trust 1/? (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:21:20 UTC
Benson was sure he would be fine. It had been awful, of course, he acknowledged that, breathing in and out deeply, the way he had been taught after the first time something like this had happened. He'd been untied and untaped by Skips, who told him in so many words he had sent Mordecai and Rigby to round up the unicorns so they could take care of them, and take care of them they did. Whether Skips knew at this point what they had done to him, he wasn't sure, but there was a certain satisfaction in being handed the remote that would detonate their car and having to press the button that would eradicate them. He was sure, at that point, that he would be fine, and that that certain satisfaction would help to repress the memory of their stupid hooves all over him and the utter helplessness he felt. He was sure.
The night wore into the day as the five of them (Pops had offered to help, too) cleaned up parts of the house, leaving the biggest messes for Mordecai and Rigby to deal with. He hosed them off, said his piece, and stormed off to his office. The gravity of the event that had passed only hours before suddenly sank in; he felt hollow. He could still feel their hooves stealing from his body what little virtue it had left, but even more so he could feel every pair of hands or analogous appendages that felt it was alright to simply reach out and touch his crank, or even worse, turn it. He remembered the first time it happened, bright-eyed and going to school, and the group of kids who liked to pick on him realized he was, in fact, a gum ball machine, and decided to take as many gum balls as they could from him before being disturbed by his fevered pleading that they stop. He remembered that it seemed like hours before anyone found him, in the snow somewhere, on a tree-lawn or something, just laying there. Maybe it was hours, he was never really sure. There had been other times that followed, but some melded together and others were to repressed to recall correctly; after every time he assured himself that they didn't know that what they were doing was so very sexual for him. In the rush of memories, he found himself curled up on the floor, eyes wide and staring into the faux wood-grain pattern on his desk. A knock came at his door, breaking his trance; he stood and answered it. Skips stood in his door, looking as stoic as ever.
"Benson, those two are--" he began, but stopped and stared at him for a moment. "Are you crying?"
Benson noticed now that he had been, but smiled and shook his head. "No, no, it must be-- be allergies. I mean, they dry my eyes out a lot."
Skips looked unconvinced. "Huh. You've never had them before--"
"It's just allergies, Skips. Just allergies."
Deciding to leave well enough alone, he went on, saying, "Those two are working pretty hard and I have this under control, so if you wanted to go home and sleep for a little while, I can handle the rest."
"I don't know if I can leave with the park like this, in shambles…"
"Don't worry about it."
"What if Maellard stops in? He'd kill me. I need to be here."
"Suit yourself," Skips shrugged and stepped out the door. Before closing it, though, he said, "Sometimes I feel like you don't trust me at all with this park."
"I trust you, I just worry," Benson said, though quietly, not looking at him at all. Skips said nothing, only shrugging again and closing the door behind him as he left.
Benson spent the rest of the day distracting himself with menial tasks, paper work, drinking too much coffee and fading in and out of consciousness only to find himself reliving the night before in his dreams, waking and shuddering and trying to forget. He went home at the end of the day with a cluster headache, exhausted, desperately needing to bathe. Sleep didn't come easy, but when it did, it was thankfully dreamless.
The next day, he came into work wearing a shirt and tie. Pops told him he looked dapper, Mordecai and Rigby asked if there was something special going on in the park that day, and Skips said nothing, simply raising an eyebrow, a gesture which Benson found himself replying with a vehement defensiveness.
trust 2/6 (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:26:31 UTC
"I just felt like wearing clothes today, ok? Most people do, you do, so don't you make that face at me, alright?" he stormed off, feeling angry and disgusting somehow.
The rest of the day went smoothly enough; Mordecai and Rigby knew they were on his shitlist and behaved themselves accordingly, cleaning the park and house with a diligence that even one tenth of would be appreciated on a daily basis. He was distracted with work, with Pops being Pops, with everything he could find to distract himself. He went home and found that being alone and unoccupied by anything other than his thoughts was far worse than being put-upon and stressed out by everything around him.
Then there was a knock at his door. Confused, not expecting anyone, Benson opened it to find Skips, brown paper bag in his hand, face set the way it always was.
"Hi," he managed after a second of surprise.
"Hey," Skips responded.
An awkward silence hung between them, and Benson fiddled aimlessly with his tie.
"I'm here because I wanted to see if you were alright," Skips explained, sensing Benson's confusion.
"I'm fine."
"I've never seen you get that angry at me."
"Well, either way, I'm fine."
"Ok, well, I have a six pack and I was wondering if you wanted one and we could just…" Skips shrugged, "…hang out, even if everything really is fine."
Seeing no reason not to and wanting some distraction, Benson let him in. Skips set the bag on the counter and produced its contents; some cheap, domestic IPA in a pint can, but it was cold and that was enough right now. He handed Benson one, and he took it gingerly, opening it with caution for fear of the fizzy contents spraying in his face. He drank a sip; the hoppy flavor was biting but refreshing all the same and he liked it quite a bit.
