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Randy is always aware of the gun nowadays.
It’s not intentional, not a purposeful act. He doesn’t mean to do it.
It is more like a compulsion.
His eyes always end up tracking back to the gun. Every once in a while, every so often. He checks in on it. Follows it, watches it. Knows where it is. Makes sure he knows where it is.
It’s like he needs to know where it is.
It’s not like it’s hard to find.
It’s with Benson.
Benson always has the gun. Tucked into his waist band or held in a clenched hand, fingers curled tightly around it, or sitting on his thigh, bouncing up and down as he drives.
It was always there, almost always pressed against him somehow, against his skin. And if not, then you could guarantee it would be sitting just in reach – never more than a handful of inches from Benson’s grasp.
Randy stares at it sometimes. When he thinks Benson won’t notice, or when he forgets to care if Benson does notice. He stares at where he knows the gun is. Just… watching it. He stares at the waistband of Benson’s pants, at the slight bulge visible under Benson’s sweater as the older man wanders some random rundown gas station. Taking his sweet time picking out the jerky he wants. Randy’s eyes trail him through the store.
And they trail the gun.
He glances at it ever so often as they drive. Eyes dragged back ever so often to where it sits on the dashboard. Randy stares at the way Benson holds it, loose in his grip, thumb rubbing against its side in small, repetitive motion, a movement Randy doubts Benson is even aware he is doing.
Randy imagines it’s a reminder to himself, of the gun’s presence. A comfort.
Because Benson, Randy has noticed, holds onto that gun like a lifeline.
He clings to it.
The moment things got tense, stressful, on edge. Benson’s hand went to the gun.
Not always to retrieve it- point it, use it- sometimes just to touch, hold. Confirm it is there. Confirm he could use it, if he needed to. Confirm he has it.
Which he does, because he always has it.
Randy has almost started to think of them together, think of the gun as just another part of Benson. An extension of him. The gun and Benson, drawn into one in his mind- Bensonandthegun. ThegunandBenson.
The gun is a part of Benson.
The terrifying part of Benson.
It’s the part that even now, even all these weeks later, still made the blood in Randy’s veins turn to ice. Makes him freeze up, makes his brain stop working, stop functioning, lose the ability to make decisions, act- decide.
Randy hopes Benson hasn’t noticed that- although part of him assumes Benson has, part of him assumes Benson notices everything.
He hopes, at the very least that even if Benson had noticed that, he hadn’t noticed just how often Randy stared at that fucking gun.
He as to assume Benson hasn’t, as it hardly seemed like something Benson would let him get away with without comment.
Without shoving him up against some wall, fingers pressing into Randy’s jaw- head slammed back against the bricks, Benson demanding to know what Randy’s problem is. Why Randy keeps eyeing his gun. What Randy is planning- ask if he has decided to choose this moment to grow a set of balls and go for the fucking gun- ‘And then what Randy? Huh? Would you even know what to do with it? Think you’d be able to do anything with it? Do you think you could really pull the trigger- pull it before I got to you-’
Randy has to assume Benson simply hasn’t noticed his staring.
Hadn’t noticed him staring.
So of course, Randy had to fuck it up. Make his gaze just that touch too obvious for Benson to ignore.
They had a hotel room for the night. A rare luxury for them, Benson usually deeming it an ‘unnecessary expense.’ Content for them to curl up in the back of whatever set of wheels they had commandeered most recently. Benson crushing Randy under his weight- Or when he becomes an annoyance, Benson leaves him curled in the front seat, hands and feet bound together with duct tape, just in case he tries to get any ideas.
Randy thinks about the gun sometimes, in those moments- wonders, if he could get the tape off his legs, tried to make a run for it- when Benson woke up from the sound of the door, would the man go for the gun?
He wonders if Benson would shoot him, if he tried to run.
If Benson could shoot him.
He likes to think Benson would hesitate at least, before pulling the trigger.
He isn’t curled up in the front seat, trying not to think about the gun, tonight.
Because every so often, when the crick in Benson’s neck got bad enough to annoy them, when one, or both of them, had woken up a few too many times screaming in the night, when they had gotten sick of stewing in their own stench, Benson would get them a room for a night.
One stop, one night per hotel, motel, motor lodge. Never overstaying. Never leave ID, pay with cash, remain unmemorable.
Unremarkable.
As unremarkable as whatever hotel/motel/lodge they had stopped at for the night was, each one off, shit hole room blurring into the next in Randy’s mind.
