Title: In a stranger's coat
Pairing: Mr. Orange/Mr. White, Freddy/Larry, whatever XD
Warnings: sex, language (well, it's RD after all. When in Rome...)
Notes: so, uh, *cough* hi guys ♥! Community newbie bearing fic here! I've been a QT fan for years, even though I'm still missing a big chunk of his filmography - got a chance to watch Reservoir Dogs just last week. Needless to say, I fell in love with it head over heels *points at icon and starts crying* XDD. I'm not a native speaker of English and I've been a lurker in various fandoms since forever, because writing in a different language from my own has always made me feel terribly anxious. Then again, Larry and Freddy speak English in my head and I'm having so much fun with them, so I decided to delurk myself and give it a shot. Any piece of advice will be much appreciated, and sorry if Larry sounds like a bit of a romantic sap towards the end. XD
“Kid—” Larry manages “this is completely fucked up, y'hear me?”
Yeah, Freddy (or is it Mr. Orange now?) can hear him just fine, and would just love to tell him that he needs to relax and shut his goddamn trap, except it can be a bit of a problem if you're doing your best to suck him off – and stifles his laughter back in his throat for obvious reasons, else imagine tomorrow's headlines, Undercover cop chokes on criminal's cock, not exactly the best way to die. Maybe.
Thing is, he's not really sure of that either, because he can hear the man make all sort of noises up there, no kidding, and Freddy's sure some part of him should be definitely freaking out right now, because the whole thing feels real sweet to him, cock in his mouth an' all. So much for 'don't let them go under your skin, boy, not for real', because Larry's a nice guy, and they don't tell you that at the academy – one day you say that yeah, you're fuckin' gonna go undercover, kick some asses and blow the damn diamond heist, and next day you find yourself eating greasy tacos at an impossible hour, telling jokes to this fella, and think that fuck, they are normal people when they don't go 'round pistol-whipping people and slitting their throats and whatnot. Bonus points for taco-based breakfasts (or dinners – no rest for the wicked, as it were). Or maybe it's just Larry – he's old-school, like a gentleman or something, minus the stick up the ass. 'Kid', he calls him, and Freddy decides he likes that. Better than Orange, anyways. It's not that it's simple, no way it can be, but one morning it's five o' clock and the taco is dripping on his shirt cuffs, and he's all “I want a vacation when this is all over, gettin' too old for this kinda thing, you know?”
“C'mon, don't 'mhh' me, there must be somethin' you wanna do?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs casually.
“Kids these days,” Larry scoffs “You gotta learn to fly high if you wanna live this life – I've seen a fucking thousand guys like you gettin' all confident on their first serious job and then wham! got a bullet through them skull and who the fuck remembers their name anymore. But let me tell ya, you have guts, you better use 'em and stay the fuck alive 'till we wrap the damn job up.”
“Just so you know, man, maybe you are gettin' too old for this shit”
“... Fuck off, Junior” he grunts, but Freddy gets the hint of laughter underneath, and knows he shouldn't feel relieved about it. He smiles back and says nothing.
“... oh, and Blue Eyes? Is that taco juice all over your shirt?”
And Larry just leaves some crumpled bills on the diner table. Freddy stretches his arms, yawning, then follows him outside.
“Why did ya tell me your name?” he asks him, licking his lips, part of his brain reeling – don't go there, man, don't fucking go there--
Larry just shoots a cocky grin back at him.
“You look like a tough guy, no way in hell I'm gonna get called like a bucket of paint. Not gonna happen!”
“Well, 'least your's not goddamn glowing...”
“... but you're not Pink either, aintcha, kid?”
“Right,” he chuckles, and they start walking back to the car.
It's, like, the sixth motherfucking taco of the week and Freddy feels like he's some real lousy cop. Diner's empty and the light hanging over their heads cracks and buzzes like some fucking swarm of flies. The last bite of his breakfast is staring at him from the oily bottom of the paper wrap, and suddenly he doesn't feel like finishing it. Larry's chewing on the filter of his cigarette, and looks at him half tired, half amused. Looks pretty much like the old bastard he is, too, but Freddy can't help but smile at the thought, and realizes he could tell him, just like that – expecting a bullet somewhere through him for that, sure. Still, it does feel like a very fucking safe thing to do, and that's fucking gross and terrifying, thank you very much.
He clenches the wrap into his fist, curls it into a ball, taco shit everywhere because fuck, he forgot. Leaves the ball into a corner of the table, frowns at his own stained fingers.
“We could go somewhere nice, I s'pose.”
“Y'know, after the job?”
“You really are a nice kid, ain't you,” and before Freddy actually catches the quirk tugging at Larry's lips – hell, before he can do anything at all – the man wraps his fingertips around his mouth and sends a shiver all the way down his spine, and maybe it is just Larry, 'cause he licks his fingers clean, nice and slow, and Freddy can just think God I hope no one is actually behind that counter and over damn taco leftovers? seriously, man? and what kind of crap am I even thinking right now?
And eventually decides he can enjoy a goddamn kiss if he fuckin' wants to.
Long story short, that's basically how you end up sucking your buddy's cock - and loving every inch of it in your mouth.
They're both quite familiar with the whole stuff now, it's been how long since it all started?, even though something still feels a little awkward about it, and Freddy still has to work on the angle somehow, but Larry is all flat on the white tiles of the men's room, cold probably seeping into his shoulders. The way he's trying to strangle his own moans, hands pulling at his hair, makes Freddy think that he can't be that bad of a cocksucker, and has to do his best not to chuckle. That's a fucking dangerous habit.
Truth is, Larry's one helluva fuck buddy but he really ain't – last time he checked, mornings still tangled together into bedsheets and yesterday's discarded clothes were not included, and let's not mention all the chitchat coming with it.
“Mornin' kid, you look like hell, shoulda let you sleep some more.”
“Says the rosebud!”
“Very funny, kid.”
“Just tryin' to get my share of credit for that, y'know?”
“Yes I do,” Larry mutters, lips tracing the curve of his neck.
“... It's Freddy.”
“Ain't it now?” and they have no clue 'bout what the fuck's happenin' to them both, but they're laughing together like a couple of morons.
Well, Freddy muses, it's a truth. Good place to start. Never been much of a glowing guy to begin with.