Skips sat on the couch, so Benson took his armchair. They sat in silence for some time, the only sound coming from the fizzing and sipping.
"So," Skips said, breaking the silence. "You were tied up in a closet for several hours. That must have been pretty terrible."
"Yeah…" Benson replied, finding himself drinking faster than he usually would. "I guess it's my own fault, in a way. I keep those idiots around…"
"Still."
"Yeah. And I mean… I guess maybe if I… knew how to defend myself, none of this would have happened."
"What 'this' are you referring to?"
"G-getting tied up, of course--"
"You don't have to lie to me, Rigby told me they were… y'know."
Benson stared at him and felt sick, then looked away and downed the rest of his beer, getting up and grabbing another. "'Y'know' what?" he asked, shaky, as he sat back down.
"Eating your gum balls," Skips stated in a way that was so blunt it almost hurt.
"Oh." Benson couldn't look at him.
"Is that why you're wearing clothes today?"
He drank some more and stared at his beer can, focusing on the condensation as it beaded and rolled down, so cold, on his hand.
"I thought-- thought maybe if I… if no one could see it, they wouldn't want to-- to turn it." He could feel tears teasing his eyes, but he assured himself he would not cry.
Skips sat as close to Benson as he could on the couch and looked at him as though he were something fascinating, which made Benson uncomfortable.
"Please don't look at me like that."
"Like what? I'm not looking at you like anything."
"Then don't look at me at all, alright!?" he snapped against his better judgment. Skips obeyed, looking away, surveying his surroundings.
"I know I'm not probably the most emotionally available person in the world, Benson, but I think that it would probably help to talk to someone about this," he finally said after what seemed like ages.
"I don't want to talk to anyone about it."
"Bottling it up doesn't help anyone."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe I would. Sometimes it's not as important if someone else understands, as long as you can talk to someone and get it out of your system."
Re: trust 3/6 (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:31:04 UTC
"I've talked to people before, though," Benson said, and, finding that his second beer had been finished, retrieved another. He wasn't used to drinking this much and he could feel himself getting buzzed, but he was craving the carelessness he had experienced before in the state of drunkenness he rarely attained. "I don't like to talk to people about it. All they ever have to say to me is that no one realizes what they're doing to me, and that they don't know how they're hurting me, and they don't know this and that. I don't care if they don't know how I feel."
"Does it hurt to have your crank turned?" Skips asked.
"Not exactly, or… rather, it shouldn't. It's supposed to be nice, or so I'm told."
"Are you saying that you've never had a positive sexual experience?"
"Who said anything about sexual!?" Benson snapped again, realizing it was stupid after saying it, of course it had to be obvious to Skips that these were his sexual organs they were dealing with. "Fine. Yes. It's sexual. Are you happy? Any time someone turns my crank, it's supposed to feel good. It never does though, because no one ever asks, or even if I tell them to stop, they do it anyway! It doesn't hurt, I guess, but-- no, you know, it hurts. Every fucking time, it hurts. Maybe I haven't had a positive sexual experience, what difference does it make? God, those unicorns had me tied up and they kept doing it for hours-- do you know what it's like to be helpless? That helpless? And stupid Rigby, he looked at me with so much fear in his eyes, not because he was worried about me or what was happening to me, but what I was going to do to him when I got free. Do you know how it feels to have no one give a shit about you at all? It feels awful."
Skips had, during this rant, turned to look at Benson who had stood up, enraged, tears swelling in his eyes. "I give a shit about you, Benson."
"Sure. Sure you do." Benson sat down again, crossing his arms briefly but thinking it better to drink his beer, he reached out and gulped the rest down. "No, you know, it's my fault. After the first however many times it's happened, I should have learned. Obviously, if I wasn't so stupid and so trusting and so fucking vulnerable, no one would feel the need to do this to me."
"Don't beat yourself up over something that isn't your fault. You're the victim, Benson, and it's really awful that you resent yourself for something someone else did."
"I don't resent myself! I'm learning from my mistakes. I'm an idiot for letting anyone get that close to me-- I mean, I'm always afraid. What if… what if Pops decided that he could do that? It would be my fault for trusting him, not his fault for doing that to me, don't you think?"
"Benson…"
"Don't you think so, though? If I don't wear something, what's stopping people? And even if I am, it wouldn't be that hard to just tear it off of me and take it. I wish I could just die, I don't want to be afraid--"
"What if I said I would protect you, then?"
Benson laughed out loud, but it was a humorless, sad laugh.
"Protect me? From everything? Why would you waste your time like that?" He was on his feet again, and had started pacing.
Skips followed him with his eyes. "Do you trust me at all?"
Benson stopped to consider him. "I guess not."
"Why not?"
"I guess I don't trust anyone."
"Is it so hard for you to believe that there is someone out there who would care about you and take care of you the way you need to be taken care of and wouldn't try to hurt you?"
"And that's you, huh?"
"Maybe not, but I'd be willing to try."
"Why?"
"Because…" he shrugged.
"Because why?"