This one was no different from the rest.
Just another shit box for them to spend the night in.
One with a functional shower, if nothing else.
Randy takes as long as he can standing under the water, letting it wash over him- set as hot as he can stand. Burning the build up of grime and dirt from his skin.
There are some things it can’t wash away of course, the line of fingerprint bruises on his arm, the latest marks Benson had left on him, grabbing too hard, yanking him along.
The red line, under his ribs, a still healing scar from when the skin had split, broken open by Benson’s fist- Randy doesn’t even remember what he had done to earn that punch to the stomach.
Some small part of him desperately screams out that he hadn’t done anything to earn it. That you don’t earn the scars others give you- that his broken skin was Benson’s fault, not his.
He runs his finger over the mark- it doesn’t hurt anymore.
In a few weeks it will be practically gone, another faded line, left on him by his captor. Left by Benson.
Benson lets him stand under the water longer than usual tonight. Usually, Randy would have expected to hear knocking by now. Benson demanding he open up.
Confirm he was still alive and not doing anything stupid.
Randy appreciates the change.
He stays under the water until his skin feels raw. Scrubbed clean. Fresh.
He dries quickly. Doesn’t want to keep Benson waiting too much longer. Doesn’t want to push his luck.
Pulls the shirt Benson had tossed his way before stepping into the bathroom over his head.
Tugs back on his jeans- the denim sticking slightly to his damp skin.
Benson is sitting sideways on the bed when Randy steps out of the bathroom.
The gun sits in his lap, settled on one leg, because of course it is.
It is always there. Always wherever Benson is.
Benson is in the process of cleaning it, Randy thinks that, perhaps, is the reason he was allowed a touch more freedom in the shower, Benson busy with a different task.
The gun is broken down into pieces, the body on Benson’s knee, each other piece set out carefully on the bed.
Randy stares at them- he doesn’t want to sit on the bed, risk disrupting those pieces, send them flying as the bed shifts under his weight. Disrupting Benson.
So Randy… hovers. Shifting from foot to foot, perched by the bathroom door.
Benson hadn’t looked up from his work as Randy emerged from the bathroom, he continues to ignore Randy for a few moments longer, before finally looking up. He fixes Randy with a look Randy doesn’t quite understand, an unimpressed, uninterested stare, as though Randy was boring him by simply existing there, and then gets back to his task.
Randy hovers.
And Randy watches him work.
He watches, as Benson picks up each piece of the gun and wipes it down with a clean rag, turning it over carefully. Making sure there are no mistakes.
He takes more care with that thing then himself, Randy finds himself thinking.
He stares at the gun. At the pieces in Benson’s hand.
At Benson’s hands.
He watches Benson’s firm fingers, turning over the pieces. His fingers are thick. Beautiful.
The pads of Benson’s fingers drag against the metal- turning each piece over very so slowly, with care. Randy stares at the shifting muscles under Benson’s skin, watches them move as Benson works.
Benson’s knuckles are red- from punching something- someone, Randy thinks. Although he doesn’t remember who. They were almost always red nowadays. Randy can see the bones shifting under the thin skin, knows how often that skin had been split through and opened. How often Benson’s hands had been slick with his own blood.
Randy stares.
His eyes trailing up Benson’s forearms, gaze running the line of the veins in Benson’s arms-
He tears his gaze away.
Drops it back down to the gun.
The gun.
Benson had begun to reassemble it now, began to slot each piece into its proper place. He works slowly, methodically.
Each movement done with care.
Randy watches each movement. Watches as Benson carefully clicks each piece back in place. Rebuilds the gun.
It feels like watching Benson rebuild a part of himself.
Put it back together, piece by piece.
Randy watches them click into spot under Benson’s careful, purposeful touch.
Last piece slotted into place, Benson takes up the rag once more, gives the gun a final rub down. Make it all clean and shiny and pretty.
Randy watches Benson’s hands, rubbing that rag against the gun. Dragging the cloth along the metal.
He watches as, contented, Benson sets the rag aside on the bed, turning the gun over in his hands. Benson lifts and drops his hand, feeling the weight of the gun, resting against his palm.
Randy stares at it for a moment, where it rests in Benson’s hand, sat on Benson’s thigh.
The gun managing to shine, even in the grim motel light. Benson had done a good job with it.
Randy lets himself stare at the gun in Benson’s hands a moment longer, before he finally drags his gaze away. Eyes darting upwards, to Benson’s face.
