When he sees Tillman, Quentin asks if he's really the sheriff. When Tillman says he's a deputy, Quentin asks if the evidence room sees much action; how much drug trouble does a town like this get into? He knows for a fact that the answer is "a lot". He's been through too many of these uncanny rural places to think anything less, and as he's been hitchhiking around this area, people from the next state over all say this place is lousy with gangs. Drugs. Corruption. Hope, running like a vine throwing out seeds, desperately looking for the sun.
When Tillman gives him a look that says exactly what Quentin expects, he jokes about getting a tour. Jokes about making it worth his time. Watches when Tillman laughs and the grizzled men around them laugh harder, and lets the topic move on. He buys the deputy a beer (the most he can afford, thanks for your service, man) and lets small talk take over, dodges questions about where he's come from or how long he's staying, and trusts that he'll be able to tell later if that seed he just threw is going to take.
When Quentin goes out for a smoke, maybe to try to find a ride, Tillman follows him. When he says he might have some time to spare for a tour, Quentin grins around his cigarette and takes a last drag before telling him to lead the way. It's practiced, casual guy talk on the ride to the station, not so flirty that he comes off faggy, not so tryhard manly that he comes off disinterested. If Tillman is looking to get laid, the openness is there, and if he's not--well, they're just hanging out. A little Stark County hospitality, no big deal.
Relief hits him dizzyingly hard when they scuffle into the dark of the empty station and Tillman gets him by the arm and the mouth and Quentin lets out the breath he's been holding all night, rushed through his nose. Cool. Cool cool cool. Not getting hatecrimed yet. He's going to have bruises from bumping into desks as they grope their way across the office, but he doesn't feel them while he's sucking on Tillman's tongue. Gator can paw at him, he'll find skin and bones and a worn out wallet through the layers of fabric, heat radiating through his t-shirt as he breathes greedily. Quentin paws back, fingers denting into the collar and arm holes of the tactical vest, thumbs squeezing possessively at the soft space between the kevlar and Tillman's belt.
He expects to be stopped when his hand wraps over the closed holster at Tillman's thigh. A fist closes around his wrist, and Quentin pulls back from the kiss with a gasp and a reedy laugh. "Easy. Just--you wanna--take that bad boy off? Or is this a, uh. Gear stays on kinda thing?"
He's a little spitfuck is what he is. Quentin, he says his name is. A long streak of fucking nothing, bones wrapped in skin wrapped in cotton and denim. The cigarette from his lips curls smoke at the same angle as his mouth in a crooked smile. There's something knowing about it that Gator doesn't like, but he's in the mood to get laid, and Quentin, well. He'll do for tonight. He's not from Grindr or Tinder, so that has to mean something a little less desperate.
As Quentin grasps at his thigh, namely the holster, Gator wraps his fist around his wrist and squeezes. Not enough to hurt him too badly, but as a warning. You break it, you fucking buy it. That, meaning Gator will more than happily pull it and place it to Quentin's head as an example. It ain't like brains aren't a picture-pretty decoration. His dark eyes glitter at Quentin's question, and as Gator flips his ballcap off and tosses it, the kevlar comes next. He's got on a form-fitting black t-shirt, and that comes off next. He then places his hand on Quentin's belt, yanking it.
"I take it off, you fuckin' take it off."
He's half-naked, pressing Quentin to the desk with his hips. He keeps the holster on, as he's not sure he completely trusts this slippery bastard past how he can fuck him. He brushes a few curls from Quentin's forehead, tongue slipping out to run down his bottom lip.
"Or is that too much to fuckin' ask? I'll rip it, you know. Right off."
"Well don't fuckin rip it," He laughs breathlessly, "It's all I've got with me."
But he's happy to shed his jacket and toss in generally towards the direction they came in from, and even take his eyes off Gator long enough to peel out of his threadbare tee. It fully undoes the little bit of work Gator did on his hair, a gesture that just feels sweet, sweeter than he prefers for this kind of hookup. The moment he pops out of his shirt, Quentin ducks into to suck that bottom lip into his mouth, spreads palms wide over his chest, pinkie skimming (and skimming back) over the fucking nipple ring.
In the dark, in this close, hopefully Gator doesn't clock the gruesome scars over Quentin's left shoulder. Guys like this don't tend to ask; that's an awful lot like giving a fuck. Still, Quentin keeps them close, pushing back at the hips in kind, pinching at that ring and smirking against Gator's mouth. He tastes like smoke and juice. Long fingers snake between his legs, lazy passes at Gator's dick through his pants as Quentin wonders aloud, "You're pretty comfortable stripping in here. Is this where you take all your hookups?"
"Yeah? Do I look like I give a good goddamn about that?" He's shaking his head as he speaks, a sardonic smile gracing boyish, but mean, features. Dark eyes light up, and Gator presses his hand to Quentin's sternum, pushing him back and onto the desk. He then fondles his thigh, squeezing, before working his fingertips up to play at his fly. Feeling the outline of it - thick, heavy - Gator smirks, teeth peeking.
