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“You know, after this, we should totally go out and pick up ladies, man. Or uh dudes I guess if that’s your thing,” Sharky says, off-handed. Chuckling. A joke. “No judgement.”

But maybe it was the wrong thing to say cuz Deputy’s eyes flash, they fuckin’ glitter in his goddamn head, and his jaw clicks closed. Annoyance.

Used to hearing it maybe?

“Oh shit,” Sharky says, eyes widening and yeah, yeah there goes that jaw again, grinding his teeth together. Hoooo boy. Used to hearing it. “Look, Dep...Rook, I didn’t mean no offense. Everybody’s got their...uh. Takes all types to...”

He won’t say different strokes for different folks.

“Different strokes for different folks, you know?” Sharky says cuz he really doesn’t know when to shut his fuckin’ trap. He doesn’t do this kinda thing, he doesn’t connect with people like this for reasons like this exactly. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little Dutch Rudder, some don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s uhh...liberatin’ right. It’s—“

“Just shut up, Sharky,” Dep says.

“Right. Yeah. Shutting up.”

Miraculously he does.

Probably has to do with the Peggies they run into right after that. Hard to talk much beyond quips when you’re frying Peggie flesh like old Pappi at a barbecue.

But it sticks with him.

Dep’s square jaw twitching under that growth of beard. His eyes narrowing. He’s a goddamn dangerous dude, a monster who just happens to be on the right side. Sharky has seen him taking people apart one too many times, he knows—he fuckin’ knows—that Dep don’t got it all going on upstairs. Something’s missing. A conscious or or or something.

Not that that’s got anything to do with him being a homo.

Cuz it doesn’t.

Sharky had just kinda...thought of him as a fucks bitches and takes names sorta guy. It’s the shoulders, and the neck. And the way he kills literally anyone who so much as wears an Eden’s Gate sunburst.

But to each their own, he really means that.

He really does.

And he’s gonna be supportive. Hyper supportive. The most supportive.

“Hey so like...with you likin’ dudes and all, does that mean someone like Grace don’t get you goin’,” Sharky asks. Turning to Dep as they clear out a roadblock a few days later. One of the Peggies catches fire, falls to the ground in a panic, screaming. The flames winking in the darkness, painting Dep red like a demon or a spirit or some poetic shit.

Dep stops. The rifle lowers. Eyes drifting from the scope over to Sharky. “We are not talking about this right now.”

“No. I mean. I know that, man,” Sharky says. “I just meant—“

The rifle cracks. Shut up, Sharky. Dep reloads, fires another shot quick as you please. Just shut up.

The last Peggie’s leg explodes in a gout of blood and bone splinters just below the knee. Dep is a surgeon with that .50 cal. He’s a goddamn artist.

“I just meant,” Sharky says, cuz they’re all mostly dead now and he has never had a very good sense of self-preservation. “Like you’re so cool you know? And she’s so cool and. I dunno. You wouldn’t set Hurk up with her so I kinda thought...”

Dep snorts. He slings the rifle over his shoulder all casual like. God, he’s such cool shit. Sharky tags along next to him as the Deputy crosses to the roadblock. As he hauls the still-whimpering Peggie away from the truck he had been trying to get into when the bullet took his limb off at the joint.

Sharky only winces a little when Deputy reaches down and snaps the guy’s neck. Causal like. Oh so fucking cool.

His biceps bugling as he twists just right. The stretch of his forearms.

Sharky looks away.

“It’s not cuz you’re into Hurk right? Not that but...”

“Jesus Christ, Sharky” Dep says. Hands deep in the pocket of the guy. Bullets and change clinking around in his palm. “Do you ever shut up?”

“No. I mean well yeah. But. I don’t know. It’s just weird. I guess. You don’t seem—“


That isn’t the right answer even if it was what Sharky was gonna say. Dep’s tone so flat and so dry tells him one-hundred percent it is Not the Right answer.

“You aren’t like they are on like tv,” he says.

Deputy frowns. His eyes close. Then he stands. Shakes his head. “Imagine that,” he says. His eyes open. He cracks a small smile. “I’m not sporting a hard on for Hurk,” he says.

“Oh. Okay. Cool. That’s cool.”

Deputy smiles wider. He claps a hand on Sharky’s shoulder. His hand is wide, wide, wide. Fingers spread. Squeezing just lightly at the muscles of Sharky’s back.

“I think I’m gonna take off,” Dep says. “Get some rest maybe.”

