Archive of Our Own

The motel room was dim, one curtain drawn against the afternoon glare. Dust floated in the strip of light that slipped in anyway, catching on Randy’s profile as he sat cross-legged on the bed, chewing at the side of his thumbnail.

Benson leaned against the headboard, arms folded, his gaze caught, again, on Randy’s mouth.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe their first kiss, soft and unsure, had knocked something loose in the soft tissue of his brain. Maybe it was before that, in the restaurant, watching Randy chew his lip when he was nervous as his fingers fumbled over the register. Maybe it was just now, watching him in the silence.

Either way, Benson couldn’t stop looking.

Randy’s lips were full, a little chapped, always flushed that unnatural pink like he’d just bit them. When he spoke, they moved fast, like his words were trying to outrun his mouth, but there was a sweetness in the shape of them when he laughed, something soft and shy that made Benson’s gut go tight.

He stared now as Randy bit down on the corner of his thumb, his bottom lip curling around the joint of his knuckle. His teeth tugged at the skin, just enough to leave a mark, and Benson watched the way his lips moved, how they dragged and flexed, how the pink of them deepened when his mouth parted again.

Jesus.

Benson swallowed. His throat felt dry. He shifted against the headboard, suddenly too warm.

Randy didn’t seem to notice, still distracted with whatever loose skin he was picking at.

Benson’s eyes flicked lower, watched his tongue dart out to wet the corner of his mouth, watched his lips purse in thought, then open slightly as he sighed through his nose. Even the smallest movement was too much.

“Do I have something on my face?” Randy asked suddenly, glancing up with a wrinkle of confusion.

Benson blinked. His jaw tightened. “No.”

“You’re staring.”

“Just thinkin’”

“About what?”

Benson looked away, suddenly interested in a crack in the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter.”

It was all he could think about now, the curve of Randy’s mouth, the way it thinned when he was tired, the way it wrapped around his fingers when he chewed his nails, like his own body didn’t know what to do with all the nervous energy, how it hung loose and open as he slept.

Jesus fuckin' Christ.

Benson wanted to touch him again.

He didn’t say that. He just let the silence thicken between them, let himself steal one more look, hungry and careful, and pretended he wasn’t imagining the feel of those lips pressed against his skin again.

Randy didn’t push him. He shrugged, wiped his thumb along the side of his jeans, and leaned back on the bed, arms propped behind him. The mattress creaked softly beneath his weight. The light caught the curve of his jaw, his lips parted just slightly now, the upper one just as full as the bottom, tinged red from all the chewing.

Benson swallowed again, arms still folded. The want was crawling higher up his throat every second.

“You’re doing it again,” Randy said, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” Benson muttered, no use denying it this time. “Can’t help it.”

That got Randy to look over, and then he smiled, small, shyly, barely lifting the corner of his mouth.

“What, my face really that interesting?”

Benson shook his head. “Just your mouth.”

Randy froze. He looked like he hadn’t expected that much honesty. His hand twitched on the bedspread.

“My mouth?” He repeated.

Benson’s eyes flicked to it again. “Yeah.”

Randy’s throat bobbed. “O-Oh.”

Randy leaned forward slightly, squeezing his shoulder blades together in a stretch. He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip unconsciously, like he could feel Benson’s eyes there even now.

“You think about it?” Randy asked.

Benson tilted his head, gaze pinned on him. “You know I do.”

Randy’s breath hitched just enough to be heard. Then he nodded. “I’ve been thinking about… your hands.”

“You like 'em?”

Randy looked over at him, eyes wide, lip caught between his teeth again, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. He nodded his head, slow.

“Mhm.”

Benson sighed, his chest heaving once before he was crawling along the mattress. He reached out, let his fingers skim Randy’s jaw, rough thumb dragging along the seam of his mouth, to feel the shape of it under his skin. Randy’s eyes fluttered shut, lips parting instinctively, and that tiny sound, barely more than breath.

“C'mere,” Benson motioned with his brow. “Let me kiss you.”

No hesitation. Just a slow lean forward and the softest sound as their mouths met.

Benson’s hands moved up to cradle Randy’s jaw, holding him still, thumbs stroking his cheekbones while Randy let himself be kissed, utterly, completely, until the only thing left between them was breath.

Randy leaned into him like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time Benson touched his bare skin. Their mouths met again and again, slower.

