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My brother said "what did you wanna be when you were my age?" I said "a police officer" and he said "I thought you wanted to be a giraffe like Benson"…stop.
Guys…uhm…I’m freaking the fuck out
Just needed to say that you are my favorite Ao3 author like ever…I’ve reread "I get what I want, and I like what I see" an embarrassing amount of times.
Oh my god thank you so much!!! 😭😭😭 You have no idea how much that means. 🖤🖤🖤
Some of you should not be allowed to draw. I can’t take this anymore.
the passenger x bones and all au
What if I just take away your writing privileges?
too much, too late, or just not enough of this
their luck had to run out eventually. doomed lovers making out in the back of a cop car <3 read on AO3 here if that's more your speed.
3.2k words. canon divergent. so much kissing. frottage. coming in pants. police brutality and f-slur. blood & injury. enjoy!!
After months–months–of domestic bliss, it takes three seconds for all hell to break loose.
Benson rounds the corner, sees the cop car. Sees Randy seated on the curb with his hands behind his back. Sees nothing more, only red.
"Hey!"
All heads turn his way. The grocery bag slips from his hand to the asphalt and he’s halfway across the parking lot before he knows what he’s doing. No plan. No need. There’s a shout in his mouth that feels like Randy’s name but when he lets it loose it’s just a wordless expression of anger.
Everyone moves at once. Randy shoots to his feet, gets grabbed roughly by the pig on his left. The other one whirls around, sees Benson coming like the wrath of God, like a category five fucking storm, and goes for his gun.
Benson goes for his too. The thing about that, though, is that his is sitting on the fucking nightstand in the motel room, so he comes up empty-handed. Didn't think he'd need it for a trip to the Safeway. Figured those days were behind him.
Stupid. Fucking stupid.
No problem. He’ll beat both of them to death with his bare hands. He’s done it before. He’ll even enjoy it this time.
"Benson! Benson, no!"
He hears Randy, he does. He always does. He just chooses not to listen, sometimes, like now, because Randy doesn’t always know what he’s talking about.
"Benson, stop!"
He’s going right for the pig with his grip on Randy’s arm. Nobody–fucking nobody–puts hands on Randy. Benson can feel the man’s skin splitting beneath his knuckles already. He’s braced for the bullet, too, the one the other cop is itching to pump into his ribs. He’s fucking ready for it. Can’t wait.
"Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him, please don’t–"
Benson gets there. He cocks his fist and aims for the pornstar mustache hovering over Randy’s shoulder. He’s mid-swing when all the sudden the good Lord decides to repo every atom in his fucking body.
He goes stiff as a board, spine snapping straight so fast he gives himself whiplash. There’s a scream in his throat but his jaw is clenched so tight he can’t let it out. His brain goes white, just white, just static. He topples to the pavement, lands on his fucking face, can’t even feel the crunch of his nose through the sensation of being disintegrated.
He’s never been tased before. He’s gotta say, he’s not a fan.
When it stops, five seconds or hours or months later, he can't remember how to move. He only remembers that Randy is right there, right behind him, yelling his pretty blonde head off like Benson's never heard before, and he's supposed to be protecting him, but fuck, he can't move.
Someone yanks his arms behind his back, fits him with a shiny new pair of bracelets. He can't breathe right through the blood clogging his nose. He feels like Wile E. Coyote, reduced to two dimensions, all the rage crushed out of him by the comically large anvil of the law.
The pig grabs him by the collar and hauls him to his knees, gives him a shake while drawling Miranda. Been a long time since he's been arrested. Doesn't sound like they've added anything new but it's kinda hard to focus. Benson sucks blood and phlegm into his mouth and spits, barely clears his own chest.
He meets Randy's panicked gaze. The kid's looking at him with this open and devastated expression of concern, face flushed, eyes wet with angry tears. God, he's pretty. Benson winks at him, delirious, and hopes it conveys more confidence than he feels. There's a bottomless pit in his stomach. They're fucked.
When the cop drags him upright his legs just about give out and he sags, gets thrown against the side of the cruiser. He hears a yelp behind him, an expletive, a blow. Rage cuts hot through his muddled mind. He starts rummaging around inside himself for the strength to beat the shit out of the cop with both hands cuffed behind his back for whatever he just did to Randy.
"He fucking bit me!" the cop exclaims, and Benson breaks into a grin, and the next thing he knows Randy's being slammed against the car beside him. "Fucking freak."