Sharky is still thinking about the weight of Dep’s hand, the warmth of it. It takes him a second to click back to the regularly scheduled program.

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Uhh...just. You if you...” Sharky says.

Dep touches the radio clipped to his belt. He grins again. Nods. “Sure thing, man.”

And then he is going. Ambling off into the night like he belongs there. Sharky has never asked where he sleeps, he assumes the jail maybe. Or some liberated shack somewhere, tucked away with his guns and the small fortune he has amassed.

It may be the end of times or whatever, but Deputy keeps cash on hand like its going out of style. Raids every register and safe that they find. Sharky would call it gauche, but he isn’t really sure he knows what that means.

Plus Dep usually isn’t stingy about sharing, and Sharky can’t really complain if he’s lining his own pockets as well.

He wonders, briefly, if Dep is using some of the funds to pay someone to fuck him. The thought is uncharitable, it’s weird. Sharky doesn’t want to be thinking about his friend’s sex life but well...

Well it’s there, isn’t it?

It’s not that Deputy isn’t hot because even Sharky can admit the man has looks. No homo or anything but Dep has lashes for days and cheekbones for miles and muscles muscles muscles. He radiates that aura of very-easily-could-kill-you and there has to be people who are into that. Other guys who are into it.

Hell, Sharky is into it when it’s like...a woman who could kill him or whatever so...


He was going somewhere with this.

He looks down at his hands, shaking around his beer. He’s gonna need to start rationing and soon, hadn’t thought about the fact that this whole thing may not just blow over in like a week. It had seemed impossible that wouldn’t.

And yet.

Deputy hasn’t called him to check in in a few days. Since they left each other at the roadblock. It’s probably nothing, most likely nothing but something in Sharky rolls over at the thought.

Dep in danger.

Ridiculous murder machine that he danger.

Sharky swigs the rest of his beer, wanders his way up, up and onto the roof of the trailer. He lights some shit on fire, like he usually does when he’s crashing his own buzz and needs to feel better.

But it doesn’t really help.

He watches the Eden’s Gate flag crumple and curl and disintegrate in the flames but he doesn’t feel any less unsettled.

He finds the radio where he keeps it charging, just in case Dep calls for him. He flicks the dial back and forth a couple of times, checking the frequency. The power is working, the air waves are clear.

Sharky licks his lips. He holds the radio to them.

He has nothing to say.

Doesn’t know what he can say.

“You around,” he asks. Holds the button for a second longer than he should.

Nothing. Nothing. He’s just being paranoid. The alcohol sitting too thickly in his bloodstream.

Dep eyeing him over the scope. That sharp frown. The blond of his beard gone red, red in the fire light, like blood around his lips.

The radio buzzes. Static.

Then Dep’s voice, thick. A little disoriented. “Sharky,” he says and it’s a question. He clears his throat, it rumbles over the mic. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Late. Probably a lot later than he had realized if even Dep is asking him that. Sharky glances out the window. The sky is dark, dark, dark. Cloudy. No moon. Blotched out.

Sharky swallows. “I’m kinda drunk,” he admits. Not that drunk. Not drunk enough. There is no excuse for it. “You wanna come over?”

There is a noise at the other end of the line. Scratchy. It takes Sharky a minute to recognize the sound of Dep’s laughter.

He doesn’t hear it often.

His jokes get quiet scoffs more often then straight laughs from Dep who is always so stoic and serious and deadly.

“You wanna kill something?”

“No, man, I just wanted—“

But this isn’t before Eden’s Gate. Before the Reckoning, before the madness. People don’t just ‘hang out’; it’s not done, it can’t be.

Sharky bites his lip.

“Wanted?” Dep prompts.

“I dunno. I’m outta shit to burn.”

Deputy exhales. There’s something about it, about the way the radio picks it up. Almost like laughter, amusement. Warmth. Like his hand on Sharky’s shoulder, too hot even through his hoodie. “Okay,” he says. “It’s gonna take me like twenty.”


“You better be awake when I get there, you fucking lush.”

“Of course,” Sharky says. Then he remembers, he’s supposed to be drunk. So much for rationing. He carries the radio with him as he cracks another can open.

Tips it back, drinks it down. He reaches for another. It hisses and fizzes as he breaks the tab. He tips it back, he drinks it down.

He is well and truly sloshed by the time Dep arrives. He still has most of a case left, but empty cans litter the table he is sitting at.

