I’ve got barely anything to show for it in the way of writing because goddamn, ain’t life a kick in the head?
sorry y’all, I know I’ve got a lot of asks/submissions to catch up on… I can only say that it’ll be slow, but I’ll try
morale is low but we must keep on
besides extenuating circumstances in my own life (personal tragedy, deteriorating health, familial drama) I’ve been quite busy
school has been busting my balls but I’m finally on my way to college :D
at long last, I wrapped up my obligations as a certain production’s peter pan, and I wriggled my way from the clutches of a few APs (which ho-leee hell, quite the MK finisher LOL. felt like johnny cage had a hand up my esophagus and was puppeting me in some perversion of a stand-up comedy set. iykyk..)
I’m tryna get my paws on some vyvanse for a little kick in the pants
I've been thinking about how the doors that the ex-pops/prime assets travel through to get into trials must lead to their sleep room? The scientists mention cleaning blood out of Coyles' trial area, and I would assume no one is going in there unless it's empty.
In the lore, it mentions that pushers have their own areas to create their own gasses.
A headcanon I have is that the tickets the reagents get from trials are used to exchange for food, and it's a way to motivate them.
(Dorris is able to eat because of her little contraband system.) So the ex-pops and prime assets need a place to eat.
AAAAA I'm rambling!
I was wondering what you think the ex-pops' and the prime assets' sleep rooms looks like?
I assume some of them at least have to be separated because I know berserkers attack anything that is too loud....
I know that in the lore Amelia can't find her significant other because they are in separate sleep rooms, and I know there are more than one ex-pop character, more pushers, pitchers, etc., than just the characters we see.
I like to think certain ex-pop are assigned to different rooms, so the reason why we play the game and we see those ex-pops is because they are assigned to our specific sleep room...
I LOVE RAMBLING, RAMBLE ALL YOU WANT ❤️
currently obsessed with the idea of a mess hall for all the ex-pops… god, what chaos 😭
I can imagine the primes are all separated.. but perhaps only when they’re misbehaving? it’d be interesting if easterman would let them come and go “freely” in designated areas just to see how they (re)act and adapt to their environments. kinda love that there’s no concrete lore on it
all the rooms originally looked similar— a bed, a table/desk, a sink and mirror— but kind of like reagents they could get ahold of trinkets and decorations for good behavior or performance
god, now I wonder if they have a private bathroom or just a toilet in their room???
I have to admit, I read a very good francoyle fic series early on to my trials obsession and they had it set up like everyone was kept in cells-ish and I’m fighting that being the only canon in my brain right now LMAO
but can you imagine you’re a murkoff guard and you clock on for your eighteen hour shift (no overtime pay btw) and you have to watch gooseberry take a piss? coyle would totally make intense eye contact despite his aviators and franco would try to send his stream as far as possible outside his cell 😭💔
now imagining franco and leland getting into a pissing contest except it’s very literal…
eugh, anyway—
I suppose all the ex-pops mill about together because they’re typically docile unless provoked. you bring a good point about the berserkers— I bet you anything they’re kept separate in sound-proofed rooms.
wait… berserker earmuffs…
now for my favorite part… the headcanons:
franco did everything in his power to get ahold of pinup girl posters and they COVER the walls by his bed
gooseberry pleaded day and night for weeks for a bunk/trundle bed in case “any friends came to stay”. it worked. easterman caved because she kept sending letters half in cursive and half in chicken scratch about how it was absolutely necessary for her to be able to accommodate company
coyle hides little burlap bags of pistachios in random places— under his pillow, behind the sink, in his boots (eugh). beyond that, his room is covered in police paraphernalia
headcanon: coyle lets franco take his sunglasses and hat off during rare moments of vulnerability/emotion 🥺
I love this…
p.s. coyle is NOT bald but that’s because I’m a coward and I didn’t know how to write caressing a man’s bald head very tenderly so that’s mb
***
Coyle squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ringing in his ears to go away.
His boots scuffed through the shattered brick before him and he leaned back against the wall, trying to regain his bearings.
“Hey, officer. Fuck’re you doin’, sittin’ around,” came Franco’s irritated voice and Coyle resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears.
