Anon Creamsicle

Guess what? Yet another guest fill by the wonderful horthbynorthwest!

"Lawrence and the Argonauts" for lndtbr

The water was clear, blue and perfectly warm and ten feet directly upwards Freddy could see the sunlight pouring in, refracting and making beautiful patterns reaching downwards. This was home, he never felt more sure of himself than when he darted underneath the surface, feeling the strength in his fin, the flow of his entire body as it worked to propel himself forward. He was lean, not overbearingly big like a lot of the male of his kind - he had tone where his fellows had bulge - but deceptively strong and much more agile than most. Again, unlike most of the males, Freddy let his hair grow into a floppy mess. It framed his face, bringing out his eyes, or pushed back when he wanted to go for sexy rather than cute. He knew how to work his physique, how to appeal to both men and women, how to keep his people safe, so despite the fact that he wasn't as physically dominating as a lot of the males, or as sexually alluring as the females, Freddy held his own amongst both and was held in high regard.

  He also gained a large fanclub as the only male siren in his colony, it was a shame that they were primarily female though, not that he didn't find them attractive but because after working with them day in and day out he found them wanting and the males, well, they were far too interested in looking masculine for him to even bother looking at them. The rest of the mermen stayed below the waves, protecting the clan from underwater threats, constantly bragging about their kills to try and make themselves believe in the importance of their role. Realistically, everything knew not to come anywhere near the colony, the time for warriors was at an end. The time was ripe for subtlety and distraction, something the females had been learning their entire lives - female dominance was on the rise and the males resented Freddy for rising as they were falling.

  It was a beautiful day above the surface, Freddy felt the warmth as he burst out and clambering up on to his favourite outcrop of reef. The alarm bells had began to ring and Freddy, being nearest had responded first and was the first to arrive. He could see the ship closing in, a tiny thing really, definitely not big enough for more than 3 people. He caught a glimpse of white skin - a bare back maybe? - And a blur of movement on deck. He could work with this.

  Freddy placed his tail on his piece of reef, his arms behind him, his chest curving downwards, his head back, neck exposed, showing off a patch of freckles that followed down his curve of his neck. He was being alluring and showing off his body whilst being submissive, a middle ground that he found to work well on both men and women, he had regularly started singing to find the few women on board ships like this to run on deck and throw themselves off. The men were harder, most of the time you had to get them to stop caring what the rest of the men thought, similar to his own kind, the idea of manliness was key and you had to undermine that. The easiest way was to fixate on one, let them feel the full weight of the siren song and charm, the tug of desire. Freddy was damn good at what he did because he was good at getting a read off the men, never going for those who were too proud to be curious - or too afraid - leaving those for the girls.

  As the boat pulled closer, Freddy picked his victim. If Freddy were human he'd be about the same height as this guy, but nowhere near as thickly built. His shirtless torso glinting under the sun, hard at work while he tries to ignore the reflections of the water droplets trickling down Freddy's equally exposed chest. He knows he has him. He might not know it yet, but he does, his death warrant was signed the moment he looked back for the second time. Locking his eyes and his focus on him, Freddy begins to sing.

  *  *  *

  Lawrence was being watched, he could feel the itch in the middle of his back that experience had drilled into him to listen to. At all costs. What disturbed Lawrence was that the only other person onboard was Edward who was in front of him, making some minor adjustments to the silk sails. He cast his eyes about, but as he already knew there weren’t any other boats within view, cautiously he looked behind him to the reef. This was a bad move because he saw the most beautiful boy he had ever seen lying exposed, water lapping over his legs - hang on, wait was that a tail? - and before knew what he was doing he was looking again, and fuck he was staring at a merman. And this time he got caught looking. Despite being at such a distance, Lawrence was hit with the knowledge that this beautiful creature's eyes would be the same shifting green as his tail. His heart almost stopped right there in his chest.

  It was like someone had poured honey in his ears, his brain had gone mushy, his limbs were ignoring his every command. That sound was heavenly. Lawrence stops what he was doing, turned to face the merman, and gave him his full attention and just let his eyes drift all over him, slow and dirty. The moment seemed to just keep going as if it had been frozen in time.

  He was vaguely aware of other mermaids appearing out of the waves, starting to sing and Edward slowly moving towards the back of the boat, starting to steer it towards the reef. Something in the back of his head was screaming at him that this was a something he should be stopping, but he really didn’t care. He was too distracted by the object of his desire. Not once did it occur to him that for appearances sake he should be paying attention to the mermaids over the merman, everything about him made Lawrence grip the side of the boat for dear life. He didn’t care that he was going to drown; all he wanted to do was drown in those green eyes.

  *  *  *

  Freddy pretty much chokes, struggling to maintain the steady, soothing song that was luring this impossible man to his death. He had never had this effect on another person before, let alone a man. It was intoxicating, powerful and it took everything Freddy had to not let it slip. This would be the ultimate high. Leading this man to his death would fuel his esteem – sexual and otherwise – for years to come. He had made this man lose control, this experienced sailor, who knew the stories was ready to jump over the side of the boat to try and get to him in time, and knowing that was down to him was heady.

  His eyelids droop as he enters the final stage of his song. His whole body language screams his desire for the topless man on the boat, normally this would be feigned, but not with him. He does want this man, he also wants him dead and watching him die desperate to reach Freddy would be a delicious middle ground. He pours more and more of his lust and persuasion into his song and is rewarded by seeing him finally climb over the side, splashing heavily into the water, spluttering for breath, not wanting to wait a second before he started to move.

  He watched the fear and confusion spread over the face of this man as his limbs refuse to respond to his brain, a puppet under the control of Freddy’s song, his fate sealed like so many before him. He doesn’t even look particularly look scared about dying, just about not getting to Freddy before he does, his eyes never leaving Freddy’s as he slips beneath the waves. Freddy revels in his victory, at how easy it was to destroy the human man.

  *  *  *

  Lawrence dropped like a stone, further and further down. The surface of the water becoming harder and harder to distinguish, despite the fact he was going deeper, it seemed like one good kick and he could get back to the surface. The sun trickling through made it look beautiful; it was strangely peaceful and quiet down here. He sympathised with Edward, who would be dying in a world of loud splintering wood, ripping silk and water slapping against rocks.

  With the song still in his ears, Lawrence was preparing to say goodbye and closed his eyes. Only regretting not having caught himself a merman, if only to have absorbed the creature’s beauty up close and for a few moments longer. Opening his eyes to catch the last glimpse of sunlight before he passed, he caught a glimmer of movement in his steadily blurring vision.

  The figure solidified and the merman was there; all floppy hair, lean muscle and beautiful mixture of green, blue, silver and golden scales. He looked curious, as if there was something that didn’t make sense to him. Just as Lawrence was losing consciousness he was aware of someone kissing him, he latched on to that feeling of closeness not the pressure of the water or the desperate need to breathe. He lost himself in the mouth of a merman and he slipped from consciousness content with his lot.

  *  *  *

  He’d watched the man disappear and something in his gut had wrenched. He didn’t understand. What made this man different? What made this man the one that Freddy had to go after? But his instinct had always lead him true in the past, so without thinking about it too much, he slid back into the water and with a few flicks of his tail he ended up face to face with this totally alien man. He seemed peaceful, with his eyes closed and arms open, yet he seemed to sense his presence and locked eyes with him again, questioning.