“Dep,” he says, brightening as the man lets himself in. Closing the door to Sharky’s trailer behind him. Gentle and careful. Like he’s intruding or something. “Fuck man, you took forever.”

Dep grins. Rubs a hand across the back of his neck. His rifle is slung over his shoulder still. He’s wearing a different jacket than usual. Reflective and black. It looks good. Sharky reaches up, runs the back of his knuckles down it, right down Dep’s arm.

“Some party you had here, huh?” Dep asks. He props the rifle on the wall behind the only other chair. Seats himself opposite of Sharky. His hands resting on the table. Tacky, flowered tablecloth under his palms, fingers curling on the surface, picking at it lightly.

God, Sharky should burn it. Cheap, waxy plastic and all.

Sharky exhales. He tips his head back. “Guess I did. Ain’t like there’s anything else to do at the end of the goddamn world, right?“

Dep’s eyes narrow. He stretches, snags an unopened can from the counter. Opens it without asking. Assured in his place. He grins at Sharky around the rim of the can, then tilts his head back and swallows. Sharky cannot help but watch the column of his throat working, working.

Little bristling hairs and his Adam’s apple, a nick under his chin that must have been from shaving, a bruise further down, just round enough to be identifiable.

A fuckin’ hickey. Well there’s one way to certainly derail Sharky’s line of pure-intentioned thoughts.

“I mean, Peggies cut off the cable, cut off the Internet. What am I supposed to do now? Go find all my old porno mags? Like it’s the nineties again?”

Dep snorts, chokes on the beer he was chugging. He hacks into his fist, rattling, wet sounds from his chest. “You don’t still have those,” he says.

Sharky frowns, thinking. “Might? Somewhere.” He doesn’t. His hard copy porn went up in flames with the last trailer he had. Fire has a mind of its own; Naughty Nurse Lucinda and School Teacher Tiffany’s sacrifices are a testament to that.

Still though, it’s making Dep smile. And for some...stupid reason, it’s making Sharky’s gut go warm.

“It’s all ladies though,” he continues because he can’t just quit while he’s ahead, “wouldn’t be down your alley.”

Deputy’s expression tightens for a just a second. Then he relaxes. He places the empty can on the table. He reaches for another. He’s tall enough it’s barely a stretch from the chair to the counter where Sharky has the rest of the two-four stacked.

“You actually got a closet full of piss too,” Dep asks. Changing the subject. It’s a smooth move. The smoothest.

“That more your kink, Dep?”

Or maybe it isn’t. Talking to a drunk who has a one track mind to bonerville. Specifically, in this case, he’s not really sure who’s boner but it doesn’t matter. The warm feeling, alcohol buzz and whatever this other thing is, curl right under Sharky’s sternum. Wind and wind like clockwork.

“Wow,” Deputy says. Blinking over his new beer. “Fuck you, Charlemagne.”

“Cool of you to offer, but not interested. Sell you some piss though, if you want.”

Dep rolls his eyes. He polishes off the beer in one, two, three pulls. Fuckin’ champion, coolest person on this goddamn planet.

“You think about anything when you’re killing them,” Sharky asks. “Like. When you’re holding them in your sights. When you’re pulling the trigger. What’s going through your head?”

Dep swallows. Even from across the table, Sharky can hear the wet, human sound of it. Alive. Everything about Deputy is so electrically, painfully human.

“It’s not disco music,” Dep says, “that’s for sure.” He looks down at his hands. “I dunno,” he says. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I” Sharky digs his own nails against the table, little indents in the cheap plastic, a whole scouring of little lines. “You know a lot of my shit. And I just...”

“This isn’t really the same as knowing you wanna fuck your aunt.”

“Dude, Dep, shut the hell up,” Sharky says. All fake heat. Deputy is smiling. This is okay.

Dep takes another deep breath. Sharky never thought watching someone not talking could be so interesting, or at least, not someone clothed. But Dep’s silence is a whole drama played out on his face, arching brows, the turn of his lips.

“I think about exhaling,” Dep says. “About steadying the shot. Squeezing the trigger.” He swallows. Shakes his head. “I don’t think about them if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sharky frowns. He tips back in his chair before realizing he’s too drunk for such a thing. He grabs the table edge, that secondary, momentary panic.

Dep’s hand grabbing his wrist to steady him. The chair makes a sound like a gunshot as the front two feet crash back to earth. Dep’s fingers are like iron, strong, strong where they are holding him, easily encircling the whole of him. God, Dep is just such a big fuckin’ guy.