“Ain’t sittin’. Jus’ needed a minute. Them bricks hurt worse’n the Devil’s ungreased dick.”
Franco blinked at him. “Y’really are southern, aren’t ya?”
Coyle pushed himself off the wall and listed a little ways to the left before he righted himself again. “Didja doubt it, city boy?”
Ignoring this, Franco drew closer to him with something that might’ve been concern on his face.
“You can’t even walk. Sit down,” he ordered, directing Coyle to the crate beside him.
He sat after a careful moment, pinching the bridge of his nose against the wave of nausea that rolled over his stomach and throat like fog.
Franco reached for his glasses and he swatted away the man’s gloved fingers.
“You’re useless enough already. A brain injury might cut ya some slack with your daddy,” and there he stopped, voice dripping sarcasm, and looked pointedly at a security camera before plucking Coyle’s glasses off and tucking them in his pocket, “but not with me.”
Coyle grunted, head lolling back against his shoulder, eyes shut to the sterile light that illuminated the entrances to the shuttle.
Franco went for his officer’s cap next and his eyes shot open, black spots bursting across his vision.
“Cool it, big boy,” Franco said, derisiveness filling his tone, making to set the cap on the concrete.
“No,” he grabbed for Franco’s forearm. “Not the fuckin'.. the fucking floor.”
Franco cast his eyes to the ceiling and carefully fixed the hat atop his head.
It sat jauntily-- not that there was any other option, due to the way his head was shaped like a roughed up, bloody cauliflower-- and despite it being so grotesque it nearly brought tears to Coyle's stinging eyes, it also made him look younger; boyish and... something else, drowned by the heat of his blood on his temple.
So much so that it almost disabused Coyle of the notion that they must peck and scratch and scrap every moment they spent together inside the sort of waking purgatory they found themselves in.
Almost.
Franco, who was not privy to these unwelcome reflections, continued to play nurse.
Inquisitive fingers probed the site of his most recent injury and he cringed away from the damp heat of Franco's hands.
"Fuck... sorry," was a whisper, uttered underneath the similarly damp heat of Franco's breath on the top of his head. "You're concussed."
Laughter rumbled in Coyle's chest. "Yeah?"
"Fuck you," Franco sneered-- he must've, anyway, and Coyle pushed down disgust at the concept of being able to predict the other man's mannerisms-- and stepped back. "Y'won't need stitches, very least."
Coyle nodded, jerkily, and resisted slumping forwards.
Franco's too-long-sleeves were unfolded and pulled down to his knuckles as he attempted to clean up the quickly coagulating blood, the quiet swish of his suit jacket so aggravating it felt like there was barbed wire on his gums.
Awkward silence settled between them, interrupted only by Coyle's ragged breathing and the pounding of his head so loud he swore the other man could hear it too.
FIN.
***
they sat on opposite sides of that little room until they were ushered back to whatever quarters they’re kept in and coyle’s request for aspirin was not approved.
franco is def the first one to say "I love you" in the relationship, but what does coyle's declaration/admittance of love look like?
as absolutely preposterous as it sounds, a proposal
a marriage proposal
for a very "traditional" interpretation of holy matrimony, hear me out-- coyle's the type of guy that likes to own (and be owned in return, but that's a different story...) because that provides him with a sense authority (if we all agree to assume that coyle assumes he wears the pants)
I think the only way he could stand to reason loving franco is with a sort of "collar" or way to exert control attached. he proposed, he got on one knee, and that's the last time he'll ever do it for franco (Lord help that poor man... jk, he's right where he wants to be)
it's like a double-edged defense mechanism-- his lover can't leave him and he's still in a position of power. (it's so normal and healthy to cling for dear life to the things that are unhealthy for us... like cigarettes... or excess electrostimulation... or...)
coyle's character revolves heavily around authority and control, and especially the fear of losing it which is the basis for this analysis
also he has to have, like, the MOST insane internalized homophobia and the more he can, like, justify it with tradition the more he can accept his reality. very conditionally
God, he really does love to self-destruct, huh?
"til death do you part," is a life sentence and coyle loves a harsh ruling...
