Chapter Text
Benson knows what he is supposed to be.
And he had decided some years ago that he wasn’t interested in being it.
The world had told him he was supposed to be soft and sweet. And then it had shown him exactly what happens if you are all that.
So Benson had decided he was going to be all teeth and claws instead.
He smothers his scent. Buries it under the stink of nicotine and cheap liquor and grease, and ignores the role the world has laid out for him. Pushes down every instinct, every urge, and refuses to give in to his so-called nature.
And it works, for the most part. He lives his life, day by uneventful day, just like everyone else in this dead-end town.
And that would be fine, if not for the odd moments where some part of him would burn for more. The moments when he makes his ma dinner, presses a kiss to her head- and feels a dull ache in his chest. A deep want, to have someone of his own to care for, someone to make dinner for- keep the house clean for, to wrap around in bed and snuggle up against-
He pushes the feelings down deep when they bubble up.
Reminds himself that isn’t him. He will never have that.
And no matter how much he might ache for it, he doesn’t really want it.
He doesn’t want anyone. He repeats the fact, like a mantra, keeping him sane.
And then the new kid shows up at work.
Bradley.
And Benson finds his ability to shove everything down and live in a mindless haze starts to wobble, and at times, fail.
Benson doesn’t know what it is about this kid- but he finds himself drawn to the younger man. Finds himself staring at him as he works, some part of him wanting to be near the kid- although not too near- Bradley always smells like soap. An artificial clean scent. Chemically. It burns Benson’s nose when he gets too close.
So he keeps his distance, watching Bradley from the other side of the restaurant.
Benson wonders sometimes what Bradley smells like, under the fake lavender and citrus.
Sometimes, when he lets himself have the thought, he wonders if the reason Bradley seems to so carefully cover his scent is the same reason Benson makes sure everything he owns is soaked through with the stench of nicotine. Wonders if he were to shove up behind the smaller man, push him into the restaurant’s tiny bathroom and scrub the lingering stink of chemicals off the man’s flesh, would Benson be met with the smell of another omega?
Benson isn’t sure why he wants to know. Why he even cares.
At first, he tells himself it’s parental, it’s the remnants of his fucking omega nature, not buried down deep enough, that they want him to curl around the kid, baby him, protect him.
It’s hard to convince himself that’s the reason for his interest when he finds himself wondering what Bradley would taste like- feel like- pressed up against him.
Benson initially shoves those thoughts down as well, but any true ability to deny the underlying want behind his fascination ends some three months after Bradley starts working there. When in the peak of his heat, tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, trying to fuck himself through it, like he always does- Benson finds himself thinking about the young man- thinking about Bradley being there, pressed against him. Bradley touching him, Bradley pressing his long fingers into Benson, thrusting them in and out of him, making him feel full- He would sink his teeth into Bradley’s skin- taste him, taste whatever is hidden beneath that fucking fake clean smell.
When Benson comes down from his heat he does his best to scrub the thought of Bradley off his skin in a touch too hot shower. Rubbing at his flesh until he feels raw.
He can’t deny his interest after that, the burn he feels low in his stomach when he stares at Bradley from across the room. But he can do his best to ignore it.
He still doesn’t fucking know why he wants the kid. Why the sight of the kid drives some part of him fucking crazy.
Another part of him hates Bradley. Hates how useless he is. Hates watching Bradley take shit from everyone, lets the others push him around, fucking apologising for it half the time- saying sorry for existing, for taking up space. Hates the way Bradley just does whatever any of those assholes tell him to.
It reminds Benson of what he was told he should be, when he was younger, when his heats first came through and others worked out what he was. Soft and docile and weak. Made to take orders, made to obey. Bend to others' wills and never fight back.
He wants Bradley to snap. Wants to watch Bradley bite and snarl and do something. Dig his teeth into Chis or Hardy, or hell, even Jess.
He doesn’t care who. He just wants to watch Bradley lose it.
He imagines it, late at night, stroking himself- imagines the sight of Bradley biting through Chris’s throat. Imagines the younger man’s teeth, sinking into flesh. The rip, the tear- muscles exposed- Bradley’s canines crushing through cartilage, reaching bone and still going.
He imagines the sight of Bradley, standing triumphant, soaked in blood as he comes.
But no matter what happens to Bradley, no matter what is thrown at him, nothing ever proves enough to make him snap.
And it is driving Benson insane.
He doesn’t know why the burger is the breaking point. He can’t explain it.