They sit in silence, like they are suspended. Not moving. Sharky can feel Dep’s pulse in the heel of his thumb, right against Sharky’s own fluttering one.

“You ever think maybe you’re a sociopath,” Sharky asks.

“Says the pyromaniac.” Dep grins. His fingers slide off of Sharky’s wrist, though the lingering heat from his touch remains. “John’s a sociopath. I’m just...doing what needs to be done.”

“Dude, John. Man. Fuck John.”

Dep’s nose wrinkles. He chuckles. “Yeah,” he agrees, nodding.

“No man, I mean like. He sure does have a hard-on for ya. So I’m thinkin’ you guys should probably just fuck and get it over with.”

Dep blinks. Slowly. His shoulders shaking slightly with his exhale. Lining up his shot. Talking to a fuckin’ drunk who likes keeping his head in the crosshairs.

“What am I supposed to say to that,” Dep asks.

“I dunno. It was a—I’m drunk man. Shit, I’m like...”

Not that drunk. Not too drunk. And now he’s thinking about it, Dep fucking the shit outta John, pinning that self-righteous little twat to the ground and just—nope, not too drunk.

He shifts his knees further apart. Clears his throat. “I’m sorry, dude.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just...stop being so weird about it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he says. He can’t. Statistically impossible. Sharky Boshaw excels at two things in life: lighting fires and being weird about the most marginally mundane details. Like the detail that Precision Engineering Killing Machine Deputy likes dick in and around the vicinity of his genitals.

Dep sighs. His fingers tap, quick, quick, quick against the table top.

“I’m just drunk,” Sharky says again. As if saying it enough will convince himself. “And uhh. Without proper resources to fuckin’ uhhh shit, man, I dunno. Spank it to. I guess.”

Dep snorts, laughs this time, genuine, from his gut. “So you’re horny and I’m the closest warm body to harass?”

Don’t say yes, Sharky thinks. Don’t say yes because it isn’t true. He’s not that much of a goddamn asshole.

“Yeah,” Sharky says. “Guess that’s one way of puttin’ it.”

Dep’s breath hisses between his teeth. “Jesus, Shark,” he says. Drawing it out. Jeeeesus. “You’re really something else.”

“Yeah,” Sharky says again. “Guess that’s one way of puttin’ it.”

He licks his lips.

He plunges.

“They say dudes give better blowjobs. Knowing uh—you know—what it feels like means knowing better what uhh...what all to do”

Dep’s eyes are wide. His whole body, tense, frozen. “Are you joking?” Dep asks. Voice that flat, flat dangerous, inflectionless tone again.

Shut up. Sharky thinks. Now fuckin’ now.

“Not really.”

“You want me to blow you? You’re asking me to blow you?”

“Only if wanna.” Sharky tugs at his collar. Suddenly too, too hot. Alcohol sweats, prickling down his chest and his arms. “You drank my beer,” he points out.

As if to prove his point, Dep reaches for a third. His hands are shaking. It froths as he opens it. Foam sticking in his beard, right along his upper lip.

“What the hell,” he says, wetly. “Why the fuck not, I guess.”

“Nothing else to do at the end of the world,” Sharky offers.

Dep rolls his eyes. “You aren’t allowed to fuckin’ talk,” he says, leveling a finger in Sharky’s direction cuz he was raised in a barn and never taught goddamn manners.

“Scout’s honor,” Sharky says, solemn. Holding his own hands up at his head. Lying through his teeth cuz he’s got no manners either.

“You got a bed somewhere in this shit-hole?”

Sharky nods. He’s jittery and lightheaded when he stands. It’s not the beer, not just the beer. Dep stands too, crowds against him and Sharky isn’t a small dude, he’s never considered himself little but he feels dwarfed by Dep.

Physically intimidated.

Maybe it’s from watching the calculated way Dep dispatches Peggies. Or maybe he’s just had some real fucked up childhood trauma and this is his dumb ass body’s way of working it out.

All he knows, as he kicks open the door to his room as Dep’s hands settle on his hips, pushing him roughly, in in in until Sharky’s knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it; all he knows is that it’s been a long time since he wanted someone in this way.

Wanted their mouth on his dick.

Wanted their warm weight over top of him.

The fact that this is someone he has come to think of as a friend does not matter. The fact that Dep is very, very much a dude does not matter.