Coyle wrenched the pacifier out of Franco’s mouth and held it just out of reach, a sneer stretching across his face.
“Want this, boy? Come and get it.”
Franco immediately went on the offense, pouncing on Coyle as though he hoped climb the taller man and use his shoulders for leverage.
Coyle hardly moved, only watched as Franco hopped himself into an illogical frenzy.
“Just— just give it back,” Franco panted, straining on his toes for his pacifier.
He was pressed almost fully to Coyle, one singular focus on the piece of plastic he had gripped in his gloved fingers.
“C’mon, y’can’t even handle your toys. Be a man,” Coyle taunted, wiggling the pacifier above his head.
Franco frowned, lips wobbling like he was about to burst into tears and Coyle secretly hoped that he would if only because tormenting him was the one free joy that was nearly almost guaranteed amongst his slew of awful circumstances.
He did not cry, to Coyle’s deepest, darkest dismay, and lunged once more not for the pacifier, but for Coyle’s mouth.
He kissed the way he shot his gun— ruthless, without concern for any consequences, and with every fiber of his being straining towards the rush of violence.
Coyle’s hand dropped and Franco took his toy back, but he did not stop. He clutched at Coyle’s arms, panting into his mouth, eyes squeezed shut.
For longer than Coyle cared to admit, he kissed back.
crack:
Coyle could not believe that big bitch.
She’d shackled them together with Coyle’s own handcuffs, twittering some cheeky thing about how “you must learn get along” and had naturally taken his only set of keys.
He was sure it had been hours, but every glance at the ticking clock upon the wall verified at had barely breached thirty minutes.
“Quit it, you’re chafin’ my wrist,” Franco whined, drawing much too close to Coyle in an effort to ease the taut link between their hands.
All he did was whine.
Coyle knew as much, and hated him for it.
“Quit bitchin’, won’t you? You’re worse than my first wife,” Coyle snapped, shifting away from the shorter man.
A scoff and a moment of silence before Franco jerked him back, fingers stuffed between the cruel metal and his tender little bitch skin to keep it from making a mark because he was a tender little bitch and couldn’t handle any amount of discomfort that he didn’t ask for.
Freak, Coyle thought maliciously.
“Goose is right, yknow. If we can pretend,” and he jostled their wrists, fingers still stuffed in the gap between the cuff and his skin, “to tolerate each other, she’ll let us go.”
Coyle sneered.
“I don’t lie,” he hissed. “And she’s gotta know this is unjust.” He knew Franco had no respect for the law, but it got to be downright repulsive at points.
Franco grit his teeth, muttering savagely under his breath.
Points like this.
“What the hell’d you say?” Coyle snarled, fisting his one free hand in Franco’s obnoxiously purple shirt.
They were nose to nose. Franco’s bulging eyes flitted between Coyle’s shaded ones, as if deliberating which one to focus on.
Franco bared his teeth. “Nothing.”
Coyle inhaled, ready to rant about respect and dignity and being a real man when Franco kissed him, brows furrowed like the action was painful.
Which it was. God, it was.
He finally released Coyle, a faint flush on his cheeks.
“Shut the fuck up?”
(btw they fuck nasty style on the floor after that— missionary, of course, so they can continue their previous argument— and franco holds coyle’s hand because they’re shackled together still and gooseberry accidentally sees them and stands a respectable distance away while they finish (they went thirteen rounds /j))
tenderly…:
“God. Gimme a smoke, huh?” Franco panted, staring intently at the ridged shuttle doors like they’d reopen for a second try if he willed it hard enough.
Coyle sat down heavy on a nearby crate, legs spread wide. “Cain’t. Don’t have none left.”
His boots skimmed over the polished concrete with every idle kick.
“You’ve got one in your mouth,” Franco insisted, drawing nearer to the crate.
Coyle exhaled a plume of smoke. “Yeah. What about it?”
Franco stepped between Coyle’s thighs and planted a firm hand on the rough surface of his seat.
“Sharing’s a virtue, isn’t it?”
Coyle laughed, low and gravelly. It made Franco’s palms itch. “I ain’t so virtuous,” he claimed, taking a deep drag off his cigarette.