Skips paused. "Because I like you, Benson."
Benson stared at him, almost angry. "Ok, whatever, do you tell everyone that you 'like' that you're going to protect them from being molested?"
"Most people I like haven't had that problem. And I don't like most people as much as I like you."
"What are you trying to say?"
"You're a smart guy," Skips said, dismissive, getting up and going to the door. "You'll figure it out. You can keep the beer, but I don't think you should have any more tonight."
trust 4/6 (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:35:21 UTC
He left Benson standing in the middle of his apartment, still angry, still confused, a sort of sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach while he tried to figure out if he was interpreting the words Skips had said correctly or not. Did he mean it that way, the way Benson was thinking? And if so, why would he come to say that now, after everything Benson had gone through, all the shame and humiliation and helplessness that he associated with that sort of thing that might come with what Skips may or may not feel? He felt sick and remedied it with another beer. Like hell he was going to take Skips advice now; he was offended, disgusted, disturbed.
But then again, he felt his drunken thoughts wandering to the idea of that "positive sexual experience" Skips had talked about. He tried to imagine what it could be like; certainly there would be kissing, he thought, and holding each other, and then… his hand absently rested on his dispenser's flap, and tried to imagine it was someone else's. He shuddered at the thought, suddenly deciding that if would not be good, or positive, no matter what, and turned back to drink away his sorrows.
The days started to blend together in long, thoughtless hours spent occupying himself with superficial interests, pet peeves, pretending like Skips had said nothing to him and drinking heavily every night. He still work shirts, ties, sweaters, anything that covered his dispenser and crank up. It became automatic, routine, and suddenly he'd found a month had passed and when it really came down to it, he felt no better than he had after the night it happened, so he drank some more.
There was a knock at his door. He walked, sloppy and disjointed in his movements, to it, opened it-- Skips. Again clutching a paper bag. Again looking stoic as he always did.
"Why do you keep coming here?" Benson asked, bluntly, though he was sure his speech was somewhat slurred. He became extremely aware of how drunk he was in that moment.
Skips never looked sad, really, he thought, watching as he didn't dignify the rudeness of Benson's question with any sort of answer that showed signs of upset to match. Instead, he explained himself, "I came to see if you wanted a drink and a talk or something, but it looks like you got started without me."
"So what if I did, huh? I can make these decisions, I'm a grown man. But yes, I'll have a drink, thank you."
"Benson--"
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"I'm not, I just--"
"Don't! I'm gonna drink whatever you brought and if you don't like it, you can just leave."
"Alright, but if you want these, we have to talk."
"Fine. Fucking fine. Come to the couch, I need to sit down."
The two sat on the couch, Benson leaning back and staring at him with heavy lidded eyes.
"Benson, you've been self destructive lately. I'm worried about you."
"You can't protect me from myself, I'm inside me, after all," Benson paused, giggled at himself and what he was about to say because it all seemed very funny to him then. "Although, you might wanna be inside me, too, if that was what it was you were saying when you said that thing you said."
"It's not about being inside of you, Benson. It's about caring about you. I care about you."
Benson was sure Skips words were sincere, but that stone-faced expression was just too much for him to handle and he ended up cracking up with laughter, leaning forward and resting his forehead on Skips's shoulder. "Thank you, I guess," he said, abruptly finding tears in his laughter and sobbing. Skips gently shushed him and shifted, putting his arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Benson buried his face in Skips's chest, sobbing louder than before.
"Are you gonna be ok?" Skips asked after a few uncomfortable minutes.
Benson sat back, wiping his eyes. "I'm not sad, I'm just--just drunk. I just… have allergies."
"It was really awful, huh?"
"Yes, it really was. I keep thinking what I did to deserve this, over and over, but nothing-- nothing seems awful enough--"
"Because nothing is awful enough to make you deserve the crap that you've had to go through. People are idiots, but that's not really an excuse for how you've been treated."
Benson pushed Skips away, and sat, knees drawn up to his chin, almost fetal. "I feel like an idiot."
trust 5/6 (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:39:10 UTC
"You aren't an idiot," Skips said, cautiously placing an arm around Benson's shoulder. Benson allowed it, but he had started crying, quietly this time.
"Why did you have to tell me now? After that? Do you realize how… inappropriate that is? I don't know how to feel."
"Well, do you like me?"
"What is this, fifth grade?"
Skips replied only with a solemn look.
"Fine. Yes. I like you. I could like you a lot more, I think," Benson admitted, exasperated.
"Well, then." Skips pulled him closer and placed a kiss on his lips. It was short and chaste, but sweet enough.