Randy's licking blood off his lips with this wild look in his eye, a bruise already forming on his cheekbone from the pig’s fist. Benson’s never been more fucking proud. His chest squeezes with affection even as fear and anger writhe in his gut.
"Take it easy," he says as the pigs pat them both down. "It’s gonna be fine."
"Don't lie to me," Randy says grimly. His hair is in his eyes and his face is flushed and Benson’s weak in the knees.
He looks away before he answers so Randy can't see right through him.
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
They get peeled off the side of the cruiser and shoved into the back one after the other. Benson catches his reflection in the rearview. Blood streaks the bottom half of his face, nose crooked, road rash on his cheek like a kiss. He looks like he's just come off a bender, pale and shaky. For months, for months they've been in the clear, and now here they are losing it all on a Wednesday afternoon. He wants to laugh. He wants to puke.
Randy leans forward to get his attention. "Don't–don’t tell them anything," he says, fast and low.
Benson scoffs. "No shit."
"No, I mean–they don't know anything. They caught me lifting some guy's wallet. They don't know–they don't know."
Good. That's good. For Randy, at least, that's good. Benson shakes his head. "I've got a record, Randy, it's a matter of time. Probably overnight is all." They'll connect the dots. Won't take long. He killed four people. He’s practically already on his way to the Farm.
Randy cranes his head back against the headrest, looking distressed. The tears are back. They never go far. Sweet, sad boy. "I'm sorry, Benson. This is my fault."
"Hey. Stop." He nudges Randy's knee with his own. "It's not your fault." It kind of is, it kind of isn't. It doesn't matter.
Randy shakes his head ruefully. "I should've been more careful."
Benson is rifling around in the mess of his mind for the pissed-off grit that's carried him this far in life, but he’s coming up empty-handed. He can already see the cell door rolling shut before his eyes.
"Had to catch up with us eventually," he says gruffly, like he doesn’t give a shit. Like it was always going to end like this. Like he never laid awake at night hoping they had a shot.
Randy swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and pins his quivering lip between his teeth. Benson can’t see his hands but he knows the guy’s digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He can practically feel it.
"Hey. Look at me."
Randy stares stoically ahead. Benson kicks his shoe.
"Randy."
When he turns to him, the remorse sits sick and heavy on his face and it hits Benson like a fist. His eyes shine wet and worried. Benson wants to touch him so bad it hurts.
He can't let him do a lick of time. Not a second. He won't last five minutes, not even in county. In the back of his mind, Benson's already spinning up a story that shifts culpability for everything that's ever gone wrong in the world to himself. Maybe it’ll be enough. It has to be enough.
He leans over, bumps Randy’s shoulder with his shoulder. "You scared?"
Randy hesitates, nods.
Benson takes that one like another thousand volts and tries not to feel like he's failed in some way. "Don't be scared. You're gonna be fine."
Randy looks him square in the eye. "What about you?"
Benson can't meet his gaze. He shrugs, tries to come off nonchalant. "Don't worry ‘bout me."
"I am worrying about you."
Benson glances past Randy, peers through the window at the cops pacing around the parking lot and doing whatever it is cops do. He used to wonder how this moment would feel. Back when it was all still too good to be true. It's worse than he imagined. Feels like when the sky goes green before a tornado. Feels like there’s a siren going off in his head that only he can hear.
"Benson?"
"What, Randy?"
"What…what happens now?"
"They’ll take us to the station, put us in the drunk tank until they can figure out who we are and what to charge us with."
"So they’re not–they’re not gonna separate us."
"Not yet."
For a split second, Randy looks relieved, even hopeful, and Benson’s heart rips all the way in two like a soggy piece of paper.
He stares at Randy–mop of hair disheveled, eye swelling rapidly. He's wearing Benson's shirt even though Benson knows for a fact he has clean laundry folded neatly in the motel dresser. There's a hickey on his neck just above the stretched-out collar. Benson feels a chainsaw stab of deep grief, realizing they might not ever be alone together again. Give it a couple hours, and they’re never going to see each other again.
Just like that, they’re out of time.
And suddenly, Benson needs him so bad it makes him nauseous. Needs him. Needs to suck on that raw-bitten lip, needs to feel his body pressed up close, just one more time. Needs it worse than freedom or future or any of the other bullshit he's never really had.
This. He had this. He wants to consume every last ounce of it before it's gone.
"Hey," Benson says, shooting a wary glance out at the cops. "C’mere."
Randy looks confused but scoots closer without hesitation. Good, obedient boy. Never gonna see the inside of a cell.