Maybe it’s seeing those teeth, which should be sinking into the meat of Chris’s neck, sink instead into a day-old bun, but Benson sees red.
He thinks about the little headshake Bradley had given him as he walks to his car, the small movement. Saying don’t do this, don’t get involved. Don’t fight the man on my behalf.
So Benson hadn’t. He had relented to Chris. Swallowed down the urge to pummel the man’s face in with his fists and gave Bradley another chance to fight his own fight.
And instead, the kid had bitten into the fucking burger.
The gun feels good in his hands.
But nowhere near as good as it feels to finally shut Chris up.
The gun goes off and Benson feels a heat, curling low in his stomach, feels the rush of adrenaline- god, it feels good, feels so fucking good- to see the look of fear on that assholes face before he dies.
Hardy goes down next. Benson savours that one as well. The man who had spent years, telling him what to do, as though he was any better than Benson. It feels so damn good putting him in his place.
Jess is a necessity. He doesn’t revel in her death, but he welcomes the peace and quiet it brings.
And then it’s just him.
And Bradley.
Benson reloads the shotgun and considers the kid standing in front of him, shaking in his boots.
Just standing there, waiting for Benson to kill him.
All you had to do was snap kid, then all of this could have been avoided.
He gives it a minute, feeling the blood rushing through his veins- the heat of it- drinking in the look on Bradley’s face, the tension, how ready the kid was for him to just shoot him. Bradley would let him- he wouldn’t have to force it, overpower him, catch him off guard, use the gun to force submission, Bradley would just stand there, and let Benson take his life.
Benson moves on. He had known already that he was never gonna raise the gun.
Never gonna pull that trigger.
He wrangles Bradley into helping him clean up the bodies.
It feels good. Cleaning up the restaurant together. Tidying up his mess, working next to Bradley. Benson finds it calming, putting things right again. Finds it calming being close to Bradley.
And if, by the time they are done, Bradley smells more like blood than fake florals, well, that was just an added bonus in Benson’s eyes.
The restaurant is clean. Most of his co-workers are dead, and Benson feels fucking fantastic. He manhandles Bradley into the car- letting himself put a hand on the younger man’s neck- letting himself touch and feel that skin, before taking off, at speed. Leaving Burgers Burgers Burgers behind in the dust, Benson feels better than he has in years. More free than he had in years.
As they drive away, there is a heat pooling deep in Benson’s bones that he hasn’t noticed yet.
Benson does notice pretty quickly just how fucking starving he is. But hey, adrenaline and murder will do that to a man.
So they stop for breakfast.
Bradley wrapped up in the too-big coat, hiding the blood Benson can only imagine has sunken through the man’s work shirt and started to stain his skin.
Benson’s heart flutters at the thought of Bradley’s skin, speckled with blood. Blood Benson was responsible for. But he shoves the feeling down and ignores it.
He is good at that, had plenty of practice pushing such feelings down deep and pretending they didn’t exist.
He has an omelette. Learns it’s Randy, not Bradley, and still fails to properly notice the growing heat buzzing in his bones. The way it is starting to pool in his stomach, and the sweat that is beginning to develop on the back of his neck.
He tells himself it’s just the adrenaline, and that he feels fucking great.
One of those things is true.
They stop at his house- his ma’s house.
He doesn’t like it, leaving Randy alone with her, even for a few sparse moments.
He also realizes, stepping into his room to grab a fresh change of clothes, he doesn’t like the fact he is letting the younger man see the mess he calls a home.
See how unkept and dirty his space is. His and ma’s.
Benson’s skin itches at the thought, although he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.
He wants to get them in and out. Quickly. Easily. Without mess.
It would have been easier without Randy choosing this moment to take something approaching a stand. Try to give his ma the fucking phone- fucking child, trying to fuck everything up for both of them.
He doesn’t relish in throwing the kid up against the wall in the hallway, hand clamped around Randy’s jaw- but he would be lying if he tried to claim something in his stomach didn’t flutter at the touch. At the feeling of the man’s hot flesh under his skin.
Benson wants to press Randy against the wall and sink his teeth into his flesh- wants to feel Randy rake his nails down Benson’s back and draw blood-
Benson shuts the thought down before it can go any further. Shakes his head, as through trying to dislodge it, and pulls himself together.