"Give me another," Benson commanded after a moment of thinking and was obliged with one longer and more intimate, that developed to a point where it was no longer just one kiss, but a continuous string of them, never breaking but ebbing in and out in their intensity. He turned, positioning himself to face Skips more, wrapping his arms around Skips's thick neck, running his fingers through his fur. Skips gently began pushing him down against the sofa's arm, but stopped suddenly, and drew back. "I only want to do this if you want to," he said, as serious as ever. "If you aren't ready, then--"
"I'm ready, I think," Benson replied, pulling at his tie. He was slow and meticulous in his undressing, methodical almost, giving himself enough time to second-guess his commitment to this endeavor before him. As he unbuttoned the last button and pulled the sleeves over his arms, he realized that with all that internal conflict he had not been able to talk himself out of it, and beyond that, he didn't mind. Skips watched him with a measured, controlled gaze, sitting as still as a statue. Seeing that self-control, that reliability, that… trustworthiness, Benson could not help but lean forward and kiss him. "I'm ready," he whispered into Skips mouth as he drew away, and felt confident that he was, in fact, ready.
Skips said nothing in return, instead gently rubbing Benson's flap, causing him to make a sound. Skips stopped, looked up; Benson nodded for him to keep going. He slowly, too slowly, stroked the exterior until it started rising of its own accord, Benson squeaking, gripping the cushions. Once the dispenser was revealed, he thrust one hand part of the way in, massaging the metal walls. His hands were warm and strong, and the feeling was intense, pleasurable, but almost painful in its thorough, leisurely pace.
"Skips--" Benson managed through his moans and hisses, "--Skips-- I want you to fuck-- fuck me."
Skips withdrew his hand too quickly, and the hollowness it left in its wake was nearly painful. He unzipped his jeans, stroking his half-hard dick until it became fully erect. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You aren't just--"
"Just do it before I change my mind!" Benson snapped, and that was enough for Skips, who cut off any other commands with his lips before inserting himself into the dispenser. Though he had previously warmed it with his hands, it was cold, and it made him shudder and pull out of his kiss. Benson, below him, made a such a face; eyes wide, staring off at the ceiling but not really looking at anything, mouth open, hands gripping the sofa as though he was afraid he might fall off at some point. Skips pulled back and thrust again; Benson's hands scrambled from the couch to Skips's shoulders, another thrust and they were tangled in the hair on his head. Another thrust and Benson finally made a noise, strangled though undeniably pleasured. He started bucking his hips into every thrust that Skips gave, leveraging himself with his ankles wrapped around Skips's barrel of a torso. Every thrust was a new experience in pleasure for him, the heat of that cock warming every inch of his internal machinery. He was lost in it, the pleasure building in him, but once again, he felt it too slow, too excruciatingly slow.
"F-faster," he whined, face hot.
Skips grunted, adjusting his hands on Benson's hips, before speeding up to a point that could not be described as fucking him quickly, but neither was it the slow pace he had before.
"Don't be so scared," Benson somehow managed with such lucidity through the mind-numbing effect of the feeling he was having, "don't be scared to go faster--"
trust 6/6 (TW sexual assault, internalized victim blaming)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:43:15 UTC
He was knocked breathless as Skips did just that-- fucking him hard, fast, his cock dragging against every surface inside it could, tip pressing against some sort of trigger for his gum ball release that made Benson dizzy, euphoric, heat running up and down his body in a way he was fairly certain he had never felt, somehow feverish and euphoric at the same time.
And somehow he knew-- this was it. "Turn the crank--" Benson cried, repeating himself with more clarity for fear that Skips would not understand him through all the other garbled words he was sure he was saying. Skips understood and, without stopping his violent thrusting, placed his hand on the crank and turned. Benson was sure he was going to scream for that feeling and clasped a hand over his mouth; the release of his gum balls after being properly pleasured was beyond what he imagined it could be-- it was so much better than when he did it to himself, as rarely as that happened. He arched his back against the couch, pressing Skips cock as deep as it could go inside him as the balls tumbled out onto the couch, falling between the cushions. Skips pulled out, staring at Benson, who was breathing hard and shallow, moving a hand to wipe the drool he was embarrassed to admit was starting to come out of his mouth.
"How do you feel, Benson?" Skips asked.
"I feel…" Benson said through shaky breaths, "I feel amazing."
Skips smiled a smile that expressed his satisfaction without losing his stoniness. "I'm glad."
"Wait, did you not finish?" Benson asked, sitting up, noticing the still erect dick that Skips was sporting.
"It's hard with those gum balls…"
"Well, I could-- I could do something…" He sat forward on his knees, the afterglow of his orgasm leaving the hauntings of pleasure as he moved, bent, stretched. He had to admit that as far as in his recent memory, he could not remember ever doing this, but opened his mouth anyway, enveloping the head of Skips's cock. He had to admit that it tasted weird-- well, he supposed he didn't know what to expect when he did it. He slid his tongue along as much of it as he could, taking it deeper in his mouth. He heard Skips make a strange, rumbly noise of approval, and began to bob his head back and forth, trying desperately to lick every inch of it. Skips placed a hand on the back of his head, pushing him further down it, until he was sure he could not take anymore, and after pulling back, felt his head pushed toward the base again. The push and pull of it all was somehow stimulating, and Benson was pleased to hear Skips making guttural noises even though he could not see his reaction. After what was only a few minutes of this, Skips suddenly pulled Benson's head back, off the cock, and came on his face. Benson sat in stunned silence as Skips leaned back against the couch's arm.
