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Freddie Doesn't Drink

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Freddie doesn't get drunk very often.

Walter is very, very good at getting Freddie drunk.

Not even just tipsy this time, which is usually where it all ends, because Freddie is a dainty little pink fucking flower of a man child and doesn't want to ruin his makeup crying and throwing up at three in the morning because all he's consumed today amounts to a vanilla iced coffee and half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

To be fair, Freddie has a decent tolerance for alcohol. Tipsy starts at the first drink and ends around the fifth, for him. Walter should know.

Freddie doesn't really ever drink. Not socially. Not when he's upset.

(When Freddie is upset he likes to ruin everyone elses' day, too, so he won't be so lonely and so he'll have some reason to hate someone other than himself.)

Walter is the only one who can ever convince Freddie Trumper to pick up a shot glass full of liquid that's not the color of his nails.

Walter wonders when he started liking girly boys. Then he remembers that Freddie's got a mouth like a fucking vacuum cleaner and a penchant for falling on his knees the second he thinks he can blame it on the alcohol.

He's also hung like a horse, but Walter's not into the whole bending over game. He likes to be the one still walking straight, and besides, by unspoken agreement only Alexander is allowed on the inside of him.

Right now Freddie is miserable, so miserable that even though he's got more than an idea that at least some of this whole mess has been engineered he doesn't care, he's on his third glass already and spewing hate speech about that obscure kink-niche porn star boyfriend of his who slept with him so that Walter would get him the hell out of that disgusting industry and into some respectable clothes. A jacket and a tie, even, or a bathrobe at least- anything but disappointing his kids that he doesn't even know and never has, anything but handcuffs and someone else's bodily fluids, but Freddie doesn't care about that or probably even know the half of it and besides, he's drunk and he's fucking angry and he's been used, damn it, he's not a fucking whore likeSergievsky.

"He said he still wanted to sleep with me," he said in disgust, as if he hadn't been fucking the guy over a conference table just a few hours ago. "Just fucking sleep with me - you know, I thoughtmaybe he wasn't a prostitute but maybe I need to go down and get tested now, I don't know."

"Well, you don't have to see him anymore," Walter said dryly, watching him over the lip of his glass with faint amusement.

Freddie doesn't really drink for a reason.

Walter kind of likes him this way, though. It makes him rant and rave, but he does that when he's sober; and it's got the added benefit of making him into an even bigger slut than Sergievsky, minus the potential venereal disease.

"I'm going to murder his career," Freddie vowed, and snapped back another shot of something that smells like a hangover and a half and probably tastes the part. He grimaces, wipes his mouth, sways in his seat.

"I'm sure you will." Walter doesn't doubt that he can do that. Freddie's connections don't stop with him. He had more than enough strings that he could pull to keep Sergievsky out of the modeling biz for the rest of his life.

"He still wants to sleep with me." He sneers, the hurt glowing in his eyes.

Walter's known Freddie long enough to be pretty sure the kid has some serious daddy issues - abandonment issues, sexual repression, whatever. Something like that. Freddie is a bitch when he wants something. He gets desperate, he gets mean. Walter likes to capitalize on that.

"Why can't I find one fucking guy who doesn't just want me for my dick?"

Walter doesn't answer. Freddie doesn't want him to.

He slides over in the booth, around the table. The pub is relatively dim, smoky. The wallpaper is dark, the corners are darker. It could be a nightclub if anyone had thought to add a dance floor and a stereo. Probably will be, in a few years.

He places his hand on Freddie's knee.

"Might be that mouth of yours," he comments, low and smirking. "You know, Freddie, you don't exude masculinity."

Freddie has forgotten that Walter had promised to pay, somehow, and is fishing for his wallet. There are five empty glasses in front of him and one half-full on Walter's side of the table. He's distressed. He needs something to occupy his mouth with, his fingers.

Walter can think of a few things.

He doesn't want it complicated and Freddie never tries anything fancy. It always goes like this, with Freddie leaning, groaning into his hand as he slides it up his thigh, his own hand clamping down immediately around Walter's thigh in hard, frantic reciprocation.

It's not that big a deal. Ironically, Freddie never makes a big deal out of this. Out of Walter.

This is just a given.

Freddie doesn't get drunk often but this is how it goes.

No one is looking at them, and if they are, Freddie has just reached the border between tipsy and drunk and Walter's not buying him anymore drinks because he's not letting him go until he's had his way and Freddie isn't going to complain because Freddie doesn't drink except for when he wants to do something stupid and risky and slutty like this, like his fingers fumbling with Walter's zipper, like his mouth wet and hot plunging around his cock like some desperate whore, whining and clutching at the fabric of his pants.

Walter fists his hands in Freddie's hair. He hisses, he lifts his hips. "Christ, Trumper, feeling desperate?"

Freddie doesn't drink except for when he's desperate.

Walter sometimes asks the stupidest questions, just to fill the silence. Just to keep his head clear.

Walter likes to be on top, in control, likes to keep Freddie on a leash, likes to feel him tremble, likes to listen to him rub himself off while he sucks him, while he licks and suckles at the head of him, laps the salt from the tip, shifts uncomfortably in his seat like he's so turned on he can't even handle it anymore.

Sometimes Walter imagines that Freddie wants him to fuck him just like this, just pull him into his lap and force him down onto his cock and that he'd moan out loud for it, and that he'd maybe beg and he'd have the tightest little asshole because Freddie is just that kind of guy, always tense, always trembling, always set to go off, Freddie's the kind of guy who probably just needs to get a few fingers in him to calm him down, a thick cock to stretch him open, Walter's cock, specifically, because Walter likes to imagine that Freddie's his personal toy and Florence doesn't like him and she has pretty legitimate reasons, he thinks, it's just that she doesn't really know it and no one else does either, because Freddie is drunk and that means Freddie is his, at least right now.

Freddie has silky hair and wet, shiny, swollen lips, Freddie is fondling himself like a thirteen year old through his jeans because he wants it so bad and Walter has half a mind to indulge himself this time, just to hear him scream. Make him scream.

"Ugh," he groans, and grits his teeth and yanks his hair, and Freddie swallows involuntarily around him, choking just a little, and Walter pulls him back by the roots of his hair and fists his cock until he's covered that pretty boy face in warm splatters and drips and he's still fucking moaning for it, licking his lips, leaning into him like some kind of doll.

"Jesus," he says again, just to reiterate, as he tucks himself back into his pants and shoves Freddie back up into a sitting position.

Freddie doesn't drink. Freddie really shouldn't drink.

No one ever said that Walter was a good influence.