Warnings for: sexual activity between a confirmed adult and possible minor, the end result of coercion and grooming, sex under the influence, daddy kink. I'm trying to go light on the specifics with a lot of this, but they're still either in there or happening offscreen
The light isn't quite bright enough, it's bite muzzled by the weird orange shade Sport has on over it. Can't be good for the plants, Freddy thinks, then laughs because everything's very fucking funny right now. He's about to have his ass torn open, he's gonna sell his fucking soul when he could have been walking out the front door. That's funny.
Iris laughs like the little girl who lived next door to his grandparents back in SoCal, all at once, no control over him. "You're fucked up, man."
"Fuck you." Freddy slurs, grinning at her over the top of the empty bottle. The booze is better than the spliff, he's decided, even if the spliff makes everything that much funnier, all it does is strap him down. The booze can hold him still or let him float to the top of the Chrysler building as he chooses, more flexible. He likes that.
He doesn't register the click of the front door falling open at first, just another canon ball in the barrage of noise that New York generates. There's a bar down the street, and when traffic's low you can hear the patrons chattering and arguing. Someone's always arguing. Even Iris argues with him. Not Sport though, he lets everything slide, lets Freddy choose.
Freddy's fucking choice.
"You two sound like you're having fun." He swaggers into the room with lionine grace, looking at the two of them like they're his whole fucking kingdom. Hips jutted out, a permanent habit of the street seller who has to keep themselves at the top of the deck for fear of losing their livelihood. His blue jeans are puled up high, his shirt is black and open collared, showing off the tight strung chain with a single yellow bauble hanging perilously around his Adam's apple.
Freddy's gut lurches and he has to catch his breath, checking that he's not about to puke. He's made of stern stuff, and Iris has been funneling him as much water as he'll take to keep him from hurling, which just means he has to piss real damn bad all the time.
"Freddy's wasted." Iris pokes at Freddy with her foot, catching the edge of his thigh.
Wound tight as a spring and crashed out and boneless all at once. She kept reaching down, getting him hard then leaving him to wallow in it. She wasn't wrong about it helping. He doesn't know how long he's gonna hold out once his own little problem is taken care of but he's definitely a whole lot less fussed about who might take care of it than he was waking up that morning.
Sport's tongue flicks out, tasting the air. His eyes are dark and hooded when they lock with Freddy's, before running up and down his splayed out figure. Everything feels hot and sticky and close, and over the stink of weed, Freddy can smell Sport's aftershave, clean and sweet.
Hand brushing lightly over Iris's hair, then dropping to her shoulder, she and Sport smile at each other. "That's so much for keeping him company while I was gone, precious girl."
"No problem, Matthew."
Freddy frowns, the name not working with any image he has saved up of Sport. He'd think it was a nickname, but who names their kid fucking Sport.
As she stands to leave, slipping on her ridiculous shoes and pulling her hair back into place, Iris winks at him. "See you round, Orange."
The fuck.
"What? Whaddid you jus' call me?" Freddy slurs. He hates that, he wants his words back, full faculties at the ready.
"Yeah." Sport counters, hands on his hips. "What's fuckin' orange about him."
Iris throws a hand gesture Freddy's way that's maybe supposed to point to all of him. "His face. In the light. I know he's all pink but the brown makes him look all orange."
So of course, Freddy blushes deeper. And Sport laughs like it's a good joke. "Orange, I like that. Very on brand. C'mon, sweetheart, lemme show you out."
Out of sight and never out of mind, Freddy hears the same wet pop and has to imagine what it must look like when Sport kisses Iris. Then he has to unimagine it, willing the idea back into the dark place that he keeps his own inclination to maybe, possibly, sometimes...
The one time his parents caught him with half a drink in him, he had been grounded for weeks and reprimanded for months. Maybe that's why Freddy freezes up when Sport swans back into the room, face perfectly neutral. His shirt is cut just right that you can see every bulge and every movement of his muscles below, advertising what he could do to you if the mood took him.
What he could do, what he has done. There are consequences to getting in trouble and in New York City, they start later and come down harder.
"Look at you." Sport purrs. "All fucked up and pretty in pink. You gonna party all night, Princess?"
"Maybe." Freddy replies, his voice coming louder than he meant. He wants to lay out, star fish style, get every part of him as far away from every other part of him as possible.
"It's only five in the afternoon and you're already all ready for action. I figure you about ready to go all night, or you wanna turn in early."