  In that moment Freddy simply wanted to kiss this man, wanted to be there in the most intimate way as he died. Freddy wanted to not only be there when he died, pressed against him, but also enjoyed being the reason he was dying in the first place. It felt like Freddy was destined to kill this man, to support him in his passing, to forge himself in fire, to come to terms with the death that he caused.

No, I'm sorry for making you wait this long. Real life has taken over recently, but I finally managed to tackle this prompt. But first, I thought I'd direct you to some high school AU drabbles I'd previously written:

Part I

Part II

I've set this fill in the same universe (and I included a really obvious homage to a beloved teen movie). ;)

"Payback" for omnivorousstegosaurus

"God damn it."

The football team was out on the field. He had a good ten minutes to run in and retrieve the crumpled heap that was stagnating at the bottom of his locker. His mom had been adamant, and he'd finally conceded when the stink his t-shirt had almost made him retch during field hockey.

Freddy huddled under the weight of his book bag and spun the combination as easy as breathing. The damp cotton mound stared back at him defiantly; he plucked at it with his thumb and index finger, then tossed it in with his math homework. Fucking gross.

A faint noise stirred the air and he froze, silencing the hinges of his locker. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing. The team was still practicing. Curiosity piqued, Freddy tugged on his lock to make sure it was reset, grabbed his bag, and shuffled in the direction the sound.

He turned the corner and nearly bumped into the wood benches near the shower stalls. There, back turned to him, was a lone player. Probably a linebacker. Broad chest. Thick arms. Cowed head. With a faint sense of shock, Freddy realized the bare shoulders were shaking. Words came out before he could stop himself:

"You okay, man?"

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

The linebacker swiveled as he yelled; their eyes met. A flash of recognition, and fury melted into pure fear.

"Hey," Freddy stuttered, casting his eyes to the mildewed tile.

"I didn't know it was you. Sorry."

A quick shrug and a conciliatory smile. Freddy didn't want to make the poor guy suffer.

"It's cool. Well, gotta go."

The player raised his hand in a hesitant wave. Two of his fingers were haphazardly splinted and swollen purple.

"Jesus. You sure you okay? Those look broken."

A wince, and the linebacker glanced away. Ignoring everything his mind screamed at him, Freddy inched closer and set his bag on the floor.

"You helped when Vic had me down," he urged gently, "just let me take a look."

"If it makes you feel better," the player grumbled and cast his glance towards the wall. Freddy was close enough to see the ruddy blush on his cheeks.

His blunt hands were calloused and warm. A rough swallow, and Freddy tried his hardest to focus on the injury. He touched one knuckle gently and felt a flinch.

"If you keep those wrapped and they're broken, you'll just fuck 'em up even worse."

"I know."

Baffled, Freddy didn't know what else to do except change the subject.

"That happen on the field?"

"Mostly."

The asshole was yanking his chain. Typical. Freddy pushed himself from the bench and grabbed his bag.

"Whatever, man. It's your business. Seeya around."

He got only a few paces before he heard the linebacker's voice call after him.

"Hey, what's your name?"

Mouth drawn into a thin line, Freddy studied his face and saw no malice there. His hazel eyes had a puckish tilt to them. Flat nose, Cupid's bow mouth. Thick brown hair. He was the kind of guy mothers warned their daughters about.

"Freddy."

"Hi Freddy," - a flash of dimples, then - "I'm Larry."

"Hi."

A shy, awkward silence followed. Face burning red, Freddy almost stumbled as he turned to leave.

"My fingers were broken before the game. I wrapped them myself and hoped the coach wouldn't notice."

It was an invitation. Without saying a word, Freddy returned and sat back down on the bench, careful to leave a few feet between them.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he finally asked, barely eking the words out.

"Not really," Larry answered, eyes betraying the falseness of his smile.

"That's okay."

"We shouldn't be hanging around each other, you know."

"Why?" Freddy asked, wary.

"You're a freshman and I'm a senior. People will talk."

Freddy's laugh was sudden and genuine. He basked in Larry's gentle amusement.

"What do you think they'll say?" he prodded, taking the bait.

"Nerd tutors dumb jock in exchange for protection. You know, the usual bullshit."

"Sorry to disappoint, but my grades aren't that great. I read comics instead of my textbooks. It really pisses off my old man."

A dark expression settled on Larry's face. He ran a slow finger along Freddy's book bag.

"That's expensive. I bet it's real hard being you, isn't it?"

The bitter edge to Larry's voice was unmistakable. Freddy's heart galloped in his chest. He didn't know what to say. When he finally spoke, the words burned like bile.

"Fuck you. My dad's a judge and my legacy was decided for me the day I was born. My mom's only sober when she's entertaining. My parents can't stand being in the same room and use me as some fucked up form of revenge. As soon as I'm eighteen I'm moving out. Fuck them and their money."

"Boo hoo."

Wordlessly, Larry stood up and began to retrieve his discarded football equipment. Freddy tried not to stare at the muscular lines of his back, furious at his own weakness. The anger rose as Larry resolutely ignored him, throwing his jersey and pads in a duffel before pulling a thin, white t-shirt over his head.

"Who broke your fingers?"

"Go fuck yourself, rich boy." Larry muttered.

Freddy paused and took a deep breath.

"Why'd he do it?"

Larry stopped and turned around. His jaw was flexed, good hand clenched into a fist. He fought to blink back tears.

"Because I got between him and my mom."

There were a hundred things Freddy could say. I'm sorry. Fuck that bastard. Has he done worse? Is your mom alright?

He swallowed all of them.

"Come here."

It came out as a whisper.

For some reason, Larry did. They faced each other on the small wood bench, uncertain. Silent. Freddy reached down to his bag and fingered a small silver pin in the shape of the letter 'X', fastened tight to one of the straps.

"You heard of the X-Men?" he asked shyly.

"Kind of," Larry stuttered. It was an obvious exaggeration. Freddy smiled.

"This one's my favorite. I've had it since I was little."

There was nothing else to be said, so he took Larry's thick hand in his and pressed the pin into the curve of his palm.

"What's this for?"

The words came out strained. Frightened.

"It means you're not alone."

"Your eyes are green," Larry stammered, then stopped. His ears turned bright red.

He knew that the rest of the team would be back soon, but for some reason, Freddy felt invincible. All it took was a small lean forward to bring their lips together. Larry went rigid, then moaned - so softly that Freddy barely heard it - and pulled him closer. His lips were cool and his tongue was warm and tasted sweet.

It was Freddy who pulled away first.

"I've got to go," he hissed, shaking and giddy. Larry grabbed at his belt and yanked him in for one last kiss. A few seconds of indulgence and Freddy wiggled free, then rushed towards the door.

"Remember how you said your parents use you to get back at each other?" Larry called after him.

Freddy stopped, nodded. Larry leaned back and gave him a slow, appreciative once-over.

"Wouldn't I be outstanding in that capacity?"

I love you, anon. You prompted this so long ago, I hope you're still around to read it...

"Dextral Shift" for anon

He'd been seventeen when Trespasser hit and sent all of California into a tailspin. Then Manila. Cabo. Sydney. Too young to pilot a Mark-1 or volunteer for the Pan Pacific Defense Corps, he'd decided he was best suited protecting the public in the good, old-fashioned way. Serving a jittery populace burdened with an uncertain future, the LAPD had accepted him with open arms.