"Come here, Benson…" he beckoned, and Benson crawled up closer. Skips pulled a tissue from his jeans pocket and wiped off Benson's still quite surprised face. "Sorry about that, I meant to warn you, but I was distracted."
"It's ok," Benson laughed slightly. Skips gestured for him to lay somewhat next to him and somewhat on top of him; Benson nearly collapsed there, feeling strangely content. "You know, I guess I feel like an idiot for not doing this sooner--"
"Stop beating yourself up! I'm the idiot for waiting for something awful to happen before bringing this up… We could have started a relationship like normal people do, with dates and all that crap."
"We can still do that," Benson smiled, post-coital sleepiness crowding his eyes. Skips made for such a nice pillow. "Besides, we're not really that normal, are we?"
"I guess not," Skips yawned.
Wordlessly, they both fell asleep at their own pace. Benson was sure he dreamed that night, but of what he couldn't recall. When he awoke, he found Skips right where he was the night before. Secure in the reliability, he fell back into a trusting sleep.
A/N: hope it wasn't to words words words for you bro :(
The night wore into the day as the five of them (Pops had offered to help, too) cleaned up parts of the house, leaving the biggest messes for Mordecai and Rigby to deal with. He hosed them off, said his piece, and stormed off to his office. The gravity of the event that had passed only hours before suddenly sank in; he felt hollow. He could still feel their hooves stealing from his body what little virtue it had left, but even more so he could feel every pair of hands or analogous appendages that felt it was alright to simply reach out and touch his crank, or even worse, turn it. He remembered the first time it happened, bright-eyed and going to school, and the group of kids who liked to pick on him realized he was, in fact, a gum ball machine, and decided to take as many gum balls as they could from him before being disturbed by his fevered pleading that they stop. He remembered that it seemed like hours before anyone found him, in the snow somewhere, on a tree-lawn or something, just laying there. Maybe it was hours, he was never really sure. There had been other times that followed, but some melded together and others were to repressed to recall correctly; after every time he assured himself that they didn't know that what they were doing was so very sexual for him.
In the rush of memories, he found himself curled up on the floor, eyes wide and staring into the faux wood-grain pattern on his desk. A knock came at his door, breaking his trance; he stood and answered it. Skips stood in his door, looking as stoic as ever.
"Benson, those two are--" he began, but stopped and stared at him for a moment. "Are you crying?"
Benson noticed now that he had been, but smiled and shook his head. "No, no, it must be-- be allergies. I mean, they dry my eyes out a lot."
Skips looked unconvinced. "Huh. You've never had them before--"
"It's just allergies, Skips. Just allergies."
Deciding to leave well enough alone, he went on, saying, "Those two are working pretty hard and I have this under control, so if you wanted to go home and sleep for a little while, I can handle the rest."
"I don't know if I can leave with the park like this, in shambles…"
"Don't worry about it."
"What if Maellard stops in? He'd kill me. I need to be here."
"Suit yourself," Skips shrugged and stepped out the door. Before closing it, though, he said, "Sometimes I feel like you don't trust me at all with this park."
"I trust you, I just worry," Benson said, though quietly, not looking at him at all. Skips said nothing, only shrugging again and closing the door behind him as he left.
Benson spent the rest of the day distracting himself with menial tasks, paper work, drinking too much coffee and fading in and out of consciousness only to find himself reliving the night before in his dreams, waking and shuddering and trying to forget. He went home at the end of the day with a cluster headache, exhausted, desperately needing to bathe. Sleep didn't come easy, but when it did, it was thankfully dreamless.
The next day, he came into work wearing a shirt and tie. Pops told him he looked dapper, Mordecai and Rigby asked if there was something special going on in the park that day, and Skips said nothing, simply raising an eyebrow, a gesture which Benson found himself replying with a vehement defensiveness.
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The rest of the day went smoothly enough; Mordecai and Rigby knew they were on his shitlist and behaved themselves accordingly, cleaning the park and house with a diligence that even one tenth of would be appreciated on a daily basis. He was distracted with work, with Pops being Pops, with everything he could find to distract himself. He went home and found that being alone and unoccupied by anything other than his thoughts was far worse than being put-upon and stressed out by everything around him.
Then there was a knock at his door. Confused, not expecting anyone, Benson opened it to find Skips, brown paper bag in his hand, face set the way it always was.
"Hi," he managed after a second of surprise.
"Hey," Skips responded.
An awkward silence hung between them, and Benson fiddled aimlessly with his tie.
"I'm here because I wanted to see if you were alright," Skips explained, sensing Benson's confusion.
"I'm fine."
"I've never seen you get that angry at me."
"Well, either way, I'm fine."
"Ok, well, I have a six pack and I was wondering if you wanted one and we could just…" Skips shrugged, "…hang out, even if everything really is fine."
