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Joe doesn’t bite on the surfer kid, the drug dealer who definitely has bathroom stories that Larry’s way more interested in hearing than the one involving cops, but he still manages to fill a car, it’s still a five man job.
“You went with that Mr Pink guy over the pot dealer?” Larry asks him, clinking the ice in his glass from side to side, and Joe sniffs.
“Mr Pink’s no second stringer. He’s got a smart mouth but he’s also got a brain, unlike half the dozy fucks I usually see. Good help is fucking hard to find these days.”
“Seriously, after the fuss he made over his name?”
“Yes,” Joe says, tapping his pack of Marlboros on the table top. “He’s a pain in the ass but he’s reliable, he’s sharp, and I’ve known him since he was seventeen and boosting cars so I know I can trust him.”
“Hmm,” Larry says, takes a sip of his bourbon.
“He’s a fucking homo, thinks no one knows and I let it go because he keeps it quiet, but the only thing on his record is three arrests in those fag club raids.”
“Hmm,” Larry says again, takes another sip. “That why you gave him pink?”
“Like I said, he’s got a mouth on him. I like to remind him where he stands,” Joe chuckles, “keep him from getting too big for his boots.”
“Yeah,” Larry says, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“You do that. I don’t care if you like him or not. You’re in the back room with him, you make it work.”
Larry holds out a light for Joe’s cigarette. “Of course papa, you know me, I’m a people person.”
Mr Pink is not a people person. It’s hard to tell exactly what he is, other than a pain in the ass. Oh, he’s plenty professional; he’s serious when they go over the finer points of the robbery, he’s practical and there’s no posturing, no bragging, no stories. He rolls his eyes when Larry suggests cutting off fingers but all he says is something snide about not owning bolt cutters, no personal opinions.
That isn’t to say he’s quiet, because he’s fucking not. He’s just not forthcoming.
“Check out that girl’s ass,” Larry says when they’re sitting at a red light on Jefferson, front row seats to the crosswalk. He doesn’t know why he said it, maybe just to see what Pink will do, maybe because none of the other ways to get a rise out of him have worked. Maybe because he wants to see if he’ll look Larry in the face and tell him he doesn’t care.
“Magnificent,” Pink says, pointedly not even glancing up. He’s examining his nails, picking some invisible bit of dirt out from under one, sprawled low in the passenger seat with one knee against the dashboard. The girl vanishes into the grocery store on the corner, the lights change, he goes back to complaining about potholes, and that’s the end of that.
It isn’t until they third or fourth time they’ve hung out, when they’re having a midday drink in a pool hall and watching two black guys in pork pie hats and smart shirts pull trick shots, sleeves rolled up with bands like dealers wear at the tables in Reno and Vegas and probably everywhere else, that Larry decides he has potential.
“You any good?”
Pink shrugs, “not especially. How about you?”
“They say being good at pool is a sign of a misspent youth.”
“You’re a pro then,” he says, but it isn't cruel. He's teasing, lip quirked to show just a sliver of teeth, the first real smile that's crossed his face in Larry's presence - perhaps, he thinks unkindly, the first one anyone's seen in years.
"I'll kick your ass," he tells him, and the smile stretches into a full blown Cheshire Cat grin.
Larry does kick his ass, easily, and he also checks his ass out when he bends over the table to take another weak shot, gouging the felt. He's not too sore a loser, tetchy enough but he's happy to play another round, skips the trash talk and keeps the chatter to something about how twelve step programs are bullshit and people change when they want to.
"Maybe some people need help," Larry says genially, "and that's something they do when they want to change, they ask for it."
Pink sniffs and takes another lousy shot.
"Too bad there's no twelve step program for your fucking pool game."
He bristles. "Who says I want to change?"
"You're all wrong, no wonder you keep hitting the felt," Larry says, stepping up close behind him just as he's lining up his next move. Pink flinches, but doesn't duck away, just glances back over his shoulder with one eyebrow cocked.
"What do you suggest then, in your professional opinion?"
He nudges Pink's ankle to widen his stance, hands light on his hips, turning his shoulder, and when Larry leans over him to correct his bridge hand, he can hear the sharp intake of breath. He grabs the bony right wrist, thumb pressing into the heel of his hand. "Lighten your grip, easy does it, hold it loose," he says, and the hand under his rearranges itself slightly. "You gotta relax, you ever relaxed before, son?"
"Get bent."
"Shoot with your arm, not with your shoulder," he tells him, pretends he doesn't hear the muttering, and guides his elbow back. He should move off, let him take his shot and not push it. But he doesn't, he adjusts his hips again and "accidentally" brushes against him, knows he feels it.
