Chapter Text
A squeak rings out from between both of them. The snitch isn't sure if it came from him or the cop.
It feels like it's on fire. It is on fire.
Just the tip is enough for the snitch to yell out. In pain? Pleasure? He isn't sure.
He grips Leland's thighs, the cop's mouth agape as he tries to maintain any feeble semblance of decency. What if his beloved cop gets embarrassed, God forbid? The snitch would rather die before he lets the cop leave in the middle of this.
Leland is just as wet as before. Maybe more so. Way too tense, too. The snitch feels like both of his heads are about to explode. It isn't enough.
He's just scraping the tip. How can it already feel this impossibly good when it's not even in yet? The snitch feels like his skull isn't attached to his spine. Everything feels so fluttery and ticklish because it can't be real. Such tender warmth and affection.
Echoes of groans travel through the station and return to two bodies. Leland desperately presses his body into the one below. He drags the sobbing apparatus against his trembling rear. His hands shake against the bloodied.
"I can't—fuckin' shit—I can't do it," the cop cries. His throat is open, lips spewing what the snitch has only ever seen reagents like himself do. Leland is crying. The snitch finds it oddly captivating and a little strange.
Is sex really this tender? The snitch can't recall. All he remembers is being so poor that he couldn't afford the moldiest piece of bread. How could he ever have sex when he was barely living? Who would want some miserable piece of shit like him anyway? He doesn't even have the liberty of something like pleasure in such a nightmarish prison. Unlabeled pills and tablets have been silently introduced into his diet since he can remember; he can't even pretend to dream of getting it up. Not even if he wanted to. Not until now.
The snitch's hands find Leland's skin, gripping his hips. Touch firm but not forceful, the snitch helps Leland sink slightly lower. Slick lips meet a hardened phallus. Wet hands trail up a queasy body, leaving behind hints of something the snitch can almost bring himself to call affection.
Ah-feck-shun. What a weird word. It makes the snitch's stomach bubble uncomfortably and his cheeks so hot he might start sweating.
"It's, ah, ah- okay," the snitch insists, voice breathy and just uncertain as the cop's. He sways the cop's hips faintly with a whispered half-laugh.
Leland, begrudgingly, obliges, but without huffing dramatically and muttering something about how much he hates spineless whores (the snitch notes that Leland's face is bright red).
The cop immediately quiets, the tip of a scorching heat hotter than the Oklahoma sun in the middle of June meeting the most intimate part of his body. With such severity that he almost sees red, Leland seeks out his Danny boy and harshly mashes their hands together, fingers missing the grooves until they settle into a tight grip.
The snitch blinks several times before realizing Leland has sought out his hand for the sole purpose of holding it. His heart feels itchy. The snitch is hopeless. He wishes he could tear his heart out of his chest, blood and all, offer it to Leland and see what he does with such a present. Maybe that will make the itch go away.
He squeezes back, breath shuddered as Leland sinks a little more.
Sex is something the snitch holds in high regards. In all of the movies and books, sex is the ultimate symbol of love. Two people take each other's clothes off and touch each other and embrace each other in the most consensual, enjoyable, sexy way two people can possibly experience. Sex and love are practically the same, aren't they? You shouldn't have sex without love, at least. That's what the snitch thinks.
Any philosophical part of his person disappears as soon as the snitch truly enters the cop. Grown men whine pathetically as the tip of something fleshy scrapes against an untouched place. They desperately press their bodies closer, attempting to not push that swollen something deeper inside. Leland's grip on the snitch's hand tightens, interlocked fingers digging into skin. The snitch follows suit.
"Fuck. It—hurts—!" Leland's mouth hangs open, delicate lines of drool clinging to his teeth. "You stupid whore—fuck—make it not hurt!"
The snitch feels tears trickle down his bruised face. What is he supposed to feel? Sex is supposed to be nice. He doesn't not feel nice, but the feeling is too complicated to describe as particularly delightful. The hand gripping the cop's hip tightens. The snitch tries to not hurt him. Not that he isn't already hurting him.
"I don't know- I don't know how," the snitch moans, absolutely not stopping Leland from sinking deeper, but slowing the process considerably. "Just move slow. Slow…"
But, the cop is impatient. Leland Coyle is many things, but certainly not slow. He kills fast, he electrocutes fast, he abuses fast. This should be no different. Why should it be? He's obviously in control of this situation because Leland Coyle is the ultimate authority figure in his police station. Someone as pitiful (as similar) as the snitch isn't—shouldn't—be in control of such a situation. How dare Leland Coyle let some lesser guest boss him around?
Leland growls, grip everywhere tightening. He slaps the snitch's hand from his hip away. In one fell swoop, he lets himself fall completely atop the snitch. The sheathed's manhood is unceremoniously jammed directly into searing insides.
The snitch squeals like an animal, petrified and aroused all the same. He shyly thrusts out and then up again, like how he remembers they do it in the books. It should feel good, shouldn't it? The snitch feels good. He shouldn't be selfish, but he's ecstatic. Every warm part of his body (which is everywhere) feels like it's on the verge of melting away. Ecstasy is etched deep into the crevices of where longing once resided.