Where he meets Benson’s stare, Realizes Benson is looking back at him.
Watching Randy watch him.
Fuck.
Benson’s brows are drawn together in a slight frown, one that made Randy wish he had a better read on what the man was thinking. Benson doesn’t look mad exactly. Just, almost… interested.
Like Benson is trying to figure something out. Figure Randy out.
It would be relieving, if it wasn’t Benson, the man’s moods classifiable as volatile at the best of times.
Benson’s hand tightens around the gun.
The man’s head tilts slightly, still staring back at Randy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Randy.” The word comes out gruff.
Randy feels his blood chill at the sound of his name. Feels an old familiar stab of fear, blooming in his chest. Wrapping its way around his heart and threatening to bubble up, make things more difficult then they already felt like they were.
Randy does his best to swallow it down. He wraps a nervous arm around his middle, rubs it with his other hand uncomfortably.
Benson settles back slightly, the gun held in one hand, resting against his thigh. The barrel isn’t pointed at Randy, not exactly, not purposefully. But it is facing in his general direction. With a slight shift, slight adjustment, it could ever so easily be pointed at him.
He wouldn’t.
Benson doesn’t point the gun at Randy, never points it at Randy. Benson rests it against him- The gun sits on Randy’s shoulder when Benson slings an arm around him, gun presses against his side when Benson pulls him in close, their hips knocking together.
At other times, Randy wound up at the wrong end of the gun- when Randy steps in front of it, Benson moving to point it at some poor, innocent cashier, makes Benson curse and shout and shove him out of the way-
But Benson doesn’t point it at him.
Benson’s voice cuts through Randy’s quickly spiraling thoughts. “C’me here.”
Randy swallows. Snapping back to himself, glazed eyes refocusing on Benson’s face.
Part of him considers resisting. Shaking his head no and remaining on the other side of the room. Press up against the wall and see what Benson does, when he doesn’t comply.
He doesn’t.
He knows it will just be bad for him if he does.
Because if he says no Benson will ask- tell- him again. And if he still doesn’t, Benson will simply come over there and get him, and whatever this is about to be, will be ever so much worse for him.
Instead, Randy forces his knees to unlock, and with a half-stumbling step, moves across the motel floor. He can feel Benson’s eyes on him as he moves, feet scuffing against the worn carpet.
Randy stops in front of Benson, hovering. Unsure what to do.
Benson offers no initial assistance, the man simply swinging his other leg round and setting it on the ground, sitting back slightly on the bed, taking a moment to simply regard Randy.
Randy shifts his weight uncomfortably, rubbing against his arm. Watching Benson watch him.
Randy’s gaze drops nervously down every so often, to the gun in Benson’s hand.
He waits, for Benson to do something. Speak- act- accuse him of planning something. Snap.
But he doesn’t.
Randy stares at the gun. He can feel himself starting to sweat.
He swallows, opening a dry mouth and pushes out the word- “Benson…”
Randy winces, slightly, at the sound of it- the word coming out just a touch too loud, breaking through the quiet of the motel room.
Randy’s eyes jump nervously back to Benson’s face.
The man’s eyes are dark, his expression maddeningly, dangerously, unreadable.
Benson pushes up off the bed slowly, with a heavy sigh. He cricks his neck, before taking a careful, controlled step forward, towards Randy.
The movement brings them almost uncomfortably close together, the tip of Benson’s boots less than an inch from Randy’s toes. The older man leaning forward slightly, into Randy’s space- He doesn’t have space- his own space, it’s all Benson’s now. Whenever the other man wants, he is there, pressed up against Randy. The arm around the shoulder, hand on the back, fingers clutching to his jaw- his space was Benson’s space.
As though to prove the point Randy’s mind had just made, the hand not holding the gun came down to rest on his shoulder, Benson’s thumb pressing against the bone it found there, giving Randy’s shoulder a firm squeeze.
Randy can feel the press of the man’s fingers through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Benson is staring at him, and Randy wishes he knew what to do.
He knows what he wants to do.
He tries to fight it, the urge, the nudging thought in his brain- look down.
Look at it. Look down.
Randy loses the fight.
His eyes flick downwards, just for a moment, just for a second, dropping to Benson’s hand, to the gun, held by the man’s side. Before just as quickly they dart back up. Not to Benson’s eyes, Benson’s too close eyes- no, that felt dangerous. They land instead on the man’s chin. Close enough to appear like he was looking at the man, willing to meet his stare, without having to do so.