Benson kissed him every time like it was the first. Every drag of his mouth over Randy’s was delicate. His hands held Randy’s face, keeping him there. Every pass was just bordering on stiff on Randy's part. Benson didn't want to think about how little experience Randy had with this. Didn't want to think about Randy spreading himself bare under Benson's touch, and only his. He didn't want to. But that didn't stop him from doing it. Didn't stop him from liking it.

Randy’s fingers found their way into Benson’s shirt, twisting in the thin, washed-out cotton. He was breathing heavy, lips tingling and slick. Benson’s stubble scraped over his skin, rasping warmth against his chin. Randy liked it. He liked the way it stung. Benson liked how he winced against the burn.

Randy broke the kiss only to breathe. His breath came out hoarse and thick. “You're good at that.”

Benson’s eyes were still fixed on him. “You're not half-bad, yourself.”

Benson leaned in again, but this time he didn’t go straight for his mouth. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Randy’s lips, then another, softer, just beneath his jaw. Randy tilted his head to give him room, swallowing a shaky sigh.

Benson’s mouth traced the edge of his throat. Randy whispered, “I don't really know what I'm doing.”

Benson paused, lips still against his skin. Randy smelled like him. “You're doing fine.”

Randy closed his eyes.

Benson kissed him again.

-

The sky was turning that pale, washed-out shade of blue. They were back in the car, rumbling beneath them, the road stretching flat and endless in all directions. The windows were cracked just enough to let the morning in, warm already, carrying the scent of dry grass and gas fumes.

Randy sat in the passenger seat with one leg tucked beneath him, picking at a hangnail. He hadn’t said much since they left the motel. Neither had Benson. Their kiss still fresh in his memory, Benson’s thumb had dragged across his cheekbone like he didn’t know how to stop touching him.

Randy glanced sideways. Benson was focused on the road, sunglasses on despite the dimness.

Randy hesitated, gnawed at the inside of his cheek, then asked quietly, “You ever gonna tell me about her?”

Benson didn’t respond right away.

Randy kept his voice soft, like he was asking for the weather. “Your ma.”

Benson’s fingers flexed once on the wheel.

Randy tried again. “Remember, you said, you didn't leave family you miss?”

“I remember,” Benson cut in.

Randy blinked, startled. “Okay.”

They drove another half mile in silence. The tires made a soft hum on the cracked pavement.

“I’m not trying to push,” Randy said eventually, fingers drumming on his thigh. “I just… I’ve told you things. About me. My mom. You asked all those questions, and now you don’t say anything about yourself.”

Benson let out a dry breath.

For a long time, Benson said nothing. His grip on the wheel tightened, the muscles in his forearm flexing. Randy watched the curve of his jaw; his throat worked as he swallowed.

“I kind of hated her,” Benson said flat as the road.

Randy froze. “Oh.”

Benson nodded, almost to himself.

But Randy didn’t let it go. “What was she like?”

Benson exhaled hard through his nose. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you don't tell me anything.”

That earned a look. Benson’s head turned sharply.

“She smoked too much. Worked at a dry cleaners a couple years back. Didn’t like people. She fed the strays on our block.”

“And you?” Randy asked.

Benson didn’t answer straight away. “She didn’t know what to do with me.”

Randy blinked fast, felt something sharp and small wedge into his throat.

“She tried, I guess.”

The road rolled on in silence.

Randy reached over and let his fingers brush the edge of Benson’s arm, just a little.

Benson didn’t look at him. But he didn’t pull away either.

Benson’s voice came quietly.

“I don’t think she liked me very much, either.”

Randy turned to him slowly. “What do you mean?”

Benson shrugged, one shoulder hitching. “Just… didn’t feel like she did, y'know?”

The wind made a low whistle through the cracked window.

“I wasn't the best kid. And I think… I think she was tired before I ever gave her a reason to be.”

Randy’s fist squeezed tight.

“She ever tell you that?”

“No,” Benson shook his head. “She didn’t have to.”

Randy looked at his hands. His nails were bitten to hell. He rubbed at the skin around one of them, swallowed.

The road curved. Benson adjusted the wheel with one hand.

“I used to sit outside her bedroom when I was a kid. She’d be in there, smoking, radio on, drinking. I’d just sit there.”

Randy closed his eyes for a second.

“She never came out?”

