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Margaret Kowalski had lived in the trailer park for eleven years, and she was leaving the same way she'd arrived — angry, hauling boxes, and blaming everyone else for her problems.

Larry stood in the doorway of her double-wide, clipboard tucked under one arm, watching her shuffle past with a cardboard box marked KITCHEN in Sharpie. Her tail lashed behind her, the tip flicking with agitation. She hadn't spoken to him directly in twenty minutes, which was the longest she'd gone since she'd announced she was moving.

"Kitchen stuff's going in the car," she said to her nephew, who was shouldering a garbage bag full of clothes. "Don't mix it up with the bathroom stuff again."

Larry made a note on his clipboard. Every last lightbulb, scuff in the paint, and even the batteries in the smoke detector were catalogued. The man was meticulous with being cheap.

Margaret caught him writing and bristled. "You don't have to hover. I'm not going to steal the fixtures."

"It's standard procedure, lady."

She snorted. “Oh NOW it's lady. Not 'crusty old cunt'?”

"You caught me in a good mood on account of you leaving. But we can rehash the classics if you want."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't care enough to push it. She set the box on the porch railing and turned to face him, arms crossed, that familiar belligerent set to her jaw.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping, "thin walls work both ways in this park. I've heard what goes on over at your place. And his."

Larry didn't look up from his clipboard. "Yeah, we fuck. What of it?"

"He's nice." Margaret's smile was thin and unpleasant. "Too nice for you. I'm a little disappointed I won't get to see when he finally figures out he can do better and leaves your ass for someone decent."

“You're just bitter that your boyfriend was screwing someone younger.” Larry matched her unpleasant smile.

She grabbed her box and headed for the car.

"Ex-boyfriend," she called over her shoulder. "And tell Roger I wish him luck!"

Larry watched her go. He didn't respond.

The car pulled away a few minutes later, nephew behind the wheel, Margaret rigid in the passenger seat. She didn't look back.

Larry stood on the porch for a while after, staring at the empty trailer. Bigger than Roger's. Better layout. More square footage than most apartments in town.

He pulled out his phone and texted Roger: “Coming over tonight.”

The response came a minute later: “Fine.”

Larry let himself in around nine. Roger was on the couch, baseball on the TV, a beer in his hand. He looked tired — the kind of tired that had settled into his bones over years of early mornings and late shifts. His work shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there was a smudge of something on his collar that he hadn't noticed yet.

"Margaret's really gone?" Roger didn't look up from the game.

"Pulled out this afternoon. Place is empty." Larry headed for the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped the cap on the counter edge — Roger winced — and dropped onto the couch beside him. "Nephew helped her load up. Didn't even cry."

"Margaret? Cry?" Roger snorted. "She'd rather die."

They drank in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The familiar rhythm of two people who'd done this a hundred times before.

Larry's hand found Roger's thigh. Squeezed.

Roger glanced at him. "Really? Right now?"

"I'll rub your feet. You've been on them all day, right?"

Roger huffed a small laugh. Set his beer down. "Bribe accepted."

Larry shifted on the couch, settling more comfortably into the cushions as Roger swung his feet up onto his lap. The lab's work boots hit the floor with a heavy thud, followed by his socks, and then Roger was leaning back against the armrest with a tired sigh.

"God, that's better already."

"Stop being dramatic." Larry's thumbs pressed into the arch of Roger's foot, working the muscle with a firm, steady pressure.

Roger's eyes half-closed. "I've been on my feet since five this morning. I'm allowed to be dramatic."

Larry didn't argue. He worked in silence for a while, hands moving from the arch to the ball of the foot, then up to the ankle, rotating the joint slowly. Roger made a small sound of appreciation — almost involuntary, barely audible.

Larry noticed.

This was the thing about Roger. The way he tried to keep himself composed, even in moments like this. The little sounds he couldn't quite suppress. The tension he carried in his body that only came out when someone pushed in the right places.

Larry's hands moved to the other foot. Same methodical pressure. Same quiet attention.

"You're in a weird mood," Roger said, not opening his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"You're being nice. You're never nice without a reason."

Larry's thumbs paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed. "First of all, fuck you. I can be nice when I want to."

Roger gave an amused snort. "There's the rhino I know. For a second I thought you got replaced with a body double."

"Margaret's gone. I'm in a good mood."

Roger opened one eye. Looked at him. Closed it again. "Yeah, but you didn't hate her THAT much. What are you really buttering me up for? Something depraved?"

Larry's hands stilled on Roger's foot. He exhaled through his nose, a low huff that wasn't quite a laugh.

"Well obviously. But before we get to that, Margaret's trailer is empty."

"I know. You just told me."

"It's a double-wide. Bigger than this place. Better layout." Larry's thumb traced a slow circle on Roger's instep. "More square footage than most apartments in town."

Roger opened both eyes now. "And?"

"And Cory's starting at the university next week. That's what, twenty minutes from here? He could commute instead of paying for dorm housing or driving an hour from Susan's place. The Sunday thing has been working out, so why not make it permanent?"

Roger sat up slightly, pulling his feet back. "What are you saying?"

Larry leaned back against the couch, arms spreading along the back of it. Casual. Unbothered. "I'm saying you two should move in. The three of us. Margaret's place is big enough, and I own the land anyway. "

Roger stared at him. "You want us to move in with you."

"What, did I fucking stutter?"

"Larry."

"What?" Larry spread his hands. "I'm lazy and don't wanna walk down two trailers just to clap some cheeks. This way you both can pay rent in ass instead of—"

He stopped. Roger was giving him that look. The one that said he'd known Larry too long to accept the deflection at face value.

Larry's mouth closed. He looked down at Roger's foot still in his lap, his thumb resting on the arch. He'd stopped massaging at some point. Hadn't noticed.

"No rent," he said. Quieter. "I own the land. It doesn't cost me anything to have you there."

"Larry—"

"I'm not —" He stopped again. His jaw worked. Started over. "The place is too quiet when you leave. I don't sleep as good."

He paused for a moment, trying to think of what to say. The news droned on, unnoticed. Then, more tenderly, more vulnerable than Larry ever allowed himself to sound, "Move in with me."

