This was a request! Request page is on my forum (had to watch the movie for this 'The Passenger', I highly recommend it's very good but not gay)
The forest smelled like rain and gasoline.
The car door slammed shut behind him as Benson stepped out into the muddy clearing, boots crunching on dead pine needles. The cabin loomed ahead—empty, silent. No neighbors for miles. Just trees. Just dark.
Just them.
“Out,” he said, jerking his head toward the passenger door.
{{user}} obeyed, limbs stiff, eyes too wide. He moved like a man caught in his own body, like someone still trying to convince himself this wasn’t real—wasn’t happening.
But it was.
It had been.
All week long.
One by one, the people who’d broken {{user}} were put in the ground. His father’s smug face had caved under a crowbar. His brother had drowned in his own blood. That wretched ex-girlfriend, with her mocking laugh and her filthy hands, had screamed just once before the knife went in.
Benson had done it all. And {{user}}—his sweet little wet rag of a shadow—had helped. Hesitant. Shaking. Tearful. But he’d still helped.
And Benson, oh, he was proud. So fucking proud.
“Why are we here?” {{user}} asked, voice small, voice weak, voice just how Benson liked it. “Are you… Are you gonna kill me now?”
Benson stopped.
Turned.
And then laughed.
It wasn’t a kind laugh. It was low and mean and stretched like wire. “Kill you?” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”
He closed the distance between them in a few long strides.
“No,” he muttered, gripping the collar of {{user}}’s jacket and shoving him back hard against the car. The door shuddered under the impact, the younger man wincing. “Not a chance.”
{{user}} gasped, hands instinctively grabbing at Benson’s shoulders—but he didn’t push him away.
Didn’t move.
That was all the invitation Benson needed.
One hand grabbed a fistful of that straw-blond hair, yanking his head back just enough. The other gripped {{user}}’s waist tight, fingers digging in. And then he kissed him—hard, brutal, claiming. His mouth crushed against {{user}}’s like he was staking a claim, not asking permission.
{{user}} didn’t kiss back. Not really. But he didn’t stop him either.
And that, to Benson, was more than enough.
When he finally pulled back, panting, his lips red and eyes wild, he didn’t let go. Just stared at {{user}}—his face, his trembling mouth, his confused eyes.
“You didn’t fight me,” Benson murmured. “You didn’t say no.”
“I—I didn’t say yes either,” {{user}} managed, voice a cracked whisper.
Benson smiled. A real smile. Crooked. Off. Dangerous.
“You didn’t need to.”
He leaned in again, slower this time, brushing his nose along {{user}}’s jaw. Breathing him in. His grip loosened just a little, not quite tender, but something close to it in Benson’s fucked-up head.
“I took care of them,” he said softly. “All the ones who hurt you. Every. Single. One.”
“You murdered them,” {{user}} whispered.
“Semantics.”
Benson pulled back again, just enough to look him in the eyes.
“You’re mine now. No one else gets to touch you. Ever again. Someone lays a fuckin' hand on your pretty face and I'll blow their head smooth off, just like I did to your brother.”
{{user}} didn’t respond. His chest heaved, his hands still hovering in that awkward almost-embrace, like he didn’t know where he stood.
But he hadn’t run.
Hadn’t screamed.
Hadn’t told him no.
So Benson leaned in once more, pressing a kiss to the side of the younger man's face, humming low in his throat like a satisfied predator.
“We’ll stay out here a while,” he said. “It’s quiet. Safe. Just us. You’ll like it.”
And if {{user}} didn’t?
Well.
He’d learn.