He takes his shot and clips the cue ball, sends it spinning off to one side, but it hits a stripe and nearly sinks it.
Larry gets a hand on the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the sharp jawbone, and his breath catches, his shoulders drop and he doesn't even finish whatever smartass remark he was making. He's frozen in profile, two or three inches taller when he doesn't slouch, nervous tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“That’s my boy,” Larry says, quiet, almost in his ear.
Pink doesn’t reply, just finishes his drink in one mouthful.
Yeah, he’s got potential.
Neither of them are operating under any pretenses; Larry says "you wanna come back to mine" and Pink gives him a considered look and nods before asking him what he thinks about nuclear energy, and then telling him what he thinks before Larry's even processed the question. He's sitting in the passenger seat of Larry's car, leaning against the door with one arm stretched out and tapping on the dash and the other curled around his ribs, one leg hooked over the other. It's a sprawl, but he's not at ease. He's nervous. Tense.
"You remember Three Mile Island, that incident, that was the lord's attempt to turn Harrisburg into Lake New Jersey, which would have been a fucking blessing, if you've ever been to Harrisburg you know what I mean. Shithole."
"You ever stop talking?" Larry asks, puts a hand on his thigh, and surprisingly he does. For about a block.
The chatter starts up again after that. He talks like he's hosting a radio show, asks a question then answers it himself, talks like he can't be sure anyone is listening and he's pretty sure no one cares. Squeezing his leg makes him stumble a word or two the first time, but after that he's fine and he lifts his eyebrows at Larry when he tries to use the same trick twice.
He's quiet again when they walk up the stairs to Larry's apartment, fingertips trailing on the stucco, and he jumps when a door slams on the floor below, eyes darting around, looking over the railing, back angled towards the wall. The stiff collar of his Hawaiian shirt rides up above his jacket, up his neck when his shoulders hunch. He definitely bought it for the job, stepping into it along with that tough guy persona, and neither of them fit too well. Larry'll bet he's younger than he acts - he's wearing peeling black sneakers, the youngsters never think about the shoes.
Inside, he peers around like he expects Joe or Eddie to jump out from behind a door, talking a mile a minute about some stupid crap, some radio show and how the host always picks the worst tracks. He perches on the edge of the couch and waves away the beer Larry offers him, just leans back and crosses one leg over the other, ankle balanced on his knee.
"Are we gonna do this or not?" he says with practiced disinterest, almost scornful, like he has better things to do. If he really did he wouldn't be there, and they both know it.
“Joe wasn’t exaggerating when he said you had a mouth on you,” Larry says, leans back against the counter and sips his own beer. He’s not in a hurry, he’s enjoying seeing him fidget and he’s starting to get an idea of what kind of man Mr Pink is.
“Joe Cabot doesn’t know anything about my mouth,” he says, curling his lip, crooked smile in a crooked face.
“He told me you were trouble.”
“He also told you I was a queer I bet,” Pink says, drapes both arms over the back of the couch and cocks his head, playacting confidence but his fingers are tapping fast, “that’s why I’m here isn’t it? Guess he doesn’t know about you.”
“What makes you think he doesn’t?”
“Oh yeah, you two used to fuck back in the sixties when he could still see his dick, I’m sure it was very romantic but it ain’t got shit to do with me so,” he takes a deep breath, “either get to the point or-”
“Or what? You’ll leave? Feel free, I'll call you a cab.”
Pink uncrosses his leg and leans forwards, hands on his knees, but he doesn’t stand up. His fingers keep tapping, and Larry can see how heavy he’s breathing from the lift of his shoulders. He’s shit scared, but he’s not moving.
That’s not how he wants this to go.
“Relax,” he says, puts his beer down on the counter and holds his hands palm out, “relax, kid, this has nothing to do with Joe Cabot, he knows jack shit about what I do in my off hours, it's nothing to do with anyone, all right?”
He nods.
“No one except you and me, that all right?”
He nods again.
Slowly, Larry steps in front of him. Pink's got both hands hanging between his parted knees now, and hair falling in his face, eyes level with Larry's belt buckle.
"You in some kind of rush?"
He peers up from under his eyelashes, licks his lips, shakes his head.
"You got some place to be?"
Pink leans forward, hands bracing on Larry's hips, fingers curling around while his thumbs rub up and down the crease in the denim where his legs join his torso, and he shakes his head again.
The hands slide around to meet at his belt buckle, heel of one palm running briefly over Larry's dick. He isn't hard yet, and anyway, he's got other plans. When those long fingers start unthreading the loose end of his belt from the loops of his trousers, he takes a risk and grabs him by his hair, grips just tight enough to get his attention.