“I know,” Franco purred, close enough his lips brushed the corner of Coyle’s mouth before they drifted into kiss. Franco’s other hand found Coyle’s jaw and he tugged gently, asking to for him to open up, to share.
Coyle let the smoke into Franco’s mouth, wisps escaping the messy seal of their lips.
headcanons:
- they would eat each other alive. it would be rough and feral and full of anger that they want each other soooooooooo bad
- they bite and draw blood and dominate each other because neither of them can resist the draw of competition
- lots deeper, but God, if they ever fell in love (not love, but love, you know?) it would be because of how they kiss. fully consuming, owning, knowing, and belonging.
- franco LOVES kissing. just loves it— loves it more than the sex, really. it’s something he can do (really perform) and it’s something he’s good at. making out with him is always passionate and slow and dirty (just the right amount of sloppy/clumsy. probably a lot of tongue). given the chance he’d hold whoever he’s kissing tight, groping and grinding with the desperation of a teenager doing it only for the third or fourth time. he’s very vocal, of course— he’d shower his partner with praise
- (coyle with a praise kink is my favorite btw)
- coyle isn’t so much a fan. funnily enough, I can’t imagine he’s ever really kissed or been kissed beyond when he got married all those times. I think it unnerves him… (“I don’t “make love,” I fuck” or whatever goes on in fifty shades of gray LMAO). that being said, he’s very precise until he gets worked up. he’d go in for a simple smooch and end up crowding his partner up against the wall with all pretense of control forgotten. coyle doesn’t control himself, he can’t, I don’t think. he’s a pretty passionate guy that kinda lives in the moment, especially when he’s heightened emotionally. I think he would be nearly bursting at the seams with anger by being called “emotional” but I fear that only proves the point…
ANYWAYYY I HOPE THAT WAS WHAT YOU WERE LOOKING FORRR ❤️
headcanon that coyle wears sunglasses all the time because he actually lost the eye on the scarred side of his face and it’s just one more reminder that he can’t go back to the life he used to live ever because he doesn’t fit the stereotypical american dream man anymore— he doesn’t even fit his own schtick…?
and he can’t stand people seeing it so he covers any disfigurement as much as he can, no matter how outrageous it is…?
and sometimes he admits he understands where gooseberry is coming from even though he’s excessively cruel to her about hiding too because look, if we point fingers away from ourselves maybe no one will look at us…?
feat. a self-aware coyle that gets called daddy and franco suffering (enjoying) a spanking. then they fuck nasty style on a concrete floor
***
“Goddamn it,” Franco spat, skidding to a halt as the last of the reagents safely made it into their shuttle.
Coyle stood a ways behind the shorter man, attempting to catch his breath. “We got one of ‘em. Slippery rat bastards, they was.”
Franco whipped around to level him with an incredulous stare. “We? I. I got one. You lazy pig, you didn’t do nothin’ until you heard my sweet Lupara executin’ them ‘slippery rat bastards,’” and there he affected Coyle’s southern accent, much to the cop’s chagrin, “and thought you could horn in on my performance.”
“Don’t you even start with—”
“You’re slow.” Franco threw his arms up. “You’re fuckin’ old, that’s why we’re in this mess.”
Franco swore Coyle’s eye twitched behind his aviators. “I ain’t so old.”
“You’re old as my old man.”
“Your old man ain’t never taught you some fuckin’ respect, after all them years?”
Franco bared his teeth, stalking towards Coyle like he was wanting to start something. “Don’t you talk about my old man and respect—”
Coyle tugged a glove off with his teeth, flexed his hand, and wound up to slap Franco for all he was worth.
The crack reverberated against the concrete walls.
Franco stumbled, head snapping so hard his chin tucked against his shoulder. Coyle watched Franco gently touch the great red mark on his cheek, watched the reactive tears brim at his big blue eyes.
“You need a firm fuckin’ hand, boy.”
Franco touched his cheek a little more insistently. He moved towards Coyle slowly, purposefully.
“That’s as firm as you got?” Franco sneered, and Coyle was more than obliged to punch his buck teeth out the back of his oversized skull.
He expressed as much and Franco gestured to himself, some sort of taunting “here I am,” that had Coyle hauling him up by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall.