Roger's throat worked. He looked away, then back, then away again. His ears had gone soft, the tension in his shoulders easing into something uncertain. He took a deep breath, centering himself. "Okay," Roger said quietly. "Yes."

Larry turned to look at him. His face had something unguarded on it — surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Yeah?" he breathed, almost afraid that he misheard him.

"Yeah."

Larry had Roger on his back on the couch within seconds, kissing him hard and deep, hands working at Roger's belt with practiced efficiency. Roger was already half-hard, had been since Larry's thumbs had been working his feet, and the decision — the yes — had lit something in him that he couldn't name.

"Off," Larry growled against his mouth, tugging at Roger's shirt. "Get this off."

Roger fumbled with the buttons, gave up, yanked it over his head instead. Larry's tank top followed — pulled off and tossed somewhere behind him — and then they were chest to chest, Roger's fur against Larry's rough skin, the gold chain cold between them.

Larry's hand found Roger's cock through his slacks. Squeezed. Roger groaned.

"Fuck —"

"Mmm-hmmm." Larry's voice was low, rough. He worked Roger's belt open, then the button, then the zipper, shoving the slacks down his hips.

Roger kicked off the slacks the rest of the way. His boxers followed. He lay back against the couch cushions, bare, chest heaving, watching Larry stand to shed his own jeans in a frenzy of passion.

The rhino's cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy, hanging between his thighs. Roger had seen it a thousand times, but it still made his mouth go dry.

Larry flung himself back on Roger the moment his clothes were off, kissing his neck and nipping at his nipples, eliciting another gasp from the lab. The rhino covered him with kisses, inching lower and lower. Roger was speechless at the sudden burst of affection, and was about to say something until he was cut off with the shuddering sensation of warmth enveloping his member. Larry was on his knees giving head.

“W-what's gotten into y - OH!” Roger melted as the rhino swirled his tongue around, squeezing his balls gently with his hand as he did. Roger put a hand tentatively on Larry's head, moaning. The rhino's rough large hands responded with a gentle nudge towards the lab's hips. Roger got the hint and started to fuck him in the mouth. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sloppy sounds of Larry working.

Then, when Roger was starting to get close, the rhino moved back up, kissing his belly, working his way up towards his chest, back to his nipples, then kissing him again even more passionately. Those large rhino hands cradled Roger's head gently, tenderly running his fingers through his fur. They stayed like that for a moment, Larry sucking on his tongue aggressively. When Roger pulled back for air, he managed out breathlessly Holy shit.” Larry nibbled on his neck while Roger caught his breath, melting into his touch. Then Roger gave the excited rhino a few pats on the shoulder, chuckling dumbly. “I love you too, stupid.”

“Bedroom.” Larry growled as he lifted Roger off the couch and cradled him in his arms. The lab let out a yelp of surprise.

“Larry! Wait, I weigh too much. Your back!” But the rhino didn't listen, and lifted Roger off the ground like a sack of flour. Roger had never been so hard in his life as he was taken to his room.

Larry dropped Roger onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress bounce. The lab landed on his back, sprawled across the comforter, his cock flushed and leaking against his belly. He barely had time to prop himself up on his elbows before Larry was on him — one knee on either side of Roger's hips, that massive weight settling over him like an anchor.

"Larry, what—"

"You'll see." Larry was already reaching for the nightstand, practically ripping the drawer off its roller to grab the lube. Not the gentle, tentative way he usually did things. This was purposeful. Rehearsed, almost.

He slicked his hand and wrapped it around Roger's cock, stroking him with a firm, efficient grip that made Roger's hips jerk involuntarily. Then — and this was the part that made Roger's brain stutter — Larry shifted his weight, rose up on his knees, and positioned himself over Roger's shaft.

"You — wait." Roger's hands came up instinctively, gripping Larry's thick thighs. "Did you already —"

Larry sank down.

Slow. Deliberate. Taking him to the root in one long, controlled descent.

Roger's question died in his throat. Because Larry was ready — cleaned out, stretched, lubed up. This wasn't spontaneous. Larry had prepared for this. Had planned it.

"You —" Roger's voice cracked. "How long —"

"Since before I came over." Larry settled his weight, shifting his hips, getting comfortable. His cock — thick, flushed, half-hard — rested against his belly as he took Roger inside him. "A few times now. But I could never work up the nerve to ask before now."

Roger stared up at him. Larry stared back. That familiar smirk was there, but underneath it was something else. Something almost tender.

“Larry,” Roger said softly, “You could h-”

Then the sentence died in his throat as Larry started to move.

“Yeah? Well no use in starting now. I ain't asking. I'm doing.”

Roger couldn't help but giggle like he was a virgin again, blushing as his hands flexed on Larry's thighs. “Yes sir.” For a few minutes he sat there and let the rhino ride him. Larry guided his hands to feel up every part of him while he worked, and Roger obliged. The gentle rock of the bedframe hitting the wall mixed with the creaking of the wood and heavy breathing was the only thing that echoed throughout the room.

Then the rhino's rough thumb found Roger's cheek and brushed against his face tenderly. “You're beautiful, you know that?”

The lab sunk bashfully deeper into his pillow. “I, uh.”

Larry grinned. “Yeah, don't deny it. You're going to sit there and take it.” He rolled his hips for emphasis. “Accept it.” He bounced. “And know it.”

“T-thank you.”

The rhino half laughed and half growled. “I'm going to make you nut so hard you'll have a fucking aneurysm” before nibbling playfully on his ear as Roger moaned.

Their paces synced together, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh clapped in the bedroom as Larry picked up the pace, while stroking himself shamelessly. Their breathing quickened and escalated, but right before Roger hit the point of no return, Larry backed off in his pace.

"Larry —" Roger's voice was strained. "Faster. Please."

"Patience." Larry's hands rested on Roger's chest, bracing himself as he rode. Slow. Torturously slow. Grinding down, then lifting, then grinding again. His cock bobbed against his belly with each movement, leaking precum onto Roger's fur.

Roger groaned. His head fell back against the pillow. Every nerve ending was on fire, and Larry was giving him just enough to keep him desperate but not enough to push him over.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Roger lost track. Larry kept that same maddening pace — slow rolls of his hips, grinding down, taking Roger deep, then lifting until only the tip remained inside. Over and over. Roger's cock was throbbing, aching, and every time he got close, Larry would slow down even further, squeezing around him, denying him.