Benson leans towards him. "Kiss me."
Randy furrows his brow. "Benson…your nose."
"Fuck it. Come on." He tries, but he can't keep the plea out of his voice. "Kiss me right now."
Randy shifts on the seat, leans in, locks lips with him. He does it hesitantly, ginger at first, and then he melts into it. He’s jonesing for it, always, even now. Benson's face is sticky with blood but Randy doesn't seem to mind. The pain in Benson's nose flares like an ember but he ignores it in favor of this beautiful boy who tastes like every best day he's ever had.
They separate, just barely, just enough that Benson can feel the wet of Randy’s panting on his lips.
"Benson…." His voice breaks.
He can’t do this. "Shh."
"I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry."
"Shut up." Benson kisses him again. The desperation snaps and crackles between them like a lit firecracker. Benson realizes he’s straining mightily against the cuffs, metal biting mean into his skin, but he can’t relax. This is it, he keeps thinking. This is it this is it this is it.
Like he can read his mind–because by now, he pretty much can–Randy presses closer, knees knocking against Benson’s leg. A tiny, frustrated noise twists from Randy’s throat and Benson fights the cuffs like maybe he can break them.
"Benson," Randy whispers.
"Fucking come here," Benson growls, shoving back against the seat to make room. Randy clambers immediately into his lap, contorts his lanky body and braces his forehead against Benson’s for leverage. It sets his sinuses on fire. It’s fine.
Randy straddles him, knees bent, and kisses him deep and hungry. Benson closes his teeth around Randy's bottom lip harder than he means to. Randy moans, bucks his hips, writhing like an animal in a trap. His tongue is in Benson’s mouth, lapping the blood off his lips like he can’t get enough, and Benson wishes so badly he had more to give.
He wants to cry. He wants to kill something. His whole body aches like he's been pummeled head-to-toe with hammers. His wrists are pinned behind him, smashed against the bench, and he's throbbing in his jeans, and his face feels like it's being split in half, and the only thing that matters in the whole fucking world is this man in his lap.
Something is bubbling up his throat like bile–words he can’t say, because he knows better, but he wants to, because–fuck. Because after this–fuck.
"Hey," he says hoarsely. "I–" It sticks in his throat. He swallows it down. It’s wrong, all wrong. He doesn’t want to do this, not at all, but especially not here, not like this. "Goddammit."
"It’s okay," Randy says.
"No–Randy, I…." Benson’s mouth is full of blood.
Randy shakes his head, musters up that sad little lost boy smile. "It’s okay."
Benson peers anxiously up at him and all the sudden the world’s gone blurry. Beautiful boy. Angel boy. The best thing that’s ever been his. "Fuck." It comes out half-strangled. He's losing it. The tears prickle in his eyes and it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s all too much.
What’s he supposed to do without him?
"Stop," Randy murmurs.
"What the fuck am I gonna do?" His voice is pitched and broken, desperate in a way that pisses him off, makes him sick.
"Stop." Randy presses against him like he’s trying to climb into his chest and Benson would pry his ribs apart to let him if his fucking hands were free. His mouth is all over Benson's neck, teeth on his skin, panting hard and hot in his ear. "We’re gonna be fine. We’re–we’re gonna be fine. You said."
Benson sinks his molars into his cheek to keep from screaming. "Randy…."
"We’ll be fine, Benson. You said."
He can’t lose him. He can’t. They can’t take him, they can’t fucking take him, he isn’t theirs to take. His ears are ringing. Panic’s cold claws are buried deep in his gut.
"Benson," Randy says from a thousand miles away. "Bence."
He’s going to die in prison. He’s going to die alone, strapped down, pumped full of poison.
"Benson, listen!"
They’re going to take him away and lock him up and he can’t breathe–he can’t breathe–he can’t–he can’t–
"Benson, stop. Dammit–"
Randy’s squirming in his lap like a snake, grimacing, arms twisting madly behind his back and then he yelps like a kicked dog and if that wasn’t enough to jar Benson free from his spiral, the sensation of Randy’s fingers frantic on his face sure brings him back to himself in a hurry.
"Randy, what the fuck–"
"I need you," Randy says, pawing at his cheeks, those big wet bloodshot eyes boring into Benson’s with a force that only rears its head on rare occasion. "I-I need you to keep it together. Please? Please."
Benson jerks his head out of Randy’s grip so he can get a look at his hands. The cuffs hang impotently from one wrist and blood streams down the other, skin torn and piled loosely at the base of his thumb, which sits at a wrong angle from the rest of his hand. Randy seems inappropriately unconcerned.