Pink blinks up at him, hands still. His tongue darts out over his lower lip. Larry stares at him while his face blushes red and his blinks get slower, more like he’s closing his eyes.
It's nice to be right.
The spell wears off pretty quick - not that he expected it to last - his eyes snap open, his shoulders go back, and he tries to pull away. Larry loosens his grip and Pink jumps up, crowds in close and kisses him hard. It's a challenge, nothing romantic; he's testing to see if Larry's one of those who'll get his dick sucked by anyone but won't kiss a guy.
Larry absolutely will kiss a guy, so he wraps one arm around Pink's waist and the other around his back and pulls him hard against him. He stumbles a little, arms flailing as their chests press together and he licks at his tongue. There's a brief tussle when Pink tries to work his knee between Larry's and ends up getting his own legs nudged apart, and his grip on Larry's upper arms is just shy of painful, he's holding him like he's braced to push him away at any second. The kiss is less aggressive now, still a bit more teeth than he'd like, but Pink's responsive and his mouth is soft - he's not racing for his tonsils, just nipping at his lips and tongue, tilting his head so their mouths slide together. Larry holds him close and finally, finally his hands unclench and his arms slide around his back.
For a few minutes he seems to forget himself and they just kiss, but he's back to his prickly self when Larry pulls away to remove his own coat, then Pink's. The bomber jacket slides easily off his shoulders, dropping down onto the floor, and as soon as his arms are free he grabs him just above the elbows, thumbs digging into his biceps, and tries to steer him to the couch.
"I don't think so," Larry murmurs against his mouth, catches him around the waist and spins them both so he's the one with his back to the couch. When he sits down, he pulls Pink onto his lap, makes him straddle his knees, facing him.
He glares, oh does he ever glare, but he doesn't resist.
"That's my boy," Larry says, undoing his shirt buttons. Pink's not stopping him but he's not exactly helping either, both hands resting on his own thighs, they don't move until he slides the shirt down the narrow shoulders and jesus christ. With the bulky jacket and baggy shirt gone, with his skinny hips swimming in the loose jeans and hair falling forward onto his face with too-big eyes, he looks like a wet cat.
"There's nothing to you," Larry says. He's got no muscle and almost no fat, just angles and ribs and nervous energy. From remarks he's made he's probably close to thirty, but his chest and shoulders are so narrow that he looks much younger, adult scars and blurring cheap tattoos almost comically out of place. "You ever eat, or you just living on coffee and smokes?"
"Fuck you, I quit smoking," Pink spits, moves to get up but Larry holds him around the waist, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of his stomach. He's smooth, just a few dark hairs around his nipples and a sparse trail from his navel down into his trousers, pale with a few blotchy freckles on his upper arms, tense like he'll run away at any minute.
"Good thing we ain't stealing anything heavy," he tells him, means it like a joke but feels like a bastard as soon as he's said it because the guy's face twists, teeth bared.
"Fuck off," he says, shoulders hunching forward and head down. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his own legs and his face is red through his hair, chest flushed too, not handsome but something else. "You're fuckin old."
Larry can let him have that. "Yeah, guess I am," he says agreeably, slides his hands up Pink's sides and onto his chest. He's covered in goosebumps but he's warm and his nipples are hard under Larry's palms. His heart's going fast, chest jumping with his sharp breaths, and he flinches every time Larry's hands move. The shadows under his eyes and hollows beneath his cheekbones, the dumb mustache and goatee combo, the near permanent scowl that he's struggling to keep on his face; he's not ugly but he's something else.
Pink's mouth opens when one hand slides up his neck and fingers lace through his hair, his own hands flat on Larry's chest, steadying himself. He keeps licking his bottom lip, scraping his front teeth over it, head tilting just a little to rest in Larry's hand. He blinks slowly, eyes sinking closed then snapping open again, irises electric blue rings around his pupils.
Compelling, that's the word; he's compelling.
"That's my boy," Larry says, rubs his cock through the layers of denim, presses down with the heel of his hand and watches him take a shuddering breath in, "just relax, you done this before?"
Pink tries to curl his lip disdainfully at him but just ends up looking pained. "Done what, had an old man touch my dick," he gasps when Larry squeezes, too hard, a warning, "yeah, yeah I have."
"I ain't that old," he says, "and you better watch it, kid."
"Don't call me kid, I'm thirty, I've," he stutters a little when the hand tightens again and looks down, then glares up with those big blue eyes, "I've sucked older dicks than yours, you're not special here, Mr White."