Dep practically rips Sharky’s jeans down his legs, his motions sure and steady. In control. In charge. And that’s fine, that’s fine, that’s fine. Sharky’s boxers follow and that’s fine too. Sharky stares at the ceiling when Dep’s teeth rove over his hip. Sharp pressure. A gnawing in his gut that is quickly becoming something else entirely.

That’s fine, that’s fine.

Dep’s beard tickles the top of his thigh, scratchier then a lady’s hair would be. Closer to the warmth of his skin. The secondary sensation of it sparking signals in places Sharky has left completely unexplored.

Dep moves the hand not holding him up and his fingers are warm, downright hot as they guide Sharky’s dick between his lips. No further preamble. They don’t talk about the weather or makeout or anything.

It’s weird, maybe, or should be.

But it hardly matters when there is a wet, fuckin’ wet tongue sliding against the underside of him, cradling his cock. The drag of lips and moist, moist heat. Dep’s hand still holding him steady at the base.

His pulse going, going, going on his thumb again. Flicker, flicker, flicker.

“Shit,” Sharky says, glancing down the line of his body, watching his dick disappearing into Dep’s mouth. Reappearing with the pinkened skin all shiny and obscene.

“Christ,” Sharky says. “Goddamn that’s so hot, Dep. I know I’m supposed to be—hnng fuck—be quiet but—“

Dep’s gaze meets his, then flits away. He seems to redouble his efforts, sucking now as he draws downward, fingers squeezing and coaxing Sharky’s cock between them. He keeps sliding lower with every bob and Sharky isn’t huge or impressive he will admit, but the feat is gonna end with his dick in Dep’s throat if Dep isn’t careful.

Dep is, apparently, not all that careful. He moves his hand, swallowing the last bit of Sharky, dick, sanity, self-control. Whatever. He feels tonsil against his cock head, the resistance right at the top of the throat, maddening slick tightness, and Sharky loses his cool. He bucks his hips.

He expects Dep to pull back gagging, coughing, telling him off.

He does Not expect Dep to hum—vibrating pleasure thrilling down Sharky’s cock and into his gut—and press harder against him. Nose in Sharky’s pubes. Facial hair prickling at the sensitive skin over Sharky’s balls.

Deep throat, Sharky’s mind helpfully provides. This would be in a video tagged deep throat.

And it is deep, fuckin’ hell, it’s insanity. He can see the bulging of himself in Dep’s skin, right there above his Adam’s apple.

“Holy fuck,” he is babbling. “Goddamn. Son of a...fuuuck. Dep.” Its times like this he hates that Deputy has never told him his first name, fuck, never told him his last name. Call me Dep, he has said, little bit charred, a smudge of smoke and Angel blood on his cheeks. Call me Dep.

But it feels so wrong.

Sharky is panting. His hands gripping the bedsheets below his hip so tight they could rip, he’s so out of it he wouldn’t even notice. So lost in Dep’s mouth.

Dep’s head moves again, minute adjustments, back just a little, then close again. His eyes are closed. Cheeks red, red. There is a dash of freckles across his nose that Sharky has never noticed before now.

That he shouldn’t be noticing now.

But he is.

He can’t seem to stop noticing things. Dep’s eyes flickering beneath his lids every time he presses inward, head angled in a way that would be perfect if Sharky just slid his hands through it.

But he won’t.

He won’t?

He is.

Dep’s eyes open. Shock, another hum against Sharky’s dick as Sharky’s hand parts his hair. Grips it.

“This good, Dep,” he asks because he does give something of a fuck about whatever is becoming of their friendship here.

Dep pulls off, gentle and slow. He exhales wetly into the sweaty skin of Sharky’s thigh. He takes a breath. Two. Three. There’s spit and precum on his chin, it sticks against Sharky’s leg, leaking and wet until Dep wipes it away with his thumb. He sits up, Sharky’s hand falls from his hair. Overstepped. Cuz he doesn’t know when to just goddamn quit.

Dep unzips his jacket. Tosses it away. That dark material flashing almost gold in the cheap, yellowish lighting. He’s wearing a tank top beneath it, a size too small, it hugs his ribs. Shows off the true squareness of his arms.

A little star of David on a gold chain nestled in the center of his chest.

He flips it up, under the shirt, before lowering himself back down between Sharky’s legs.