Benson’s lips drag up, into a slight, cold smile, he hears the man chuckle lightly, and Randy swears he can feel the blood freeze solid in his veins. The ball of fear tangled around his heart is back, trying to claw it’s way up his throat.
It is proving more successful at the effort this time.
He is almost relieved, when Benson leans in, moving closer sure, but taking himself out of Randy’s line of sight- leaving him staring blankly forward across the motel room- at least until he feels the heat of Benson’s breath against his neck- Benson apparently leant in to whisper in his ear, “see something you like Randy?”
Randy feels an involuntary shiver rip through his body, flinching at the brush of Benson’s breath against his skin.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know what to say-
Benson inches in closer, Body knocking into Randy. Randy can feel the gun, trapped between them now, still held tight in Benson’s grip. He can feel the rough jut of it, knocking up against his thigh.
He stares at the wall and waits desperately for this to all be over. For Benson to kill him or-
Or fuck him.
Or who knows what else.
He feels Benson take a breath before he talks, words curling against the base of Randy’s jaw, “seen you lookin’, thought you were getting ideas, planning something stupid.” The hand on Randy’s shoulder moves slightly, shifted over to rest on the side of his neck, Benson’s thumb pressed against his collar bone. “Was deciding how to remind you that trying anything like that would be a bad idea.” The thumb presses down against the bone, fingers digging into Randy’s neck. Randy forces his mouth open, ready to protest, promise he wasn’t going to do anything, it hadn’t been like that-
What had it been like? What does he say if Benson asks him that?
He finds can’t drag the words up his throat, out of his mouth. The ball of fear is tangled too tightly around his vocal cords.
Randy shuts his mouth, desperately shakes his head instead. He can feel the corner of his eyes start to prickle.
He needs Benson to understand- know it isn’t true. That he hadn’t been planning anything.
“No?” Benson asks against his skin.
Randy shakes his head again in frantic desperation.
Benson hums, and Randy just prays he believes him.
“Yeah,” Benson says, shifting, “I’ve been thinking you might be after something different.”
Randy is still trying to figure out the meaning of Benson’s words when he feels the gun knocking against his thigh. The heavy reminder of Benson’s violence.
And then he swears he feels it drag across his thigh. It's a move Randy assumes, perhaps in desperation, was accidental. He clings to the thought, right up until he feels the barrel running along his inseam. Randy feels his mind go blank for a moment.
He is just winning the fight to get his mind back when the tip of the barrel reaches Randy’s crotch.
At the same time, Benson’s fingers pulse against his neck, and Randy can feel himself starting to tremble.
“Hmm, Randy?”
It is framed like a question, but Randy knows without trying he isn’t going to be able to answer it. He wouldn’t even know what to answer it with. What the fuck does Benson want him to say? He doesn’t know why he kept looking at it- at the gun, he couldn’t help it- he just- he just needed to know where it was.
It wasn’t for this.
He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to feel the cold press of metal against his dick. Didn’t want to thrust up against it, push into the pressure.
Fuck himself against Benson’s hand.
Against the gun in Benson’s hand.
Thankfully, Benson doesn’t seem to mind his silence.
Instead of pushing for an answer, Benson drags the gun along the Randy’s crotch, framing the outline of Randy’s dick with the gun. The barrel of the gun trails slowly along the shaft of Randy’s dick, and Randy can really feel himself trembling. This is fucked. Even for them- even for Benson, this is fucked.
And, to Randy’s horror, he can also feel himself starting to harden. Blood rushing downwards- dick starting to stiffen. Because of the pressure pressed against it from a gun.
Fuck.
He’s fucked up. He deserves this- he deserves everything that has happened to him, everything that is happening to him.
He prays Benson can’t feel his body responding.
He knows already that it is a wasted prayer.
The fingers tighten on Randy’s neck, squeezing lightly. It’s calming almost. A familiar touch, centring him here, in the motel room, with Benson’s body pressed against his, and feeling the pressure of a gun, held firmly against his dick.
He feels his heart fluttering in his chest. Feels his cock pulse in his pants, and hears Benson chuckle, lightly, against the side of his face.
Randy pulls his neck back slightly at that. Back from Benson, from Benson’s hot breath, from the brush of his words and the soft touch of the man’s laugh. Leaning into the hand holding his neck, as it’s the only other way he has to go. Benson lets him, fingers loosening to allow Randy to press his neck into Benson’s palm.
