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It's strange how normal it feels to Randy.
Around this time, weeks, or maybe it was months, he'd wake up with a hot film of sweat cooling on his skin, sheets twisted around his knees, his clothes plastering to his damp flesh, tasting the sour salt built on his upper lip. Frozen and somehow hot to the touch.
Now, he can't remember the last time he woke up alone.
Benson is a furnace to sleep with. Especially naked.
He radiates so much heat that Randy sometimes thinks of him less as a man and more as a walking radiator. A heated chamber that was once used to nestle a bullet, now smouldering with smoke from the barrel. A human heated blanket. Warm breath, warm skin, warm limbs draped over him. Even asleep, Benson doesn't give Randy any personal space.
Randy stretched, his joints popping loudly. Brushing his bare ass closer to the warmth of Benson's crotch, his patch of dark hair nestled around his dick, tickling Randy's skin.
Benson grumbled at the contact, a little rough, still half-asleep grunt rumbling through his chest; still floating somewhere in that thickness between sleep and waking. Even asleep, he pushed forward, nudging his hips forward to press his morning wood to rest between the crease of Randy's cheeks.
Strangely, it made Randy think about his mom. She was the first person he saw every morning and the last before he shut his eyes to sleep for years. Now, it was Benson, morning, noon, and night. Day after day. The same voice, the same hands, the same body beside him over and over until the days seemed to melt into each other, into one long continuous daydream.
Sadly, he'd never bent forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead like Benson had with his ma. His mom rarely touched him except for the occasional brush of hair from his face. A firm tug at his shirt collar before Hayley's recitals. Nothing sweet. Nothing warm. Luke-warm and tepid with bubbling over anxiety.
Being with Benson was like staring into the sun. No matter how much it burns, no matter how much you know it's not good for you. It's not good for anybody. Blistering pools of fire, blaring and scorching your skin. Burning you from the outside in. Crackled and itchy patches of peeling skin. Don't peel it, you'll make it worse. But Randy couldn't stop; it felt too good in the moment to care about the cancer building in his blood. A sick wash of heat, making his head dizzy and light.
So he ground harder against Benson's cock. Hot. Burning. Scorched.
Like the glowing lit end of one of Benson's cigarettes scarring his skin.
A kiss to his nape told him Benson was awake. It felt like the sun blaring down on his back.
A loose hand slid down his spine, thumb pushing into the muscle before it squeezed at Randy's waist. Angling him closer. Arching into his dick.
Benson wasn’t patient, and Randy knew better than to expect softness from him for long. When Benson wanted something, he moved toward it, all appetite and no manners.
Randy let out a breath as Benson's sleepy hands gripped over the swell of his cheeks, his forehead dipping toward the pillow as Benson’s cock was tapped against his exposed hole. Usually, he'd protest when Benson wanted to forego a little foreplay. While he loved the burn, he loved quick, nasty fucks that left Randy with an ache in his ass and a dripping dick. Dick that Benson would sometimes force down his throat and dive two slick fingers into his ass to finish him off. Sometimes. Most of the time, he'd laugh at the sight of Randy's swollen cock, come streaking down along his thighs, and simply grip his cheeks between thumb and index, smack an obnoxious kiss to his parted mouth, and tell him to clean himself up.
He preferred the times when Benson got lost between his legs, practically drinking lube from his ass while his fingers dipped in when his tongue retracted. He loved the wet slap of Benson's face colliding with his ass cheeks. Loved sucking Benson's thumb into his mouth, swirling around his tongue, feeling it move across his teeth. He could bite down on the flesh as Benson's fingers filled him the other end.
But, Benson wasn't much of a romantic. So, Randy let the warmth of the bed lax his muscles. Benson turned, and the telltale click of the lube bottle snapped through the quiet morning air. Randy felt the bed dip as Benson leaned in again.
Not a romantic at all. Benson's hands were rough as he smeared lube all over his ass, clumsy and cold. Perhaps, he felt a little bad as one of the tips of his fingers nestled its way inside, but not for long. Not long enough for Randy to breathe through the sting.
No, that sharp inhale was saved for when Benson fixed his grip to Randy's cheek, thumb close enough to pull a little at his rim and aid in the push of his cock past the squeeze of muscle. Randy’s fingers curled into the pillow.
To his credit, Benson doesn't move straight away. It's something that makes Randy unthinkably stupid. The stretch makes Benson still, undoubtedly coaxing sunburn along Randy's nape with his eyes as he waits, puffing a little into his hair. Randy bit down onto the pillow.
Sometimes, he wonders how he compares. The first bottle of lube wasn't one that had to be bought. It was squarely tucked away behind receipts and a dead flashlight in the glovebox of the Chrysler. Randy caught sight of it only a few days on the road.