Sport practically floats over, dropping to his knees in front of Freddy with Catholic reverence, his knees tucked in close and his hands folded demurely in his lap. "You have fun with Iria?"
"Yeah."
"She suck your cock?"
"No." Freddy winces, crushing the idea of the thing before it can take hold. "No. It ain't like that."
"Hey, I don't mind." Sport holds up empty hands, but Freddy knows he keeps a gun in his sock when he goes out. "I get it. She's a good looking girl, you're a good looking guy. Sometimes you gotta blow off a little steam in your own time."
"I don't-" Freddy catches himself before he starts off down that road again. "We didn't do nothin' like that. We smoked, we drank." Apologetic nod to the empty liquor bottle. "We mighta cleaned you out."
"Don't worry about it." The hand that slides up to stroke Freddy's cheek practically feels cool against his burning skin. He doesn't like that part of alcohol either.
The apartment is big for New York but the living room's not huge, and neither is the space between them, but Sport's eyes catch on his and suddenly it's hard to breathe. Everything zeroes in on the steady in and out action of his diaphragm, like he might forget what to do if he can't keep himself on a tight enough leash.
Sport leans in incrementally, and it's nothing but Freddy notices. "What do you want?"
The sticky syrup of language is trapped where Freddy can't find it.
Craning upwards, forehead to forehead and everything is in those deep brown eyes. When Sport speaks his lips barely move, able to express himself as loudly or as softly as he chooses. "What do you want, sweet boy. Tell me, tell daddy what you need."
"I-" And that's all Freddy's got. He doesn't know, he doesn't have a fucking clue anymore. All he knows is that he's got to do something. Something has to give, and he might as well make the first move.
Clumsy makeout sessions with a handful of classmates back in highschool and fumbled handjobs when parents were out of town haven't prepares him for shit. Freddy sets a shaking hand on Sport's waist, tips his head and waits for everything to fall into line.
"What do you want?" Sport asks, so close that their lips are practically moving against one another.
He wants out. Freddy kisses him, the graceless slide of his lips trying to find purchase making his gasp out a curse but by then it's out of his hands. He gave it all to Sport. He gave it. He fucking handed it over.
He gave, lest someone else should take. There's a religion in that somewhere. The hand on his cheek curls forward, seeking the edge of his ear as Sport lets out a muffled sigh and opens his mouth to swallow Freddy whole.
Kissing is rough and hard and Freddy has forgotten where his hands should go. Sport molds him into position, rearranging limbs and coaxing his mouth open, sliding his tongue past the gateway of Freddy's teeth and Freddy doesn't bite down. Nowhere left to fucking run. His body relaxes into it easy under the fine tutelage of alcohol, kicking moans up from deep within him that he didn't think he had access to. Kissing isn't supposed to feel this good, it's not supposed to leave him feeling like a wet blanket waiting for an almighty hand to ring him out.
"Oh baby." Sport kisses, in between plucking desperately at his mouth. "God, I've wanted that too. I woulda let you, I would always let you."
I know. The words die somewhere in Freddy's chest, so he surges forward, getting his hand into the collar of Sport's shirt in an attempt to regain control of the situation. Another hand in his hair, soft as shit from all that product he puts in it, it's worth it. Freddy has to pause just to stick his nose in it, breathing in deep. How the fuck does he do that.
Sport's smile couldn't be brighter. "Look at you, baby. Having fun."
"Yes." Freddy hisses. "Yes, daddy." Sport tenses like he's been shocked, and maybe that's all the control anyone gets to have of this situation.
The fumble each other into a standing position, and Sport whispers something about how he wants to take Freddy to bed. Freddy doesn't say no, and then Freddy doesn't not say yes. It all happens so fast that by the time he's falling back on the covers he can't remember the walk back down the corridor.
But his feet remember what the carpet feels like underneath them, they remember it with a clear immediacy that can't be faked.
"Gonna make you feel so good." Sport growls, helping Freddy wriggle out of his stupidly tight jeans. "Oh baby. You want that? You want me to make you feel good?"
Freddy nods, trying to ignore how much attention his crotch is getting, all freshly prepared by Iris for her favourite Manhattan predator.
"You want daddy to make everything better?"
Clothes are torn from his body, and his nakedness is shameful and exhilarating. Freddy pushes back, testing the boundaries of how far Sport will let him take the upper hand. He's pushed back on the pillow, told to role over, and from there everything comes crashing down.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 21/?