Franco chuckled breathlessly, struggling to maintain his balance on his toes. “Fuck,” he half-whispered, swooning towards Coyle. “Y’hit just like my daddy, d’yknow that?”
Coyle sneered and tightened his fist in Franco’s shirt. “Never hard enough, I don’t think,” he hissed.
Franco grinned. “Plenty. Daddy did my head.”
Chest to fist to chest was starting to become a little much. “Wouldja stop fuckin’ sayin’ that?”
Despite the revelation that Franco was as ugly as he was because of his father, that there must have been a pretty damn good reason for the hell he’d done to his own son. Half of Coyle yearned for a story.
“What? Daddy?” Franco purred, eyes half lidded and somehow predatory in a way that unnerved Coyle to his core. He’d never really realized just how blue they were until now, when they were nose to nose and far too close, far too easy for him to just grind forward against Franco because that last utterance had done something bad to him.
“Yeah,” he said, rough and ungraceful and telling.
Franco laughed again, softly. “Why?” He asked, his breath hot against Coyle’s ear.
His hips twitched and he grit his teeth and spun Franco so that he was mashed against the wall so he could whisper horrible things to it instead of Coyle.
A startled, “Uhmph—” when Coyle kicked his feet apart and fit himself against Franco’s back and pinned his hips so he couldn’t squirm away and make a fool of Coyle any more than he already had.
Franco looked back as best he could and managed a cheeky smirk. “Oh, sargeant... You gonna teach me some discipline?”
Coyle shuddered. “Ain’t no sargeant just now.”
“What, then?” He teased, shifting back against Coyle’s crotch just enough that it had to have been purposeful.
“You naughty fuckin’—” Coyle grumbled, half allowing himself to relieve the pressure in his pants. “Oughta bend you over my knee, teach you a thing or two ‘bout challenging my authority.”
Franco went stock still.
He fancied he could hear the gears clanking in Franco’s head before he threw a vicious elbow at Coyle’s ribs.
He stumbled back, doubled over because the kid’s elbow was fucking pointy.
“Goddamn it, boy, thought we had a good thing goin’,” Coyle wheezed.
Franco’s scuffed wingtips came into view. “Did that hurt?”
Coyle didn't respond to that stupid fucking question, merely stayed wary of Franco's movements. He was unsure of the boy's intentions, unsure if this was going to end with broken noses and bloody shirts or another thing they didn't talk about, like fathers or the things they really wanted.
Franco crouched before him and cocked his head at Coyle's pained expression. "Y'just gonna let a baby touch ya like that? Startin' t'think ya lied about all you were gonna do to me. Startin' t'think you've got no teeth." Franco reached out and tugged his upper lip up, revealing sharp, nicotine-stained incisors. "Old man."
Coyle firmly believed himself to be the antithesis of a bitch. He took nothing and dished out whatever any punk tried to serve him a dozen times worse (or so he fancied) and when he lunged at Franco so hard that his head cracked awfully against the concrete he didn't feel an ounce of sympathy— only vindication.
"I gave ya a chance, son," Coyle growled, manhandling Franco so that he lay across his lap. Franco grunted but did not struggle very much at all, and Coyle only had the sinking suspicion that he had done exactly as Franco had wished him to when it was far too late to back off.
Franco readjusted himself. "What're ya—?"
"Take 'em off," Coyle interrupted, plucking at his blood-stained pinstripe slacks.
Begrudgingly, Franco shimmied his pants and briefs so they sat snug right around his thighs.
"Good, boy," Coyle drawled, grabbing at Franco's thick flesh and squeezing, fingertips digging deep divots into milky white skin.
Franco shivered, his back arching into the touch.
Coyle restrained his hands from roaming too much (but God, he wanted them to, wanted to strip the boy of everything and just look at him— peel him apart, humiliate him, teach him— ‘cause he, himself, was sore in the way of human clay and he was sure that he could mold Franco into something a father could be proud of, could clap a hand on the shoulder of, even though he lacked precisely the right parts for Coyle’s liking (but even then the potential was there, with his eyes and thighs and chest)… though it didn’t matter— he had gone too long without a willing body anyway) because there was no time for that, yet— he had a lesson to teach.
