On The QT

By The Spike

Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, Exley-angst and general, um, pissiness. <snerk>

Pairing: Ed Exley/Bud White

Warning: consideration of water sports and I don't mean polo

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of James Ellroy, Brian Helgeland, Curtis Hanson, WB, and whoever else may have a hold on them. The situation is totally mine, and I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights. Written for fun, not profit.

Notes 'n thanks: Thanks to Te for the inspiration and for being so darn loveable.

Spoilers: This probably takes place early on in the movie, before any of the bonding.

Summary: PWP really. Ed Exley realizes he has some issues with Bud White

-------------------------------

On the QT

by The Spike

Ed Exley in the precinct bathroom washing an ink stain out of the pocket of his shirt. It's hopeless. The water is icy and rubbing at the stain with his handkerchief is just making the splotch of bright blue ink smear and run. And his shirt is far too wet now, cold water dribbling down inside. He wishes he'd worn a cotton vest. The starched Arrow shirt has gone translucent and clings like cold dead skin to his chest. Teeth on the verge of chattering despite the heat. He's pretty much ready to pack it in, wear his damn jacket done up and sweat all day when the door smacks open.

Exley looks up in the mirror just as Bud White shoves in. Shit. The air around Exley goes all tight and electric and the reflex catches him like it always does around White. Only this time he gets to see it in action -- see the red stain flush his cheeks and chin in the mirror; see the meet and greet smile plaster itself on his face -- and it's shocking. Humiliating. The only way he could look more like whipped dog would be to lie down and show White his belly.

And it doesn't make a... a fuck of a difference. White moves past him without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. Straight to the urinal. Exley hears the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of cloth. A second's grace and then the sound of piss falling on ceramic is loud enough to differentiate from the running water. With a hot/cold shock Exley realizes he's looked up. Is staring. Realizes he's fallen motionless and is doing nothing but standing there, hand holding his wet hanky to his wet chest, watching in the mirror. Watching Bud White urinate.

White's back is to him. That broad back with those heavy slabs of muscle. He can see White's muscles shift a little under his too-tight short sleeve shirt, adjusting his grip... And Exley's face is so hot now his glasses start to fog. He looks away. Looks down. Scrapes his handkerchief angrily over the stain. Scrape, scrape. Wet cotton on wet cotton. Doesn't even matter what he's doing now. Ink everywhere and he gets more water. Wet and icy cold and he can't even think and the hanky skids hard over his left nipple.

He gasps, taken by surprise. And does it... again. Hits that hard wet little nub, drags the cloth over it. Again. Rub, rub. Slams down on the voice inside that says: Don't. Danger. Stop. Slams the voice. Beats it bloody. Rub, rub. Hard and electric, sending hot little shocks from nipple to cock like a sparking wire. Starting a burn under the ice cold shirt. Breath hitching with every hit. Shaky.

And sudden squeak of leather sole on tile and his glance flies to the mirror. Eyes up and watching Bud White shift again, again, still pissing. And Exley is not thinking about steaming hot piss, so clean and sharp and hard drilling the white porcelain. Drilling white porcelain flesh. Burning. Rub, rub. His nipple is burning. Face burning. Rub, rub. Wouldn't take much more. Not much...

He leans forward just the tiniest bit -- just until he's pressed groin-hard against the cold porcelain lip of the sink. Just the tiniest rocking motion, just the push, push of his hand abrading his nipple, hips against the sink and he's... Jesus Christ! Wet! Cold! Icy water overflows the lip, water spilled and seeping in through the wool. Cold water on his hot thighs... Sizzling. Vaporizing from the heat and he's going to...

Sudden jerk of motion as Bud White shakes off, straightens, zips. Flush of water echoes in the room under the rush of the running tap. Ed Exley feels himself incinerate. Hand on his nipple, hard cock pressed against the sink. Wet shirt, wet pants. Face ablaze. The weight of his eyelids suddenly too heavy to bear. His eyes fall shut as White turns.

He feels the motion of air like the precursor of a storm. The sudden heat and weight of White's presence behind him. Feels his body flush hot, cold, hot. And what the fuck does it matter now -- everything out here in the open. Might as well be naked, belly up on the cold tile, legs spread for White... for what... He lets his hand fall from the nipple -- chin up, eyes closed -- lets it skim down to his groin. White is going to kill him. Who cares? Takes himself in hand -- cool fingers wrap around burning hardness through the fine wet wool. Giving it up. Giving it all up and

Oh God, Exley thinks, he's going to...

And then he feels cool air move at his back and --

Magnesium flash bulb in his head, mind's eye: //Bud White's meaty hands coming down on him. Digging in. Bending him back. Pushing him down. Cold wet tiles. Bud White over him on the cold, wet tiles. Himself naked and wailing on his hands and knees as Bud takes his burning burning nipple between thick callused fingers and rolls it until Exley's groans echo off the walls. More thick hard fingers in his ass, just barely stretching him and knowing White's going to plow him long and slow and steady until he's crazy, they're both crazy and they come and come long and slow and shuddering and liquid. Liquid. Scalding piss. Cold white belly. Coming hard//

-- and he hears the swing slap slap of the bathroom door closing. Opens his eyes and White is gone. Gone. Long gone gone...

The bathroom is empty, the tiles are clean and Exley is just a red-faced, whipped-dog baby cop with wet pants trying to clean an ink stain out of his shirt.

And Bud White pissed like a racehorse and passed him by. Didn't even stop to wash his hands.

The End

Feedback: please?