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It started with two cups of coffee. A simple, kind, easy way to meet the higher-ups of Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Price-Cutler-Gleason-Chaough, or whatever their name was now that CGC has moved in. And he was more than willing to play the game; he was used to that by now. His whole plan was to make it good with the bosses and find a cushy life for himself, schmooze, wine and dine, whatever he needed to do to come out on top. What he didn't plan on was falling in love.


“Stick to the plan, Benson. You're so close. They're practically handing Chevy to you on a silver platter. Don't fuck this up now.”

Pete looked in his direction and pursed his bowed lips in distaste.

Goddammit, the more the man ignored him, the more it made his cock want him. He wanted Pete with every fiber of his being, nearly as much as he wanted his name on the building. He crushed the coffee cups between his clenched fists, burning them red. He hisses as he is scalded.

“Fuck you, Pete Campbell,” he thinks angrily, tending to his wounded hands and messy floor.


“Morning all!” he says brightly.

A few people reply, some nod or wave before heading back to their desks. Pete rolls his eyes.

What could he possibly do to get Pete to respond favorably? There had to be a way.

He sighs like a kid with a crush.


The knee touch is almost completely made up on the spot. He had planned on touching hands in some fashion, but when he sits down in front of Pete, he's inspired. He takes a sip of his gin for some liquid courage, stretches his legs out slightly, and leaves it there, waiting to see what Pete will do.

The lip curl is not as immediate as he had been expecting. There's a moment where Bob is sure he's going to be thoroughly kissed, but the moment passes, and he is quickly thrown from Pete's office.

He counts it as a win.


Would you get down on your knees for me?

The next attempt isn't successful, but it's not a complete bust.

 It's late at the office; almost everyone has gone home. Everyone except for the two of them, just as he had been hoping. He quietly makes his way to Pete's office and knocks softly.

“Come in,” Pete answers tiredly.

He looks up.

“Oh, it's you. What do you want?”

Bob tries not to let the hurt show on his face. He's gotten good at masking his emotions around Pete unless he deliberately exposes himself.

“Came to see if you were alright. I—I know about you and your wife...Well, I wanted to make sure you were—”

Pete makes his way over to Benson and his heart flutters.

“And how exactly is that your business?”

He does the first thing that comes to mind; bold, rash. He drops to his knees and tentatively puts his hands on Pete's slender hips.

“What do you say?” he asks, eyes large and lips parted.

“Really, Bob? You want to suck me off? And what does that prove exactly? What do you want from me? Can't you leave me alone.”

The last statement isn't a question. Pete sounds torn, though he tries to hide it. Bob feels bad for him. He seems to be at a loss.

“Let me do this for you. I can help. I can be good for you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?”

Bob moves a little closer, takes one hand off a hip to undo belt and zipper.

“Yeah. Let me help you. Please.”


“Fuck, fuck, Bob. Why? I don't understand,” he cries out, thrusting and thrusting into Benson's mouth with abandon. “Why me? Why does it have to be me?”

Bob's preoccupied, so he doesn't answer, but Pete's lament tugs at his heart strings. But why did he choose Pete. What the hell makes him so different from anyone else at SC&P? It's absurd really. He shouldn't be doing this, but now that it's happening, he can't find it in himself to even want to stop.


“God, Benson, your mouth.”

Bob's heart, among other things, swells. He looks up through wet lashes to watch Pete as he feels his cock slide into and out of his mouth. Pete's cock is perfect.

“Gonna come, Benson. God, I swear—”

He cuts himself off with a loud groan, and Bob takes that as his cue. He takes Pete as deeply as he can, closes his eyes, and swallows, swallows, swallows.

They pull away from each other, panting. The stare at each other, waiting to see who will move first.

“Get out,” says Pete in a low voice. “Please just get out now.”

Feeling like a kicked pup, he does, scurrying out of Pete's office and off to the elevator. They had almost had a moment.


Bob just wants to be loved. By anyone really. Don, Roger, Ken Cosgrove. But Pete. Pete. He wants affection. He wants to be petted and cherished and fucked. He wants Pete's cock again, in his mouth, in his ass. He takes a bite of his lunch and nearly gags. His throat's too choked up with emotion to get a bite down. Why is one thing never enough?


He smiles brightly for the Christmas Party picture. The bulb flashes as he tries to think of a way to get a copy of it for himself so he can tear out Pete's part of the photo and keep it on his nightstand. Maybe he'll jerk off to it or maybe he'll just pray to it that one day Pete will look at him with that same smile and mean it.


Pete's drunk. Very drunk. But if he's being honest, so is he. That's why this seems like such a good idea to the both of them.

“More, more,” Benson begs.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Pete punctuates his statements with hard thrusts of his hips. If Pete's cock felt good in his mouth, it feels even better in his ass.

“Please, Pete, please,” he weeps drunkenly.

“Yes, fine,” he snarls cruelly. “Anything for the great Bob Benson.”


He can pretend nothing ever happened last night. Sure. Pete's doing it just fine...except Pete's not the one crying. That's just him.


“What do you mean, you're leaving?”

“It means I'm not going to work here anymore.”

“When were you planning on telling me this?”

Pete chuckles humorlessly.

“I wasn't going to, actually. Something held me back. I don't know. But now you know, so I'm going to leave. Good bye forever, Bob Benson.”

Pete makes for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“That's for me to know, and you to never find out, Bob.”

The door closes behind him with stunning finality.


The room was spinning. Bob grabs the edge of Pete's desk to keep his balance. Never see Pete again? No, no that was too much to bear.

“Wait!” he yells as the elevator doors close.

Pete meets his eyes a second before the doors close.

Bob has only two choices: risk the stairs or risk the other elevator.


He bolts the stairs, jumping from stair to landing, panting harshly. He has to get to the lobby before Pete. He has to. Please god, he has to.


He can jump this one. He'll make it just fine. He stumbles before his jump. He falls to the concrete. Blood spatters the stairs as his body hits the last landing.


He tries to get up, but he hit his head pretty badly. He lays down again.

“Pete!” he coughs to the empty stairwell.

He coughs again and blood spills from his mouth.


Pete stops in the lobby for a second. He'd thought he'd heard his name.

He shrugs, leaves the building, and hails a cab.

California is calling his name.