“Count,” he directed, flexing his hand once again before aiming a sharp smack at Franco’s ass.
Franco jolted at the impact, gasping against the rough concrete. “Uh— one,” he muttered.
Another
“Hmphg. Two.”
Another
“Are you learning?” Coyle asked, rubbing a hand over the bright red welts forming on Franco’s ass.
“Mm.. three. Yes—”
Another. “Not your manners. Don’t you know to make it right, son?”
“F-four,” Franco huffed. “I’m sorry.”
Another, harder this time. Franco’s skin was hot to the touch, each crack jolting his wilted frame.
“To who, boy? For what?” Coyle asked, his cock hot and throbbing, and surely Franco felt it against his hip and surely he was beginning to become just as impatient as Coyle
“Oh— five, I’m sorry.. daddy,” Franco whined, his pert, tenderly red ass swaying just enough that it made Coyle itch with the urge to dump Franco on the ground and fuck a hole into the concrete with his face.
Another slap and Franco sobbed out a sorry string of apologies, breathless and ruined and devastatingly erotic to Coyle who’d nearly wet his pants as soon as he’d heard Franco’s tears.
Franco valiantly tried to push himself up but Coyle placed a firm hand at the back of his neck and kept him right where he was supposed to be.
Another.
“Please— please let me… let me make it right. Dad?” Franco pleaded, fumbling blindly to brush against Coyle’s bulge and he really wasn’t a weak man, he was just… wound. He’d done his teaching, his patient waiting for Franco to catch on to what this was really all about.
He pushed Franco off his lap and the boy, God forgive him, assumed the position immediately— back arched, knees wide, Coyle’s abuse on full display.
"I think," Coyle's voice was gruff, throat raw with a million things that were not meant to leave, that would only stick like thistle to the narrow cavern of his guilty maw, "I think you have one more lesson to learn, son."
The concrete was hard on his knees, but he assumed his own position behind Franco, belt clanking as he undid only the fastenings that he absolutely had to.
He stroked one hand appreciatively over Franco's fading red to bruised black and blue ass— it looked like an ink spill, Coyle mused, almost disgusted with himself at the thought— and spat without warning on Franco's fluttering asshole.
Franco's thighs flexed and really, from this angle, Coyle nearly forgot that he wasn't a woman, that this wasn't a sloppy one-off with a random pretty girl in a random field in a random town.
He shook himself of the thought and let the tip of his cock bump against Franco's hole, shining spit and precum mixing together before he gripped Franco's wide hips and sunk into his tight, blinding heat.
“Oh, God," Franco whimpered, pushing himself back onto Coyle's cock. “Fill me up, daddy.”
Coyle viciously squeezed the base of his cock, mouth dropping open at Franco’s dirty admission of desperation.
It was not something he could bear to deny for very long, though— Coyle wrapped himself over Franco’s hunched form, finally bottoming out with a barely repressed sigh.
“Y’get what ya wanted?” Coyle hissed in his ear, withdrawing as much as he could before slamming a choked moan out of Franco’s mouth. “D’ya like this? Sittin’ on yer,” he paused, shuddered, thrust again, “yer daddy’s dick?”
Franco nodded frantically, his face pinched with a jumble of shame and pleasure.
“Tell it to me,” Coyle demanded, the rhythm of his hips incessant and punishing. Franco shook his head, gloved thumb caught in his teeth in a fruitless attempt to muffle his pathetic moans.
“Tell me,” he insisted, horrified to learn that he was desperate too.
Franco didn’t seem to notice particularly, as long as he was continually rocked against the rough concrete hard enough to skin the hell out of his palms, (Coyle smelled the blood and almost wished they’d gotten dirtier in their fighting), and as long as his defiance walked Coyle’s right side of nearly too much, nearly too real for the ludicrous scenario they’d spun for themselves.
Ludicrous, it was, but Coyle couldn’t ignore the way his guts melted into molten slush whenever Franco mewled his ill-gotten title, guilt and authority stoking the fire in his core to glow hot enough to burn.