Randy cranes his head slightly, eyes flicking towards Benson’s face. Not able to see it fully, clearly, but getting just enough to see Benson’s smile.
It was sharp looking. Dangerous. It sent a shiver down Randy’s spine.
God this is so fucked up.
Randy is terrified.
Of Benson, of what Benson is going to do. Of what he wants Benson to do.
Of the possibility Benson won’t do it.
That Benson is about to pull away, storm into the bathroom, tell Randy to just forget it, forget this- get up tomorrow and act like nothing happened.
That Randy isn’t on his way to having a stiffy because of the man holding a fucking gun to his dick.
Randy feels Benson press the weight of the gun down against his cock for a moment longer, the other hand curled against his neck holding him in place. Not letting him move any further away.
After a moment, the gun lifts. Benson using the slight extra space now opened up between them to trail the gun upwards across Randy’s body. Across Randy’s chest. He stops for a moment in the middle of Randy’s chest, resting the tip of gun against it. As though pointing it right at Randy’s heart.
Randy feels his chest lift and drop with each heavy, shaking breath he takes. Felt the hard press of the gun digging into him slightly on each inhale.
Benson isn’t going to shoot him.
Not there, surely. Not through the heart.
Part of Randy tells him it would never happen- It would be messy- his blood would splatter the man, coating Benson, cover the room. He likes that, the thought of his blood covering Benson, soaking into the man’s skin. If Benson kills him, he should have to wear what is left of Randy, splattered across his face, soaking into his flesh.
It would be a messy kill. And there was too much chance he might miss, the gun might slip, hit something else.
Hit something less vital.
Leave him slowly bleeding out, lying on the motel floor, struggling to breathe as he chokes on his own blood.
Benson wouldn’t do that to him.
But another part of Randy, can’t help but think about how fucking poetic a death that would be.
Shot through the heart by his ex-coworker, come captor come… he doesn’t know what they are now. Fucked. And fucked up.
All this thought of his own death at Benson’s hands, and his dick didn’t have the decency to even start to soften.
Benson has taken a half a step back, enough to let him stare at Randy with those dark eyes. All Randy can think of is the terror he feels that Benson might somehow know what he was just thinking.
It feels like Benson is trying to figure it out, bore into his head and take his brain apart with that gaze.
They stay there for a tortuously long moment, Randy feeling his heart beating out a panicked racket against the tip of the gun.
Telling himself Benson won’t shoot him.
Telling himself he believes it.
Benson taps the tip of the gun against Randy’s chest, once, twice, a third time, before pulling it back ever so slightly.
Randy letting out a ragged breath at its loss.
Then Benson clicks his tongue, the hand curled against his neck unfurls its grasp, and rests back on his shoulder, pushing down. If the force wasn’t enough, Benson makes clear what he wants with a gruff, “Down, Randy.”
Down boy, sit. Good dog.
Randy stares back for half a moment, shaking where he stands brain turning over the command. Stands there long enough for Benson to get a sharp glint in his eye, tilt his head ever so slightly, as though to say, ‘really Randy, you sure you want to do that? Want to push back now, find out what happens.’
Randy finds he does not.
Randy pulls in another shaky breath, and then slowly, he sinks down- lowers himself to his knees. Feels them hit the scratchy motel carpet.
Hopes this is what Benson wanted from him.
Randy looks up at Benson. The man staring back down at him.
Randy’s eyes flick, between Benson’s face, to the gun, and back again.
On the return to Benson’s face, he realises Benson had followed his gaze, also glancing towards the gun.
Benson turns it over in his hand for a moment, as though regarding it. Considering what he wants to do with it.
He looks over at Randy, kneeling on the floor before him.
Randy fights the urge to look away, willing himself to keep Benson’s stare. He can feel himself twitch, wanting to break the stare.
Benson seems to smile slightly at the shake of Randy’s shoulders.
Benson brings the gun forward, Randy dropping his gaze to look over at it- breath coming in heavy at the sight- remembering the heavy touch of it against his dick just moments before-
Benson is clearly aware of its impact. He moves slowly, letting the gun linger before Randy.
Then, with careful intent, Benson reaches forward and points the barrel of the gun at the centre of Randy's forehead.
Not touching, held just off his skin, but the aim is unmistakable.
Randy feels the shaking increase. Feels himself trembling, feels the tears burning in his eyes- only made worse as he tries to see, tries to focus on the too close gun.
He doesn't want to look at Benson.