Benson didn’t answer.

Randy reached over and rested a hand on Benson’s thigh, just above the knee, warm through the denim. Benson didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just kept his eyes on the road. But after a few seconds, his fingers shifted and found Randy’s hand.

The road unspooled before them, two narrow lanes slicing through fields of brittle grass and the occasional leaning fence. The air inside the car was too warm despite the whip of wind. Randy’s thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of Benson’s hand, their fingers tangled in the space between the seats.

“What about your dad?”

“He left, I was four. Maybe five. Don’t really remember.”

“You never saw him again?”

Benson shook his head. “No. I think he wrote a letter once. I don't know, I never got to read it.”

Randy stared ahead, lips parted, he wanted to say something, but couldn’t figure out what would help.

“I used to make up stories about him,” Benson continued. “Told people he was in the military."

Randy winced.

“It was easier to lie.”

Benson went quiet again. The road shimmered in the heat ahead of them, the sun rising higher behind a smear of dusty clouds.

“Did you ever want to find him?” Randy asked.

“Sometimes. But I figure if he couldn’t handle me at five, he wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with me now.”

Randy’s hand squeezed his. “You’re not that hard to handle.”

Benson gave him a smile, small and tired. “Even you don't fuckin' believe that.”

Randy looked at him. “Yeah, I do.”

Benson turned his face back to the road, his thumb brushed back over Randy’s knuckles.

-

The heat crawled down Benson's back, thick and lazy. It made the air taste like dust and rusted metal, turned the car’s vinyl seats into something molten.

They’d pulled off into a little gas station on the edge of nowhere, one pump working, the shade of the overhang cracked and slatted. Randy had disappeared inside with crumpled bills from the ashtray, leaving Benson leaning against the hood of the Chrysler, his shirt sticking to his spine, sweat curling behind his ears.

He came back out with two popsicles, bright, artificial red, and handed one over without a word. Benson took it, the wrapper damp and already slipping in his fingers.

They sat on the hood, feet not quite touching, the sun beating down without mercy.

Randy peeled back the plastic and stuck the tip of the popsicle between his lips, sucking the melted edge before it could drip. He didn’t even seem to notice how Benson stared.

Benson’s gaze froze on him, on the slick of red across his mouth, his tongue darted out to catch a run of juice down his knuckle. The popsicle stained his lips, made them glossier, pinker. The tip of his tongue was red too, wet and bright, flashing out again as he licked along the side.

Benson looked away. Then back.

Randy sucked slowly, biting the bottom edge and then pulling it back between his lips with a soft, wet sound.

Benson’s throat worked. His own popsicle was already melting, syrup slipping down over his knuckles, but he didn’t move. Just watched.

Watched Randy take his time.

Randy caught him staring; he had to. Those eyes flicked sideways, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth as he kept licking the popsicle in long, lazy stripes, unfazed. Maybe even smug. He let out a little sigh, leaned back on his elbow like he was just beating the heat, nothing more to it.

But Benson’s jaw was tight. His popsicle untouched, dripping onto the dry gravel below.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered finally, looking anywhere else, at the sky, the empty road, the rusted pump.

Randy chuckled low, slow. “What?”

“You’re gonna give somebody a heart attack with that mouth.”

Randy bit into the popsicle, teeth crunching through the ice, and said around it, “You’re the only one here, Benson.”

Benson didn’t answer. Just threw the rest of his melting popsicle into the trash and wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, muttering again under his breath.

Randy smiled to himself and finished his.

-

They were parked off some back road, the kind that didn’t show up on maps, just a flat stretch of sun-bleached dirt and dry brush whispering in the wind. The Chrysler sat idling in the heat, cicadas singing. They weren’t in a hurry. They rarely were, not unless the money ran out or someone looked at them too long.

Randy had his bare feet propped on the dashboard, ankles crossed, an arm curled behind his head.

Benson sat behind the wheel, one hand draped out the open window, fingers catching the breeze. He looked tired. He always did.

Randy spoke without looking at him. “When’d you know?”

Benson's hands twitched like they did when he wanted a smoke.

Randy turned his head, watched the line of Benson’s jaw tighten, then relax.

“When’d I know what?”

Randy shrugged. “That you liked boys.”

Benson didn’t meet his eyes. He stared straight ahead, out at the long stretch of road and heat shimmer. “I don’t know,” He shrugged. “Always kind of did, I guess.”

