Title: Report For Duty
They See Me Slashing: White/Orange
Rating: NC17 in some parts
Summary: A little look at Freddy and Larry's dreams and desires over the course of their short torrid affair.
Author Notes: I wrote this for a prompt on resdog_kink, I highly recommend you visit that neat corner of this fandom for more awesome stories or submit a prompt of your own 8)
Meeting with J. Cabot, E. Cabot. "Mr. White" unknown. Task: request books from MPD, WI corrections. Forward to McClusky.
"I'm a Dodgers fan," Freddy puffs his smoke proudly.
Larry's face scrunches up like a man who thought better of his company.
"What," Freddy laughs, "come on Davis is on second and gimpy Gibson's up at bat." He waves his cigarette in an arc. "Boom. Backdoor slider right over the fence and don't get me started on the World Series."
"That was four fuckin' years ago," the older man shrugs a broad shoulder and sips his liquor.
For a second Freddy looks defeated.
"It's cool, kid, nobody's perfect," Larry winks.
It's the first night they've ever met and Freddy's already fucking smitten. He just doesn't know it yet.
First meeting with all individuals involved.
6 active (Dimick + ?)
2 support (Cabots)
Location IDed, map received. Granted alias "Mr. Orange". Confirmed priors with L. Dimick.
They weren't kidding about pulling a 180 after business. The pool table's seeing action and Joe Cabot's got an open tab running at the bar. None of the others notice when Larry slips out with Freddy in tow or if they do they sure know better than to speak up. Larry's got a heavy arm draped across Freddy's shoulders and the kid doesn't think it's because he's had too many beers. It's too deliberate, too firm, lacking a quality of careless disarray normally associated with public intoxication. Maybe the guy's riding a buzz. Maybe Freddy's caught up in wishful thinking. He can smell Larry's cologne from here.
"Are you sure it's smart leaving those guys alone? I think you're the only adult left," Freddy quips.
"What's that make you, kid," Larry asks without missing a beat or a smile. He shakes his head, "I keep my shit clean."
"That's kind of an oxymoron, you know."
Larry laughs. "Where the fuck did you go to college?"
Actually I dropped out to be a cop. Also he learned the word in the eighth grade. Freddy returns the laughter instead of another lie. The gamble pays off but it has Larry taking his arm off him too. Now he's not sure if it was worth it.
"I don't get involved in what those guys do. It's fun and games to a point, after that it's a liability," he explains as he plucks a cigarette from his pack to light up.
"What do you mean?" Freddy prods further, half wanting more information for his investigation, another half wanting more insight into Lawrence Dimick's character.
For a second Larry gives Freddy a look. What the hell kind of crook doesn't already have some kind of idea? "Hookers and blow, kid," he answers finally, "it'll fuck you up."
Freddy's not certain which one Larry really means and he swears he detects a subtle sadness to his usually warm brown inviting eyes. "That's not my thing, anyway," Freddy shrugs.
"What is your thing," Larry asks around a puff of smoke. He's been dying to find out.
"Um." Fuck. "I like movies, TV, comic books."
"You don't watch enough TV to not screw up Honey West," Larry shakes his head.
That was one mistake. Freddy doesn't even like Honey West.
"I did a couple years for hitting a payroll office. My first time in. Didn't change shit," Larry steps closer to Freddy, crowding over him, "I take things." Maybe he'll get the picture now.
Don't panic, Newendyke. Freddy doesn't notice he's edging back until his heels touch the wall. "I held the shotgun at a poker game. Now I wanna turn rocks into fucking dollar bills. It's better than dealing weed for the rest of my life." Words are pouring out of his mouth but all he hears is his own pulse beating in his fucking ears. "We're not supposed to talk about doing time."
Larry presses his wide palm to the bricks just inches from Freddy's head. "We're not supposed to do a lot of things."
It's the first night they have sex. Rough, sweaty, and soreness inducing sex. Freddy still has bruises from where Larry held him down the next day.
Stake out on KFJ. Copy of armed robbery plan complete. Task: forward to Jim, address potential violence against civilians, protection inquiry.