---------------------------------------------------
The light isn't quite bright enough, it's bite muzzled by the weird orange shade Sport has on over it. Can't be good for the plants, Freddy thinks, then laughs because everything's very fucking funny right now. He's about to have his ass torn open, he's gonna sell his fucking soul when he could have been walking out the front door. That's funny.
Iris laughs like the little girl who lived next door to his grandparents back in SoCal, all at once, no control over him. "You're fucked up, man."
"Fuck you." Freddy slurs, grinning at her over the top of the empty bottle. The booze is better than the spliff, he's decided, even if the spliff makes everything that much funnier, all it does is strap him down. The booze can hold him still or let him float to the top of the Chrysler building as he chooses, more flexible. He likes that.
He doesn't register the click of the front door falling open at first, just another canon ball in the barrage of noise that New York generates. There's a bar down the street, and when traffic's low you can hear the patrons chattering and arguing. Someone's always arguing. Even Iris argues with him. Not Sport though, he lets everything slide, lets Freddy choose.
Freddy's fucking choice.
"You two sound like you're having fun." He swaggers into the room with lionine grace, looking at the two of them like they're his whole fucking kingdom. Hips jutted out, a permanent habit of the street seller who has to keep themselves at the top of the deck for fear of losing their livelihood. His blue jeans are puled up high, his shirt is black and open collared, showing off the tight strung chain with a single yellow bauble hanging perilously around his Adam's apple.
Freddy's gut lurches and he has to catch his breath, checking that he's not about to puke. He's made of stern stuff, and Iris has been funneling him as much water as he'll take to keep him from hurling, which just means he has to piss real damn bad all the time.
"Freddy's wasted." Iris pokes at Freddy with her foot, catching the edge of his thigh.
Wound tight as a spring and crashed out and boneless all at once. She kept reaching down, getting him hard then leaving him to wallow in it. She wasn't wrong about it helping. He doesn't know how long he's gonna hold out once his own little problem is taken care of but he's definitely a whole lot less fussed about who might take care of it than he was waking up that morning.
Sport's tongue flicks out, tasting the air. His eyes are dark and hooded when they lock with Freddy's, before running up and down his splayed out figure. Everything feels hot and sticky and close, and over the stink of weed, Freddy can smell Sport's aftershave, clean and sweet.
Hand brushing lightly over Iris's hair, then dropping to her shoulder, she and Sport smile at each other. "That's so much for keeping him company while I was gone, precious girl."
"No problem, Matthew."
Freddy frowns, the name not working with any image he has saved up of Sport. He'd think it was a nickname, but who names their kid fucking Sport.
As she stands to leave, slipping on her ridiculous shoes and pulling her hair back into place, Iris winks at him. "See you round, Orange."
The fuck.
"What? Whaddid you jus' call me?" Freddy slurs. He hates that, he wants his words back, full faculties at the ready.
"Yeah." Sport counters, hands on his hips. "What's fuckin' orange about him."
Iris throws a hand gesture Freddy's way that's maybe supposed to point to all of him. "His face. In the light. I know he's all pink but the brown makes him look all orange."
So of course, Freddy blushes deeper. And Sport laughs like it's a good joke. "Orange, I like that. Very on brand. C'mon, sweetheart, lemme show you out."
Out of sight and never out of mind, Freddy hears the same wet pop and has to imagine what it must look like when Sport kisses Iris. Then he has to unimagine it, willing the idea back into the dark place that he keeps his own inclination to maybe, possibly, sometimes...
The one time his parents caught him with half a drink in him, he had been grounded for weeks and reprimanded for months. Maybe that's why Freddy freezes up when Sport swans back into the room, face perfectly neutral. His shirt is cut just right that you can see every bulge and every movement of his muscles below, advertising what he could do to you if the mood took him.
What he could do, what he has done. There are consequences to getting in trouble and in New York City, they start later and come down harder.
"Look at you." Sport purrs. "All fucked up and pretty in pink. You gonna party all night, Princess?"
"Maybe." Freddy replies, his voice coming louder than he meant. He wants to lay out, star fish style, get every part of him as far away from every other part of him as possible.
"It's only five in the afternoon and you're already all ready for action. I figure you about ready to go all night, or you wanna turn in early."