Franco moaned miserably, silent tears tracking down his flushed cheeks but Coyle didn’t let up, merely licked the salt from his face and reveled in Franco’s shaking frame.
“Boys don’t cry, sweetness,” Coyle cooed, feverishly hot on Franco's skin. “Ain’t you taken care of? Ain’t you got what you need?”
Franco squeezed his eyes shut, buck teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard blood welled from the wound, and Coyle wanted to lick that too.
“Yeah, daddy,” he croaked. “You’re just… your baby never felt so full.”
That sounded like a confession— Coyle knew confessions, prided himself on extracting them from criminals and junkies and whores alike.
This confession sounded like an admission of virginity.
Which, for a moment, Coyle could not reconcile with Franco’s words, actions, the way he carried himself and the truth he’d just told though it dawned on him seconds later that he was the first and that he wanted to be the only regardless, if only to mold and ruin the boy beneath him.
Coyle laughed then, softly, his nose tucked behind Franco's ear. "You learn quick, dontcha, son?"
“Yeah,” he replied, just as softly, accompanied by a laugh of his own, and there was absolutely no singular way they could go back to the way things had been ten minutes ago.
That was something Coyle could work with, he thought, as his hips kept their piston rhythm.
Curiously, he crept one hand beneath Franco, farther than he'd figured he'd have to, and wrapped a hand around his drooling little half hard cock. It fit snugly in his palm, and Franco quivered at the contact.
Coyle was losing steam, his thrusts longer and sloppier than his previous precision but Franco seemed to like it better, grinding into his callused palm with hardly restrained fervor.
All it took was one well-timed thrust and a twist of his wrist to have Franco shakily coming into his hand, his pitiful, panting moans pushing Coyle closer to his own release.
He removed his hand and sneered at the substance painting his fingers. "Didn't your daddy ever teach you to clean up your mess?" Coyle jeered, pulling out only to shove Franco onto his back and push right back in, ignoring his raspy gasp of overstimulation.
Coyle barely had to prod Franco's lips before he got the memo, licking up his come with a rash of humiliation spreading over his cheeks. He watched with morbidly erotic fascination as Franco half kissed, half licked at the webbing between Coyle's fingers but feeling of Franco tracing his tongue from wrist to middle finger to suck the digit was really what did Coyle in, brows twitching together as he bottomed out to come deep as he could in Franco's ass.
He pulled out after an eternity, hesitating long enough to watch his come slowly start seeping its way out of Franco's loose hole before tugging his uniform slacks up and securing his belt once more.
Coyle stood, retrieving a cigarette from his little bandolier
"Leaving so soon," Franco murmured, amusement lacing his tone. His blue eyes were unreadable, though Coyle fancied they were subtly filled with uncertainty.
Certainly, he was hardly embarrassed by his nudity, but rather basked in it, the way Coyle's eyes kept drifting to his bruised ass even if it was barely visible.
“Yeah.” Coyle flicked his lighter. He turned away, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.
Franco’s soft sight kept him anchored for a minute longer.
“There’s plenty more to learn,” he remarked over his shoulder, leaving the boy on the cold concrete with those words (that invitation) and nothing more.
***
ever since someone asked me whether or not the boys would do dadson roleplay it’s been rotting the edges of my mind… GOD (/pos)
I was gleefully reminded last night of Coyle’s cigarette bandolier while trying to classify the exact type of pants he wears which is the absolute funniest thing in the world to me
gooseberry knitting coyle and franco matching sweaters during christmas time 🥺😭
OMG STOP THIS IS SO FREAKING CUTE
imagine a communal ex-pop sleep room because canon changes to whatever fits the fic 💯💯💯
ooc because they would never be this wholesome but by god I just want to see them happy for once
***
“Oh children,” Gooseberry crooned, grinning to herself about the carefully wrapped packages tucked under her arm.
It’d been a long, tedious process to find and collect the nicest pages she could from her weekly magazine subscription (as she liked to call it), but it’d been worth it.
She stepped into the doorway of Franco’s room and peered at him lounging in bed, lazily flicking through something called ‘Playboy’.
Isn’t that sweet, she thought, he’s reading about games.
“Didn’t you hear me?” She asked, cocking her head.