"Larry, I can't —" Roger's hands were gripping the sheets now, knuckles white. "Please. I need to —"

"Fight me for it."

Roger blinked. "What?"

Larry's eyes were dark, challenging. His hips stilled completely, keeping Roger buried inside him but offering no friction. "You heard me. Fight me for it, pussy."

Roger let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. "You're out of your mind."

"Probably." Larry's hands pressed down on Roger's chest, pinning him. His weight shifted forward, using his hips to keep Roger nailed to the mattress. "But right now, I'm stronger than you. Heavier than you. And I'm not moving until you make me."

Roger strained against him. Tried to thrust upward. Larry's weight didn't budge — it was like trying to move a wall. The rhino's thighs were locked in place, his ass clenched tight around Roger's cock, and every movement Roger made was absorbed by that massive frame.

"Come on." Larry's voice was low, goading. "You want to cum? Take it. Make me give it to you."

Roger's jaw clenched. He planted his feet on the mattress and pushed — hard — trying to buck Larry off, trying to set his own pace. Larry rode it out easily, a grunt of effort escaping him, but his hips didn't move. He just squeezed tighter, milking Roger's cock without giving him any friction.

"That all you got?" Larry's smirk was sharp. "My grandma hits harder than that."

Roger tried again, but Larry's weight pinned him down effortlessly. The rhino was too heavy, too solid, and every time Roger tried to move, Larry shifted just enough to keep him exactly where he wanted him.

"Fuck you —"

"Trying to." Larry ground down once, a cruel tease. "But you're not exactly helping."

Roger's hands came up, gripping Larry's hips, trying to lift him for a third time. His arms strained, muscles trembling with the effort. Larry let him struggle for a moment, watching with that infuriating smirk, then pushed Roger's hands away like they were nothing.

"Guess you're never cumming." Larry settled back down, rolling his hips in that slow, devastating circle. "Lucky for you I can go all night long."

Roger made a sound that was half groan, half growl. His whole body was trembling, sweat beading on his fur, his cock aching inside Larry's tight heat. He tried again — bracing his feet, gripping Larry's waist, thrusting up with everything he had.

Larry absorbed it. Rode it out. Kept moving in that same maddening rhythm.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice rough. "Come on, Rog. Show me what you've got. You know all the humiliating shit I've done to you. All the times you've been a good little bitch just taking it. This is your chance for revenge.”

Roger's breath was ragged. His hips snapped up again, giving him everything he had, and he saw Larry smirk.

"There you go." Larry's voice was strained now, less controlled. "That was better. Keep making that kind of effort."

Roger thrust up again. And again. Finding a rhythm, pushing harder, fighting for every inch of friction. Larry was still heavy, still pinning him, but Roger was making progress — forcing Larry to move with him, making the rhino's body rock with each thrust.

"Yeah." Larry's head tipped back, his own cock bouncing against his belly, flushed and leaking. "That's it. Come on."

Roger's hands found Larry's chest, pushing up, trying to roll them over. Larry resisted — planted his hands, used his weight, kept Roger on his back. But his arms were shaking now. His thighs were trembling. Hours of riding, of grinding, of holding Roger down had taken their toll.

Roger saw the opening. Twisted his hips. Planted his feet. And pushed.

Larry's arms buckled.

Roger rolled them — suddenly, violently — and Larry was on his back, legs wrapped around Roger's waist, that massive body spread out beneath him. Roger didn't hesitate. Didn't give him time to recover. He grabbed Larry's thick thighs, pushed them back, and started to fuck.

Hard. Fast. The pace he'd been denied for hours finally released.

Larry's moan was loud, unguarded, his head tipping back against the pillow. His cock slapped against his belly with each thrust, and his hands fisted in the sheets, claws tearing the fabric.

"Yes — fuck — yes —" He gave up fighting, and wrapped his legs around Roger's hips.

Roger was beyond words. Beyond thought. He'd been edged for so long that his body had taken over completely, hips pistoning, cock driving deep, chasing the orgasm that had been building for what felt like forever.

Larry was still egging him on, breathless now: "That's it — harder — come on — give it to me —make me your bitch. Harder! Harder! YES! Fuck yes!"

Roger's vision went white. His whole body locked up, and he came — hard, overwhelming, flooding Larry's ass with everything he had. The orgasm seemed to last forever, wave after wave, and somewhere in the middle of it he felt Larry's cock pulse between them, the rhino coming from Roger's belly slapping into his cock repeatedly and painting them both white.

When it was over, Roger collapsed forward, chest heaving, face buried in Larry's neck. His cock was still inside, softening, and he could feel Larry's heartbeat hammering against his chest.

They lay there for a long time, breathing hard, sticky and spent. The ceiling fan clicked overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog was barking.

Roger started to laugh. Weak, breathless, incredulous.

"You're crazy," he managed, voice muffled against Larry's shoulder. "You're completely out of your mind."

Larry's chest rumbled with a low, satisfied chuckle. His arms came up, wrapping around Roger's back, holding him in place. One large hand traced lazy patterns on his spine.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, content. "You're totally gonna be my hole AND my dildo from now on."

Roger snorted against his neck. Lifted his head just enough to look at Larry's face — the satisfied smirk, the heavy-lidded eyes, the way his ears were relaxed for the first time all night.

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"No," Roger admitted, and dropped his head back down. "I think I love you. God help me, I do. "

Larry's hand came up, cradling the back of Roger's head, fingers threading through his fur. They stayed like that, tangled together in the mess they'd made, neither one in a hurry to move.

"I love you too," Larry said softly, as if that were harder for him to do than anything else they just got through doing.

Roger's breath caught. His arms tightened around Larry's chest — a small, involuntary squeeze, like his body was holding onto the words before they could disappear. Neither of them spoke. The ceiling fan clicked overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog was barking.

Then Larry reached for his cigarettes on the nightstand. Lit one with one hand, the other still wrapped around Roger.

"So," he said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "That's a yes on moving in?"

Roger groaned into his chest. "I already said yes."