Sport practically floats over, dropping to his knees in front of Freddy with Catholic reverence, his knees tucked in close and his hands folded demurely in his lap. "You have fun with Iria?"
"Yeah."
"She suck your cock?"
"No." Freddy winces, crushing the idea of the thing before it can take hold. "No. It ain't like that."
"Hey, I don't mind." Sport holds up empty hands, but Freddy knows he keeps a gun in his sock when he goes out. "I get it. She's a good looking girl, you're a good looking guy. Sometimes you gotta blow off a little steam in your own time."
"I don't-" Freddy catches himself before he starts off down that road again. "We didn't do nothin' like that. We smoked, we drank." Apologetic nod to the empty liquor bottle. "We mighta cleaned you out."
"Don't worry about it." The hand that slides up to stroke Freddy's cheek practically feels cool against his burning skin. He doesn't like that part of alcohol either.
The apartment is big for New York but the living room's not huge, and neither is the space between them, but Sport's eyes catch on his and suddenly it's hard to breathe. Everything zeroes in on the steady in and out action of his diaphragm, like he might forget what to do if he can't keep himself on a tight enough leash.
Sport leans in incrementally, and it's nothing but Freddy notices. "What do you want?"
The sticky syrup of language is trapped where Freddy can't find it.
Craning upwards, forehead to forehead and everything is in those deep brown eyes. When Sport speaks his lips barely move, able to express himself as loudly or as softly as he chooses. "What do you want, sweet boy. Tell me, tell daddy what you need."
"I-" And that's all Freddy's got. He doesn't know, he doesn't have a fucking clue anymore. All he knows is that he's got to do something. Something has to give, and he might as well make the first move.
Clumsy makeout sessions with a handful of classmates back in highschool and fumbled handjobs when parents were out of town haven't prepares him for shit. Freddy sets a shaking hand on Sport's waist, tips his head and waits for everything to fall into line.
"What do you want?" Sport asks, so close that their lips are practically moving against one another.
He wants out. Freddy kisses him, the graceless slide of his lips trying to find purchase making his gasp out a curse but by then it's out of his hands. He gave it all to Sport. He gave it. He fucking handed it over.
He gave, lest someone else should take. There's a religion in that somewhere. The hand on his cheek curls forward, seeking the edge of his ear as Sport lets out a muffled sigh and opens his mouth to swallow Freddy whole.
Kissing is rough and hard and Freddy has forgotten where his hands should go. Sport molds him into position, rearranging limbs and coaxing his mouth open, sliding his tongue past the gateway of Freddy's teeth and Freddy doesn't bite down. Nowhere left to fucking run. His body relaxes into it easy under the fine tutelage of alcohol, kicking moans up from deep within him that he didn't think he had access to. Kissing isn't supposed to feel this good, it's not supposed to leave him feeling like a wet blanket waiting for an almighty hand to ring him out.
"Oh baby." Sport kisses, in between plucking desperately at his mouth. "God, I've wanted that too. I woulda let you, I would always let you."
I know. The words die somewhere in Freddy's chest, so he surges forward, getting his hand into the collar of Sport's shirt in an attempt to regain control of the situation. Another hand in his hair, soft as shit from all that product he puts in it, it's worth it. Freddy has to pause just to stick his nose in it, breathing in deep. How the fuck does he do that.
Sport's smile couldn't be brighter. "Look at you, baby. Having fun."
"Yes." Freddy hisses. "Yes, daddy." Sport tenses like he's been shocked, and maybe that's all the control anyone gets to have of this situation.
The fumble each other into a standing position, and Sport whispers something about how he wants to take Freddy to bed. Freddy doesn't say no, and then Freddy doesn't not say yes. It all happens so fast that by the time he's falling back on the covers he can't remember the walk back down the corridor.
But his feet remember what the carpet feels like underneath them, they remember it with a clear immediacy that can't be faked.
"Gonna make you feel so good." Sport growls, helping Freddy wriggle out of his stupidly tight jeans. "Oh baby. You want that? You want me to make you feel good?"
Freddy nods, trying to ignore how much attention his crotch is getting, all freshly prepared by Iris for her favourite Manhattan predator.
"You want daddy to make everything better?"
Clothes are torn from his body, and his nakedness is shameful and exhilarating. Freddy pushes back, testing the boundaries of how far Sport will let him take the upper hand. He's pushed back on the pillow, told to role over, and from there everything comes crashing down.