“I can take whatever you got, Sharky,” he says. And while he can, he absolutely fuckin’ does all the goddamn time, he almost doesn’t sound like he can. His voice is rough, two packs a day for years sorta rough.

Abuse from your dick sort of rough, Sharky thinks. Holy shit, holy shit Sharky reduced him to this.

Sharky places his hand back in Dep’s hair, tugging it lightly between his knuckles. Guiding Dep’s head back toward his aching dick. He feels Dep take a breath against his skin, deep, deep, his back and shoulders flexing with it.

“You can be rough, Shark,” he says. Quietly. So quiet Sharky could choose to ignore it if he wanted. “I like it better like that.”

I like it.


Sharky cannot seem to find air anymore. His brain short circuits, fried, on fire deep in his skull. That Dep likes this, enjoys it, is choosing to do it. Holy shit. Fuckin’ hell.

Both hands in Dep’s hair now and he’s pushing—pushing—him down. Fucking into his mouth. Unrestrained. Using his hands a leverage to move Dep’s head however he wants. He doesn’t let him go as deep as he had before, thrusting shallowly, just to watch the stretch of Dep’s lips around him.


It’s too much.

Sharky can’t. He’s not built for this. Maybe he’s saying as much. Panting it. He’s aware that his lips are moving. Praise and curses and a whole lot of shit he’ll absolutely deny in the morning. “Shit, can’t do this, Dep. You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, you’re—you’re too. Ahh fuck.”

Dep pushes further, fighting the hold, getting as much of Sharky’s dick in his mouth as he can. That suction of his throat. He goes too fast, gags around it, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

It doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

Sharky is too goddamn close.

Too goddamn—

He doesn’t even get to muffle out a warning; for all his talk, his impending orgasm comes as something of a surprise. Seriously, out of nowhere.

He is gasping and on top of it.

And then he is coming harder than he maybe ever has before. Arching off the bed. Hoodie dragging against the mattress, catching on the sweaty skin of his back. It doesn’t seem to end, the soft cradle of Dep’s throat and the rushing, tingling, unwinding sensation behind his ribs, in his gut. Spilling and spilling, dick jerking between Dep’s lips.

And Dep, true to his word, takes it all. Swallows it down with only a small grunt of discomfort. Sharky’s dick slides out of his mouth, bobbing and spent, spit slick, so red, and Dep grazes a knuckle against it as it goes. Sharky, over-stimulated, goddamn wrung raw, flinches.

He flinches again when Dep slithers up him, forehead lodging in the hollow of Sharky’s neck. Breath tickling his Adam’s apple, hot enough to feel even through the material of Sharky’s hoodie. Burning up. Like he is on fire.

Sharky has always been good at starting fires.

Dep’s muscles are shaking. Shoulders moving with some frantic energy. The click of a belt. The feel of the metal buckle, dragging across Sharky’s belly.


Oh right.

Sharky should probably offer to help. Lend a hand. Ha ha. His heart is still in his throat though, he can feel it behind his eyes. He tips his head, looking past Dep’s to where Dep’s cock is disappearing into his own fist.

He doesn’t know what to do with the sight.

It sits in his belly like lead.

“Fuck,” Dep pants, like an animal, ground between his teeth. Wrist blurring with how fast he is moving it. Desperation in the way he jerks himself off.

And Sharky should help.

He should help. But his limbs are so heavy. And he can smell himself, the thick smell of his sweat, on Dep’s breath. And he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

And then it’s done.

Dep’s body seizes, shuddering, releasing into his own hand and Sharky’s hip. He comes and it is too late for Sharky to do anything.

“Aw fuck,” Dep says again. Quieter. He takes another deep breath, then rolls off Sharky to lay on his back. Their arms are touching. The backs of their hands.

There’s a cricket, crying somewhere in the corner of Sharky’s room. The rolling chirp, chirp of it. Sharky stares at the wall. Listens to it mourn.

He hears Dep sit up, can just see him in his peripheral. Messy hair, stuck up from being tugged so mercilessly by Sharky’s own hands. That jaw. His throat. His shoulders. The damn tank top, too tight across his pecs.

“I’m gonna crash on the couch,” Dep says. Whispering. Not looking at Sharky while Sharky very pointedly does not look at him.

He doesn’t wait for an answer anyway. He fixes his jeans on his hips and he goes.

The cricket trills.

Sharky will find and kill it in the morning if it hasn’t found it’s own way out by then.

He turns on his side.

He goes to sleep.