Freddy's standing in front of a chair in the middle of Larry's motel. The room's registered to a Jacob Fuller and it's been paid for in cash. This is his third visit and the old man doesn't seem to mind the kid's reluctance to invite him over, thank fucking christ for it. Larry's eyes are taking him in from head to toe and back up again. Freddy's in the suit he'll be wearing for the robbery. He gets the point of looking anonymous but one shot to the belly and he's a goner. It bothers him that he'll have to be dressed defenseless until Joe Cabot shows up.
"Turn around," Larry puffs on his cigarette.
They've been together all day from staking out the jewelry store to traveling up to Van Nuys for some pretty fucking good tacos to traveling back down to Robertson Blvd for their suits. Lawrence Dimick might be holed up in a run of the mill motel but the man has particular tastes. Freddy indulges him in a slow spin.
"Shit I could whack off to the sight of you all day."
The remark makes Freddy smirk. He flaps a hand out, hip cocked. "You've got the real thing standing right here."
"Don't give me that shit. You're a young fuck, probably sprain your fuckin' wrist every other day," Larry counters.
"At least every Wednesday," Freddy shrugs, looking smug now.
"Wednesday?" The old man arches a brow.
"That's when I pick up my titles," Freddy adds but he can tell it's flying over Larry's head. "...My comics." He sighs.
Larry finds the kid with his shoulders slightly slumped so fucking endearing. It's as if there are two sides to Mr. Orange, one leather draped slick rising motherfucker and one kind of awkward lightly freckled young man trying to find his way, a scrappy dog amongst wolves. Larry smiles and puts his cigarette out.
"Tell me what drives you wild about'em," he asks.
"Well..." Freddy shrugs, he can see Larry already moving up and moving towards him, "there's this guy called Venom. His body's fucked up, he can tie you down with his skin and he's got this huge prehensile tongue."
"You whack off to that?" Larry questions while he puts his hands on Freddy, herding him over to the chair.
"Uh huh," Freddy nods, easily led and absolutely anticipating what's next. He licks his lips.
"You nasty fuck."
Larry pulls Freddy around the chair to bend him over the back. He pushes his jacket and shirt up. Then the kid's pants are down off his hips within seconds and the old man's fingers wet against his hole right after. Freddy loves this part, he loves it when Larry takes what he wants, knowing full well Freddy wants it too. The younger man sets his hands on the chair arms, head hanging low, thighs spreading a little wider.
"That's my boy," Larry rumbles.
They don't use condoms because each man gave his word regarding his clean bill of health. Freddy doesn't question it because he's already playing russian roulette, sometimes he thinks he deserves the bullet. A slow dying. Other times he absolutely believes Larry Dimick and savors every stretching he does to his body so he can leave his load behind.
"Ah fuck," Freddy hisses when he feels Larry's swollen lube-slicked cockhead going in. "Open me up, man."
Larry rests his hand over the back of Freddy's neck, "I'm gonna, baby, I'm gonna."
Freddy loves it when he pulls on him like a fucking animal, right onto his dick until their bodies are flush. His grip tightens when his hips thrust rough and fast or achingly slow, always full and solid. His bruising acts like a brand, letting everyone know Orange belongs to White. He won't even think about whether or not the reverse is true. The truth of it is while Freddy Newendyke might beat off to Eddie Brock giving Peter Parker the deepest rimjob known to man, he dreams of Reed Richards and Susan Storm's prevailing fairytale like a fucking fool for love. Larry never once asked about his wedding band or any lady, invisible and otherwise.
No updates. All tasks complete.
Freddy's ass is sinking down on Larry. He's got his hands forming a loose triangle over the other man's broad chest. There's cum spread across Larry's belly too, evidence of Freddy's intense orgasm, now it's Larry's turn.
"Come on," the kid barks. His thighs are feeling weak but he has no intention of stopping until he's bred.
"Jesus Christ," the old man groans. His fingers sticky from the kid's load are digging into his paler hips, imprinting temporary red half moons. Larry rolls his head back and growls loud and deep as he releases into him.