He feels jumpy as he waits for Randy to change. Impatient and uncomfortable. He doesn’t like having the young man out of his sight. Doesn’t like the idea of Randy wandering through the space alone. He feels the itch, at the back of his neck. His skin feels uncomfortable, wrong.
He wants to leave.
He feels better when they are back in the car- also his space, but just his. Not his and ma’s. Just his. Randy is next to him- dressed in Benson’s clothes- covered in Benson’s scent and the remaining whispers of blood. It soothes something in Benson. Makes the itching stop.
And as it fades, Benson finally, finally, notices the heat still growing in his bones - the feeling had gotten too great for him to ignore it by now.
Benson notices it, tearing down a near-empty stretch of the road. He notices the familiar burning sensation, deep in his stomach, the way it was threatening to start clawing up his back. He notes the thin sheen of sweat starting to cover his skin.
And realizes, with a sinking sensation, that he was going into heat.
Benson lets out a low groan at the realization.
This is a fucking, inconvenient time to be dealing with this.
He blames the adrenaline. The excitement, the rush- had fucking kick-started his bloody biological urges.
He takes a breath, trying to assess the situation.
His heat is decidedly starting, there was no denying that now. And coming on fast- faster than it usually would, he thinks. Normally he had time, the ache would start slowly in his bones and grow, over the course of a day, not starting to curl in his stomach until the evening at the earliest.
This however, was moving much quicker. Thankfully, at least, it isn’t unbearable yet.
He thinks he can ignore it for a while. The rest of the day at best, a few hours at the worst- enough time to speed run fixing Randy’s shit, then shove the kid out of the car and find somewhere to hole up and ride his way through this. Before… before what? Going on the run? One lone omega, tearing their way across the country- he wonders what the news will make of that.
Benson shivers, hands gripping the wheel. Tells himself it’s a good plan. It’ll work. He will make it work- and risks glancing a look over at Randy in the passenger seat.
Randy is staring at him.
A look of uncharacteristic intensity paints the younger man’s face.
Benson realizes, looking at the way Randy’s nostrils flare, eyes darkened, that Benson must already fucking stink. And based on his expressions, there was a decidedly solid chance the other man had figured out what was going on. That, Benson realized, had the potential to be a new, and different problem. But if Randy thinks for a second this changes anything, if that little fuck decided this was the moment to grow a set of balls, take advantage of Benson’s uncontrollable biology and tried anything, Benson would rip the man’s throat out with his teeth.
The burning urge to wrap himself around Randy and never let go be damned.
Benson shoots Randy a toothy smile, letting his sharp canines show. Reminding the man that despite his stench he still has the ability to bite.
He expects Randy to flinch back. Instead, as Randy stares at Benson’s mouth, Benson sees Randy’s cheeks flush, a deep, dusty pink.
That was admittedly not the response Benson had intended to induce.
Benson takes another look at Randy, and notices suddenly the way Randy’s ears were a deep, burning red, notices the shine of a new layer of sweat which hadn’t been there before- the way Randy’s chest seemed to be heaving, heavily moving up and down with each breath.
Randy looked concerningly… excited.
And like he was trying his absolute damned best to hide that excitement.
Benson remembers, distantly, the fleeting speculation he had on occasion over the past months that he and Randy might not be so different. That there might be a deeper reason for Randy to soak himself in fake florals, for him to roll over and take shit from everyone he meets, seemingly unable, or unwilling, to stand up for himself.
It wouldn’t be that far-fetched if they were the same, that the chaos would have thrown Randy into heat as well.
Stress induced no doubt. Brought on by the panic.
If true, this would complicate just throwing Randy out of the car somewhere and leaving him to deal with things himself. Benson may be a killer, but he wasn’t cruel enough to abandon an omega in heat on the side of the road.
Benson sighs, he needs to be sure, needs to know what he is dealing with.
He lifts an arm off the wheel, places the hand on Randy’s chest, fist balling around the shirt, yanking Randy towards him.
Benson leans over, as close as he can, and takes in a deep breath, pulling the smell of Randy into his nose.
He gets his own smell at first, his scent, as thickly layered over Randy as it was. Under that was the tinge of blood, layered next to the harsh remnants of soap and chemicals, and under that-
Under that, he gets, for the first ever, something which is decidedly Randy. It is the stench of sweat and spice, mixed with something earthy.
Benson almost veers them off the road when it hits his nose.
It is decidedly not the sickly sweet smell of another omega, going into a stress-induced heat.
It is something different, something hot and warming.