"Just checking." Larry took a drag. "Wanted to make sure it wasn't just the dick talking."

Roger lifted his head and gave him a look — exhausted, fond, completely exasperated. "It's always the dick with you."

"Yeah." Larry's smirk softened into something almost like a smile. "But you like it."

Roger didn't argue. He just put his head back down and let Larry smoke, listening to the rhino's heartbeat slow to something steady and calm.

Outside, the trailer park was quiet. Inside, the bed was a disaster, the sheets were ruined, and neither of them cared at all.

*****************************

Roger brought it up the next morning, while Larry was still in bed smoking and Roger was hunting for his work shirt in the pile of clothes on the floor.

"I want to ask Susan for her blessing."

Larry exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "The fuck for?"

"Because she's Cory's mother. It's the right thing to do."

"He's nineteen. He doesn't need her permission. Plus the kid's choosing between his uptight mother and my cock on the regular. There's no chance he stays."

Roger wrinkled his face at the crude description "I know that." He found his shirt and pulled it over his head. "But I'm not going to have her find out from someone else and then make everyone's life miserable because we didn't have the decency to talk to her first."

Larry took a long drag of his cigarette. Didn't respond.

"She'll be worse if she feels cut out," Roger added. "You know how she gets."

Larry did know. He'd known Susan for almost as long as he'd known Roger, and in that time he'd learned exactly what kind of damage she could do when she felt slighted. It wasn't physical. It wasn't even loud. It was the slow, methodical erosion of a person's confidence — a thousand tiny cuts disguised as concern.

"Fine." Larry stubbed out his cigarette. "But I'm not sitting in her living room like I'm asking permission."

"I was thinking a coffee shop. Neutral ground."

Larry grunted. "That means one of those fancy places. She won't pick a diner or anything sensible."

Roger laughed. "Not even if hell froze over."

Susan picked The Grind House, an upscale coffee shop downtown that sold single-origin pour-overs and had a chalkboard menu written in handwriting so decorative it was barely legible. Of course she did.

Roger had been there once before — Susan had insisted on "somewhere nice" when they were still married. He remembered the prices being obscene, and now they were even higher. Larry had never been, and his expression as they walked through the door suggested he was already calculating how many gas station coffees the cost of one latte could buy.

The interior was all exposed brick and reclaimed wood, with potted ferns hanging from the ceiling and a display case full of pastries that looked more like art than food. Soft indie music played from hidden speakers. The other patrons were a mix of young professionals with laptops and older women who dressed like they'd just come from yoga.

Susan was already there, seated at a small table near the window, a delicate ceramic mug in front of her and a scone she wasn't eating on a small plate. Her posture was rigid, ears pinned slightly back — a tell she'd never learned to control. She was wearing a blouse Roger didn't recognize, which meant she'd bought it specifically for occasions where she needed to feel in control.

Roger approached the table. Larry followed, his bulk drawing a few glances from the nearby patrons. He looked exactly like what he was — a man who didn't belong in a place like this, and didn't care.

"Susan." Roger's voice was careful. Measured.

"Roger." Her eyes flicked to Larry. “ Laurence.” A barista appeared at Roger's elbow — young, pierced, aggressively cheerful. "What can I get started for you?"

Larry glanced at the menu board, his expression unreadable. "You got regular coffee?"

"We have a Guatemalan single-origin pour-over with notes of chocolate and nuts."

"Sure."

The barista beamed. "I'll get that for you right away."

Roger asked for water. Susan said nothing — she already had her mug, and she wasn't planning to stay longer than necessary.

They sat. The silence stretched for a moment, filled with the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft clatter of laptop keys from a nearby table.

"So." Susan's hands were wrapped around her mug, knuckles slightly white. "What's so important that you needed to meet?"

Roger took a breath. "I'm asking for your blessing. I want Cory to move in with me."

Susan's expression didn't change. "You already have him on the weekends."

"We can switch. You can have him on the fun day. He's starting at the university in the fall, and it's closer to —"

"Your trailer." Susan's voice was flat. "He's moving into your trailer."

Roger hesitated. "Not exactly. Margaret Kowalski moved out. The double-wide next to Larry's is empty, and we thought —"

"Wait." Susan's eyes narrowed. "'We thought'…You're moving in with him?"

Larry leaned back in his chair — a delicate thing that creaked dangerously under his weight — and crossed his arms. Didn't say anything. Let Roger handle it.

"It makes sense, Susan. The place is bigger, Cory's closer to campus, and —"

"Absolutely not."

The words landed like a gavel. Susan's composure cracked, just slightly, the rigid control she maintained slipping into something harder.

"You cannot be serious." She looked at Roger, then at Larry, then back at Roger. "You want our son living in a trailer park with that man?"

Larry's jaw tightened. He didn't respond.

"Susan —" Roger started.

"I remember what he was like, Roger. The drinking. The parties. He was a disaster with a pulse." Susan's voice was low, controlled, but there was heat underneath it. "You think I want Cory around that?"

Roger frowned. "That was twenty years ago, Susan. I've watched him change."

Susan dismissed this with a sharp shake of her head. "Even if that were true — and I'm not saying it is — I'm not having my son live in a trailer park. It's bad enough that you're there. Cory deserves better."

Larry snorted. Couldn't help himself.

Susan's eyes snapped to him. "Something funny?"

"Yeah, actually." Larry leaned forward, arms still crossed. "That double-wide's got more square footage than your apartment."

The blow landed. Susan's ears went flat against her skull. "That's not the point."

"No, the point is you're embarrassed." Larry's voice was rough, challenging. "You don't want to tell your friends your kid lives in the wrong zip code. That's what this is really about — what people will think."

"How dare you —"

"He's right." Roger cut her off, quiet and even. Susan blinked, thrown. "That's part of it, isn't it?"

Susan's mouth opened. Closed. Her composure wavered.

Roger didn't push it. He let the silence sit for a moment, then continued. "What else?"

Susan's jaw worked. She gripped her mug tighter. Then, quieter, the real objection:

"I know what goes on in that trailer." Her eyes moved from Roger to Larry and back. "As your rhino so frequently likes to remind me, we met in the kink scene. I left precisely because it's no place to raise a son."