"Jesus." Benson shakes his head in stunned amazement. "You fucking animal."
"It's-it's fine." Randy strips off his shirt, making a frustrated noise as he struggles to get the cuffs through the sleeve. He’s all bones and bruises, pale and wirey, moles scattered across his skin like constellations. And then his hands are beneath Benson’s shirt, pawing at him, bleeding all over him, and then he’s grabbing Benson by the belt loops, pulling him closer until they’re pressed chest-to-chest and he’s rolling his hips like they’re two teens on the hilltop at midnight.
He kisses him again and Benson feels relief and guilt and regret blooming bitter on his tongue. Randy sucks it away without being asked, swallows it whole, thrusts himself against Benson in a way that makes him slump boneless against the bench seat.
"Randy," Benson moans. "Baby." He hurts all over and he’s so fucking hard. He lets Randy grip his hair in that way he likes and hates at the same time. His kisses are frenetic, sloppy across Benson’s mouth and jaw.
"We’re okay. Right? We’re okay."
Benson breathes hard. "We’re okay." The heat pooling low and heavy in the pit of his stomach is unbearable. The sense of careening towards the edge of a cliff is making him dizzy.
Randy sucks on his earlobe, catches it with his teeth. "We’re okay," he whispers. His fingers dig into Benson’s ribs.
"We’re okay," Benson repeats, not sure what it means, not sure of anything anymore except Randy. He’s always been sure of Randy.
"Benson." It comes out like a plea, wavering, desperate. The rhythm of his hips starts to falter, body bucking. Fuck. Fuck.
"Look at me." Randy whines, keeps his face buried in Benson’s neck. "C’mon, baby, look at me," Benson says again. "I wanna see you, I have to–"
Randy lifts his head, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, looking scared and ashamed and hungry, so hungry, always fucking starving for it–
"Randy," Benson breathes, and the kid shudders, claws at Benson’s waist, lets out a strangled moan and presses his brow to Benson’s. He’s breathing hard in hitches, sobbing, maybe, and Benson’s heart is going to burst from his chest.
"You’re so fucking easy," he says softly, affectionately, and a laugh wrings itself out of Randy’s throat in spite of it all. "I like that."
"Hey!" One of the cops finally takes notice of them and starts towards the car. "Get the fuck off him!"
Randy doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, and Benson marvels at him. At who he is now. Who Benson knew he could be. He sniffles, running his thumbs across Benson’s cheekbones. "I’m not leaving you," he says.
Benson swallows hard. "Okay, Randy."
"I said, get off him!"
"I mean it."
The cop pounds on the window. Randy presses his mouth to Benson’s one last time, unhurried, insistent but gentle, tender even. A goddamn miracle.
"Fucking fags, Jesus Christ–" The cop throws the door open, grabs Randy by the arm and yanks him off Benson’s lap. He slams the door shut again and yells something to the other guy about the slipped cuffs.
Randy folds his hands gingerly in his lap, favoring his dislocated thumb, avoiding the wet spot seeping through his jeans. His face is red and tearstained, one eye swollen shut. He's chewing a hole in his lip and Benson knows he doesn't know he's even doing it.
"You fuckin’ mess," Benson says. He can feel a sad sort of smile creeping across his face.
Randy gives him a sheepish look and leans over to rest his head on his shoulder. Benson buries his broken nose in Randy's hair. He can barely breathe around the clot in his nostrils but he tries, he tries hard, because he doesn't want to forget how he smells until the day he dies.
He feels Randy’s hand brush across his thigh, up over his fly, fingers working awkwardly at the button of his jeans. The sound of the zipper is loud in the space between their breaths. Benson lets out a shaky sigh, lets his knees fall wide, forces his mind to go blank as Randy touches him. Nothing after this matters. Nothing after this is real. He's just here, now, that's all. With this beautiful boy. Angel boy.
Best thing he’s ever had.
Never gonna see the inside of a cell.
STOP THIS MADNESS WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME AHHH WHAT DO YOU WANT
Used to be one of the wretched ones and I liked you for that Now you're all gone, got your make-up on and you're not coming back Can't you come back?
"To create a son-" ok wrap it up
"Susan Smith," wych elm // Benson, The Passenger (2023)
BENSON’S ALIVE!!! (I scream as they push me into the padded room)
who knows where we'll be in seven hours
When two worlds collide
i love him so much it just turns to hate
benson x doll parts / hole