He could see Benson doing to here, pulling the trigger. Splattering his brains out. They would splash out over the man's shoes. Benson could crush him under foot and move on with his life.
Randy can’t stop shaking.
The movement feels almost painful now. Violent. Movement ripping through his body, against his will.
The trembling brings him forward ever so slightly.
Head knocking against the end of the gun.
Randy jumps, at the touch of it, to his forehead. The cold brush of metal.
It feels like a jagged stab of ice, digging through his skull, down into his brain.
He jolts away, startled. Feeling his breath catch in his throat.
Feeling himself shake.
Benson following him ever so slightly- keeping the gun close enough he knocks against it ever so often- skin brushing against the barrel.
After a moment, Randy leans into the touch. Into the pain, letting his head tip forward- leaning against the end of the gun.
Randy’s eyes have fallen closed by now, and he does not bother to force them back open.
He lets the darkness swallow his vision, stop having to worry, about seeing the gun- about seeing Benson.
He focuses, on the press of the gun against his head. Letting it take the weight of his head- hold him up.
He imagines the sight of his brains on Benson’s shoes.
He wonders if Benson is imagining it too.
Randy starts slightly, when he feels the gun move.
He feels it drag across his skin, along his forehead. To his temple.
Benson holds it there for a moment, pressing it hard against Randy’s skull. Hard enough it starts to ache.
Maybe this, would be the moment- would he feel it- would he have time to feel it, or would the darkness simply become permanent before he had the chance to realize anything had happened.
The gun moves again, Benson slides it down the side of Randy’s face. Slowly dragging it across his skin. It’s cold, cold enough to burn- a cold line of ice dragged down the side of his face.
The gun stops at the side of his cheek. Benson taps against his cheek with the tip of the gun for a moment. Randy flinches at the movement- it wasn’t particularly hard, particularly painful, more just…. Surprising.
Benson drags the gun along Randy’s cheek. Moving it slowly along Randy’s skin, tracing Randy’s cheekbones.
Randy fights the urge to shake more than he already is.
The gun lifts off his skin for a moment, and Randy drags in a ragged breath in the moment of its loss- his mind fights itself, deciding if he should open his eyes-
He doesn’t want to face the room, face Benson- but it is maddening, not knowing where it is.
Not knowing where the gun is. Wanting to know where it is.
Needing to know.
He twitches, eyes flicking back and forth behind his closed eyelids. Randy wants to know where the gun is.
And then he feels it.
Feels the edge of it, pressing against his lips. Feels the sharp edge of cold metal on his bottom lip. The gun rests there for a moment. Resting against his lip.
Randy breaths desperately through his nose.
“Open.”
Randy feels every muscle in his body tighten at the command- Benson couldn’t mean- couldn’t be about to- he wouldn’t, surely?
Randy swallows, feels his throat move. Feels his mouth go dry-
“Randy.”
He hates Benson’s voice, hates how it cuts through his thoughts. Pulls him back to himself.
Makes him want to listen.
Want to behave.
Slowly, Shakely, Randy opens his mouth.
And Benson pushes the gun forward, over Randy’s lips. Into Randy’s mouth.
The tip of the gun touches Randy’s tongue.
The taste is sharp. Metallic. Like blood. He doesn’t mind that part, but there is an unpleasant, bitter, chemical aftertaste, which sticks to his tongue.
Benson pushes the gun in further, and Randy feels it scrape against his teeth.
He feels the tug, the strain at the edge of his lips, fitted around the handgun.
Randy can feel himself crying now, he isn’t sure when it started, but he can feel the tears beginning to dribble down his cheeks, dripping down his chin.
Benson pushes the gun in further still, and Randy gags slightly. Choking around it.
He breaths in desperately. Ignores the snot dripping from his nose.
His face, he imagines, must be an unpleasant mixture of tears and mucus.
Randy swallows awkwardly, trying to adjust to this new invasion. To the weight of a gun against his tongue.
Something rancid and acidic bubbles up in the back of his throat for a moment, threatening to push its way up and spill out, around the gun, onto Benson’s hand, dripping down onto Benson’s shoes.
But Randy swallows it down before it can.
He breathes as deeply as he can. And tries not to panic.
Tries not to think about his dick, still half hard in his pants.
“Suck.”
A surprised sob rips out of Randy’s throat at the command, and there was no doubt, it was a command. Suck.
On the gun.
Randy isn’t sure how exactly to… do that.
But then he supposes there aren’t exactly many guidelines for how to fellatio a gun.