Larry's expression hardened. The amusement dropped from his face like a mask.

"You're worried I'm gonna corrupt him?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You don't even talk to the kid about dating. You ever ask him if he's seeing anyone? Or do you just pretend he doesn't have a sex life because it makes you uncomfortable?"

"That is none of your business —"

"That's what I thought, practically a confirmation." Larry leaned forward, elbows on the table — it was a small table, and his presence seemed to swallow the space around it. "You think a college dorm is some chaste monastery? There's more drinking and fucking in one semester of dorm life than I've seen in a decade. You're naive if you think keeping him away from me protects him from anything."

"Larry —" Roger's hand came down on Larry's arm. Firm. Not gentle — a warning.

Larry subsided, jaw tight, but he didn't pull away from Roger's grip. Just sat there, breathing hard, glaring at Susan.

A woman at the next table glanced over, then quickly looked away. The barista was very pointedly not making eye contact with anyone.

Roger turned to his ex-wife. His voice was calmer now, the mediator stepping in.

"Susan. Listen to me." He waited until she met his eyes. "You're not wrong to be concerned about that part of our lives. I'm not going to sit here and tell you it doesn't exist, or that it's not something a parent should think about."

Susan's grip on her mug tightened. She'd been ready for a fight, not a concession.

"But you and I both know what that scene is actually like." Roger leaned forward slightly. "We met there. You weren't some innocent who stumbled in by accident — you chose it, same as I did. And you chose to leave. That was your call and I never judged you for it."

Susan's jaw worked. "I left because I had a son to think about."

"I know. And I respected that. I've never done anything around Cory that he shouldn't see. But he's nineteen now, Susan. He's not a kid you can shield from the world. He's making his own choices about sex whether you like it or not — and he was making them before he ever moved in with me."

"That's different —"

"How? How is it different?" Roger's voice was even, not challenging. Genuinely asking. "You left the scene because you didn't want it around your son. I get that. But keeping him away from me doesn't make him not gay. Doesn't make him not curious. It just means he's exploring somewhere you can't see him."

Susan flinched. Just slightly. A twitch at the corner of her eye.

Roger didn't push. He let the silence sit, then shifted gears.

"And there's the money." His voice was practical now. "If Larry doesn't charge rent, I can actually help Cory with college. No student loans. No debt hanging over him for the next twenty years. You know what that's worth?"

Susan was quiet. The financial reality was landing — Roger could see it in the way her grip on the mug loosened, the way her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

"You know how much I make," Roger continued. "You know how much tuition costs. This is the difference between Cory graduating with a future and Cory graduating with a mortgage he didn't sign up for."

Susan stared at him. Then, slowly: "And the other thing?"

Roger understood what she was asking. "We can keep that part of our lifestyle separate. No strangers in the place except on Saturdays. When Cory visits you."

A beat. Susan's eyes moved to Larry, searching for the catch.

"You're really not charging rent?" Her voice was quieter now. Less hostile. Almost suspicious.

"No." Larry's voice was gruff. Like the word cost him something.

Susan processed this. It didn't fit her narrative of him — the selfish, crude, irresponsible man who'd been a headache for over 20 years. A man who didn't charge rent wasn't part of the story she'd been telling herself for twenty years.

She didn't like it.

"If Cory wants this," Susan said finally, each word measured, "I won't fight it. But I'm not happy about it."

Larry exhaled. "Noted."

Susan stood. Pulled a few bills from her purse and set them on the table — enough to cover her mug and a tip, nothing more. She looked at Roger, then at Larry, then back at Roger.

Roger sighed. "Thank you."

Susan's expression softened. "Just….just take care of my son."

She left without saying goodbye to Larry. The door chimed softly in her wake.

Roger and Larry sat at the table for a moment. The barista brought Larry's coffee — in a ceramic mug that looked comically small in his hands — and he stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"She still hates me," Larry said.

Roger watched Susan's car pull out of the parking lot through the window. "She hates that you might be right."

Larry grunted. He turned the mug in his hands — once, twice — staring at the dregs like they'd personally offended him. His jaw was tight. Not angry. Something else.

"She's not wrong about me, though." His voice was low. Almost to himself. "Twenty years ago, I was a disaster. Drinking, partying, didn't give a fuck about anyone but myself. I know that."

Roger looked at him. "You're not the same person."

"No." Larry's thumb traced the rim of the mug. "But she doesn't know that. She just sees the guy I used to be." A pause. "Can't blame her for not wanting the kid around that."

It was the closest Larry ever came to admitting that Susan's opinion mattered to him. Roger heard it for what it was.

"Well," Roger said quietly. "Cory's making his own choices now."

Larry grunted again. Took a sip of his coffee, and his eyes widened with surprise.

"I hate that this is delicious."

"Hipster."

"Still not worth the price." Larry set the mug down. "I'll stick to the gas stations when I want to go out. They've stepped up their game."

Roger almost smiled. "Let's go home."

“What, are you crazy? This stupid little cup was like $9.00. I'm savoring this bitch.”

Roger stole a sip. “It still tastes like black coffee.” Larry sighed and rolled his eyes. “Because you don't drink coffee unless it's diabetes in a cup.” They bickered for a few more minutes, letting Larry finish his coffee before leaving.

*****************************

Cory moved in on a Saturday.

It wasn't much — a few boxes of clothes, a duffel bag, his laptop, a poster he'd had since high school that he was too embarrassed to hang up, and a milk crate full of books he'd accumulated over the past year. His old room at his mom's place had been small, cramped, and shared a wall with the living room where Susan watched true crime documentaries at full volume until midnight. This room — his room — was bigger. Had its own window. A closet that didn't require creative engineering to fit more than three shirts.

The walls were thin, though. He could hear Larry and Roger moving around in the living room, setting up the TV, arguing about which side of the couch faced the window. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.

It was weird. Good weird. But weird.

Roger appeared in the doorway, carrying a box Cory hadn't noticed he'd left in the car. "Kitchen stuff?"

"Yeah. Just some mugs and —"

"Mugs." Roger set the box down, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. "Your soup mugs."

"Yes. As in bowls with handles. Because handles are civilized."

"And bowls are the spawn of Satan, I remember." Roger rolled his eyes.