Something which makes the heat pooling in Benson’s stomach flare up and burn.
Benson lets go of Randy’s shirt, shoving the younger man back into the other seat, away from him.
Randy is shaking slightly in the seat next to Benson.
“Randy.” Benson bites out. Trying to fight the warmth quickly climbing up his spine, trying not to lose his mind. “What the fuck are you?”
“I- I’m kinda…”
“You're kinda what?”
“I’m-” Randy swallows, “I’manalpha.”
It comes out quickly, spat out as one word. Benson’s brain takes a moment, untangling it, pulling apart the words. ‘I’m an alpha.’ Randy wasn’t going into heat, he’s going into a rut.
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Now that was really fucking inconvenient.
It explains the fucking speed by which Benson’s heat is coming on if nothing else.
For a brief second, Benson still entertains the possible future where he just pulls over, pushes Randy out of the car and drives off to deal with his shit alone.
He won’t. He knows he won’t, but he entertains the possibility of it for his own sanity.
He can feel the warmth burning in his chest, and realizes he really doesn’t have as long as he had thought before it finishes its climb and starts to set his brain on fire. And once that happened, he would become terrifyingly useless, then they would really be in fucking trouble.
Benson rolls the window down as far as it can fucking go and decidedly does not look at Randy. He is painfully aware now, of how small the space of the car really was. Is agonizingly aware of how close together they are- the fact he could just reach back over and run his hand along Randy’s skin- curl his hand around Randy’s neck- Benson shakes his head. He is not doing this right now.
He tries his best to ignore the other man.
But now that he is aware of Randy’s scent, it is all he can smell.
Benson pulls in at the first motel he sees with a vacancy sign, needing to get off the road.
Randy, who had been sitting in uncomfortable silence next to him, shifts in his seat as Benson parks the car, sitting up slightly to ask, “What- what are we doing here?”
“Dealing with things,” Benson answers roughly.
Benson takes a second, standing outside the car, momentarily free from the smell of Randy. From the proximity. He pulls in a deep breath. The heat is clawing its way up his neck- curling around the base of his jaw- he knows he doesn’t have long left before thinking is going to get significantly more difficult.
Benson does his best to swallow down the worst of it for at least a moment longer.
He half drags Randy from the car, hand clinging to the lapels of the coat. Purposefully not touching Randy’s skin.
Randy thankfully follows him without resistance.
The younger man stands behind him slightly, shaking as Benson gets them a room.
The receptionist is a dick. Benson hates the look he gives them, making it clear he knows what’s going on. Of course he fucking does- Benson can imagine how they must look, must smell, to an outsider. The mingled stench of heat and rut-
The receptionist drags his eyes up and down the pair of them, and Benson fights the urge to just shoot the guy. If he couldn’t feel the weight of Randy’s presence behind him, he just might have.
He doesn’t draw his gun, just grabs the key from the man’s hand, turning away sharply, and is surprised to discover Randy is offering the receptionist a sharp and withering glare. Benson puts a hand on Randy’s chest, shoving him away, muttering out a quiet, “let’s go.”
Randy relents under his touch.
Benson can feel the man’s shaking under his hand.
Benson keeps his hand on Randy, resting on the small of the man’s back, leading him to the room. Only drops the touch to unlock the door, trying to ignore the shake setting into his own hands.
He all but shoves Randy over the threshold of the room.
Makes sure the door is locked behind them, door chain in place as well.
He pauses for a moment, resting his head against the motel door, and just takes a moment to breathe. The heat is curling around his brain now, he can feel it, starting to roast his skull, thoughts quickly becoming fuzzy and harder to hold onto.
He realizes, standing there, that he doesn’t really have a plan for what happens now.
He had just wanted to get them somewhere safe, somewhere away from anyone else- where they wouldn’t be seen, wouldn’t be interrupted. Somewhere, he could pretend was theirs.
And now they are locked in a motel room together.
He has locked himself in a motel room with an alpha in rut while he's going into heat.
His heat muddled brain thinks through the options as quickly as it could manage. He could lock himself in the bathroom, turn on the shower, curl up under the cold water and ride it out- let Randy stay out here and fuck himself against a pillow until he calms down.
He could shove Randy into the bathroom, hope the younger man had the mind and the decency to stay in there while Benson curls up on the crappy motel bed, riding it out wrapped in scratchy blankets and surrounded by unnecessarily stiff and uncomfortable pillows and the lingering smell of strangers.