By 2020, those living in coastal cities had migrated inland, and the LAPD had scattered with them. The few who remained meted out the law as they saw fit. Vigilante justice didn't sit right in Freddy's gut, so he made his way to the Shatterdome, certain the PPDC could put him to some use. He'd been an only child raised by a single mother; he was a loner by both necessity and habit. Piloting a Jaeger seemed an impossibility. But, as every Ranger knows, one mind can change everything.

**********

Larry Dimick was a rare breed. The dichotomous combination of ex-military and ex-convict; disciplined, yet insubordinate to authority he considered unworthy of his loyalty. Only SCI-clearance individuals knew that he'd volunteered to test Dr Lightcap's Pons System directly following the death of Captain Adam Casey. He'd suffered seizures, hemorrhages, chronic migraines. The experiments had almost killed him, but his sentence had already erased his legacy. If he died, he wouldn't be missed, but at least his death might mean something to humanity. When Lightcap devised the drift with Lieutenant D'onofrio, he'd hoped that whatever data they'd gleaned from him had helped in some way. They'd never even put him in a Mark-1 - only a simulator. Aside from the crippling headaches and nosebleeds that came and went, he suffered no ill-effects from radioactive exposure. He held onto the hope that maybe, one day, they'd call on him again. When all other options had been exhausted.

**********

"We're only asking because we have no other choice."

He wiped the grease from his hands and rolled forward on his haunches, considering.

Everyone knew the Jaeger program was in its death-throes. The best Rangers were dead, MIA, or on the verge of forced-retirement. Stacker Pentecost hadn't visited the Los Angeles Shatterdome in months, but there were whispers that he was back in the continental US. Something felt different, like humanity was on the verge of a cataclysmic shift. Larry just wasn't sure what direction that shift would take them.

"There were only four Mark-2s. Don't bullshit me," he frowned and rose to his full height.

"Only four were battle-ready before the Mark-3's deployment. They were working on a fifth. It was shelved when Matador Fury got in that rumble outside of Oblivion Bay."

Larry pursed his lips. He'd been living near Oakland at the time; he remembered. Matador Fury had been piloted by two convicts who had been promised freedom if they fought in the Kaiju War. Media lore said that they'd been drift compatible because they were cellmates, but Larry had seen the footage of them together and known they'd been in love. They'd had little formal training to aid their natural mind-link and their Jaeger had been destroyed, entombing them together. He'd cried for those men, alone in his quarters.

"What is its name?"

The SDCC lackey straightened, confident of his success.

"Canis Majoris."

He'd already made his decision.

"Count me in."

**********

"I have weapons training. I was a police officer, before all of this."

Freddy turned slowly to allow the biometric reading. A three-dimensional hologram of his interior anatomy materialized. The doctor ignored him and zoomed in on his lungs.

"Are you a smoker?"

"I quit about a year ago. Got too expensive," he muttered.

"Hmmm. The damage is mostly repaired."

"Is that good?"

The doctor ignored him and studied his remaining internal organs. He watched, feeling disconnected. Like they were looking at someone else's guts.

"You're in excellent health. Good aerobic endurance. Impressive anaerobic resilience. How is your mental health?"

"Uh, normal I guess? Some anxiety and depression, but that's normal for cops. Hell, everyone's stressed these days. You just get used to it."

"Have you ever had yourself evaluated for the Pons System?"

"You can be tested for that? I thought that was something you either have or you don't. Like, it has to be natural," Freddy sputtered, taken aback.

"That's correct," came the measured reply, "at first we thought friends and lovers were often compatible because years of emotional intimacy attuned them to each other. Then we realized that the harmony already existed, and that innate, invisible synchronicity is what binds certain people together in the first place. You have no surviving family members who share your mental frequency, so how will you know who you're compatible with unless you're tested?"

"Oh."

"I'll schedule you for a basic evaluation."

**********

It spoke volumes about his eagerness to pilot a Jaeger that he'd never even considered who would be his co-pilot until they called him in for the Pons test. The room was white and impossibly clean compared to the worn familiarity of the rest of the Shatterdome. For some reason, it set Larry on edge.

"How many candidates are there? Can't we just settle this the old fashioned way? I've got my sparring gloves back in my quarters."

"We had a unexpected influx of evacuees from the area around LA proper. Penecost's method for determining drift compatibility is unorthodox and time-consuming. Please affix the helmet so that the spinal clamps can be engaged."

Larry frowned at the doctor but followed her instructions.

"Since you are the only individual with Pons System and battle simulation experience, all other candidates will be evaluated based on their mental compatibility with you. If none meet the standard, the directive will be put on hold."

"Understood. Send them in."

The process was exhausting. There was a strange static that built up between incompatible minds, like an electro-magnetic barrier. By the time the eighth candidate was rejected, his heart rate was elevated, head pounding. He choked down the nausea and prayed that his nose wasn't bleeding.

"How many more?" he asked with deceptive calm.

"We have high hopes for this one."

The doctor's oblique answer wasn't really one at all. The door opened and Larry glanced over. He forgot how to breathe.

It was a young man, not a day over thirty. Crooked smile, too-long dirty blonde hair. He gave Larry a quick once-over then cast his bashful eyes toward the doctor.

She strapped him in the machine and adjusted the clamps. Larry smiled encouragingly and the kid's pale skin blushed a pretty shade of pink.

A spark, a feeling of vertigo, then perfect relief. Like jumping into a cold lake on a hot summer day. The water parted for him - orangegold light everywhere - no static. No interference. Just Freddy. Laughter, clear and echoing. Impossibly beautiful. I know you. And it was both their voices speaking at once. You took a life. So did I. Panic began to bubble up; Larry recoiled, stripped bare. I was commended, you were punished. But you're a good man.

The voice was singular. Distinctly Freddy's. Calmed, Larry glanced around. He saw the corpse of a middle-aged man, a looter who in his desperation had turned to violence when he couldn't find the supplies he needed in an abandoned pharmacy. It was flooded, filled with weeks of standing water. Teeming with bacteria. The man was floating face down in it, a single bullet hole in his back. Freddy stood behind him, weapon trained.

Larry wanted to share the events leading up to his discharge and his incarceration, but his mind faltered. A strange sensation, like fingertips pulling away. He moved with them, pleading silently. And then he was back in the lab.

The doctor disengaged them without a word. Both men sat, stunned, eyes locked. Larry had to blink the tears away.

"At this point, I think telling you the results would be redundant."

The smile was audible in her voice and Larry had no choice but to smile with her.

**********

And just like that, they were inseparable. For the first day, the two of them barely spoke. They silently ate the same food, thighs pressed together at a crowded cafeteria table. Larry was a child of the 70's and 80's and had an eclectic taste in music. He took the left ear bud of his iPod and Freddy took the right; they listened to Depeche Mode and watched the people bustling around them. There were no active-duty Jaegers based out of the Los Angeles Shatterdome; if Canis Majoris was given the green light, they'd be the sole protectors of the self-contained metropolis. Larry drew lazy circles on Freddy's palm and thought of the men who'd piloted Matador Fury.

**********

Larry led him into his quarters, palm pressed gently against the hollow of his back. It was small and spartan, but enough for two men. They undressed each other like they'd done it a hundred times before. The bed could accommodate them both if they curled together.