Not that Randy was aware of at least.
Still, Benson had given him an order, and Randy was reluctant to refuse a man currently holding a gun inside of his mouth.
Would a shot from this angle even kill him? he isn’t sure, he thinks the bullet might tear through his cheek. Rip the lower half of his face to shreds surely, but leave him still breathing.
Would Benson drive him to a hospital- shove him out of the car clutching a split and broken jaw- or would he finish the job.
Second bullet through the brain. Put Randy out of his misery.
Randy doesn’t want to find out the answer to his minds new question.
So instead, he focuses on the gun.
Randy takes in a breath. He swallows nervously, and then leans forward ever so slightly, letting his jaw drop open, let the gun rest more comfortably in his mouth.
He presses his tongue against the gun- running it along the barrel as best he can.
Feeling the metal- the coldness is gone at this point, metal already heating up, absorbing the warmth of Randy’s mouth. No longer icy and burning to the touch. It is still sharp though. Still rigid. The edges of it cutting into the sides of his mouth, unforgiving metal threatening to split open the skin.
After a moment, he begins to move his head, bobbing up and down around the gun. His tongue licks out against the barrel, lapping at the metal as he moves. He feels it knock and scrape every so often against his teeth, trying to ignore the sensation.
Concentrate on the weight of the gun.
The sharp, almost burning taste of metal on his tongue.
Benson pushes the gun forward every so often, thrusting it further back into Randy’s mouth.
Randy gags around it when that happens. He hears himself give a startled, desperate and pained noise, as the tip of the barrel hits the back of his tongue.
As he does, he feels his cock throbbing in his pants, as though excited by his own struggle.
Randy breathes around the hard metal, dragging air in desperately through his nose. Ignoring the sting of tears still dripping down his face.
He keeps his eyes squeezed shut.
He does not want to look at Benson.
Does not want to see Benson looking at him.
It means he has no warning that Benson had moved before Randy feels a new, heavy pressure against his crotch.
Randy starts at the touch, jumps slightly, teeth hit metal. He chokes, spluttering around the gun. Struggling to settle his breath back down.
Benson, he realizes, had pressed the toe of one of his boots against the bugle in Randy’s pants. Benson nudges at Randy’s dick with his boot, not pressing down overly hard, but just enough for Randy to feel it.
Randy feels his dick jump, twitch in response to this new attention. Excited by the touch.
Benson had noticed, of course Benson had fucking noticed. Benson knew, that Randy was getting off on this. That Randy was hard, that Randy’s dick was throbbing while a gun was being pushed down his throat.
Randy sobs, around the gun in his mouth.
He wants Benson to stop. Wants Benson to pull back, stop touching his dick, slide the gun out from between his lips and leave him to sit here, shaking and crying and stewing in his own shame.
He wants Benson to pull the trigger.
Wants Benson to blow his brains out all over the motel wall.
He wants…
Wants to come.
Wants to come with a gun in his mouth, he wants to come.
Randy shoves forward, gagging around the gun, feeling it knock against the back of his throat. His tongue licks out, against the gun- he has taken enough of it into his mouth that when his tongue laps out, between his bottom lip and the gun it can just about reach Benson’s fingers, resting against the trigger.
It is a beautiful, awful, terrible reminder of the fact Benson could press down at any moment- didn’t even have to be on purpose, the man could jump, startled, surprised- curl in his hand, press down his fingers, and blow Randy’s brains out.
The thought pulls another cry from Randy, he feels the sound rip free from deep within his chest.
Once he makes the sound, he finds he can’t stop. Noisy sobs and cries drag themselves up his throat. He shakes, slobbering against the gun, feeling himself weeping. Tears burning their way down his face.
Benson’s boot presses down against Randy’s dick, and Randy whimpers at the touch.
He has stopped bobbing now, just holding the gun in his mouth, swallowing around it, feeling it rest on his tongue, lapping at it, at the small part of Benson’s fingers that he can just about reach.
His hips had begun to move instead. Wiggling. Thrusting up slightly, as best he could, chasing the press of Benson’s boot.
Break me, Randy thinks. Shoot me.
Kill me.
End me.
Keep me, keep me, keep me.
Want me, like this, all fucked up and wrong. Love me.
He would let Benson do it, he would beg for it, if Benson told him to- Beg Benson to shoot him.
Fuck. He would beg him for a bullet, if Benson wanted him to.