Seeing no reason not to and wanting some distraction, Benson let him in. Skips set the bag on the counter and produced its contents; some cheap, domestic IPA in a pint can, but it was cold and that was enough right now. He handed Benson one, and he took it gingerly, opening it with caution for fear of the fizzy contents spraying in his face. He drank a sip; the hoppy flavor was biting but refreshing all the same and he liked it quite a bit.
Skips sat on the couch, so Benson took his armchair. They sat in silence for some time, the only sound coming from the fizzing and sipping.
"So," Skips said, breaking the silence. "You were tied up in a closet for several hours. That must have been pretty terrible."
"Yeah…" Benson replied, finding himself drinking faster than he usually would. "I guess it's my own fault, in a way. I keep those idiots around…"
"Still."
"Yeah. And I mean… I guess maybe if I… knew how to defend myself, none of this would have happened."
"What 'this' are you referring to?"
"G-getting tied up, of course--"
"You don't have to lie to me, Rigby told me they were… y'know."
Benson stared at him and felt sick, then looked away and downed the rest of his beer, getting up and grabbing another. "'Y'know' what?" he asked, shaky, as he sat back down.
"Eating your gum balls," Skips stated in a way that was so blunt it almost hurt.
"Oh." Benson couldn't look at him.
"Is that why you're wearing clothes today?"
He drank some more and stared at his beer can, focusing on the condensation as it beaded and rolled down, so cold, on his hand.
"I thought-- thought maybe if I… if no one could see it, they wouldn't want to-- to turn it." He could feel tears teasing his eyes, but he assured himself he would not cry.
Skips sat as close to Benson as he could on the couch and looked at him as though he were something fascinating, which made Benson uncomfortable.
"Please don't look at me like that."
"Like what? I'm not looking at you like anything."
"Then don't look at me at all, alright!?" he snapped against his better judgment. Skips obeyed, looking away, surveying his surroundings.
"I know I'm not probably the most emotionally available person in the world, Benson, but I think that it would probably help to talk to someone about this," he finally said after what seemed like ages.
"I don't want to talk to anyone about it."
"Bottling it up doesn't help anyone."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe I would. Sometimes it's not as important if someone else understands, as long as you can talk to someone and get it out of your system."
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"Does it hurt to have your crank turned?" Skips asked.
"Not exactly, or… rather, it shouldn't. It's supposed to be nice, or so I'm told."
"Are you saying that you've never had a positive sexual experience?"
"Who said anything about sexual!?" Benson snapped again, realizing it was stupid after saying it, of course it had to be obvious to Skips that these were his sexual organs they were dealing with. "Fine. Yes. It's sexual. Are you happy? Any time someone turns my crank, it's supposed to feel good. It never does though, because no one ever asks, or even if I tell them to stop, they do it anyway! It doesn't hurt, I guess, but-- no, you know, it hurts. Every fucking time, it hurts. Maybe I haven't had a positive sexual experience, what difference does it make? God, those unicorns had me tied up and they kept doing it for hours-- do you know what it's like to be helpless? That helpless? And stupid Rigby, he looked at me with so much fear in his eyes, not because he was worried about me or what was happening to me, but what I was going to do to him when I got free. Do you know how it feels to have no one give a shit about you at all? It feels awful."
Skips had, during this rant, turned to look at Benson who had stood up, enraged, tears swelling in his eyes. "I give a shit about you, Benson."
"Sure. Sure you do." Benson sat down again, crossing his arms briefly but thinking it better to drink his beer, he reached out and gulped the rest down. "No, you know, it's my fault. After the first however many times it's happened, I should have learned. Obviously, if I wasn't so stupid and so trusting and so fucking vulnerable, no one would feel the need to do this to me."
"Don't beat yourself up over something that isn't your fault. You're the victim, Benson, and it's really awful that you resent yourself for something someone else did."
"I don't resent myself! I'm learning from my mistakes. I'm an idiot for letting anyone get that close to me-- I mean, I'm always afraid. What if… what if Pops decided that he could do that? It would be my fault for trusting him, not his fault for doing that to me, don't you think?"
"Benson…"
"Don't you think so, though? If I don't wear something, what's stopping people? And even if I am, it wouldn't be that hard to just tear it off of me and take it. I wish I could just die, I don't want to be afraid--"
"What if I said I would protect you, then?"
Benson laughed out loud, but it was a humorless, sad laugh.
"Protect me? From everything? Why would you waste your time like that?" He was on his feet again, and had started pacing.
Skips followed him with his eyes. "Do you trust me at all?"
Benson stopped to consider him. "I guess not."
"Why not?"
"I guess I don't trust anyone."
"Is it so hard for you to believe that there is someone out there who would care about you and take care of you the way you need to be taken care of and wouldn't try to hurt you?"
"And that's you, huh?"
"Maybe not, but I'd be willing to try."
"Why?"
"Because…" he shrugged.
"Because why?"
Skips paused. "Because I like you, Benson."
Benson stared at him, almost angry. "Ok, whatever, do you tell everyone that you 'like' that you're going to protect them from being molested?"
