White's heavy. Not any taller than him, but a solid guy. Freddy can hardly breathe, but it's a good feeling. He's used to club bathrooms. Dark corners. Fast handjobs and blowjobs on the nights when porn isn't cutting it and he's horny enough to go into West Hollywood. Not slow, hard kissing and fingers combing through his hair. His hand slides down White's back, over his ass, pulling him in hard and grinding against him.

Freddy's making sounds like crazy, little mms and ahs that he just can't keep back, and cut-off fucks that get quashed against White's mouth. The radio was a good idea. Bob Dylan's mumbling has to be covering the worst of it. Freddy hasn't made out like this since he was in high school, all groping hands and endless kissing and hooking a thumb in a belt loop and tugging in a silent please.

It works. White eases off just a little and unbuttons his jeans. Freddy is on this, his hand in White's briefs before the zipper's even down.

"Not bad," he says breathlessly. The bulge didn't oversell.

White chuckles, his lips on Freddy's neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses as Freddy strokes him. Don't leave any marks, he wants to say, but White's a professional. It's all lips until he's down past the collar bones. Then he's fucking going to town on Freddy's nipples. Licking. Biting. Sucking on them like candy.

"Oh shit," Freddy moans, head rolling back.

It's good, real good—chewing his lip and arching up good. Then White's easing down Freddy's boxers, and dropping kisses along Freddy's stomach, and it all gets even better.

"Jesus..."

His stomach trembles. White's lips slide down his dick.

His brain goes stupid, and for a moment he wonders if "gives great head" is the kind of identifying information he should be passing on to Holdaway. It's...fuck, White knows how to suck dick. His hands are rough, but his mouth is smooth and slow. Dirty slow, like he's tasting him.

Freddy doesn't have a chance. He can tell himself to think cool thoughts all he likes—can silently name every single Avenger, past and present, in a bid to keep from shooting his load in five seconds flat—but the fact of the matter is this guy is sucking him off like it's going out of style, his eyes shut and his eyebrows up, like Freddy's dick is all he can think about.

"Fuck, man..."

Freddy's arms curl above his head as his body pushes up, just about begging. His hips want to move, but White's holding them down. His eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is hanging open, and he can feel the heat roll through him—that kind of black-out orgasm that makes his hands and feet go numb.

His fist bangs down on the bed as he comes. "Holy fucking Jesus!"

White's laughing around his dick. Laughing. Swallowing. Pulling off with his eyes all bright and his mouth...his mouth...

"You're a noisy motherfucker," White says. He's still laughing, but it's not a mean laugh. Freddy knows the difference.

"Sorry," Freddy says, and then he's laughing too. It sounds kind of hysterical, but he's not feeling messed up. He's feeling good. He's feeling so good. He runs his hand over his face. "I don't even know your name."

He's not fishing. He's not that goddamned smart. It's just funny, that's all. He doesn't even know why, because he hasn't gotten the name of half the guys he's screwed around with since leaving the academy. But for God's sake—Mr. White. Mr. Orange. It's ridiculous.

White looks at him seriously. Then he offers his hand. "It's Larry. Good to meet you."

The smile dries up on Freddy's face. Larry from Milwaukee. Fuck, is it really that easy? He hesitates, then takes the offered hand. Tommy, he's about to say, but White moves over him and shuts him up with a rough kiss.

"Keep it under your hat until after the job," White says. "I'm allowed to piss off Joe. You're not."

Until after the job. That's weeks away. Years. Forever. His hand moves down White's stomach.