here, let's go." benson gets out of his stool next to randy bradley and beckons him. rolls his eyes when the boy just stays in his seat like a deer in headlights.

"don't make me do some count to ten bullshit" he laughs

robby has dennis in front of him, in front of a mirror. robby's fingering his boy's cunt, forcing den to look at himself, a hand wrapped around his jaw. dennis whines and writhes, trapped by the big body surrounding him at every corner.

"ah-ah baby, you look at yourself. mmh- not getting away from this, want you to see how pretty you look when you cum for me"

robby takes his hand from dennis' jaw, moves to his throat. before he could react, he caught a glimpse of himself being choked by his boss in the mirror. the sudden loss of oxygen mixed with the image of robby behind him sent him far over the edge, his body convulsing, his moan turning into a gasp for air.

benson who hooked up with everyone under the sun from high school to his late 20s. he loved chasing a high, really any high. sex just so happened to be convenient and cheap. usually free, even. except for the chicks that needed a good few drinks to even consider sleeping with someone from the shitty dive down the street. it beat shilling out $20 for shit weed, $15 for shit beer, or $80 for good coke. sex, to benson, was simultaneously the greatest love you could show to someone while also being a hobby he indulged in most nights with strangers. he couldn't explain it, didn't want to, really didn't care enough to. and explain to who, anyways? his ma? ma was barely conscious most nights when benson would stumble through the door. ma saw the shadows of life traversing her living room, sure, but the lives behind those shadows didn't matter much. she knew her benny was a queer. didn't care much to learn further. but, most nights she was passed out by 10pm, so no explanations seemed deserved or needed.

benson entered his mid-late thirties and though his affinity for The High still existed, it had softened a bit with age. booze had the tendency to make him angry instead of horny. not every time, but the holes in his walls made it clear. when it was bad, it was *bad*. weed either fully relaxed him or made him feel like his heart was beating out of his chest, sure to kill him. his coke guy died like, a year or two ago. suicide. benson understood.

he found a different high a year and a half into working at burgers³. randy bradley walked in, head down, uniform at least a size too big, shaking like a leaf. benson couldn't help the way he stared at the man, there was just something about him. it sent benson on a path he never expected for himself at the age of 36. at first, he just. watches. from afar. he'd be on the line, dropping fries and flipping frozen burgers. the first month, he'd find himself peering through to the front where bradley was stationed at the till. he couldn't see his face, but he could see how randy physically reacted to his various interactions throughout the days. benson studied everything he could about randy bradley. the high of seeing how he reacted to situations. seeing what he liked, what he didn't. at this point, even his best coke hadn't touched the high of seeing bradleys small smile while he ate the shitty burger benson had made for him for his break.

he knew it was bad. he knew he shouldn't. but, my god, benson couldn't get enough of his poor, unsuspecting coworker. every night, he'd find his hand around himself, thinking of randy. randy begging, crying, shaking beneath him, coming all over himself because of *benson*. it was enough to send him over the edge every time.

(blah blah blah i've been diagnosed since 18 blah blah blah yes im romanticizing it blah blah blah dddne, don't like don't interact)

benson, who when he senses the slightest bit of rejection, flies into a rage. he needs to be needed and when he thinks randy is straying, he will do anything to keep him complacent. he doesn't want to hurt the boy, but he can't have him trying to leave either. benson loves randy so fucking much, it hurts him. the thought of losing him makes him feel like he's going crazy. his skin itches like there's bugs crawling underneath. his head somehow hyper focused and fuzzy. randy, randy randy. that's all he can think about. he can't leave. he won't leave. benson won't let him. he needs to know how much benson cares about him, he killed 4 fucking people for him. for godssake. but, sometimes, on a bad day, benson will think a little too hard about everything that's happened. he knows it's wrong, it's evil, to the core it's fucking evil. to his core, he believes he is evil. he doesn't deserve randy, he pulled him into this without a second thought and now randy hates him. he knows randy hates him, wants him gone, wants him dead. it sends him spiralling. so, he does the only thing he knows what to do. he shuts down. he pulls over on a dirt road, thousands of miles from where they came.

"get the fuck out of the car." blank, staring ahead.

it's not the first time he'd done this, but it was easily the most serious he'd been.

"w..what?" randy flicks his eyes towards benson, refusing to linger

"now. fucking now, randy. get the fuck out." still staring ahead, now with an edge, a threat to his voice

"why? did i- did i do something? i'm sorry- really, really i'm sorry if i did, i didn't mean it, benson-"

"if you don't get the fuck out in 5 fucking seconds, i'm putting a bullet through your fuckin' skull" but he just won't *look* at randy.

to be fair, randy doesn't entirely know if he wants him to. he's crying, pathetically and quietly, bewildered and scared. shaking.

you see, randys similar to benson in some ways. one way being, he can't live without the other. not now. not after everything. they'd spent well over a month attached the hip, whether randy originally wanted to or not. that was then, this was now. and now, randy didn't wanna leave, couldn't fathom leaving.

did benson finally get tired of him? why? what did randy do? he tried his best to follow all the rules, stayed close by benson's side, ate the food benson told him to eat, slept when benson said to sleep. why didn't benson want him anymore?

he couldn't leave. he wouldn't leave. no, he wouldn't, he decided. benson always wanted randy to have a backbone, well he fucking got one.

"nonono- benson-"

"NOW."

a silence. randy looks at benson, teary eyed, trembling.

in an instant, randy scrambled for the gun in the middle console. he snatched it right before benson could get to it, and before the older could wrestle it from him, randy put it to his own head.

time seemed to stop.

"give that to me right now, randy." he was near seething, but there was a hint of something under his words. obvious worry.

"n-no! no, benson, you have to-to fucking listen to me!" he was crying, hard.

"okay, okay randy, im listening, baby, i am"

randy took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. he felt so small, horrified at the thought of being left like an abandoned dog on the side of the street. he didn't want to be without benson, to live without benson. the man consumed his every waking thought at this point. he loved his family, sure, but everything revolved around benson now.

"don't make me leave." his voice cracked, but he tried to continue

"i don't wanna leave you. please-" a heave "please, i can't leave you, please don't make me-"

his hands were shaking so violently, it was even more unsafe for him to be wielding a gun to his own head. but he stayed out, threat heavy in the air.

"can you put the fuckin' gun down, randy?" benson hissed, terrified on his own

"no! not until you promise!" the young man screamed against the small confines of the car.

benson is stubborn. never wants to relent to anything. but randy. fucking randy bradley. his heart feels like it's being ripped in two, physically making him sick to his stomach.

all that's heard is the sound of randy's stifled sobs, benson's ragged breath.

benson presses on the gas, tearing out of the dirt road. the impact sends an unbuckled randy back into his seat, the gun falling to the floor of the car.

no promises. no words spoken between the two of them.

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.

"answer me, bitch." a growl through gritted teeth. that 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