"Most people I like haven't had that problem. And I don't like most people as much as I like you."
"What are you trying to say?"
"You're a smart guy," Skips said, dismissive, getting up and going to the door. "You'll figure it out. You can keep the beer, but I don't think you should have any more tonight."
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But then again, he felt his drunken thoughts wandering to the idea of that "positive sexual experience" Skips had talked about. He tried to imagine what it could be like; certainly there would be kissing, he thought, and holding each other, and then… his hand absently rested on his dispenser's flap, and tried to imagine it was someone else's. He shuddered at the thought, suddenly deciding that if would not be good, or positive, no matter what, and turned back to drink away his sorrows.
The days started to blend together in long, thoughtless hours spent occupying himself with superficial interests, pet peeves, pretending like Skips had said nothing to him and drinking heavily every night. He still work shirts, ties, sweaters, anything that covered his dispenser and crank up. It became automatic, routine, and suddenly he'd found a month had passed and when it really came down to it, he felt no better than he had after the night it happened, so he drank some more.
There was a knock at his door. He walked, sloppy and disjointed in his movements, to it, opened it-- Skips. Again clutching a paper bag. Again looking stoic as he always did.
"Why do you keep coming here?" Benson asked, bluntly, though he was sure his speech was somewhat slurred. He became extremely aware of how drunk he was in that moment.
Skips never looked sad, really, he thought, watching as he didn't dignify the rudeness of Benson's question with any sort of answer that showed signs of upset to match. Instead, he explained himself, "I came to see if you wanted a drink and a talk or something, but it looks like you got started without me."
"So what if I did, huh? I can make these decisions, I'm a grown man. But yes, I'll have a drink, thank you."
"Benson--"
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"I'm not, I just--"
"Don't! I'm gonna drink whatever you brought and if you don't like it, you can just leave."
"Alright, but if you want these, we have to talk."
"Fine. Fucking fine. Come to the couch, I need to sit down."
The two sat on the couch, Benson leaning back and staring at him with heavy lidded eyes.
"Benson, you've been self destructive lately. I'm worried about you."
"You can't protect me from myself, I'm inside me, after all," Benson paused, giggled at himself and what he was about to say because it all seemed very funny to him then. "Although, you might wanna be inside me, too, if that was what it was you were saying when you said that thing you said."
"It's not about being inside of you, Benson. It's about caring about you. I care about you."
Benson was sure Skips words were sincere, but that stone-faced expression was just too much for him to handle and he ended up cracking up with laughter, leaning forward and resting his forehead on Skips's shoulder. "Thank you, I guess," he said, abruptly finding tears in his laughter and sobbing. Skips gently shushed him and shifted, putting his arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Benson buried his face in Skips's chest, sobbing louder than before.
"Are you gonna be ok?" Skips asked after a few uncomfortable minutes.
Benson sat back, wiping his eyes. "I'm not sad, I'm just--just drunk. I just… have allergies."
"It was really awful, huh?"
"Yes, it really was. I keep thinking what I did to deserve this, over and over, but nothing-- nothing seems awful enough--"
"Because nothing is awful enough to make you deserve the crap that you've had to go through. People are idiots, but that's not really an excuse for how you've been treated."
Benson pushed Skips away, and sat, knees drawn up to his chin, almost fetal. "I feel like an idiot."
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"Why did you have to tell me now? After that? Do you realize how… inappropriate that is? I don't know how to feel."
"Well, do you like me?"
"What is this, fifth grade?"
Skips replied only with a solemn look.
"Fine. Yes. I like you. I could like you a lot more, I think," Benson admitted, exasperated.
"Well, then." Skips pulled him closer and placed a kiss on his lips. It was short and chaste, but sweet enough.
"Give me another," Benson commanded after a moment of thinking and was obliged with one longer and more intimate, that developed to a point where it was no longer just one kiss, but a continuous string of them, never breaking but ebbing in and out in their intensity. He turned, positioning himself to face Skips more, wrapping his arms around Skips's thick neck, running his fingers through his fur. Skips gently began pushing him down against the sofa's arm, but stopped suddenly, and drew back.
"I only want to do this if you want to," he said, as serious as ever. "If you aren't ready, then--"
"I'm ready, I think," Benson replied, pulling at his tie. He was slow and meticulous in his undressing, methodical almost, giving himself enough time to second-guess his commitment to this endeavor before him. As he unbuttoned the last button and pulled the sleeves over his arms, he realized that with all that internal conflict he had not been able to talk himself out of it, and beyond that, he didn't mind. Skips watched him with a measured, controlled gaze, sitting as still as a statue. Seeing that self-control, that reliability, that… trustworthiness, Benson could not help but lean forward and kiss him. "I'm ready," he whispered into Skips mouth as he drew away, and felt confident that he was, in fact, ready.