"See, you remember."

Roger opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. This was an argument he'd been losing for years and he knew it.

"Alright." He leaned against the doorframe. "When you're settled, come out. We should go over ground rules."

Cory's ears perked. "Ground rules?"

"Living together means boundaries. Just... come out when you're ready."

The living room of the double-wide was bigger than Roger's old trailer, but Larry still managed to dominate the space just by existing. He was sprawled on the couch — shirtless, feet on the coffee table, a beer in one hand — watching some home renovation show with the kind of intensity most people reserved for sports.

Roger sat in the armchair. Cory took the other end of the couch, careful to leave space between himself and Larry.

"Okay." Roger leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Ground rules. And Larry —" He fixed the rhino with a look. "These apply to you too."

Larry took a sip of his beer. Didn't respond.

"Rule one: No strange men in the house unexpectedly. If you're bringing someone over, plan it out in advance. Text the group chat."

"We have a group chat?" Cory asked.

"I'm making one after this." Roger continued. "Rule two: Chore division. Cory and I are going to handle more of the day-to-day stuff since we're not paying rent. That means dishes, taking out the trash, keeping common areas clean. Larry —"

"What?"

"Don't be a slob in return. If you make a mess, clean it up. Don't leave your shit everywhere just because you own the place."

Larry's expression was unreadable. "Fine."

"Rule three: Dedicated quiet hours. Cory's got classes and studying to do. Between six and ten on weeknights, we keep it down. No TV blasting, no —" Roger glanced at Larry. "Other noise."

“I'm going to get home before three most days. I'd rather do my studying before I switch into home-mode. Can we do three to seven?”

Larry grunted. “And I'm out working until five. Rog, you're home around 5:30 right? So that means less time having to be a church mouse. Plus we do our fuckin' after dinner anyways.”

Roger's eye twitched. “Fine. And you don't need to be crude about it. Although, speaking of crude…” Roger hesitated. “Rule four,” this one was clearly for Larry specifically, "saturday visits to Susan's mean we keep the... group activities to those days. When Cory's not here."

Cory felt his face heat. He knew what his dad was talking about. The walls were thin. He'd already heard more than he'd ever wanted to.

Larry, to his credit, didn't make a crack. Just nodded. "Yeah. That's fair."

A beat of silence. Roger looked between them, satisfied.

"That's it?" Cory asked.

"One more thing." Larry sat up slightly, setting his beer on the coffee table. "I get the TV from two to three on weekdays."

Roger frowned. "Why?"

"Because that's when my show is on."

Cory blinked. "Your show?"

Larry's expression hardened. Defensive. "Yeah. My show. What about it?"

Roger and Cory exchanged a look. The same look — the one that said he watches soap operas?

"It's a good show," Larry said, his voice carrying an edge. "It's got — there's a lot of plot. It's well-written. The acting is —"

"What show is it?" Cory asked.

A pause. Larry's jaw worked. "The Young and the Restless."

The silence that followed was deafening. Roger's mouth twitched. Cory's ears went flat against his skull, fighting back a smile.

"Don't." Larry pointed at both of them. "Don't you dare."

"I didn't say anything," Roger said, his voice carefully neutral.

"You're thinking it."

"I'm thinking you're a grown man who watches daytime soap operas and that's perfectly —"

“Wow, Dad, Larry really is gay.”

"I will evict you."

“He likes artisanal coffee too,” Roger added.

"Traitor."

Cory couldn't hold it in anymore. A small snort escaped him, then another, until he was laughing — not mean, just surprised and delighted. Larry glared at him, but there was no real heat in it.

"Okay, okay." Cory held up his hands. "Two to three. The Young and the Restless. Got it."

Larry grumbled something under his breath and grabbed his beer.

The next few days went by quickly.

The first morning, Cory woke up to the sound of the blow dryer. Not unusual — except it went on for twenty minutes. He stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, to find Larry already there, staring into his coffee with the expression of a man who'd been awake for hours.

"How long does he take?" Cory whispered.

Larry shook his head slowly. "Every morning. Twenty minutes minimum. Sometimes longer if he's got somewhere to be."

"That's insane."

"You think I don't know? I've slept over off and on for years." Larry took a sip of his coffee. "And the shedding. You think you're ready for the shedding? You're not ready."

Cory looked down. There was fur on the counter. Fur on the floor. A small tuft of it drifting past the window like a dandelion seed.

"How is there already fur? He just woke up."

"I stopped asking questions."

When Roger finally emerged — perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place — Cory and Larry were sitting at the kitchen table, staring at him with matching expressions of horror.

"What?" Roger asked.

"Nothing," they said in unison.

Larry's casual bottomlessness became apparent on day three.

Cory was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, when Larry walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. Which was fine. Normal. The man lived here. Then the towel dropped, and Larry was standing in the middle of the living room, naked as the day he was born, rummaging through a laundry basket for clean boxers.

"Larry, what the hell!" Roger appeared from the kitchen, spatula in hand. "Cory is right there!"

Larry didn't even look up. "He's been up close and personal with it before, Rog."

Cory felt his face go hot. Looked down at his phone. Looked back up. Looked down again.

"I don't mind, Dad," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Roger turned that particular shade of red that meant he was too exasperated to form words. Larry found his boxers, pulled them on, and ambled back toward the bathroom like nothing had happened.

"We're setting a pants rule," Roger called after him.

"I'll believe that when you both stop gawking like kids in a candy shop." The bathroom door closed. The lock clicked.

Roger and Cory looked at each other, trying desperately not to look interested while in the presence of each other.

"I'm sorry," Roger said. "He's always been like this."

"It's fine." Cory's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I mean, I kinda like what I see too."

Roger shifted uncomfortably, then called out "I'm serious, Larry!”

“Free peep shows are just another perk of living in La Casa Del Larry!” declared Larry from the other side of the bathroom door.

Roger looked at him for a long moment. Then back at the bathroom door. Then at Cory again. Cory raised his eyebrow in contemplation.

"If you start walking around without pants, then I will too," Roger muttered.

Cory snorted “So a big happy bottomless trio? I'm sure Larry would approve.”

Roger huffed. “I used to change your diapers. You have no power in this exchange of shots. You, on the other hand, practically jump out the window when I forget to close the bathroom door.”