Something about the way he says it prickles, like it’s a sad brag, and Larry wonders how old he was when he started, why he's bringing it up now. "I'm sure you have, Mr Pink," he says because he doesn't want to ask, and tips his chin up from where it's hanging over his collarbones.
"Don't call me that either," he mutters, eyes still down, hips tipped forward and spine bent in, textbook slump, his flat belly pressing against his belt buckle.
Larry runs a thumb over his lower lip and is rewarded with a tentative lick. "What am I supposed to call you then? You ain't gonna tell me your name."
Pink shrugs, diffident like he could give a fuck, but his eyes dart around too fast and he shifts his weight from side to side. He's still nervous.
"You got something you want me to call you?"
He shakes his head.
"You'll just have to live with it then."
Pink wriggles like he's uncomfortable, like he wants to shake it all off, breath hot and heavy down Larry's collar. "Fine," he mumbles.
Well, Larry has a few ideas but he's not going to ask if he's just going to be a pain about it, he'll just throw it at him later when he's desperate and see what sticks. He strokes his knuckles down Pink's sternum, down his stomach to his belt buckle, then slowly back up.
"What do you like, what do you want to do here?" Larry asks him, "what do you want me to do?"
Pink sneers again. "What kind of a fucking question is that, what is this," he puts on a low raspy voice, "what do you want to do, fucksake, what do you think I want to do."
He's had enough of this shit, grabs the gangly prick by his pointy chin and with one hand and roughly grabs his dick through his jeans with the other. "You're real dumb to have such a smart mouth, and you better start being a bit more helpful or else this is going nowhere."
Pink starts to say something furious, eyes flashing, and Larry gives his face a gentle little shake.
"You gonna be a smartass, boy, or you gonna maybe get your dick sucked, yeah, that got your attention," he squeezes a little harder and watches his eyes bug out, "you thought it was gonna be a one way street. It isn't, so don't you try and play this push pull bullshit with me."
An actual apology would have been good, but Pink leans forward and kisses him, quickly like he's embarrassed. He's gentler than before too, one arm braced on the back of the couch and his other hand rubbing over Larry's stomach, up to his chest and down to his crotch.
Larry kisses over his collarbones to his chest, gets his hands around his ass and lifts him up a bit so he can nip at his ribs and the soft skin of his stomach. He smells good, has a faint whiff of cigarettes hanging in his clothing but when Larry presses his face against the warm rise of his ribs and licks his sternum, all he's getting is soap and a little sweat. Pink twitches every time he kisses him, not flinching away, more like cutting himself off mid-motion, and his hands finally settle in Larry's hair.
"You gotta relax," he says, careful not to look him in the face and spook him, even though he'd really like to see his expression now his breathing's sped up and getting ragged. "I ain't gonna hurt you."
Pink exhales long and slow, a little shaky on the end. "I'm not afraid of you."
He says it like a challenge, like he's picking a fight, tenses up under Larry's hands like he's gonna run for his life or start swinging. It's tempting to squeeze bruises into those pale arms, muscle him down and show him why he maybe should be, but he's discovered in the past few weeks that it's even more satisfying to be nice to him, watch his eyebrows knit together and his nose screw up while he tries to find the catch, so he murmurs "good, good boy, you shouldn't be," and kisses him on the neck.
"Ugh, seriously," he says, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks are red and his mouth is tight like he's stopping himself from smiling.
"Relax," he says, kisses him again, pulls him closer and holds him there with one hand in the dip of his lower back and the other curved around the base of his skull. Pink's hands tighten in his hair and his teeth drag over Larry's lip, not quite daring to bite.
After a little while of lazy kissing that he refuses to think of as making out, Larry rearranges him so he's sitting sideways on his lap, back against the arm of the couch and legs stretched down over the cushions. He stretches, back arching and the waistband of his jeans slipping down over his hipbones, and hums with contentment when Larry rubs his chest. For a few short seconds afterwards he smiles up at him, reaches out and strokes his cheek, fingertips catching on the stubble. It doesn't last, he remembers where he is and who he's with, but it's nice.
Larry runs a hand over his crotch, squeezes him through the soft black denim. He inhales sharply when Larry's thumb rubs over the head of his cock, hips rocking upwards. Cradling his shoulders, he lifts him up to kiss, and while he's distracted, unbuckles his belt one-handed. Pink obligingly shoves his jeans and underwear down, hard dick swinging up to bounce against his stomach.
"You're full of surprises," Larry tells him, pushing his clothing down further, down to his knees.
"Yeah, I guess I just look like I'm gonna have a small dick, huh?"
"Calm down son, it ain't that big."
"I'm not your son and I ain't calling you daddy," he sneers, but his face is flushed and his eyelashes flutter, so Larry decides to push his luck, just a little.