"We don't have to do anything," Larry whispered into the dark, breaking the mutual silence.

Freddy answered by cupping his jaw and pulling him down into kiss and that cool, clean water they'd found in the drift. Larry drank deeply, then dragged his lips across the pale curve of Freddy's neck. Their lovemaking was slow and deliberate, Freddy's long fingers tangled in Larry's hair. They didn't fall asleep until nearly four in the morning.

**********

"What will it be like? In Canis, I mean."

They sat on the scaffolding and watched as the ground crews scurried around their beautiful girl. She was like a star, incandescent. A beacon. Pride swelled in Larry's chest.

"I don't know. I've only ever run a simulator."

Shocked, Freddy cast a wary eye in his direction.

"Why didn't I pick up on that?"

"I wasn't projecting it. I didn't want to worry you."

"I'm not worried," Freddy sighed under his breath and turned back towards the Jaeger.

A twinge of guilt caught Larry off guard. He weaved their fingers together but said nothing.

**********

Freddy was a scrapper who came alive in the ring. He never pulled any punches, but he never had to. Larry anticipated and returned every one of them. They always left the dojo sweaty and ecstatic, fearless in their invincibility.

The price of their bravado came one night after a particularly grueling session. The dream was intense, bleeding between their minds to the point where the neither could tell whose had originated it. Each moment, each sensation, each breath was so real that both were utterly convinced of its authenticity. The Kaiju was monstrous, a category not yet encountered. It shone like a blue diamond, beautiful and terrifying. Her maw drooled ammonia and they could smell the reek of it even inside their helmets. They moved in unison; identical heights, identical reaches. Freddy led with a tight uppercut which left her body splayed across an entire block of skyscrapers. She retaliated with impossible agility, her tail crashing against Canis' chest plate. A single, discordant note screamed in their ears with the force of it.

They found themselves in the Pacific, water coursing in sheets from their hull as they shakily regained their footing. She was on them again and control was yelling at them to get out. But they couldn't. Larry was hoarse, dizzy. He turned his head just in time to see the dagger-point of her tail pierce the armor and impale Freddy's suit. The sudden, shrieking silence was as unbearable as his grief. All he could do was scream.

Paralyzed, Larry managed to blink open his eyes. It was too dark to see, but he knew the familiar scent of Freddy's shampoo. He buried his face in the nape of his lover's neck and sobbed. Freddy was trembling, still trying to free himself from the weight of the nightmare. He turned over and silently gathered Larry in his arms, pressing his head against the spot where she had stabbed him.

"I couldn't save you."

"I'm here, I'm okay."

"You're my responsibility. You're my life. And you were just gone."

There was nothing Freddy could say, so he kept silent, just rocking him gently.

"Before we suit up, I have to tell you," Larry spoke, voice muffled.

"Alright."

"I didn't shoot him out of self-defense. He betrayed me and the rest of our unit, so I took him out. The military doesn't take too kindly to summary executions, so that was that."

"Did you love him?"

A moment of hesitation, then a shuddering breath.

"Yeah. Not like you, but yeah."

"Then it's different for us. Just like it'll be different when we're really suited up. We'll be okay."

First of all, I'm a jerk for making you wait this long for this fill, but I'd be an even bigger jerk if I didn't first point you in the direction of this rentboy fic on the kinkmeme. I've tried to put my own little twist on the trope (*cough*Bottom!Larry*cough*); hope you like it!

"Reversal" for anon

Sneakers tapping on the park bench, Freddy stole a glance at his wristwatch. The last bus of the night should've already arrived. When dusk had retreated, he'd perched himself atop the bench's backrest in an attempt to claim the unfamiliar area as his own. Unruly hair, ripped acid-washed jeans, mid-drift top just like Johnny Depp's in Nightmare on Elm Street. He kept one foot on his electric-blue Jammer and trained his eyes forward, silently weighing his options. Not enough money for a cab. The route wouldn't take quite as long on his board, but the prospect still irritated him. He sighed. It was his own fucking fault for mixing up the bus schedule.

Instinct kicked in and his spine went rigid. He saw the movement in his periphery first, the sure-footed gait of a loner approaching from his left. Freddy tilted his head just enough to gauge the situation; the man was older, stockier. About his height. Black Chinos matched with a navy polo. His shoulders were bent, hands shoved deep in his pockets, glance focused on the concrete ahead of him. It seemed unnatural from someone of his build. The moment Freddy turned his head away, he felt the stranger's eyes roam over him. Without thinking, he let his posture loosen, hair falling forward, hoping to make himself invisible.

When the man began to approach him, real panic surged, bitter and settling in the back of his throat like bile. He clenched his hands into fists, preparing for the worst, fear bringing everything into sharp contrast.

"How much?"

It took a second to make sense of the words, uttered quickly and nervously. Freddy glanced up; the man couldn't even look at him.

"Huh?"

The man startled, expression a muddle of indecision, then moved closer. He cleared his throat and raised his voice just a little.

"Your rates. How much?" he reached into his back pocket and fumbled with his wallet, "I only got a fifty. What'll that get me?"

Struck dumb, almost shaking with relief, Freddy just stared, blinking. The adrenaline crested, and a different kind of euphoria hit him. He could play the role convincingly. His body had already fallen into it; legs spread just a little wider, one shoulder slouched, hips tilting. Slowly, he pulled his bangs back and leveled him with limpid eyes.

"What do you want?"

It was obvious the man was as new to the situation as he was, which gave Freddy room to bullshit a little. There were a batch of seedy motels on the thoroughfare near the park's periphery. He doubted that detail had gone unnoticed.

"Uh, more than a blow."

So, not a quick fumble in the front seat of a parked car. The ease with which he considered prolonging the ruse was disturbing. Freddy licked his lips.

"I'm really hungry."

Surprise, then concern, flashed in the stranger's eyes. Freddy smiled shyly as his conscience screamed at him. He resolutely ignored it, managing only an expectant silence.

"There's a Denny's not to far from here."

"Okay."

And that was that. He grabbed his board and jumped down from the bench, refusing to let his mind play things through to the end. That was a bridge he'd cross when he came to it.

***********

The man ordered black coffee and silently watched him eat. Under the restaurant's lighting it was easier to take stock of him. Mid-forties; laugh-lines etched into his cheeks and forehead. Succinct but polite with the waitress. He was the type who escaped notice until he grinned, then that was all she wrote. Just a few bashful smiles made Freddy a full-blown goner. The certainty of what they were about to do both thrilled him and terrified him. He scarfed down his pancakes with a jittery hand.

"Do all the kids dress like that these days?"

Coloring, Freddy glanced down at his bare stomach. He loved the subversion of it. Like Bowie or Jagger.

"It's a statement," he shot back, chin thrust forward.

"It's a statement alright," the man smirked, "I'm just not sure what the hell it's trying to say. I guess I'm stuck in the past with French cuffs and Oxford balmorals."

"How conventional of you."

"We can't all be as effortlessly cutting-edge, kiddo."

Freddy fished for a comeback as the waitress came with a refill of coffee. The man asked for a twenty and two tens back. Freddy stared intently at the bills before they were neatly folded and placed inside the tan leather wallet. They walked out into the night, bodies tense in the coastal heat. Freddy felt strange holding his board, but riding it would seem rude. The closest motel wasn't far away.