Cory held up his hands in defeat “Okay, okay dad! I wasn't going to. Sheesh! No need to threaten war crimes.”

The bowl situation came to a head on day five.

Cory was eating cereal out of a mug when Larry paused mid-coffee-sip to stare.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Eating breakfast."

"We have bowls kid."

"Bowls are unnecessary. Mugs and plates cover everything."

Larry looked at the mug. Looked at Cory. Looked at the cabinet full of perfectly good bowls that had gone untouched since Cory moved in.

"Roger." Larry called out. “Your kid's going to be a serial killer.”

Roger walked in, saw the mug, and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Not this again."

"Snitch," Cory said, crunching on cereal.

"I've been dealing with this for years. You think I can stop him now?"

Larry stared at Cory like he was seeing him for the first time. "I'm disproportionately offended and I don't understand why."

"Now you know what the heteros feel like," Cory said.

Larry's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Close, though.

Cory's room was bigger than his old one, but the walls were thinner.

He could hear the TV from the living room. Could hear Larry's truck pulling into the driveway. Could hear Roger moving around in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.

At night, if he pressed his ear to the wall — which he didn't do, not ever — he could hear the low murmur of voices from Roger's room. Sometimes a laugh. Sometimes something else that he didn't dwell on.

The walls were thin. The privacy was limited. But the space was his, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he was living in someone else's house.

He was home.

*****************************

The first week passed without incident. It was a Tuesday when it happened.

Cory's first class happened without incident. But his second class got canceled. The email from his Introduction to Psychology professor came in at 11:47 AM — Feeling unwell, class cancelled today. Review chapters 7-9 for Thursday. — and Cory had turned his car around before he'd even finished reading it.

The trailer park was quiet in the early afternoon. Most people were at work. The few cars in the driveways belonged to retirees and night-shift workers. Larry's truck was in its usual spot, which wasn't unusual. But his father's sedan was there too.

Cory let himself in, dropped his bag by the door, and headed for the kitchen. He was thirsty. He was also thinking about the nap he was going to take, because psychology could wait and his bed couldn't.

He called out “Dad? Are you home early too?”

He was filling a glass with ice for a soda when he heard it.

A sound from down the hall. Low. Rhythmic.

Cory froze.

The sound came again — a creak of bedsprings, a muffled groan. Then Larry's voice, rough and commanding: "That's it. Take it."

Roger's voice, in response. Something Cory couldn't quite make out. Then another sound — sharper, more desperate.

Cory stood stunned in the kitchen, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He tried to tell himself that it was probably something else, but Roger's voice was unmistakable, even muffled through the thin walls. And Larry's — Larry was easy to recognize. That deep rumble carried.

'They're fucking.'

The realization landed like a stone in water. Cory could see the ripples spreading outward — the hallway, the bedroom door, the sounds that were suddenly impossible to ignore.

Another groan from Roger. Different this time. Not pained. Not reluctant. Something rawer. Something that made Cory's stomach flip. Moaning. Rhythmic, lustful moaning.

"Good boy." Larry's voice again. Pleased. Possessive. "Breathe."

Cory's mind went back to the time he was in between the rhino's legs on his father's bed. He tried to pretend he didn't hear them. “Dad, I'm home.”

The rhythmic thumping continued. They must have been too far into it to pay attention to anything else.

Cory took a soda from the fridge, and abandoned his mug of ice on the counter. Instead he hurried toward his room on autopilot, his ears straining toward the sounds even as his brain screamed at him to stop listening. Another mental image flashed from the same night. It was the most erotic moment of his life, and the thrusting of the man that gave it to him in the next room was bringing it back at the worst possible moment.

He made it to his room. Closed the door. Leaned against it.

The sounds were quieter here, but not gone. The walls were too thin for that. He could still hear the rhythm — the creak of the bed, the low murmur of voices, the occasional sharper sound that made his pulse jump.

'Stop listening.'

He crossed to his bed and sat down, pulling out his phone. Distraction. He needed a distraction.

Roger moaned again. Larry was right, it did sound just like him. Another memory hit Cory, Larry's weight on top of him.

Sniffies opened on autopilot. Larry still had his nudes on there. He'd given up cruising just like he had promised, but the muscle memory was still there, taking over when his brain was elsewhere.

The map loaded. Dots appeared — the usual cluster of profiles in the area. A few new ones since he'd last checked. His thumb hovered, scrolling idly, not really looking.

Then a dot caught his eye.

It was close. Very close. Right on top of his own location, which meant they were in the same building.

Cory's breath caught.

He knew Larry's profile. AfghanVet79. He'd memorized it weeks ago, could probably recite the bio by heart. This wasn't Larry's dot.

This was a new one. Right there. In his house.

No.

The profile picture in the dot was there. Cory's world tilted.

It was Roger. Unmistakably Roger. His ass cheeks spread wide with his own hands, tail tugged up by fingers that could only belong to Larry, and a sloppy creampie leaking out of his hole. The photo was clearly taken by Larry — Cory could see the edge of his thick fingers gripping Roger's tail, the familiar gold chain dangling in the corner of the frame.

Cory's mouth went dry.

He'd heard this. Through the walls, through the muffled sounds he'd tried not to parse. He'd known it was happening — had even gotten hard listening to it. But knowing and seeing were different things. Knowing was abstract. This was his father's ass, spread open, cum leaking out, and Cory could see the redness around his hole where he'd been fucked.

He tapped on the profile, some part of him thinking 'You know you should be disgusted.'

The thought was distant. Theoretical. Because Cory wasn't disgusted. He was — something else. Something that made his pulse race and his pants tighten and his brain short-circuit in a way that had nothing to do with revulsion. It didn't feel like his father right now, just another body on the app. And it was exactly the kind that Cory was interested in. His thumb moved automatically and tapped on it.

The profile loaded. Roger's username was LeakyLab53 — on the nose, almost comically so. The bio was shorter than Larry's, less aggressive, but still explicit:

Free on Saturdays. Partner knows and photographs. Not looking for romance. Into: groups, exhibition, being watched. Love being a cum dump for vetted tops. Honestly not too picky, just don't be a jerk. Hard limits: no permanent marks, no drugs. Message me if you're interested, I promise I don't bite.