Trying not to be driven insane by the stink of an alpha so fucking close by.
Or he could-
His brain almost shorts out as it inches towards thinking about the other option. The one that would occur if he and Randy remained in the same room- the possibility, the option-
“Benson.”
Randy’s voice cuts through his thoughts, his spiral.
Benson peels his head up off the door, noting the patch of sweat he leaves behind, and despite his better judgment, turns around.
Randy was standing beside the bed, having shed the coat, dumping it on a chair. Benson could see the sweat shining on Randy’s arms, Benson’s shirt soaked through and sticking to Randy’s chest. Randy was staring at him, wide-eyed and desperate. His face looked so fucking open, needy, but also tinged with fear. The boy still shaking like a fucking leaf.
Benson fights the urge to bare his throat, and find out if that would be enough to make Randy snap. Bring the claws and teeth that he now knows with certainty have to be buried down deep somewhere in there out to the surface.
Randy licks his lips, and says “Benson, I think that maybe we should-”
“Fuck.”
Randy flinches back slightly at Benson’s blunt interjection. And Benson prepares himself to push past the man- shove Randy aside if he tries to reach out and grab him, and lock himself in the bathroom.
Tells himself he will be able to ignore Randy’s cries when the boy gets desperate enough that his rut overrides his natural disinterest-
And then Randy nods, and stutters out a quiet, “yeah, I think we should- do that.”
Benson feels something inside of him crack.
Then Randy adds, “If, uh- only if you want to.” And Benson has to swallow around the fucking whine that tries to tear itself free of his throat.
Benson isn’t even really aware of the fact he is moving. One moment he is standing by the door, and then he is in front of Randy.
Hears Randy pull in a shaky gasp at his new proximity.
Benson wants to press himself up against the younger man- carve a hole into Randy’s chest and climb in, nestle down deep under the man’s skin-
He shakes his head.
Feels his chest already heaving. God, this is a bad one.
Benson lifts a hand and roughly shoves Randy back, onto the bed, the man landing with a hard and slightly pained gasp.
Benson scrambles to undress, ripping off the cardigan, shirt pulled up off his head as quickly as he can manage, pants pooling around his ankles while he is still in the process of toeing off his shoes.
Benson has just enough mind left not to literally rip his clothes off his body, enough of a mind to remember he will need to put these back on later.
Benson stands for a moment, completely bare, skin red and flushed, and hears Randy’s breath catch and stutter.
Benson looks down at the young alpha, sprawled on the bed before him. Randy had dragged his own shirt off, while Benson had undressed, undone his pants but not yet pushed them off. Dick still covered. His hand rests on his belt, paused in its task as he stares up at Benson with a look of awe.
Benson practically throws himself on top of Randy, smashing the two of them together, head buried against Randy’s neck, mouthing at the flesh there- their bare chests press together- skin on skin- Benson can feel the heat radiating off Randy.
Randy gasps at the touch, and Benson gives an answering growl against the man’s skin.
He wants to press down and dig his claws into Randy, wants to scratch his way under the man’s skin, wants Randy to grab hold of him and consume him. Wants Randy to tear a chunk out of his shoulder and swallow it down-
Benson presses against Randy, and feels Randy’s hips thrusting up, in short, rolling thrusts. He can feel the straining bulge in Randy’s pants. He wants-
Benson pulls his mouth from Randy’s neck, peeling up off Randy’s chest. Hears Randy whine at the loss- starting to rise to follow Benson.
Benson places a hand on Randy’s chest, shoving him back down.
He keeps his hand there, holding Randy in place, as he straddles Randy, sitting on the man’s hips, knees on either side of Randy’s body.
Benson grinds down against Randy’s still clothed crotch, and to his amazement, is rewarded with a growl.
Judging by the look on Randy’s face, he is as surprised by the noise as Benson is.
Benson grins, flashing his teeth, and wiggles his hips, loving the way Randy’s eyes snap shut in response, head tipping back in clear desperation.
Benson wants to bite that beautiful, long neck.
He wants to wrap his hands around it and squeeze.
Benson shifts forward, raising slightly onto his knees and adjusting enough to reach back and shove Randy’s pants partway down. Tugs them open enough to expose the most important part of the younger man to the air. He feels Randy’s dick spring out, already red and leaking.
The past hour, soaking in each other's scent in the car, had clearly been enough fucking foreplay for both of them.
No need for any more preparation.
A thought Benson’s heat-soaked brain rejoiced at.