Shamefully, he thought it meant Benson was a little older than he originally thought. Maybe he was sweeter than Randy initially thought. Maybe the women he slept with were older. Randy knew his mom had some cream for herself stashed in the medicine cupboard.
It felt like a record scratch when Benson uncapped it as Randy's bare legs stretched and scuffed against the Chrysler's ceiling. His naked ass and back sticky against the leather. Stupid, slow little lightbulb blinking alive when Benson poured lube along his fingers from the half-empty bottle and pushed them inside him. Stupid, italicized Oh, Oh. Like in the romance novels that probably captivated his mind more than they had for the age-appropriate likes of his sister.
Instead of a realization of love.
It wasn't a realization that Randy was gay, or that Benson was. He'd realized that Benson had done this before.
It makes him stupid. It makes him push back against the sting and ache to take Benson better than anyone before him.
The shift of his hips draws a rough rumble from Benson's throat, his voice thickened with sleep. Droning sharply through Randy's head, heat tickling rain-pattering shivers along his spine. Biting fever spreading across his ass at the burn, the stretch, the pull of flesh as Benson meets Randy's desperately tilting hips. He buries his cock inside him, past the squeeze of muscle, past the last-second moment of hesitation on Randy's part when the final inch turned just that much too tender. Benson pushed himself deeper. Sealing the fit. Groaning into sweat-damp hair as Randy winced.
Had Benson ever done this before? Indulge in lazy, rough morning sex with someone before Randy? He could ask. Benson wouldn't answer. And, if he did, he'd probably lie and lie so extravagantly that it would twist up Randy's nerves in his face in the way he knew Benson liked. Doesn't matter if Randy knew he was lying or not; it would still burn up something distasteful in his stomach, make him want to spit.
Randy made a wrecked sound when Benson shifted his weight closer. Benson answered it in reply with a grainy moan against his neck, and his hand slid from Randy’s ass to his hip, thumb pressing hard enough to make him gasp.
Randy could feel the shape of Benson's body behind him, even if they were solely connected through dick and hole, hand on hip only. He knew the solid heat of his chest, the weight of his arm, the pressure of his forehead folded into Randy’s nape.
There was a rough drag of stubble at his jaw when Benson nudged forward again, mouth grazing his ear now instead, pulling back and then pushing in again with his hips.
Randy’s fingers curled hard into the sheet beneath him.
“Mm,” Benson muttered, voice thick.
Again, Benson was never gentle for long. He snapped his hips up in sharp connection with Randy's ass, bruising Randy's guts as deep as he could. Fisting a painful handful of Randy's hair, yanking him back as his hand burned and seared into his hip, forcing him to stay in place so Randy was bent into an awkward arch. His cock never pausing to wait for Randy to adjust to the new angle, he simply fucked him through it, head-first.
Randy's fists shot out to cling to the mattress, hoping for some grip of fabric to dig his nails into. He yelped through the thrusts, eyes darting along the dusty motel room; he could make out a slight reflection of their jerking bodies in the old TV. Randy's dick bouncing against his stomach with each pound of Benson's cock.
The angle was mind-numbingly good. Each stroke from tip to sac, slapping against Randy's sweaty ass, had his mouth parting and eyes rolling. Sometimes, Randy preferred it when Benson couldn't see his face. He didn't have to worry about how he looked, how embarrassing it was being unable to stop the gasps and whines lodged deep in his chest behind his ribs, his heart hammering under Benson's hand as he held him steady. How his body looked curled up under the slap of Benson's pounding, how his stomach rolled in on itself, the fat turning into rolls of flesh. It didn't help that their diet was more fast-food than Randy had ever consumed in his first twenty-one years before Benson held a shotgun steady, followed by a stab of fingers into Randy's blood-stained hip.
How his skin went red, burning hot pink with blistering blood. How Benson's hands gripped and tugged on his waist, watching himself disappear into Randy's ass.
It was also better that he couldn't see Benson either. Not because he didn't like it, but because he liked it too much. The sight of Benson red in the face, teeth gritted, brow furrowed, dragging lines across his forehead as his lips dangled open with a lewd groan, his lower lip pinched into his mouth when he finally drew himself out of Randy's clenching hole, neck arched, hand stroking over his hard, leaking cock. Shaking thighs and muscles twitching along his chest, pecs bouncing, and veins bulging across his neck. Moaning into the ceiling, echoing through Randy's head as he pumped come in long, white streaks across Randy's stomach. Chest heaving. Spit wet lips agape. Sweat rolling along the ridge of his collarbone. Chest hair matted, tangled in Randy's fingers.
Fuck. Randy had to snap his eyes open to stop himself from picturing it.
Benson, unknowingly, happily fucking up harder into him from behind, dropped his forehead to his nape, and his free hand finally drew up from Randy's hip. Instead, he closed it down around Randy's throat.