Randy thrusts, desperately against Benson’s boot, and swallows around the gun in his mouth. He can feel his jaw starting to ache.
At some point, he had scrapped his lip against some harsh part of the metal, they must have caught on something. The unforgiving touch of the metal had split through skin, his lip split open and bleeding. He can feel the slickness of it, as he laps against the gun, can taste it, bright and sharp on his tongue.
“Open your eye’s Randy.”
Randy shakes his head around the metal in his mouth. He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to see Benson wearing some disgusted, unimpressed look. Or, perhaps even worse than that- a look of pity.
He just- wants to come.
He feels Benson’s hand, curl around the bottom of his jaw, the man’s thumb rubbing against his cheek, wiping away some of the tears it found there- the tears that coated his skin. The touch is soft, too soft, it makes Randy cry harder.
He doesn’t want soft. He wants the red hot burn of a bullet ripping through his brain.
“Come on Randy, be a good boy for me. Open your eyes.”
Randy whimpers.
But he forces his eyes open all the same. Blinking through the tears.
He sees Benson staring down at him. Benson’s face is terrifyingly intense, gaze heavy, drinking in Randy.
Staring back, Randy sees no hatred. And he sees no pity.
Only hunger, and the hint of interested amusement.
“Good boy.” The words from Benson are low and deep and gravelly, they sink down into Randy’s stomach. Mix with the existing heat there.
Randy lets out a low whine.
He wants to shut his eyes and retreat back into the comfort of darkness.
He wants to fucking come.
And then Benson lifts his boot up- off Randy for a moment, before he presses it down on Randy’s dick. Pressing hard. It feels like he is almost crushing it under the weight.
Randy bucks up, at the weight of it.
It is firm, so fucking firm and unforgiving-
Benson presses the gun down against Randy’s tongue.
Firm boot, firm metal, Randy shaking and sobbing and weeping in-between.
He was the only thing there which could give.
Benson presses down harder, and Randy feels himself give.
He squeezes his eyes shut again tightly, and comes with a wet, sobbing cry. Dick twitching and spasming in his pants.
He sobs as he comes, feeling himself spilling out, into his jeans.
Benson lets him sit there for a few moments, simply shaking and weeping and struggling to regain his breath and his mind and his sanity.
Then Randy feels the foot lift off his dick, and a light squeeze on his jaw, Benson nudging it open lightly, getting Randy to unlock it enough that Benson can drag the gun out of his mouth. Slowly work it free from between his lips.
The gun comes out slick. Stands of bloody saliva dripping off it, sticking to Randy’s lip and dribbling down his chin.
Benson wipes them away with his thumb.
Randy shutters at the movement. It is soft, so soft. Such a contrast, to the previous bite of the gun against his skin.
Randy lets out a weak sob, leaning into the touch. Curling his hand against Benson’s hand.
He is tired and spent, but he drags his eyes back open.
Benson is still staring down at him, now with a slight smile playing on his lips.
“That’s my good boy Randy.”
Randy does his best to swallow down his sobs, swallow around his tears, and offers a wet smile in return.
Benson pulls him up, more than anything else, Randy’s legs shaking under him. He clings to Benson, lets himself be maneuvered to the bed, all but collapsing against it.
Benson pats him on his cheek twice with a rough hand after laying him down, the older man offering a soft, “Like you like this.”
Teary and mucusy and struggling to breathe?
Randy doesn’t have the energy to respond. He just lies there, shaking, gasping. Still fighting to settle his breath and calm his mind.
He watches Benson step back, and fish around for the rag he had abandoned earlier.
Watches as Benson finds it, takes it up and sets to work carefully wiping Randy’s spit and blood off the gun. Benson takes his time with it. Taking long enough Randy can feel the semen starting to cool in his pants. Threatening to stick the fabric to his skin as it dries.
He watches Benson inspect the weapon, make sure it is as shiny and clean as it had been before their whole… ordeal.
Benson sets the rag down carefully on the small side table beside the bed, before retrieving his bag, digging through it for a moment, and pulling out a box of ammunition.
Randy watches as Benson swings out the cylinder of the gun, and slowly, carefully and deliberately, loads a cartridge into each chamber.
Randy stares at him.
Benson looks up at him, offering Randy a knowing smile as he swings the now-loaded cylinder back into the frame.
The man chuckles lightly, at the surprised look at Randy’s face, tilts his head, cracking his neck, and says “Didn’t even take the safety off Randy, I couldn’t’ve blown your pretty little head off if I’d wanted to.”