Benson wraps his hand around Randy’s dick, it is an awkward and uncomfortable angle, him raising up on his knees, stretching an arm back to reach the man’s cock. Randy is dripping precum, Benson feels it, slick and wet against his fingers.
If he felt less desperate and needy, he would enjoy the way Randy writhed under him at the touch. But Benson’s burning brain is too focused on his own needs at this point to truly enjoy Randy’s whines.
He lines himself up with Randy’s dick, the tip prodding against his hole. Hears Randy hiss, feels the man trembling below him. He can feel Randy attempting to thrust up, in slight, aborted movements, hips shifting ever so slightly upwards.
Some final corner of his mind, not yet fully consumed by fire, wonders if Randy is even aware of the movement.
Benson gives it a moment, looking down at Randy, flush and desperate below him, hands tangled in the duvet beneath him, face screwed up in desperate need. Need for him.
Before he gives in to the heat. He shifts slightly. And sinks down.
Benson lowers himself with a deep, low groan. His eyes fall closed, concentrating on the sensations of sinking down onto Randy’s dick. He feels the stretch of his body, adjusting to Randy. Feels the fullness.
It calms the burning in his brain for a moment; biology happy he is taking the correct steps to satiate its need.
He sits there for a moment, feeling it. Drinking it in, content to just sit and breathe-
“Benson.”
His eyes flick open, to Randy below him. The younger man looks up at him, looking almost pained. ““Please, please Benson just- move..” The words are bitten out, sharp and desperate.
Benson listens to the alpha, and rolls his hips. Watches as Randy's eyes roll back in his head, chest heaving up, gasping for breath.
He would play with the man further, if the movement hadn’t been enough to reawaken the fire in his brain. Remind his biology that he was not done satisfying it just yet.
So rather than have his fun teasing Randy, Benson begins to fuck himself on Randy’s dick.
He rises up on his knees and drops back down, setting a quick and almost brutal pace.
As he does so he presses his heavy hand down to Randy’s chest, feeling the heave of Randy’s ribcage under his firm hand.
He thinks about pressing down hard enough to crack the bones, shatter them and rip open Randy’s chest. Wants to know if Randy would let him do it- how hard would he have to press before Randy stops him? Before Randy grabs his wrist and rips it off his skin-
Benson throws his head back, concentrates on his movements. On the feeling of Randy in him. It feels good. Feels right. Distantly, he thinks he will probably be disgusted by that thought, by the idea that this is good and correct and how things should be, how he should be, full, - filled- when his heat fades.
He hears Randy’s hands scrabbling against the bedsheets, the younger man groaning and gasping below him. Benson grinds down again, shifting his hips, and is rewarded with a beautiful, broken gasp.
It makes Benson grin.
He wants to drag more sweet sounds from between Randy’s lips.
He feels Randy buck ever so often, hips snapping upwards to meet him, and he gets the sense the man is holding himself back from doing more.
It pisses Benson off.
He wants Randy to go feral. Take what he needs, flip them over and sink his teeth into the nape of Benson’s neck.
But he also knows he was liable to snap Randy’s own pretty neck if the man tried such a thing.
Benson concentrates on fucking himself, and feeling good. On chasing the fire burning in his veins- hoping to quickly make it peak and crescendo so that he can finally, finally come crashing down the other side of it and get his sanity back.
His concentration is deep enough that Benson startles slightly when he feels hands against him- Randy’s hands resting on his legs, pressing against his thighs, touching him. Touching his skin. Part of him wants to rip himself away at the touch, but he refuses to give up the wonderful sensation of fullness. Completeness. Instead, Benson’s eyes snap open, and, unthinkingly, he tilts forward slightly, hand moving from Randy’s chest to wrap around the man’s throat.
Randy lets out a low growl at the touch- and Benson realizes with excitement that he can see the man’s teeth now, bared and on display, Randy flashing his own canines for once.
Benson stares at them in fascination. Wanting to rub the pad of his thumb against a tooth and draw blood.
And then carefully and deliberately, he curls his hand tighter around Randy’s throat, and squeezes.
Randy’s fingers dig into the flesh of Benson’s thighs in answer. Benson can feel the sharp prick of Randy's nails. Feel how deep Randy is digging them in. For a moment, Benson thinks he had gone too far- fucked too much with an alpha- Randy will dig in his claws and rip through Benson’s flesh. Slice through an artery, let Benson quickly bleed out all over the hideous motel spread.