Leland's mouth is still open, body stiff as a board. Strangled and wild noises from deep within his core flee his lips. With every thrust, a shudder not unlike the ones produced by his electric baton makes his body jolt and his throat let out more lovely noises.
Leland is tight as the snitch gains more confidence, his rejected hand finding its way back to a spasming body. Tight grip against moistening skin, the snitch leads him closer.
The sensation is unbearable. Garbled, unintelligible noises leave Leland. How do people do this? His rear feels like it's cramping and he thinks he might die. This is despicable; stuff only sissies and queers do. Is Leland Coyle one of them now? He can convince himself that he isn't. This is a one time thing, it doesn't count here, he'll only do this with his Danny boy so obviously it'll never count because he's barely a man. Leland Coyle is not like them. He's just trying it out. Leland Coyle thinks that he is only trying it out as the snitch's cock slips in and out of him at an agonizingly slow rate (that Leland is controlling).
"D-Danny—"
"—What? What? What's wrong?"
Leland hisses, his hand reaching for his own leaking erection. He strokes at himself, at first with some hesitation and then with an urgent sense of frenzy the quicker the snitch pounds at his insides. The cop always thought that the snitch's penis would be pathetic, like some wilted and dying plant. Instead, it's thick and long. Leland is almost jealous. Such masculinity from a loser like Danny puts him to shame. It feels good, though. It feels mind-numbingly good. Maybe he can sulk about it later.
"Danny," Leland rasps, his limbs growing weaker but hotter and heavier. "Danny. I'm close, I'm close—"
The snitch mewls in response, arms wrapping around a sweating torso to push Leland down as he drives his scorching heat up. Lewd, wet slaps against skin reverberate in the empty police station. The snitch is high with adrenaline and a dire need to see what happens when Leland Coyle lets loose. Will he be kinder, or meaner? Will he be shy like men always say women are? Will he have a smoke and leave him writhing on the floor?
A white-hot heat bubbles in the snitch's stomach. Everything becomes hazier and feverish, musky sweat somehow smelling sweet.
Faster, faster, faster. The only thing that exists in this moment is the snitch and Leland Coyle.
Faster, faster. Leland Coyle is a little cute like this.
Faster. Unruly noises.
Fast. Hot.
Ragged breaths leave the snitch's chest, gulping for air. He slips out of the spent cop, a thin trail of white connecting a gawking entry with a limping phallus. Leland Coyle collapses onto the snitch, heaving chest against a sweaty one.
"Shit."
Leland Coyle rolls off the snitch, staring at the dingy ceilings with his back against the grimy floor. The snitch winces in pain. He's weak, of course. His body feels limp. He's probably exerted all of the energy he's carefully conserved over the past day. He glances over at the cop, hesitant to reach out. He isn't being kind or mean, certainly not shy. The snitch's hands politely rest atop his racing chest.
"… Um."
Without warning, Coyle sits upright. He grabs beyond the burlap bag, fingers digging into untouched skin to grip at a gangly chin. The bag is lifted just enough for split lips to peek into the world.
Coyle sneers. "You greasy little shit."
The snitch screams before he knows what's happening, his vision a blur as his head is smashed against concrete floor. What were initially gleeful stars dancing around his brain become screaming, festering shocks. Up and down and up and down again. His head pounds.
"I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY—"
Screeched pleas fall on deaf ears as Coyle, and the sight of tears falling down that ugly face are ignored. Frantic, messy hands that weakly grab onto his hands to pry away such painful touch are nothing compared to the awful feeling deep within the cop. Guilt? Regret? Longing? If Coyle tries to put a name to that sinking feeling, he might do something he'll genuinely regret.
It isn't until the snitch all but whimpers that Coyle stops, setting his head down with more decency than he intended. He leans to the snitch's level, breath mingling with a ragged one, hand firmly gripping wet cheeks.
"If you have the gall to tell someone 'bout what we did," Coyle sneers with a scowl, "I'll make yer pathetic life worse than hell on earth."
The snitch only hiccups quietly.
Coyle leans in closer.
Coarse lips press against the snitch's trembling ones. The snitch is surprised that it isn't as forceful as everything else thus far. It's something almost tender, almost sweet. It makes him feel stupid for wanting more.
One, two, three, and that's all the snitch assumes Coyle can stand. Cop slaps snitch as he stands, leather rubbing and metal jingling. The dirty pants are aimlessly thrown atop the silent figure on the floor as leather boots tap-tap-tap away.
The snitch is a little glad he isn't waiting helplessly for the trial to start. To sit in that damned chair, locked and restrained, for those gates to open. For him to get wheeled to his death by people who, by all accounts, are just like him.
Maybe God isn't real. It surely can't be Easterman. God wouldn't have let him get roped up in something so intimate with someone who sometimes cares and sometimes doesn't.
The snitch doesn't make an attempt to stand for the time being. He pushes the clothes away from atop his slimy body and stares at the fake ceiling of a fake building in a fake outside.