“You ever tell anyone?”

"Nah, came close once, a little while after high school.”

“What happened?”

Benson shrugged, "He stopped talking to me."

Randy sighed. “Sorry.”

Benson finally looked over, his mouth twitching, dry and bitter. “I told him I liked his haircut. He took that as me coming on to him, which I was, kinda.”

Randy sat up straighter, dropped his feet to the floor. “That the first time you knew for sure?”

Benson nodded slowly. “First time I couldn’t lie to myself about it, yeah.”

“I think I knew when I was eleven. My cousin brought his friend to our Fourth of July barbecue. He was older. Had braces. I stared at him the whole day."

Benson huffed, glancing sideways. “Did he notice?”

“Yeah. He asked if I was feeling alright. Said I looked sick.”

Benson let out a laugh, dry and amused.

“I told him I had heatstroke.”

Benson barked out a hearty laugh, buckling his belly; he couldn't hold it back. His face stretched and burned at the swell of his cheeks.

He reached out and brushed his fingers against Randy’s.

-

They were back on the road again, miles slipping by in a daze of sun glare. The windows were down, letting in a warm wind. Randy had one leg tucked up on the seat, cheek resting on his knee as he watched the scenery crawl past.

Benson had one hand on the wheel, the other balancing a cigarette between his fingers, ash gathering lazily at the tip. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but Randy could tell by the slant of his mouth that he was lost in thought.

“When was your first time?”

The cigarette lifted to his mouth; he drew in a breath, slow and long, and exhaled through his nose. His shoulders shifted like the question made his skin itch.

“What, you writing a book?”

Randy gave him a lazy smile. “Maybe. Come on.”

“Sixteen.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl,”

Randy watched him, rigid in his seat. “You liked her?”

“Not really. She liked me, I think.” He paused, thumb tapping the steering wheel. “Or maybe she liked what she thought I was.”

“What was that?”

Benson turned toward him then, a teasing smile crept up on his face. “A bad boy.”

Randy rolled his eyes.

Benson took another drag. “It was in the back of a car. Not mine. Her boyfriend’s, I think. She said she wanted to get back at him.” He smiled.

“Did you want it?” He asked.

Benson shrugged. “I didn’t stop it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

They fell quiet again. The wind picked up, tossing Randy’s hair across his forehead.

“I thought it was supposed to feel good, y'know,” Benson flicked the cigarette ash into the wind. “But I just felt… I don’t know, gross? I guess.”

Randy turned away, looking back out the window. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Benson crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and reached for another, but stopped short. His fingers lingered there, hovering, before pulling back.

“I don’t talk about this shit, Randy.”

“I know.”

“Then why’re you asking?”

“’Cause I want to know you.”

-

The motel room smelled like cheap bleach and older cigarettes; it sank into the curtains and the carpet and stayed there long after the guest was gone. The air conditioner rattled in the window, half-hearted and wheezing, but it was better than nothing. The room had one bed again, always just one bed, and Randy hadn’t said anything when they checked in.

Benson had kicked off his boots and collapsed on top of the covers fully dressed, one arm slung over his eyes to block the flicker of the old TV in the corner. He hadn’t said a word since they got in. Just grunted, stretched, and sighed.

Randy had showered. His hair was still damp, curling a little at his temples, and he’d pulled on one of Benson’s t-shirts that came down past his thighs. He stood barefoot for a moment at the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of Benson’s chest under his flannel shirt, his hand slack where it rested over his stomach.

He didn’t ask. He just slipped into the bed beside him, quiet and careful, curling onto his side and facing Benson’s back.

For a while, they didn’t move. The only sound was the muted hum of the AC and the occasional thud of a headboard from a room next door. But then Randy inched closer, almost without realizing it, his knees brushing Benson’s jeans, the bare skin of his arm ghosting over Benson’s. He could feel the heat of him through the layers. Could smell the faint mix of soap and smoke.

Benson stirred.

“You cold?” He muttered, not lifting his arm.

“No,” Randy whispered.

Benson shifted anyway. Rolled onto his side with a grunt and, after a pause, lifted his arm. Randy didn’t hesitate. He slid into the space, tucking his face into the hollow beneath Benson’s chin, his fingers gathering in the soft fabric of Benson’s shirt.