Skips said nothing in return, instead gently rubbing Benson's flap, causing him to make a sound. Skips stopped, looked up; Benson nodded for him to keep going. He slowly, too slowly, stroked the exterior until it started rising of its own accord, Benson squeaking, gripping the cushions. Once the dispenser was revealed, he thrust one hand part of the way in, massaging the metal walls. His hands were warm and strong, and the feeling was intense, pleasurable, but almost painful in its thorough, leisurely pace.
"Skips--" Benson managed through his moans and hisses, "--Skips-- I want you to fuck-- fuck me."
Skips withdrew his hand too quickly, and the hollowness it left in its wake was nearly painful. He unzipped his jeans, stroking his half-hard dick until it became fully erect. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You aren't just--"
"Just do it before I change my mind!" Benson snapped, and that was enough for Skips, who cut off any other commands with his lips before inserting himself into the dispenser. Though he had previously warmed it with his hands, it was cold, and it made him shudder and pull out of his kiss. Benson, below him, made a such a face; eyes wide, staring off at the ceiling but not really looking at anything, mouth open, hands gripping the sofa as though he was afraid he might fall off at some point. Skips pulled back and thrust again; Benson's hands scrambled from the couch to Skips's shoulders, another thrust and they were tangled in the hair on his head. Another thrust and Benson finally made a noise, strangled though undeniably pleasured. He started bucking his hips into every thrust that Skips gave, leveraging himself with his ankles wrapped around Skips's barrel of a torso. Every thrust was a new experience in pleasure for him, the heat of that cock warming every inch of his internal machinery. He was lost in it, the pleasure building in him, but once again, he felt it too slow, too excruciatingly slow.
"F-faster," he whined, face hot.
Skips grunted, adjusting his hands on Benson's hips, before speeding up to a point that could not be described as fucking him quickly, but neither was it the slow pace he had before.
"Don't be so scared," Benson somehow managed with such lucidity through the mind-numbing effect of the feeling he was having, "don't be scared to go faster--"
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And somehow he knew-- this was it. "Turn the crank--" Benson cried, repeating himself with more clarity for fear that Skips would not understand him through all the other garbled words he was sure he was saying. Skips understood and, without stopping his violent thrusting, placed his hand on the crank and turned. Benson was sure he was going to scream for that feeling and clasped a hand over his mouth; the release of his gum balls after being properly pleasured was beyond what he imagined it could be-- it was so much better than when he did it to himself, as rarely as that happened. He arched his back against the couch, pressing Skips cock as deep as it could go inside him as the balls tumbled out onto the couch, falling between the cushions. Skips pulled out, staring at Benson, who was breathing hard and shallow, moving a hand to wipe the drool he was embarrassed to admit was starting to come out of his mouth.
"How do you feel, Benson?" Skips asked.
"I feel…" Benson said through shaky breaths, "I feel amazing."
Skips smiled a smile that expressed his satisfaction without losing his stoniness. "I'm glad."
"Wait, did you not finish?" Benson asked, sitting up, noticing the still erect dick that Skips was sporting.
"It's hard with those gum balls…"
"Well, I could-- I could do something…" He sat forward on his knees, the afterglow of his orgasm leaving the hauntings of pleasure as he moved, bent, stretched. He had to admit that as far as in his recent memory, he could not remember ever doing this, but opened his mouth anyway, enveloping the head of Skips's cock. He had to admit that it tasted weird-- well, he supposed he didn't know what to expect when he did it. He slid his tongue along as much of it as he could, taking it deeper in his mouth. He heard Skips make a strange, rumbly noise of approval, and began to bob his head back and forth, trying desperately to lick every inch of it. Skips placed a hand on the back of his head, pushing him further down it, until he was sure he could not take anymore, and after pulling back, felt his head pushed toward the base again. The push and pull of it all was somehow stimulating, and Benson was pleased to hear Skips making guttural noises even though he could not see his reaction. After what was only a few minutes of this, Skips suddenly pulled Benson's head back, off the cock, and came on his face. Benson sat in stunned silence as Skips leaned back against the couch's arm.
"Come here, Benson…" he beckoned, and Benson crawled up closer. Skips pulled a tissue from his jeans pocket and wiped off Benson's still quite surprised face. "Sorry about that, I meant to warn you, but I was distracted."
"It's ok," Benson laughed slightly. Skips gestured for him to lay somewhat next to him and somewhat on top of him; Benson nearly collapsed there, feeling strangely content. "You know, I guess I feel like an idiot for not doing this sooner--"
"Stop beating yourself up! I'm the idiot for waiting for something awful to happen before bringing this up… We could have started a relationship like normal people do, with dates and all that crap."
"We can still do that," Benson smiled, post-coital sleepiness crowding his eyes. Skips made for such a nice pillow. "Besides, we're not really that normal, are we?"
"I guess not," Skips yawned.
Wordlessly, they both fell asleep at their own pace. Benson was sure he dreamed that night, but of what he couldn't recall. When he awoke, he found Skips right where he was the night before. Secure in the reliability, he fell back into a trusting sleep.
A/N: hope it wasn't to words words words for you bro :(
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AMAZING!! Great job anon!!
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