randy bradley who is a FREAK. poor, repressed thing.
one night, closing with donnie and benson, some stupid fuckin kid had somehow tripped and fell into benson. it left his shirt heavily stained with ketchup. he grumbled a "fuck." and tore the thing off.
fuck it, they were near closing anyway and if anyone had shit to say about him not having his uniform shirt on, they could talk to him. bradley watched where it piled up in the corner of the stock room. mentally noted it.
randy always brought a bag to work. it wasn't really filled with anything to aid him throughout the day, mostly just some headache medication, a bottle of water, sometimes a protein bar if he felt *crazy*. but tonight, that bag served a different purpose. while he was "clocking out", as benson and donnie grabbed their things, he snatched the shirt and stuffed it down into his bag. his stomach churned in a way that had been far too familiar recently.
randy wasn't weird -- he was just gonna wash it for him. yeah, wash it and return it nicely folded the next day. an act of gratitude, even.
a gruff, actively smoking voice called at him as he left. randy waved to him, feeling the bag carve a piece of his soul out hearing the words.
just wash it. wash and return it. you're a good person. you just wanna help him.
randy gets home that night, the ache in his stomach undeniable. he threw his bag down, showered, changed, and put a cd on. he didn't really know the band. didn't care. he tried to just lay down, listen to the music, relax maybe.
his brain had a different idea.
it kept playing visions of benson. benson at work when he'd reach for something on a high shelf, shirt riding up a bit, showing his happy trail, defined hips.
sometimes, when randy fucks up, benson gets a look in his eye. he can't quite place it. he loves it. it usually results in benson explaining the task to him like he's a bratty child. condescending and mean. he likes that too.
his dick has been half hard since he picked up the damn shirt. his stupid imagination isn't helping.
all at once, he scrambles for the shirt. clutching it felt right. he breathes it deep, it smells like cigarettes and grease and randy swears he can imagine a faint scent of benson's body wash. he nearly passes out.
before he really knows what's happening, he's thrusting into his hand with the shirt pushed directly to his nose. bucking desperately into himself, his stomach coiling tightly.
he wants benson over him, telling him he's a freak, a pervert, a fag. a desperate bitch, huffing his fucking shirt because he can't get the real thing.
he imagines benson smacking him, spitting awful things at him. he whimpers into the shirt.
randy desperately ruts into his own fist, nearly crying when he falls over the edge.
he'll definitely have to wash the shirt now.
"good fuckin' boy" he can almost hear benson in his ear.
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