Benson’s breath caught, just for a second, and then returned with a slow exhale.

“You’re warm,” Randy mumbled.

“You’re freezing.” Benson said, but his hand came up anyway, settling between Randy’s shoulder blades, holding him there.

They lay like that, tangled and still. Randy could feel the steady thump of Benson’s heart under his ear. The scratch of his unshaven jaw against his temple. The weight of his arm around him, hesitant at first, then firmer.

Randy closed his eyes, even allowed a contented sigh out of his chest.

They lay there in the quiet dark, curled around each other.

Benson whispered something then, too soft to catch.

“What?” Randy asked, not lifting his head.

Benson’s voice was clearer this time. “This is nice.”

Randy’s fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. He nodded.

The bed felt smaller somehow, the stale air thick between them as they lay tangled beneath the thin motel sheets.

Randy’s heart hammered loud in his chest, the heat from their shared body pressing close.

Their eyes met, slow and searching. Benson’s gaze flickered down to Randy’s lips, pink and soft, the corners twitching slightly.

Without a word, Randy leaned in, fingers brushing Benson’s jaw. The kiss was hesitant at first, soft, but it deepened quickly, growing urgent. Benson’s hand found Randy’s waist, pulling him closer, breath mingling with breath, the taste of cigarettes dripping and licking across Randy's tongue.

Randy’s fingers tangled in Benson’s hair. Slow heat building inside Randy's stomach, and he arched his hips towards Benson's thigh.

But then, just as it seemed like they might cross some invisible line, Benson pulled back sharply, eyes wide.

“I—” Benson started.

He didn’t finish.

Instead, he slipped off the bed, moving fast despite the weight dragging at his limbs, and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click.

Randy lay there, chest rising and falling. The heat between his thighs vanished.

He wanted to follow. Wanted to say something, anything.

But Benson was gone, escaping into the small bathroom, leaving Randy alone with the quiet hum of the old motel room and the faint feeling of Benson's lips lingering on his mouth.

-

It was a long while before Benson ventured back out.

Benson shifted on his socked feet on the carpet, clearing his throat. “You wanna... try again?”

Randy swallowed, heart thumping loudly. “Yeah,”

They edged closer, hands brushing, fingers fumbling like they’d never done this before, because maybe they hadn’t. Not really. Not like this.

Benson reached for him as his knees met the mattress, his fingers awkward against Randy’s jaw. Randy’s breath hitched, but when he leaned in, the kiss was clumsy, too fast, too unsure. Lips missed, teeth bumped, and they pulled apart with a startled laugh.

They tried again. Randy’s hand slid hesitantly to Benson’s chest, but he froze, unsure if he should keep going. Benson’s arm was heavy around Randy’s waist, but didn’t pull him closer. Instead, it rested there, awkward and stiff.

Neither of them said anything.

Benson finally broke the silence. “I’m—this isn’t... it’s not how I thought it’d be.”

Randy nodded, cheeks burning. “Me neither.”

“Maybe,” Benson huffed, “we just need time.”

Randy smiled, shaky but real. “Yeah. Time.”

They leaned back on the bed, still close, still awkward.

-

The motel room was quiet. Achingly quiet. Benson’s hand lingered on Randy’s cock, fingers tracing slowly, his other rubbing slow patterns over bare skin. He glanced down, searching Randy’s face for any sign, approval, hesitation, something.

“Is this... good?” Benson asked, sounding uncertain.

Randy blinked, caught off guard. The truth hovered on his tongue, raw and unpolished. He swallowed and said it anyway.

“No. Not really.”

Benson’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration, or maybe relief, crossing his features. He didn’t pull away, just shifted closer, his hand still warm against Randy’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Benson said quietly. “We’re just figuring it out.”

Randy nodded. “Yeah.”

-

Benson sat on the edge of the bed, shirt clinging to his back. He ran a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the dirty carpet.

It was fucking humiliating. He'd tried everything he thought was right. Everything he liked to do to himself. Instead of watching Randy huff and pant, break out into a fit as his thighs shook and twitched against the mattress as Benson pumped his load out onto his stomach. Randy had shut his eyes tight after minutes of his dick flagging, going soft in his grip. He sighed, knocking his head against his pillow, and said, "This isn't working."