Freddy figured that not many of the young men who turned tricks showed up with a Santa Cruz in tow. Maybe the clerk thought they were father and son, maybe he was too jaded to give a fuck. The man handed over a ten and ridiculously, Freddy wondered what most johns got out of a thirty dollar investment. They trudged the dingy, pea-green carpet and came upon the door too quickly. Freddy hesitated when the man held it open for him. Crossing the threshold meant no turning back.

"I won't hurt you," the man soothed. Freddy tensed, reveling in his vulnerability. Adrenaline junky. He walked forward and tossed his board onto the floor.

"You pick up more business with that thing?"

"No," he answered truthfully, reckless, "you're my first."

"What?"

"That turn you on?"

"No!" the man sputtered, "that's fucked up. Christ, what the hell am I doing?"

He yanked out his wallet and threw the remaining bills at his sneakers as he turned to leave. A strange desperation clawed at Freddy's throat.

"I don't want your money. I just liked the attention. I'm sorry."

It was the most truthful thing he'd said all night, and it stripped him bare. Shoulders hunched, he looked away as the man glanced back in his direction.

"You queer?"

Freddy glared at him, stinging.

"You saying it ain't gay if there's cash involved?"

The man's lips narrowed into a line.

"I like women, mostly."

"Mostly."

The retort was dead-pan. Sighing, the man bent down and retrieved his cash.

"You legal?"

Real smooth. Freddy crossed his arms over his chest and bit down on his laughter.

"I'm almost twenty."

The bed groaned as the man sat down on it and bent forward, clutching his head in his hands. There was nothing Freddy could say, so he kept silent, trapped in the surreality of the situation.

"There're some things you just can't do with women," the man finally whispered. Freddy had the heart not to ask him to repeat it.

"Like what?" he asked, "show me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I've wanted to fuck you since you ordered me that glass of orange juice."

Laughter, then those fucking dimples. Embarrassed, Freddy studied the flimsy, moth-eaten drapes.

"Don't do anything you don't want to."

He nodded and risked a glance. The man was undressing, thick arms lifting his shirt over his head. His chest was wide, with muscles that came from natural labor and not meticulous hours spent at a gym. There was an effortless masculinity to him. He was ignorant of Freddy's enraptured stare as he unbuckled his belt and stepped free of his trousers. His briefs hung low on his hips, hugging the curve of his ass. When he turned, Freddy could see the outline of his cock, hard and tucked up, trapped under the thin white cotton. He had to force himself to breathe.

The man locked eyes and pulled his briefs down, slow, letting the thick swell of his cock peek over the elastic. Freddy blinked, frozen like a jack-rabbit. When the full length bobbed free and he had to remind himself to keep breathing.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but when the man lowered himself onto his stomach, Freddy nearly gaped. He'd just assumed that age meant seniority. But it was unequivocal submission that he was being presented with. The man tilted his ass just a little and Freddy's cock twitched.

"Are you sure?" he rasped.

"Yes, god. I bet you're hung, aren't you? The skinny ones always are."

The man turned his head. His dark eyes were blown black. Freddy couldn't get undressed quickly enough, almost stumbling as he approached the bed.

"Check my right-hand pocket."

He nodded, thankful for the stranger's forethought, and pulled out a lubricated condom. His heart slammed in his chest as he crawled onto the mattress and bracketed the man's thighs with his knees. One splayed palm and a soft caress over his flank and Freddy felt the shudder beneath him. He dipped his thumb into the crease and traced the tight hole, barely pressing in. The noise the man made was indecent.

"Please," he begged, deep, gasping, and raised his hips.

"I want to lick you first."

The man turned his face into the pillow and moaned. Freddy was so hard he was dripping, balls swollen and tight against him. He leaned forward, spreading the man's cheeks, and swiped his tongue quickly, just getting a taste of him. His cock pulsed and he reached down, jerking himself slowly as he went in again. This time, he delved deeply, relishing the man's stuttering cry as he pushed his tongue in, face slick with saliva. It was heaven.

"Fuck me. God. I need your prick."

Hands shaking, Freddy tore open the packet and rolled the condom on. The man's asshole was quivering and still wet with his spit. He pressed two fingers in and hissed as he was taken deep, met with equal force. The thighs beneath him flexed, desperate. Lips quirking, he gradually withdrew his fingers. Gripping his cock by the base, he pressed the tip in just enough to crown, and held it there.

"Want more?"

"Please."

The hot, wet clench around him was almost unbearable. Elbows locked, Freddy leaned forward and rested his forehead between the man's shoulder blades, taking a moment to collect himself. A tilted pelvis and a rough, needy thrust against him. An answering roll of his hips and a quick slam in had both men groaning. Freddy was light-headed, marveling at the pleasure he took in giving it. Blunt fingers reached back and grabbed at him, urging him closer, faster. Centering himself, Freddy fucked as hard as he could, marveling as he reduced the man to short, piercing gasps.

"Lean back, let me jack you off," he murmured.

It seemed the polite thing to do. They fit together just right; he leaned his chin against a broad, sloping shoulder and reached down. It was cut, curving, and heavy in Freddy's hand. A few quick, tight squeezes was all it took. The man went rigid and collapsed against him, neck arched. Against all better judgment, Freddy tilted his head and brought their lips together, swallowing the surprised groan. He pressed in deep and held, emptying himself silently, clutching the man closer. His mind was nothing but white noise.

It was strange. He felt soft kisses along his hairline and a large hand cupped along his jaw, guiding him. Then warmth. A strong, rapid heartbeat. The sheets were ratty and prickled against his clammy skin. He couldn't bring himself to care.

"Please, don't take the money."

He opened his eyes, surprised.

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good. Because I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression. I want to take you out proper, like to a ball game or something. Maybe make a habit of it."

Was this how men asked each other on dates? Freddy didn't know. He ducked his head, bashful.

"Okay."

"Good. Just sleep now. Sweet boy, you were so good."

Oh god, you've given me an excuse to be filthy. So, here's fair warning: yeah I went there. This is definitely NC-17.

"Aim True" for anon

The ringing jolted him awake. Heart pounding, Freddy rolled off his futon and shuffled across the unfinished hardwood. He turned the television's volume down as he passed it.

"Yo," he answered succinctly.

"Shit, did that asshole give me the wrong number?"

Freddy recognized the mutterer's voice immediately and felt his gut summersault.

"Mr White?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just wanted to check in with you."

"About the casing?"

"Nah, that's good. I was thinking we should set aside some time for shooting."

Freddy choked back a laugh.

"What, like at a range? Are you messing with me?"

"No, asshole," White quipped, amused, "gimme some credit. I know a place and I figured most dealers don't get a lot of target practice-"

"I ain't a dealer. I don't fucking do corners. I don't sell to kids. I'm a facilitator, okay? I know growers and I know buyers, and I bring them together."

"Oh, a real businessman."

"Yeah, and I know how to take care of myself and my interests."

"You ever shoot anyone? I don't mean at them, like warning shots or shit like that. Have you ever fired a bullet and heard it hit flesh?"

Throat suddenly dry, Freddy fought to reconcile his own experience with his cover's empty bravado. He fidgeted and cast his eyes down at his bare feet.

"I grazed this asshole once. I wasn't really trying to hit him but I caught his shoulder. Bled like a motherfucker, but that's it."