"Easy, boy," he murmurs, strokes a finger up his cock from balls to tip, "take it easy, good boy."
Amazingly, shockingly, he does, body going almost limp against him, head tipping back. There's a sheen of sweat starting to appear on his forehead and his hairless chest, and his breathing is heavier, but he shuts his damn mouth and relaxes. Finally.
"You're real quiet now," Larry says, squeezes his cock, "this thing control the volume or something?"
Pink glares at him, mouth firmly shut.
"You want me to do anything, you better start talking."
He's still got his fingers wrapped around his dick, just holding it, no movement, nothing. Pink's hips twitch like he wants to fuck his hand but he doesn't actually move, clever boy, because if he tried it, he'd be on the floor. Nah, the stubborn bastard just glares, lips parted to show raggedy teeth, hair sticking to his forehead, jeans pushed down around his skinny hairy thighs.
"You want me to stop?"
He looks away. "No."
"You want me to keep going? Jerk you off?"
Still looking away. "Yeah."
"Say it then, say Mr White, I want you to jerk me off."
There's a long pause. The body in his lap shifts, and he gives Pink's cock another tug to remind him why he's there. Just because Larry's technically got all night to spend doesn't mean he wants to spend all night in some weird kind of standoff. His own cock's three quarters hard in his jeans and he's got some ideas for what he'd like to do about it, but he can't back down now.
Pink looks up at him, teeth almost bared, and says "I want you to jerk me off," as his face goes red.
"Mr White."
He curls his lip but repeats the name.
"Was that so hard?" Larry asks him, and starts to move his hand, slow and steady, roll the wrist a little, "tell me how you like it."
The look he gets back is trying real hard to be furious but just winds up being pop-eyed, kinda sweet. "Yeah," Pink says, "like that."
"Like what? You stop talking, I stop this. You didn't fucking shut up earlier, you talked all day about bullshit, but now we're on a topic I'm interested in and you're suddenly a fuckin mute."
"Okay, okay, fuck," he squeezes his eyes shut, free hand fisted in his own hair, and says "spread your fingers a bit, yeah, your hands are so warm, fuck, I've had mouths on my dick that weren't that warm, fuck, fuck."
Larry'd originally thought he'd get the chatty little prick on his knees and tell him he's got a better use for that mouth, clichès be damned, but this is much more entertaining.
He also doubts he'd be the first one to use that line.
"Have you ever had someone try and do that ice cube bullshit on you," Pink says, eyes still shut. "Fucking, night of the living dead bullshit, I hate it, people get all experimental but it's a fuckin blowjob, it ain't broke so don't try and fix it," his breathing's getting heavier, a little faster, not quite panting yet. "You ever had that?"
Larry runs his thumb over the wet slit of his cock and says "no, no one's ever put an ice cube on my dick."
"Keep it that way," he says, "fuck, do that again with your thumb, ah ah not too hard," squirms, legs twisting in his jeans, "I don't usually go in for getting jerked off, I can do that myself, why go to all the effort of finding someone else to do it, but fuck, fuck man, you might be changing my mind."
"I'm good at changing minds," Larry says agreeably, keeps slowly working his cock up and down with one hand and grips his leg with the other. This is better than he expected; he'd figured he'd get some half-hearted mumbling out of the guy, standard oh yes faster bullshit, not a goddamn Shakespearian monologue.
"The problem with someone else doing this to you is that you can always do it better, y'know," he licks his lips, eyes still shut.
Larry stops, doesn't quite let go but loosens his grip. "You wanna take over?"
"Is that what you like," Pink says, "watching? I dunno man, if I got someone there and willing, I'm gonna touch. Not gonna waste it. But if you just wanna watch that's your choice."
His eyes are half open now and he's let go of his hair, long fingers wrapping around Larry's hand on his dick, running his thumb over the heel of his palm.
"You want me to watch?"
Pink grins at him, lazy and crooked, pumps their hands up and down a few times. His other hand's working its way up the back of Larry's shirt, trapped between his body and the couch cushions. "What do you think, man?"
Larry shakes the grip off and resumes his previous rhythm, slips his other between his thighs and strokes the soft skin. "I think I'm gonna touch," he says, cups his balls and feels the thin legs strain against his jeans. He didn't even have to undo the button to get em off, just undid the belt and yanked em down those bony hips and now Pink's trapped, half propped up against the arm of the couch.
Hesitantly, the hand he just shook off slides down between their bodies and rubs over Larry's crotch. The angle's strange but fingers squeeze his cock through his jeans, thumb pressing on the crown, and it's pretty good, he's fully hard now.