Randy had never imagined himself becoming enamoured with someone before. Obsessed, maybe, like he was with Miss Beard. He knew how to fixate on a thing until it took up too much room in his head. Like he knew how to make himself small and unseen, never saying too much, never being too difficult, or much of anything at all.
Lisa hadn't pursued him, and he had not pursued her; it was one of those unfortunate friendships that Randy had maybe allowed himself to relax into more than normally. To the point that Lisa's friends noticed how different he seemed with her. Nudging them both with elbows, whispering and giggling about their obvious crushes. Lisa was nice, and they got along better than Randy expected. But that was it. He never ached to be with her, didn't have to swallow down nerves when her face lit up. They held hands in the hallway between classes, sometimes they ate lunch together, just the two of them. He'd liked kissing her well enough. It wasn't anything mind-blowing. Just mouths meeting, simply wet and warm.
Thankfully, it never got past that. Hopefully, Lisa had found someone who liked her and probably wouldn't describe her mouth as just wet and warm.
Sometimes, Randy would take his thumbs and fold the hair covering Benson's upper lip to the sides so he could get a better look. If Benson was in one of those pliable moods, heavy-lidded and loose enough to let himself be handled, then he'd slip an inch of his finger into his mouth to separate the seam. Just so Randy could get a better angle of the slight yellowing built along the edges of Benson's canine. Faint but there, stained by cigarettes and bad coffee and the habit of collapsing into sleep without brushing his teeth.
He liked holding Benson’s hands too; he'd turn them over and over. Take in each little groove of skin, the wrinkle of his fingers, the whitened little crescent scars across his knuckles. Tracing his eyes along the lines of his fingerprints. He wondered just how many times Benson had left a little piece of evidence on him.
"Ah!" Benson's hand around his throat tightened, making his vision go blurry and spotty with stars.
Benson's thrusts started to break out of rhythm. The slaps of their skin meeting growing louder. Dirty wet smacks echoing. Ringing through Randy's dizzy head.
Distantly, he wondered if Benson would allow him to wrap a hand around himself, drag a dry palm over his aching cock, and withhold his own orgasm so Randy could paint the sheets. Then Benson's hand withdrew from where he was dangerously close to squeezing the life from Randy's limp body and took his dick into his hold.
Randy was never quiet, but he never moaned so loudly that whatever poor souls had unfortunately been issued the keys for the room next to theirs had come banging on the wall. The pounds kicked Benson into overdrive. His face, if Randy had been able to see it, was definitely breaking into a grin, stretching the lines of his face even as he gasped.
The other unfortunate turn was that the hand offered over his dick was then pressed over Randy's mouth.
The more fortunate was Benson angling himself more or less on top of Randy instead. Dick now pressed between his own gyrating body and sweat-soaked sheets. Benson lay flat across him, cementing Randy in place so he could continue to drill into his ass.
The muffling of Benson's hand over his mouth wasn't nearly enough to quiet him. The thrusts were hitting so sharply into his prostate that Randy's chest was offering up loud, belly-deep grunts. Agonizing groans that if it wasn't for the new angle, now punching the headboard into the dry wall. Someone may mistake the rough sex for possible torture.
He wonders if Benson is as lost in it as he is when a slap across his ass is his answer.
It forces a yelp out across Benson's fingers, spit sputtering out to drench his palm, drool smearing back along his mouth. The bedsheet rasps against his cock, it's all too much and too good for Randy. Benson continues to pull his entire weight from his ass and then slam himself back down with so much force that Randy doesn't stand a chance. He comes, mouth parting in a cry so loud that it burns his throat, and Benson slides his fingers inside his mouth, pushing past his tongue to stamp his fingerprints into the soft, wet meat of Randy's fucking tonsils. He gags on them, stomach swirling and chest tight. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't—
Benson withdraws and pounds his cock as deep as it can reach inside Randy's ass with a harsh grunt. He stills, holding Randy down hard into the mattress with a grip over his sweaty face. Then Randy feels it, the pulse of Benson's cock, splitting him open and raw. Filling him up with come. The pounding on the walls stops the second they realize the show's finally over.
Randy pants, breathless and scalding hot. His head feels as if it's about to come apart with blood pouring out of his ears.
So, he gasps and clenches his ass around Benson's dick.
Benson groans, toppling over him, smearing his own panting mouth over Randy's cheek, kissing with a loud smack. Over and over, lips bruising into his cheekbone. He meets Randy's gaze finally and laughs. Red-faced, wet with sweat, and hot with lust, "F-Fuck, Randy. Good morning." He amuses, speaking directly into his skin, then followed by another kiss, this one to the swell of Randy's lips.
Randy beamed, "Good morning, Benson."