"Mmm," White answered thoughtfully, "sounds like you need practice."

"Fuck off," Freddy huffed and glanced up at the television. Local broadcasters soundlessly recited the late night news. He turned away.

"You first."

It was a statement easily laughed off or played down. Freddy wasn't blind to the looks that White had been giving him, and any sane cop would have feigned ignorance. It was the power play, he told himself. The adrenaline rush of holding the key and denying entry. He decided to nudge the door open just a little.

"Halfway there already."

The line was silent and Freddy was certain that he'd overstepped. He braced his arm against the wall and buried his forehead in the crook of it.

"What?

White's voice was like gravel, stretched between his ragged breaths. Without thinking, Freddy shifted his weight and held the receiver closer.

"Like it wasn't obvious what I was doing when you called."

"... shit."

"You alone?" Freddy prompted, heart thumping at the thrill of it. He slowly rolled his head against his arm and waited.

"Yeah."

"I'm so fucking hard right now, Mr White," he moaned, only lying a little. The sound of a quick, stuttering inhale on the other end made his cock twitch. The resulting shame he'd expected was disturbingly absent.

When there was no immediate answer, he frowned. He hadn't planned on doing most of the heavy lifting by himself.

"Is that sweet cock of yours leaking?" White asked suddenly, no-nonsense.

Freddy squeezed his eyes shut, blindsided by his own arousal.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Describe it to me."

Face burning, Freddy reached down and pulled himself free. It felt obscene.

"You know when you're so hard it hurts?"

"What does it taste like?"

Fuck. Mind stuttering, Freddy used his free hand to swirl his thumb over the wetness pooled near the tip of his foreskin. He brought it to his mouth.

"So good."

White's moan had every inch of him tingling.

"I want to stretch that pretty mouth of yours around my dick. How much can you take?"

Freddy gripped himself tight, stroking slow, and wondered a little hysterically when it had stopped being a game.

"All of it. I want you to gag me with it."

The noise White made was indecent.

"Can you lie down somewhere?"

The question had Freddy blinking, disoriented.

"Yeah. I'm on a cordless. Where are you?"

"On my bed. I had my cock out before I called you."

"Were you jerking off?" Freddy asked, surprised by the tremor in his voice. He almost stumbled back to the futon.

"Yeah. Thinking about spreading you open and fucking your perfect little pink hole. You ever been fucked in the ass by someone who knows how?"

A quick tug and Freddy let go, balls aching, taut with the need to orgasm. He licked his lips and answered.

"I usually get on top and ride. Takes the guess work out of it."

"Of course you do. You've thought of riding my cock, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Have you looked at my crotch and wondered how much I'm packing? You ever jerk yourself to sleep while imagining me inside you?"

"God, yes."

"You got anything you can use to slick yourself up, baby?"

"Just a sec."

Ears blaring white noise, Freddy fumbled under his coffee table and found the lotion. He felt off-balance. Half-mad.

"Okay. Ready."

"Good boy. Tickle yourself a little first. Don't press in all the way; not until I tell you. Just focus on how good it feels."

The lotion was cool, but warmed up quick. Freddy sighed softly and did exactly as he was told.

"Imagine that's my tongue. I'm just licking you now, real slow. Loving the taste of you. I'm teasing you just a little, pressing inside. You like that?"

"Yes. Please, I need more."

"Put one finger inside, sweetheart. Slowly. Don't be greedy."

Cock flush against his belly, Freddy kneaded the tip of it slowly with his forearm as he worked his finger in and out of his hole.

"Please..."

"Okay, since you asked so nice. One more."

The noise he made was keening, needy, but Freddy didn't care. He eased them in with all the patience he could bear.

"More."

"You like your asshole stretched wide, don't you?"

"God, yes. Have you got a thick cock, Mr White? Could you stretch me enough?"

"My cock was made to fuck your ass. Three fingers now, baby. Don't be shy; fuck yourself hard."

Freddy moaned long, voice hitching, and complied. He positioned his wrist and thrust in, raising his hips up just enough to hit deep.

"That's right. I'm fucking you so good, baby. It's the best you've ever had. You don't even have to touch your cock to make yourself come. I'm filling you up. It's dripping out of you."

White grunted his pleasure and then Freddy was coming, cries hoarse, like he was falling, shaking with something akin to vertigo.

"You didn't say my name," came the soft rumble over the phone and Freddy's mind stopped lagging.

Lawrence 'Larry' Dimick. Also known as Lawrence Jacobs and Alvin 'Al' Jacobs.

"Huh?"

"Just fucking around. I don't give a shit what you call me, but next time we're fucking for real."

"Okay," Freddy answered without thinking, jaw slack. He could feel the semen cooling on his chest and fished for a kleenex.

"We'll work out the details later. 'Night kiddo."

I hope you don't mind, but I'm combining these two prompts because I was blind-sided by a bunny that fits both of them. I'm giving fair warning: I've given them a "happy ending", but this one is SAD. I don't know what the hell came over me.

"Grace" for ilikeoldfashionedmusic

The agony of indecision is corrosive. You pace until your gut is sour, bent-double over white porcelain, expelling nothing more than thin, yellow bile. It was your mother's renewed acquaintance with religion that had estranged you, but now, almost ten years later, you find yourself in prayer. Tears dried, body weary, you make your choice at quarter to four in the morning. You kiss the cross and place it back in the drawer where it had once been forgotten.

***********

His eyes were on you from the first, and you hated him for it. But the bastard wore you down. You're not sure if what you feel is love; all you know is that the man you thought yourself to be has been obliterated. Somehow, it's freeing.

Heart hammering in your chest, floating in that strange euphoria of fear, you pull him aside. Breakfast can wait. He touches your arm gently and you know you've made the right decision.

"Okay," you tell him. No additional words are necessary.

His fingers tighten and he nods once. Towering, invincible, the two of you enter the café unnoticed and quietly take your seats.

***********

Impossibly, your prayers are answered. The job takes maybe ten minutes at most and you scarcely register the drive back to the warehouse. Brown is oblivious to the large, gentle hand that draws soft circles against your thigh. Secretly, you're near-mad with anxiety, eyes catching the rear-view mirror for any evidence of the squad cars that you know are tailing, but somehow you make it.

While the others whoop with victory, scuffing their excess energy onto the warehouse floor, you quietly beg him not to wait for Joe.

"Let's take our cut and run," you hiss, "he'll understand. The quicker we get to Mexico, the better."

Indecision is apparent in his eyes, but eventually he nods. His seniority keeps their questions at bay. When you discover that be brought a change of clothes for the both of you, just in case you needed to cross the border, your throat tightens. You unbuckle and rest your head on his lap; he accepts it without comment, fingers combing through your hair as he keeps one hand on the steering wheel.

***********

The first years are the hardest. He worships you, and it grates because you know you're undeserving of it. You're brooding and prone to bouts of profound sadness, but he's impossibly patient. Eventually, you carve out a life together, finding a simple rhythm that somehow works. The bar you own is humble, only as much as the two of you could afford, but you pour your lifeblood into it. You take turns working the counter and hire a few girls to wait tables. The nights he wakes you at one in the morning, exhausted from a long day yet still awake with the need for you, are your favorites. You taste the smoke on his lips and roll eagerly onto your stomach, convinced that this is the best your life will ever be.