"Nice," Pink mumbles.
"Oh, well, I'm glad it meets with your fuckin approval," he says, "I was worried it wouldn't live up to your high standards but it's a real relief hearing that."
The hand behind him has mostly pushed his shirt up and is rubbing circles around his shoulderblades, fingertips digging in like some kind of massage. "Yeah, I got real high standards," he says, "that's why I'm here."
Mouthy little bastard. "You can leave, I ain't gonna stop you."
Whatever response Larry had been expecting, it wasn't for Pink to grab the collar of his shirt and yank him down to kiss. He's good at it; easy on the tongue, teeth dragged over his bottom lip, hand going to his neck, his cheek, fingers curled around his jaw.
He runs his hand along the smooth torso, and when his fingers brush over a nipple, he feels Pink's breath catch, a sharp little suck of air against his mouth. Larry pulls back so he can see and rests a fingertip on one. He's barely touching, doesn't move it, feels him tremble like a goddamn virgin, watches his chest swell as he tries to breathe in enough to get some friction, and he's about to remind him how this works, except it turns out he doesn't have to.
"Rub my chest," he croaks, eyes squeezed shut, "use your whole hand, yeah, harder," his back arches and the arm around Larry's waist squeezes, and he moans low, ribcage rumbling with it, vibrations going straight to Larry's own cock. He's flushed red all the way down his belly, hair sticking up everywhere like he's already been fucked half the night. His jeans have worked their way down to his ankles and his legs are bent at the knee and hanging open, heels digging into the couch cushions while Larry slowly jerks him off.
"You ask guys to do this while they fuck you?" He asks, partly just to see what he'll admit to.
"I weigh one thirteen so I must be the one getting fucked, huh," Pink smirks, "maybe I never ask guys to do this while I fuck them."
"You don't ask, you don't get," Larry says, and even though he hasn't asked, he circles his thumb a few times around one hard little nipple and then tweaks it.
The reaction is even better than he expected: Pink's whole body arcs up, his voice cracks mid moan, and the cock in his hand throbs.
"Not now," he gasps, grabbing Larry's shirtfront and dragging him down to kiss again, harder this time, more teeth, hand in his hair.
The feeling is starting to leave Larry's legs; Pink's skinny but he's still an adult man, and also maybe Larry's an old man who'd rather continue this on a bed and not be sore in the morning. He's worried that it'll kill the mood to suggest it, seem too formal, but Pink just sighs happily, kicks off his sneakers and jeans, and says "thank fucking god, my back is killing me," before springing up and loping naked into the bedroom. There's a creak of springs as he drops onto the bed, and Larry can hear him criticising the baseball pennants hanging over the dresser, asking if arrested development is par for the course in this line of work, and is that a signed baseball you sad old bastard?
He can't help it, he sits on his couch rubbing the pins and needles out of his leg and laughs. He doesn't even really understand why, he just does. It's all too ridiculous but it's somehow the most fun he can remember having.
"You coming," Pink yells, sticking his head back out, "or do you need a hand getting up off the couch?"
"Watch it," he calls back, "or I'll put on the radio and we'll listen to the game while we do this. Pirates against the Phillies, it's gonna be a tense one. They're playing in Philly too, someone better be out there greasing the light poles on Broad street."
"If you put on baseball, I'll leave," he says, making a face as he walks into the bedroom. He's perched on the edge of the unmade bed kicking at the rug with his toes, hair hanging over one eye, suddenly startlingly young.
"Ernie Banks was my first crush," Larry tells him gleefully, "he was shortstop for the Cubs, they called him Mr Sunshine."
"That's fucking tragic," Pink says, smiling. "Mine was Bruce Springsteen."
"He sings about baseball."
"It's a metaphor."
"It's baseball," Larry laughs, giving his cock and balls a gentle squeeze. He keeps trying to take over unbuttoning his shirt, kissing down his neck as he goes and rubbing his hand through Larry's chest hair until he swats him away. He pushes him backwards onto the bed, legs falling open, but he's only down for a few seconds before he's bouncing back up to grab at Larry's belt. He lets him undo it and fumble with the buttons, looms over him with his arms folded while he pulls his trousers and underwear down in one motion.
"You like what you see," Larry asks, slowly jerking his dick as he steps out of his jeans, watches his gaze linger on the cock he knows is thicker than average, circumcised head dark red and shining with precome, heavy hairy balls hanging below. Pink gives him an are you serious look but he must approve because he presses his cheek into the crease of his thigh, tongue darting out to lap at his sac, hands massaging his ass, pulling his cheeks apart. Larry's not sure he's keen on letting Mr Pink run this show, so he pushes him back again, rougher this time, sends him sprawling and stands there with his cock in his hand, makes sure he knows he's being stared at. Without the baggy clothing he looks much more graceful, slender and angular, and Larry wonders what he wears when he's not playing at being a tough guy, if he dresses to show off. He should. Rubbing his dick, he wonders if anyone's ever told him he has a nice ass, that he's cute, that he's a good kisser.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Pink says, crossing his arms over his torso.