And then Randy tilts his head up slightly, giving Benson more room to wrap his fingers around his pale throat, and Benson thinks he is going insane.
For a second, Benson sees himself pressing down hard enough for the bones in Randy’s neck to snap in his grip- he feels his fingers flex at the thought, and quickly rips his hand back, lifting from Randy’s throat, pressing it back against the man’s chest.
He keeps it there as he fucks himself roughly, desperately, on Randy’s cock. Digging his own nails into Randy's chest. Marking it red under his fingertips.
Benson goes back to concentrating on chasing his own pleasure.
Feeling the fire burning under his skin, mind on fire.
He feels like he might be roasting, from the inside out.
He chases it, feeling the fire grow, feeding the flames. Hands roam Randy’s chest, he presses against Randy’s ribs for a moment, his fingers running along them, feeling the bones under the skin-
He feels the burn in his legs, the dig of Randy’s nails into his thighs, the wonderful, comfortable fullness-
Benson comes with a gasping and desperate whine, a noise he would hate having made on reflection, the sound tearing itself free from his throat. His untouched dick spasming, weak streaks of cum spurting out. Most spilling over Randy’s chest, the rest dribbling down his own thighs. He likes the way it settles on Randy’s skin. Marking him. Staining the man’s flesh with the stench of Benson.
Benson continues to move, as he works his way fully through his release, hips still lifting and falling, although slightly slower now, slightly less desperate.
Not working for strictly his own needs now, but to satisfy the alpha below him. Waiting for Randy to grip hold of him and come.
Now slowly tumbling down the other side of his release, Benson’s mind comes back to him enough to note that on each rise and fall, he can feel his rim starting to catch against something. The swell starting at the base of Randy’s dick.
He realizes that if he continues, Randy is going to knot him.
Part of Benson is terrified at the thought, he is about to be tied to this young man. They would be locked together as he continues to come down, locked together when his heat ebbs down and retreats for a time, leaving him horrifically clear-minded and aware of himself.
But currently that fear is still buried down deep, smothered by the still burning embers under his skin, the heated part of his brain screaming at him that he wants this- wants to feel Randy’s knot, tying them together, wants the two of them locked together as one- make it so Randy can’t leave, can't leave him- alpha has to stay with him, in him- only him- be his-
“Benson,” Randy’s voice is raspy, strained.
“Shut up Randy,”
“But- Benson I’m going to-” lock us together, not leave, not leave, never leave.
“I said shut up.” The words come out as a snarl, Benson rising up, feeling the now harsh tug as he lifts himself.
Before he drops back down. Harder again. Quicker. Settling himself firmly around Randy’s swelling knot.
Randy gives a feral, desperate cry at the movement.
And in answer Benson rolls his hips, he squeezes down around Randy, shifting as much as the knot would allow.
He is rewarded by Randy digging his nails into Benson’s flesh, this time hard enough to break through the skin, little crescent lines of blood appearing along Benson’s thighs.
Randy clings to him, nails cutting into him- slicing through a part of Benson- almost pushing under his skin in the way Benson had wanted to do to him.
Benson wraps his hand back around Randy’s throat and squeezes.
Randy comes silently, gasping out Benson’s name, throat spasming under the older man’s grip.
Benson feels it, feels Randy’s release paint his insides, finally fully satisfying the omega within him. Cooling the remaining heat in his blood.
He releases Randy’s throat, holding himself up as Randy shakes beneath him, twitching his way through the end of his orgasm.
Benson takes the time to trace his hands along Randy’s chest- noting the scratches and red marks he had left on the man’s flesh- taking a moment to drag his fingers through his own cum, rub it into Randy’s skin.
When they are both finally satisfied, Benson lets the quickly growing exhaustion win. He collapses forward, sprawling across Randy’s chest. Hears Randy give a quiet whine at the resulting tug.
Benson presses a smile to Randy’s skin, shoving his face up against the side of Randy’s neck, nose dragging against Randy’s skin for a moment and breathing in the young man, before quietly saying, “You are a fucking shit alpha.”
“S-sorry.”
Benson reaches a hand back up, curling it lightly around Randy’s throat- not pressing down, just holding it there, and says into the crook of the man’s neck, “Didn’t say it was a problem.”
Benson is, after all, a pretty shit omega, so who was he to judge?
In truth, part of him thinks he kinda likes that about Randy.
What an odd, fucked up pair they made.