***********

One morning, decades later, you wake up and realize with a dull sense of loss that you hardly remember being a cop. He knows something is wrong from your tell-tale silence, but doesn't pry. It's easier to just sit and watch the bustling life at the first light of dawn. You feel the familiar press of his lips against your forehead as he takes your mug back inside and you need a few minutes to compose yourself before you join him. He takes extra care of you that night, and even though you're both grey, he still cradles you like the doe-eyed kid he fell in love with.

***********

You don't notice at first. It starts as accumulation of little, inconsequential things: he's uncharacteristically restless at night, fishes a little longer to find the right word, or forgets the end of an anecdote in the middle of telling it. Each instance is easy to explain away with exhaustion or stress. You find it cute at first, until suddenly, pointedly, it isn't. The sight of him wandering your rooms like a lost child freezes you with pure terror. When you hold him close and ask him what he's looking for, his face crumples because he can't remember.

For the first time, you feel the full weight of those twenty years that separate you. Sometimes, when that choking fear makes it impossible to sleep, you lay still and watch him, heart beating in your throat. The deep lines in his face both repulse and captivate you.

There's no one you can talk to and you try not to resent him for it. For a time, you briefly debate taking him back to America for treatment, until you realize that it wouldn't be worth the risk. You research your options discreetly. The medication is costly, but you'll find a way acquire it because there's simply no other choice. Eventually, it will just be a matter of waiting, managing. Making him comfortable. You wonder idly how an impersonal God could have conceived of such perfect penance for your sins.

He's prone to mood swings, overwhelmed with the frustration of knowing that something isn't right, but lacking the capacity to understand why. One evening, after forgetting that he asked it of you, he lobs his glass against the wall with the full force of his fear. You hold him close because there's nothing else you can offer. His quaking vulnerability haunts you.

***********

Fatigue has settled deep into your bones. You've run the gamut, from Cholinesterase inhibitors to Memantine. Now, you have nothing left but palliative care. The ammonia stink of hospitals is etched into your memory, but you have nowhere else to go, so you stay with him. You've heard whispers in the halls; the nurses call you "those sweet old queers", and with a fleeting melancholy you think of how tickled he would be if he could hear them. He's always been proud of you, never shrinking from judgmental eyes or casually cutting remarks. His love was defiant.

You cherish the days that he remembers you because they are so rare. Most days - the worst days - are populated with blank stares. Sometimes, he'll gaze up at you shyly, and say, "pardon my boldness, but you have the most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen."

All you can do is smile softly and thank him.

It's a Catholic hospital, and even though your mother was Dutch Reformed, you still go into the little chapel to pray. It comes back naturally even after years of abstention. You beg for guidance; the weight of your secret is choking, omnipresent. He deserves the truth, yet an eleventh-hour confession would be the height of selfishness. The shame of your cowardice is crippling.

The day you finally break is indistinguishable from the others, each one blending into the next like drab watercolor painting. You're asleep on the chair next to his bed and it's the sound of his voice that wakes you.

"Are you the new guy Joe called in?" he asks, strong and commanding. You stop breathing.

"No," you finally manage.

"Ah. I could have sworn..." he shakes his head, "name's Larry."

Gripped by an unfathomable need and hating yourself for it, you expel the truth like poison.

"Detective Freddy Newendyke."

The fear in his eyes is sudden, acute; you blink away the tears in yours. Without thinking, you take his hand, shaking it, letting it become a caress when he doesn't flinch away.

"I'm off duty," you whisper, "haven't been working for a few years."

"Do we know each other?"

"A little."

"Then you can't be all bad," he grins, wide and easy, and you feel yourself falling.

He leans forward, eyes clear and lucid and when he cups your face you turn into it, letting go. His fingers smooth away your tears. There is only one thing he's ever needed to know, and so you say it.

"I love you."

His eyes shutter and his face transforms. He's gone; only the frail old man remains.

"You're a handsome one," he smiles sweetly, "have we met?"

So a while back we discussed the prospect of Larry being able to forgive Freddy for being a cop and came to the conclusion that because of both the horrible betrayal and Larry’s deep seeded issues with authority, they wont be giving the relationship another go. And while I still completely agree with that rationale, the other day I had another thought.

I feel like Larry is very insecure.

He had a rough childhood most likely with little to no emotional support, he’s probably struggled with his sexuality and since he is attracted to women he was able to deny that part of himself for a long time, which (playing off of your idea of him being primarily homoromantic) lead to a series of mostly superficial and unfulfilling relationships, and he turns to a life of crime at an early age (assuming there were smaller crimes gradually leading up to the armed robbery at 21), which puts him in a position to face terrible judgement. Going to prison that first time is an official statement that (in the eyes of our society) Larry is the bad guy. And I think that’s significant, I think it creates in Larry’s mind this sense of “us vs them,” and cops are a symbol of this, a symbol of a world that doesn’t accept or value him because by breaking the law he’s done what’s considered “wrong.” And I think that hurts him, makes him feel isolated and results in him becoming hardened.

And yet despite all of this, Larry still has a strong sense of morality. He respects women, he thinks that Pinks a scumbag for not tipping, he’s disgusted and infuriated by all the innocent people that Blonde kills, he has the chance to make off with the diamonds but stays behind in a dangerous situation with the dying Orange because he feels “responsible” for him, because he loves him and wants to be there to comb his hair and whisper little jokes that make him laugh and reassure him when he’s scared shitless and just hold him incase he doesn’t have another chance to.

And what really gets me here is that I feel like a huge part what hurts Larry so much when he finds out Orange has been lying to him is that he feels like everything he did that was “good” is completely meaningless to this person that he loves, because if Freddy is a cop, Freddy must view him as a criminal and henceforth as a “bad person.” Because to Larry cops (or by extent other authority figures) are the epitome of judgement, and Larry has spent a long time feeling shitty and judging himself.

And I think that if Freddy was able to look Larry in the eyes and tell him, with complete honesty, “You’re a good man, I accept you, and I love you,” it would mean a lot, because if a cop can think so highly of him, maybe one day he can see himself that way too.

(*≧∀≦*)

As usual, so sorry for the delay in filling this. :( (Note: since rebloggable asks won't allow read-more cuts, I'm posting this the old-fashioned way.)

"Trick" for anon

He dragged the tip of his thumb against the thin rubber sheathes that cradled the retracted passenger-side window pane. His arm was perched loosely, hoping for a rare breeze, tapping the rhythm of his addiction's anxiety into the dark paint of the Buick's door.

"You cool?" White asked, voice nonchalant in a way that was anything but.

Freddy pursed his lips and sank down into his seat.

"I ran out of smokes. Just get a touch jittery, is all. Swing by a gas station or something on the way back and I'll be okay."

"Shit. I'd give you one but this is my last."

And there it was, that strange duality of his rough voice and tender stare. Freddy swallowed and glanced away, the heat suddenly cloying. The gold metal band felt too small for his finger and he fought the sudden need to twist at it. He wasn't an idiot; he knew what White wanted. He just wasn't sure if White knew.

"We could shotgun," he joked, voice pitched high in disbelief at his own recklessness. Flashing red to the bull, his mind supplied and he almost laughed. He blinked sweat out of his eyes.

"Huh?"

Blood roared in Freddy's ears.

"Just a dumb stoner thing," he muttered, "never mind."

"Shit, I'm old. This is what I thought you were talking about."