Larry climbs onto the bed and along his body, kneels over his thighs with his hands trailing up the smooth pale stomach. "Boy," he tells him, looks right at him so he knows he's serious, "if I had a camera, I'd take a dozen."
Pink just looks away, face reddening, mumbling something that doesn't matter, hugs himself tighter.
"Don't do that," Larry tells him, swats his hands until his arms unfold and he's lying stretched out on the bed, hipbones sharp around his pale belly, "you ain't got nothing to be ashamed of."
He makes a pffft kind of noise but doesn't say anything, reaches for him but doesn't grab, just brushes his open hands over Larry's forearms and shoulders and chest while he perches over his thighs.
"Don't be shy, boy," Larry says, leans down and kisses him. Arms wrap around his back, pull them chest to chest while his hips press up. He's thin but not fragile, he doesn't feel breakable or insubstantial, and he radiates heat like a furnace.
"I'm not some goddamn virgin, I'm not shy."
"You're cute."
"Fuck you, how would you like it if I called you cute like you were a kitten or something, what would you do?"
Larry kisses him. "I'd say thank you because I'm not an asshole. And you're cute. Even with that fuckin fourteen year old boy mustache and goofy little beard."
He pulls a face, arousal clearly wrestling with temptation, and mutters "thank you."
"Good boy," Larry says, because it isn't a triumph until you've gone too far, and isn't at all surprised when Pink shoves upwards suddenly, rolling them both over so he's on top.
He isn't expecting Pink to grab his wrists and hold his arms back above his head, hold them against the pillow. He's leaned in close, throwing his entire weight behind that grip. They're nose to nose and it doesn't matter that Larry could probably push back without too much trouble, flip him over and hold him down for real; he wants to see where this goes. Pink ducks his head and kisses his neck, turns to almost a bite at the end.
"Go easy on the teeth, Count Dracula," Larry tells him, and when he nips at him again, light and playful, he pushes back suddenly, breaking his grip, and grabs him by the wrists. "You might bite off more than you can chew."
"You missed your calling as a comedian, you're hilarious, you should be on Letterman."
"Watch your mouth, boy, don't you sass me."
In one move he rolls them both over, kissing Pink wherever he can reach as he yells indignantly, body wiggling as he's pinned. He's laughing though, legs wrapping around Larry's waist, and there's a few unguarded seconds before they make eye contact and he checks himself where he just looks so happy, like he's having a good time. His mouth opens, doubtless to say something sarcastic, and Larry kisses him because he doesn't want to hear it.
Fortunately he takes the hint, hands rubbing over Larry's back and through his hair, cock hard against his body as they kiss. The tip of Larry's dick pokes at his balls and along his shaft and he really wants to slide it into the crack of his ass and rut against him - not trying to fuck him if he doesn't like it, he's not into that kind of thing - but not without lube. Not this time, maybe he'd be amenable to it if they do this again, especially if Larry let him fuck him. It's been a while, usually he reels in the boyish ones looking to be dominated and oh boy does he enjoy that, but the idea's growing on him and it might be fun to let someone else do the hard work.
In his moment of distraction that's exactly what Pink does, rolling them both over so he's on top. The kiss breaks and he rubs himself against Larry's chest, cock dragging stickily through the hair on his stomach.
He sits upright, hands braced on his own legs just above the knee, he slowly drags his dick back and forth against Larry's. It's real good, the soft skin rubbing and the weight of him pinning his hips down, but it's nowhere near enough friction. Still, it's fucking hot watching Pink almost ride him - it'd be hot to have him do it for real too, feel his legs clamp around his hips with his hole tight around his cock - and he takes advantage of his free hands to reach up and pinch his nipples. He wails, mumbling about too much, and Larry doesn't want him to come yet so he spits in his hand and grabs the heads of both their cocks instead, smearing precome around, pushing Pink's foreskin back and stroking the shiny red head, pressing against his slit as he leaks more. His hips work in little circles and his mouth hangs open.
"Oh my god," he whispers, over and over, "that's so fucking good man, yeah, do you wanna come like this because I can, I'll blow you if you can't, I wanna come like this."
Larry keeps squeezing, wiping away droplets of precome to smear around the crowns of both their cocks. "Nah, hold your horses, I got an idea."