“In my dreams, it’s easy. It’s always hot.” Benson shook his head, trying to shake off the memory. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Randy made a little unsure noise from his chest. He stared down at his own hands. “I… I think it’s my fault,” He whispered. “I’m a virgin. Maybe I’m—”

“Hey.” Benson cut him off. He scooted forward, settling one knee between Randy’s legs so there was nowhere to look but Benson’s eyes. “It's not that.”

Randy’s shoulders hunched. He bit his lip. “You’re the one with all the experience. I thought you’d be better at this.”

Benson sighed. Benson’s hand rose to cup Randy’s cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw. “Thanks, Randy. Really building my confidence here.”

Randy’s eyes rolled. “But you’ve done this before…”

“Not like this.” Benson’s thumb traced the line of Randy’s lips.

Randy’s breath caught as he smiled.

“Dreams don’t matter,” Benson shook his head. “They’re just… that. Dreams.”

Randy’s throat bobbed.

“C’mere.” Benson shifted, leaning in so their foreheads touched. “We don’t have to rush this.” He brushed his nose along Randy’s. “We’ll figure it out.”

Randy exhaled, relief pooling in his chest. Benson closed the distance, pressing his lips to Randy's in a gentle kiss, clumsy still, but better than whatever piss-poor excuse of a hand-job he had managed.

-

Benson sat against the headboard, legs stretched out, watching Randy. Randy’s palms were slick with sweat, heart thundering against his ribs. He took a shaky breath and reached out, hand hovering over Benson’s thigh.

“Okay,” Randy whispered to himself.

He slid his fingers along the fabric of Benson’s jeans, aiming for a gentle caress, but his hands were clumsy and shaking, and his fingertips pressed too hard against Benson’s skin. The result was more of a slap than a stroke, followed by a choppy drag that snagged on the denim seam.

Benson jerked, let out a startled laugh that echoed off the peeling wallpaper. “Whoa. What the fuck was—”

Randy’s face turned molten. He yanked his hand back, cheeks blazing.

“Oh shit,” Benson cut himself off, his laughter dying in his throat. He sat up straighter, voice softening instantly. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

Randy’s eyes flickered with hurt and embarrassment. He bit his lip, blinking too quickly, keenly aware of the tightness in his chest.

“No, it’s fine,” Randy mumbled.

Benson pushed himself to his elbows and closed the distance between them, reaching out to gently rest his hand over Randy’s. His thumb brushed soothing circles on Randy’s knuckles. “Try again, c'mon.”

Randy swallowed, heat still flaring in his cheeks. He managed a tiny nod. “I… I’ll get better.”

Benson gave a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah, you will. ”

He squeezed Randy’s hand once, then leaned in to brush a forgiving kiss against Randy’s mouth. Randy closed his eyes, letting the awkwardness ebb away under Benson’s tongue.

-

They ended up sprawled on the narrow motel bed. Benson lay on his back, propped up on one elbow, jeans unbuttoned at the waist. Randy sat shirtless, perched across his lap, cheeks flushed with heat and nerves.

“Show me, baby. Let me watch.”

Randy’s breath caught. He looked down at himself, hands trembling. But when Benson’s eyes lifted to meet his hungrily. Randy nodded. He slid his jeans down just enough to free himself, fingers brushing shyly at his cock. Benson’s gaze was rapt, watching the slow glide of Randy’s palm, his thumb stroked the tip, a soft hitch in his breath.

Randy closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Benson’s stare. He stroked himself harder, his thighs tightening around Benson’s, grinding slightly against him with each stroke, until the light in the room blurred and his own moans filled the air. Benson’s hand drifted to his own thigh, and Randy opened his eyes to see Benson lifting his shirt up over his chest, fabric nestled beneath his armpits, pulling his hard cock out and wrapping his fingers around himself, watching Randy’s movements as intently as Randy watched him.

Their eyes locked, every small sound Benson let out amplified in Randy’s ears; they were both exposed, both vulnerable, both aching. Randy felt the heat pool low in his gut, pulse ricocheting through his spine. He watched Benson’s chest rise with each ragged exhale, the flush in his cheeks, the slow circle of his thumb against his own shaft.

Randy’s hand trembled faster. “Benson…” He whispered, voice thick. “F-Fuck.”

Benson’s head dropped back against the pillow, gaze never leaving Randy. “Come for me, baby.” He urged softly.