Relaxed, no fuss, White pulled the cigarette from his mouth and deftly turned it around before carefully clamping his lips around the paper, so that only the filter was visible. His cheeks hollowed and a steady stream of smoke emerged. Freddy gaped.

"You just gotta keep your tongue away from the ash, is all," White explained after plucking the cigarette free, "you blow air in and it looks like a smoking gun barrel. Hence, shot-gunning."

"Shit, that's not what I was talking about at all."

White's face was passive, encouraging.

"With a roach, you don't do anything fancy like that, you just take a hit and blow into the other person's mouth, real close. Basically just getting high by proxy."

Silence. Freddy absently picked at the knee of his khakis and prayed for the conversation to come to an end.

"Riding shotgun, I get it," White smiled, "that's cute."

"I guess. I doubt it's possible to shotgun for nicotine, so whatever."

"How do you know?"

He could hear the fragile thread of hope in White's voice. It could be so easy to crush. His thoughts tangled together, tripping over themselves. What bull asks for permission to charge?

"You don't have much left," he mumbled, avoiding eye-contact, "I don't wanna hog."

"I'll survive."

Freddy froze, disconnected, as White sucked a full-lungful and leaned toward him, terrifyingly slow, eyes hard. Like he was daring him to move away. Sidestep, his thoughts whispered, and he wondered what happened to matadors who hesitated. His lips parted.

There was a glancing touch against his shoulder, brief, like an aborted caress. White smelled of Chesterfields and the kind of cologne that comes in thick glass bottles. He was warm, his breath was warm, and when he expelled the smoke it was with a precision that shouldn't have been erotic. But Freddy sighed and surrendered to him, taking all of it. He held his breath and let it burn. When he opened his mouth he couldn't help but show off a little, tonguing smoke rings in measured succession. White grinned but didn't move.

"That fix you up?"

"For the time being. Yeah."

This image is saved as larryhasatype.jpg:

OMG thank you! That really means a lot. I’m so glad you liked Texture - I decided to make the sequel more from Larry’s POV.

"Taste" for anon

Larry took the urinal next to him and didn’t glance up.

"We alone?"

"Yeah, I checked."

"Good, because I got something to say and you’re gonna listen. You think this is a game? You’re sitting out there, in front of all of them, practically fucking preening. I bet you think you’re hot shit, trying to get me to crack. Won’t happen, hot shot. You’re gonna zip yourself up and go back out there, real calm and collected. But inside, all you’ll be thinking about is how before this night is through, I’m gonna choke myself on that big prick of yours until you’re sucked dry and still begging for it. Now don’t give yourself away, I fucking dare you."

Calm, steady, Larry shook himself and walked to the sink, basking in the stunned silence that followed.

The kid barely looked at him for the rest of the evening.

Hi! Thank you so much for reading; it's a small fandom, but it's an absolute pleasure to be part of. As usual, so sorry for the lateness of this fill; real life has been kicking my butt recently. (No excuses.)

"Interwoven" for anon.

He started young, the shiny, metallic thrill of it pulling at him like a lodestone. It was never meant to harm; his best stories were the ones that made people laugh. The yarn that Freddy wove when he felt himself shrinking from his mother's sight were always the most elaborate, and the most difficult to keep straight, but a pat on the shoulder from a teacher or the elderly woman next door was enough to sustain and encourage him. So his stories grew, nourished by a child's ceaseless hunger for attention.

Getting caught in a whopper at summer camp - he'd told them that his dad was once a notorious member of a deadly biker gang - wasn't enough to discourage him. The haranguing his mother gave him on the long drive home was the most she'd spoken to him in weeks, and he soaked up every word of it. He got more creative, keeping his stories efficient, harmless, easier to keep track of. It was a game to him, like memorizing the intersecting story lines of his favorite comics, except he created the truth that others believed.

Most cops simply sign up for the steady paycheck, others with the intent of becoming a detective. For him, both were means to an end. The day he'd first learned what "undercover" meant, Freddy knew in his bones that it was what he'd been born to do.

When Holdaway gave him the script to work with, he'd bristled at first. It was too structured for his liking; he was used to a more benign, organic deception. Non-truths unfurling to cover other non-truths, blooming as needed, interwoven. But it gave him the foundation he needed to create a persona so real that he wouldn't want to part ways at the end of it.

He sat down the night before his first meeting with Long Beach Mike and sketched. Center-parted hair, calf-skin jacket, cotton muscle shirt. For a fleeting moment, Freddy wished he had a larger, more intimidating tattoo. The character's - his character's - name was Joshua Moore: twenty eight years old, married for five of them. His wife worked nights and slept during the day. An ex-stoner like him. No kids, estranged parents. Never worked a steady job in his life and lived to cheat the system. Joshua's accent was SoCal sleepy, just this side of surfer boy. He talked with his hands and slumped in his chair. He hated pineapple on his pizza and thought he was a foodie because he knew the difference between sushi and sashimi.

Holdaway got the CliffsNotes version, and in return, Freddy got a fake ID. He was introduced to Mike as his alias so as to avoid any accidental slip-ups. That first night out, he walked like Joshua, smirked like Joshua, laughed long and casual like Joshua. It was strange, for some reason, the ladies paid more attention to him when they got an eyeful of his ring, like it signaled that he was decent enough to be worthy of marriage. The implications of it unsettled him, but he flirted back. Joshua was the type who would.

He was more than a month-deep into the character when he got word of Cabot's casting call. The code name "Orange" was perfect, something that Joshua would drape in imagined, self-important metaphor. Nothing rhymes with orange, or some shit like that. Everything came together when he recited - no, relived - the commode story. It was like he was back at summer camp. The center of attention. Only this time, he wouldn't get caught. He was too good.

"White" watched him the closest, punctuating his broad smiles with moments of contemplative silence, cigarette clutched between two lazy fingers. When Freddy finally sat down, White made room, but stayed close, the warmth of him heady and oppressive. They spoke in hushed whispers beneath the table's chatter, mostly superficial fare like sports and muscle cars. Against all reason, White was one of those people who didn't just wait for his turn to talk. He was a real listener. The type that Freddy lived for.

It came so easily, they slotted together just right. Symbiotic, almost. Him telling stories of a life never lived - names and places withheld, of course - while White lent him a genuine ear, nodding just long enough, commenting at all the right places. Empathetic. The first time he asked about the "little missus", Freddy defaulted to the same posture he'd taken with the eager women at the bar. Yeah, I'm a catch, the slope of his pelvis said, it ain't too late to take a bite for yourself. White laughed it off, smile nervous, and called it an early night. Freddy spent the rest of it cussing himself out.

Days passed, and he began to realize, with a dull sense of shock, that White's nervousness was borne of genuine interest. From a young age, Freddy had been adept at reading social cues. When wandering eyes signaled waning interest, he'd change his story accordingly. White's eyes never wandered. Instead, they caressed him. Warm, sometimes shy. Always respectful. For some reason, it made Freddy's heart beat faster. He basked.

The first time White touched him, skittering fingertips across his palm, Freddy almost jumped at the shock of his arousal. He let himself be fucked into the cheap sheets of a motel room bed, eyelids squeezed tight as he moaned his pleasure into the damp cotton. White had a perfect cock and a practiced aim. When they were done, Freddy had to turn away to collect himself. He felt bled dry.