Cory scrolled to the photos.

The creampie was first — the same one from the profile picture, but larger now, more detail visible. Roger's fur was matted with sweat and other things. His hole was swollen, used, leaking. The kind of photo that left nothing to the imagination. Larry's handiwork.

The second photo made Cory's breath stop.

Roger was standing in front of a mirror — the same mirror that hung on the back of Roger's bedroom door, which meant this was taken in the room Cory was currently listening to. He was wearing the jockstrap. The one Larry had bought him. The one Cory had worn.

It looked different on Roger. Better, somehow. The stocky build, the graying muzzle, the softness of his belly pressing against the waistband. His cock filled the pouch in a way Cory's hadn't quite managed, straining against the worn fabric. His expression was — Cory didn't have a word for it. Confident. Knowing. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Cory knew how that fabric felt. The worn softness of it, the way it cradled him, the way Larry's hand had felt pressing against it. He'd filled it himself, had come in it while Larry growled in his ear. Now he was looking at his father wearing the same thing, and instead of recognizing a shared experience, all he could think was: He looks better in it than I do.

That thought shouldn't have made him harder. It did.

The third photo was a dick pic.

Cory stared at it.

His father was more well-endowed than he was — that was the thought that landed first, not disgust, not horror, just a flat, factual observation. His father's cock was thicker than his, slightly curved, the head flushed and leaking. It was the kind of photo Cory had seen a hundred times on other profiles. He knew how to evaluate it. His brain was doing it automatically.

Cory was hard.

He was hard, looking at his father's dick, and the shame that should have been overwhelming was distant — muffled by something louder, something that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.

He scrolled back to the jockstrap photo. Studied it. The way it hugged Roger's hips. The softness of his belly. The gray at his muzzle. The confidence in his eyes.

'This is your father.'

The thought landed like a slap. Cory's hand trembled. He closed the app — violently, like it had burned him — and deleted his history with shaking fingers. Then he sat there, phone face-down on the bed, breathing hard.

In the other room, the sounds had shifted. Roger's voice — muffled but audible, desperate and needy. Larry's low rumble in response, words Cory couldn't quite make out but didn't need to. The rhythm had changed too — faster now, more urgent.

Cory pressed his face into his pillow and tried to think about literally anything else.

It didn't work.

He lay there for what felt like hours, listening to the sounds through the wall, his cock straining against his shorts, his mind replaying the photos on a loop. The creampie. The jockstrap. The dick.

Cory closed his eyes and tried to unsee it. Tried to go back to the version of this he'd had before — abstract, anonymous, just sounds through a wall he could pretend were anyone. But now he had faces. Had bodies. Had the image of his father's face in that mirror, confident and knowing, and the sound he was making right now was the same one he'd been making in the photo.

'This is what Larry sees.'

The thought surfaced unbidden. Cory's cock jerked.

'This is what makes him moan like that.'

He pressed his face into the pillow and groaned. He wasn't disgusted. That was the worst part. If he were disgusted, he could handle it. Disgust was clean. This was something else — something that felt like wanting, except what he wanted didn't have a shape he could look at directly.

'Stop.'

He didn't touch himself. He wanted to. God did he want to. But it was a line he couldn't cross, even though he'd already sprinted past every other line that existed.

Eventually — mercifully — the sounds stopped.

Cory stayed in his room. He heard footsteps in the hall. The bathroom door closing. Water running. More footsteps. The creak of the living room couch.

Then the realization that he left his cup of ice in the kitchen. They were about to notice! Cory quickly covered himself with his blanket, put his earbuds in and opened a book. Tried to make it look like he wasn't just sitting there listening to them.

Then Roger's voice, closer than expected: "Cory? You home?"

Cory's throat was tight. "Yeah."

A pause. Then Roger appeared in his doorway after knocking, still flushed, his fur slightly damp from what must have been a quick wash. He looked mortified.

"Sorry. Didn't think you'd be home until three." He ran a paw through the damp fur at the back of his neck. "We should've kept it down."

"It's fine, Dad."

"It's not — I know you know about... me and Larry. But you shouldn't have to listen to that." His ears flattened slightly. "I'll make sure we keep the volume in check when you're around."

"I've got headphones. I was studying anyway."

"Roger." Larry's voice carried from the living room, lazy and unashamed. "Relax. The kid's an adult. He's heard worse."

Roger's ears went flat. "That's not the point —"

"Your old man still has it!" Larry called out, clearly amused.

“Larry, shut up!” Roger barked, exasperated.

Cory couldn't help but laugh a little.

Roger exhaled. Some of the tension left his shoulders. "I really am sorry, Cory. It won't happen again during — I thought you had class."

"Professor's sick." Cory shrugged. "Free day."

Roger nodded slowly. “Shit, must be going around. My client today caught the flu too, so I'm just on call instead of going into the office.”

He looked at Cory for a long moment — searching for something, maybe, or just trying to read him. Cory kept his expression neutral, his hands carefully in his lap, his phone face-down on the bed. His poker face and a strategically placed blanket to hide his rock hard erection.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Roger pressed.

“Dad, we've already been through the inverse, and we were fine. This is nothing. Besides…” He cleared his throat. “It's umm…probably going to happen again. Both with me and you. I mean…the walls are thin…and…well, you know.”

“I make both of you dogs howl,” Larry added from the couch.

Roger closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to kill him."

Cory managed a weak smile. "I'll help you hide the body."

"Okay." Roger stepped back. "Let me know if you need anything."

He left. Cory heard him walk down the hall, heard the low murmur of Roger and Larry's voices in the living room — Roger hissing something, Larry laughing.

Cory lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

His phone sat beside him, dark and silent. He didn't pick it up. Didn't open Sniffies again. But he thought about the photos, the jockstrap, the dick, the way Roger had looked in that mirror with confidence Cory had never seen in him before.

He thought about how hard that made him.

This wasn't what he usually meant when he said he had a daddy fetish. The word had always been abstract — a type, a vibe, a category on a porn site. It had never been a specific person. It had never been someone whose face he'd see at breakfast.

His erection was stubbornly refusing to get the memo.