With Benson watching, Randy tipped forward, fingers curling tighter, breath breaking into gasps. He came with a small cry, hips bucking once, his come shooting across Benson’s bare chest, cheeks hot, heart thundering.

Benson fucked up into his grip once more, his thighs shaking beneath Randy’s weight, he came with a low groan as his hand stuttered to a halt. He dropped his arm and reached out, brushing a damp curl from Randy’s forehead.

Benson gave a slow, lazy smile. “Better?”

Randy laughed breathlessly. “Much better.”

-

Benson’s hand hovered over Randy’s cock, fingers trembling just slightly. He swallowed. “Is this… okay?”

Randy shifted closer, propping his head on one arm so their faces were inches apart. His pulse hammering through his face. He let his hand settle over Benson’s, guiding those uncertain fingers to the curve of his cock. The contact was warm.

“Yeah,” Randy whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s good.”

Encouraged, Benson traced slow circles with his thumb along his leaking head, each one more confident than the last. Randy closed his eyes, pressing closer, letting the soft weight of Benson’s arm curve around his back.

Benson leaned in, brushing his lips over Randy’s temple, then the shell of his ear, then the hinge of his jaw, his breath bringing up goose‑bumps across Randy’s skin. Every stroke of his hand better than the last.

Randy opened his eyes, met Benson’s gaze, and lifted a hand to cradle his cheek. “Better?” Benson asked, voice husky with hope.

Randy nodded, heart fluttering and mouth parting with an easy gasp. “Yeah. Better.” He swallowed hard, tongue sliding across his lips to wet them. "Oh, Oh my God."

With that, Benson closed the distance, lips meeting Randy’s, sliding his tongue past the seam of Randy's mouth. Randy’s fingers wove into Benson’s hair, arching up into more of Benson's touch.

-

This time, Randy’s fingers moved with purpose. He slipped one hand across Benson's bare hip, brushing the plane of his stomach, feeling the warmth of skin. His other hand slid up Benson’s cock, and he squeezed in just the right amount, firm but not harsh.

Benson’s breath buckled, a quiet, encouraging sound. Benson let his arm drop, guiding Randy’s hand with a soft touch of his own. “Yeah… just like that,” Benson murmured, breathy and hot.

Randy closed his eyes, leaning into the contact, allowing Benson’s grip to guide his movement. He remembered how Benson had asked if it was good before, and he gave a small nudge against Benson’s skin. “Is it okay?” He whispered.

Benson shifted, bringing his free hand around to rest on Randy’s back. He guided Randy’s palm lower, showing him the best place to rest his hand under the give of foreskin, the pressure that worked best. Beneath Randy’s touch, Benson’s breath grew uneven, chest rising in quick and sharp inhales and exhales.

Randy opened his eyes, meeting Benson’s gaze. He smiled shyly and adjusted, pressing a gentle kiss to Benson’s before resuming, more confident this time, his strokes fluid and sure.

Benson’s hand tightened on Randy’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “That’s perfect. Just… keep doing that.”

-

The diner was quiet, but Randy seemed like he was shrinking into the booth, his face burning hotter by the second. The fondness growing in Benson's chest was relentless.

“So,” Benson drawled, swirling his coffee, eyes locked on Randy, “last night? That was good. Better than I fucking expected.”

Randy’s hand shot up, slapping hard over his face. His voice came out panicked. “Benson, please, don’t talk about it here.”

Benson laughed loudly. His eyes flickered over the empty dinner, “There’s no one else here, Randy.”

Randy peeked through trembling fingers. “Still.” He hissed.

“Well, other than you slapping my dick,” Benson grinned wider, just to needle him more. “And you were stiff as fuck, but you got there in the end.”

Randy bit his lip, cheeks burning hotter. “Yeah…well, you weren’t so great the first time either.”

Benson leaned back, still smirking, “You got me there.”

Randy groaned, swallowing hard, embarrassed, and a little frustrated twitch of his eyebrows had Benson's stomach swirling and his head dizzy.

Benson couldn't stop the flash of memory of Randy's parted pink lips, gasping his name. “It was good, baby. I liked it.”

Randy flushed again, cheeks burning as he ducked his head. “Thanks.”

Benson snorted, raising his coffee cup. “Well, you got any burning questions for me, since now you know my dick?”

Randy couldn’t help but crack a smile, even if his face stayed hot.