Franco quit his reading and looked at her. “No. Whaddya want, Goose?”
She grinned and patted the gifts under her arm. “It’s Christmas. Where’s Leland?”
He eagerly climbed out of bed and made towards her, eyes lit up with barely restrained glee. “Like I’d know. What’d you get me?”
“Well, I can’t tell you, silly. You’ve got to open it yourself,” she chided gently. “And we can’t leave out our friend.”
He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, he’s probably smoking somewhere.”
She turned and nearly bounced towards Coyle’s room, Franco following with an amused sigh.
He’d been right— Coyle was sprawled against the wall, about to light another cigarette. An overflowing ash tray set next to him.
“Don’t you light that, Leland,” she ordered, and he jerked at her sudden appearance.
“Told ya not to call me that at least a dozen times,” he grumbled, but he laid down his vice anyway.
“Look,” she cheerfully ignored him, sitting down on his bed. “I’ve got something for you.”
Franco lingered by the door, uncertain until she motioned him in.
She held out her gifts, giddy with excitement.
Both men ripped into them and she was only slightly disappointed they weren’t so careful with her homemade wrapping paper.
Coyle was the first to unfold his present, holding it aloft with an air of doubt. Franco joined him, eyes narrowed.
“Oh, Goose—” he began.
“Do you like them?” She interrupted, a wide smile stretching her face.
Franco blinked at Coyle, then at the woolen sweater gripped in his hands, then at Gooseberry’s expectant expression.
“Um….”
“Put them on,” she insisted, taking their hesitation for gratitude.
Coyle swallowed and shot Franco a pleading expression but he grimaced helplessly, already pulling the sweater over his head. Coyle reluctantly followed suit, the fabric fitting snugly over his chest. He didn’t know how the hell she’d managed to get his measurements but he was close to being impressed if only the situation wasn’t so horrifying.
Gooseberry clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, don’t you boys just look so cute,” she gushed.
Franco picked at his sweater. “Are we… are we matching?”
“Of course,” she admonished. “I haven’t finished my own quite yet. I simply couldn’t wait to see you two together.”
The dismay had not quite registered on Franco’s face when she jumped to her feet and tugged Coyle up, wrapping him and Franco in a crushing hug.
“I’m so happy you like them,” she murmured, rocking them gently on her feet.
Franco gave Coyle a watery smile, face mashed tight against her chest.
Coyle only sighed and submitted to his awful fate.
***
“Stand closer,” Goosberry directed, peeking over the staff member’s shoulder.
Franco shuffled half an inch closer to Coyle, one eye twitching minutely. The itch of his woolen sweater was nearly unbearable.
“Don’t you like each other?” She scolded, coming round to press their shoulders together.
Coyle stared straight ahead, desperately trying to ignore the wide smile plastered on the face of the staff member Gooseberry had recruited to take their picture portrait.
Somehow she had petitioned Doctor Easterman himself and he had authorized the event and lent the use of his personal 35mm SLR because (and Coyle was certain of this now) he loved to inflict pain and suffering on innocent people.
“There. That’s just perfect.” Gooseberry hummed, patting Franco’s cheek. He closed his eyes for a long moment and reopened them, his gaze glassy with misery.
Gooseberry flounced back to her original directorial perch and tapped her camerawoman on the elbow.
“Say ‘cheese’!” Gooseberry prompted, her hands clasped under her chin.
The camera clicked as the men uttered a sullen “Cheese.”
Coyle made to make a swift exit once the staff woman lowered Easterman’s camera but Gooseberry clucked and pointed for him to stay.
“One more, please. In case one of them blinked,” she insisted, smiling kindly at her assistant.
Franco muffled an aggrieved moan.
For some reason, he suspected there was not going to be just one more.
FIN!!!
ugh they’re so cute when you ignore how horrible they are
also I found these sweaters on pinterest…
coyle’s: franco’s:
I would pay a good amount of money for someone to draw them in these…. /srs
btw writing francoyle feels like playing russian roulette except there’s only one chamber without a bullet in it, and that one dry fire is somehow crafting a scenario in which they justifiably don’t murder each other (/pos)