"There we go," Freddy pants, triumphant. He shifts from fucking his ass up and down to grinding against Larry, doing his best to milk out every last drop of cum from his old balls.
Larry's hands reach farther back from his hips to feel the seam where their bodies meet. What a fucking tight fit.
"Did you give me everything?"
"All I've got, kid..."
Freddy smiles at that. His caramel green eyes are still bright and shining behind his sweat-dampened floppy hair. It's another long moment of satiated silence with one resting on top of the other before Larry has to pull out.
"Want me to eat you out," Larry asks. The taste of his own cum trickling down from the kid's red asshole is his delicacy of choice.
"Naw, I'm cool," Freddy sighs at Larry's side. He doesn't want to have to leave the comfort of his heavy arms. He knows he'll have to soon.
"Okay," Larry says lazily to mask his minor disappointment. A tissue makes quick, if a little sloppy, work of the rest.
"What're you gonna do after tomorrow," Freddy asks. He's been working up the nerve to ask him that question for days.
"Me?" Larry looks at Freddy, "I told you, kid, lay low until the smoke blows over." He's combing his thick fingers through Freddy's hair.
He loves it when Larry does that. "I mean, what are you gonna do. Fuck off to Baja or something?"
"Baja's not bad," Larry says with approval, however, "every Tom, Dick, and Harry runs for the border first." He's getting two cigarettes out from their packs on the nightstand, a Chesterfield for himself and a Marlboro Gold for the kid. One day he hopes to ween Orange off the weak shit. "I have a property in Florida. I'll fuck off there then sail south." He pinches both smokes in his mouth to light up.
"That's a long drive," Freddy nods.
"Yeah. I could use some company." Larry offers the Marlboro to Freddy.
Freddy looks at Larry, brow slightly furrowed. It's what he's wanted to hear all this time and everything he wishes Larry would take back. Can the old man read it on him? Can he see the kid for what he is, les yeux sans visage. The seconds seem to tick by in long stretches as he thinks about what to say. In reality it's just a breath.
"I speed," Freddy cautions playfully. He accepts the cigarette.
"That's not funny," because they could get pulled over, but Larry laughs anyway, "I'll have to buy you a leash."
"Kinky. I think I'll get a cockatoo when we're in Cancun."
"Do your superhero mutants have one?"
No. Fucking Baretta does. Freddy takes a pull and streams the smoke out in rings. "Naw, they have pets that make sense like Ace the Bat Hound or Krypto the Superdog," he waves a hand.
"I always wanted a dog," Larry nods.
"But Shadowcat's got Lockheed. He's this mini dragon from outer space who kind of goes into warp drive with his soul."
At that point Larry feigns snoring to which Freddy responds with a jab to his ribs. "Asshole."
Again the old man laughs, warm and soothing. Then he shifts to look at Freddy, eye to eye. His palm cradles the side of his face. "I'm serious, kid. Come with me."
Oh fuck. Freddy's thankful the lights are low because his eyes become greener with the salt of welling tears. "Okay," he answers softly, out of his mind.
"Your lady deserves better," Larry says, leaning forward to press his lips to the kid's forehead. It's not a judgment call on his character, it's just a fact. No woman deserves a cheating man. "So do you," he adds. And no one should have to live a fucking lie like this, Larry knows it first hand. He was a kid once too.
His frankness cuts Freddy Newendyke something deep. Freddy has to swallow and breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, smoke, to keep from unraveling, to keep from putting his cards on the table. "I want to be with you," he says painfully, genuine.
Larry's so fucking delighted. "You've got me in the palm of your hand, kid." He threads his fingers with Freddy's freckled ones. After all this he plans to tell Orange his name, where he grew up, how the only dog he ever had was for just one month before Lawrence Dimick had to move to another foster home. "I'm yours."
Freddy squeezes Larry's hand tightly and nods, he doesn't want to let go. Orange belongs to White now but White was always his from the start.
Lolol I'm waffling on posting the other ones I wrote cause I kind of feel like anyone who sees it here has already read them there but it's nice to have them in one entry versus the multiple comments and idkesklflsdjwfl.