"What is it, what are you gonna do, it's nothing too weird, is it? I like some weird shit but I have limits, okay, I have-" he cuts off when Larry pulls him down and kisses him.
"You'll like it all right, lie down on your side, yeah, the other way."
"Oh yeah," he says, grinning as he realises where it's going, "you're right. I do like this."
It seems like he might keep talking, he does as he clambers off and gets situated, but he takes the hint when Larry licks the tip of his cock. Pink lies next to him, cheek on Larry's thigh, sucking at the crown of his dick, bobbing his head further and further until he's got more than half the length in his mouth. His tongue swirls in circles, tip snaking around the flare and into the slit.
Larry waits until he's got a rhythm going before he starts jerking harder, squeezing his balls and working his way along his slim shaft. He's sensitive, all worked up from earlier, and he whines when lips tug at his foreskin, sucking it forward and then rolling it back, tongue swirling around under it. Reaching up to pinch his nipple makes him yelp, cock jumping as a fresh gush of precome oozes out. Idly, Larry wonders if he could come just from that, if he'd let him find out.
Maybe he'd be reluctant, but Larry's pretty good at changing minds.
When Pink gets close, the little moans that have been vibrating up and down Larry's shaft increase. His head tips back, mouth falling open, and he wails curses, grabbing at Larry's waist while his forgotten cock bounces wetly on his own thigh. When the noises become unintelligible and his hips are rocking erratically, Larry grabs him by the ass to hold him in place and slides his dick down his throat, swallowing hard around him as he finally comes. He yells in surprise at suddenly being buried to the base, stomach clenching and hips stuttering as Larry keeps swallowing, keeps sucking as his cock pulses out spurts of come over and over for what feels like minutes. When he finally eases him out of his throat, gasping for air himself, Larry slides his foreskin back as far as it will go and softly starts licking him until Pink makes an angry noise and shoves his head away.
Still panting, legs shaking, he takes Larry's dick back into mouth. Hand firm around the shaft, he starts jerking him hard and fast, keeping time with his bobbing head. Now that he's not busy, Larry can give the view his full attention, and it's a good one. Pink is sweaty and flushed from cheeks to stomach, hair sticking up and out every which way, nipples hard and pinched-red, cock still at half mast. From this angle, his neck is slim and graceful, adams apple a sharp shadow and jaw curving above. When Larry props himself up on one elbow for a better view, he can see how wet his mouth is, how intent he is, eyes narrowed.
He grabs his hair to hold him in place and thrusts shallowly, feels his tongue flick against his frenulum and suction increase. It doesn't take long before his balls draw up and his cock throbs with pleasure, muscles clenching as he floods his mouth.
"Good boy," he grunts, "keep going, like that, yeah," then devolves into moans as a tongue tip rubs his slit. Pink keeps sucking until Larry's stopped coming, and then pulls away, scrambling upright. He's got a weird look on his face, lips clamped shut, and Larry nearly laughs when he realises what's wrong, reaching up to push his hair off his damp face.
"You don't have to swallow," he says, letting the soft strands slide through his fingers, "geez kid, spit it out, I won't be offended."
Pink just stares him dead in the eye and, with visible effort, swallows. Larry bursts out laughing, touches one smooth cheek and slips his fingers under his chin, tilting his head down to kiss.
"Has anyone ever told you you're fucking adorable?"
Pink gives him a small, shy, genuine smile and wipes his mouth on the shirt Larry left draped over the bed. Cheeky bastard.
"Come here," he says, sticks the arm closest to him out flat like an invitation and tries not to be too pleased when he shuffles over. He doesn't get too near, he's careful to keep a few inches between them, but he lies on his side and watches Larry through his hair and the hunger in his eyes is both gratifying and sad.
"I said, come here," Larry says gruffly, and yanks him in close.
They're pressed together, Pink's chest against his side, head on one shoulder and an arm across his chest to grip the other, leg hooking over Larry's.
"You good?" He asks, giving him a gentle little shake, but Pink just kisses his neck.
Larry wants to know something about him, wants to know where he’s from with that sharp east coast twang, what he’s gonna do with a handful of diamonds, what’s his name. This code name shit is ridiculous, he’d offer his own if he wasn’t sure all it’d do would be have him scrambling for the door. He does ask one thing, can't help himself, and it's harmless anyway.
“You really a pitcher, not a catcher?”
"You and your goddamn baseball," he yawns. “Depends on the guy, I can be flexible.”
“I bet you can,” Larry says, hugs his shoulders and kisses the top of his head. Pink makes an aggravated huffing noise, but he doesn’t seem to have anything else to say.