His nipple is worked over by Quentin as they kiss, Gator's eyes slide closed, brow furrowed. He's rough with it, sucking on Quentin's lip and pulling back on it, biting down. He's never been particularly gentle, the lack of kindness in his blood boiling, overflowing, foaming at the fucking mouth.
"Sometimes. You jealous or somethin'?" Brows shoot up, and Gator fights the urge to backhand Quentin for such bullshit. It's insolence is what it is, pure as the driven snow outside. Deliberate sass. One of his eyes twitches. "You ain't gonna have it like this again, so I'd shut that shit up if I were you, sweetheart."
"Not jealous, just curious." Snickering, stretching his spine long along the desk. It's a damn shame, it's a fucking waste that this isn't what he's here for tonight, because it is exactly what he needs. The aggression, the handling that's as courteous as a hurricane, someone who spits back-- "Just thinking what your type looks like."
He spears those long fingers into his belt to wrench it open. "Thinking about--what you look like when you get into it. You look mad enough before you start fucking, you must be a fucking animal in the middle of it." Is it dirty talk if it's delivery in this effervescent tone, like a guy greeting a golden retriever. There's a notable dip in the register, though, when Quentin gets his hand down the front of Gator's pants, winding bold and stern around his cock. Head craned up, he butts his mouth against Gator's ear, rumbles there, "Thinking about if you have cuffs on you."
"Uh-huh. My type is my fuckin' type. Ain't you lucky you fit the bill tonight?"
It's sarcastic, venom on the edge of his tongue. He's a knife, and he loves to dig into flesh. When that tone comes from Quentin, Gator's upper lip curls in disgust. Addressing him like a goddamn animal? Gator rolls his tongue around his teeth, gathering saliva, before he spits it right next to Quentin's head. His eyes narrow, dark slits, and Gator tilts his head slowly. Dangerously.
"You think that kind of shit is cute, don't you? Well, it ain't. You're gonna call me Deputy, you understand?" It's rough, hand around Quentin's throat. When he asks about the cuffs, though, hand down Gator's pants - he relents after a moment of pure rage flickers across his face.
His hips buck into Quentin's palm, a grunt exiting his lips. He dangles the cuffs from his back pocket, dropping one so that it claps against the other. Looking down at Quentin, he licks his upper lip slowly. "Why, you wanna be cuffed up tonight? Treated like a real fuckin' criminal?" A laugh, vile and predatory.
The palm heel folding along his trachea is one thing. The sick-tinged laugh is one thing. Together, they're something else entirely, and Quentin isn't sure he likes it. The show's gotta go on, though, if he wants money for the next town and anything strong enough to keep him awake for the long, flat Minnesota highways.
Despite the goosebumps spidering up the back of his neck, he splits his knees to roll up against Gator, ringed thumb and finger twisted around the head of his cock. "I wanna suck you off with my hands behind my back." His eyes drift to the side, where Gator spit. "You missed my mouth, Deputy."
Gator's jaw clenches again, and his hand works up from Quentin's throat to the back of his head. He grasps at the short hair there, then yanks, exposing his neck. Gator grunts, licking up the side of it, hips rutting back and forth, ass flexing in his camouflage. He raises the handcuffs, dangling them again. He's hard, almost painfully so, grabbing Quentin's jaw with his free hand and slamming his hips playfully against Quentin's pelvis. He grinds, a moan escaping as he looks Quentin in the eye.
He backs off of him completely, hips stopping, and he stares at Quentin, dark gaze sparkling with meanness. He wants to cause a little pain, he wants to envelop them in violence. It's simpler that way, it's what Gator knows. Hurt, all of it, all dripping sickness into his mouth like ambrosia. He unzips himself, opening his pants just so, exposing himself and nodding at Quentin to get on his knees.
"Then fuckin' act like you want it. Don't pussy out like some fuckin' prom date." His fists ball up, and he's a second away from snatching Quentin off of the desk and fucking his mouth - no matter what Quentin wants. That's how Gator plays the game - coming is coming, and he likes doing it.
"Oh shhhhit." The tongue scraping up his pulseline throws him for a loop. Gator knocks into him and it sends him spinning. Quentin's legs wind tight around his sides, grinds up to him because-- "Jesus christ, yeah."
And then Gator looks him straight in the eye and leaves him flat out like an asshole. For a split second, cold without his shirt or the heat radiating off the other man's body, uncomfortably and embarrassingly hard in his half-open jeans, he has an image of Gator leaving. Laughing. Just flat shooting him, who knows, but the ice in those eyes reminds him of something awful. For a second, it feels like he's the one in a trap.
The rattle of buckle and polyblend snaps him back to the moment, the negging snaps him back to the moment. It feels a hell of a lot more comfortable than the look he's getting, so Quentin wets his mouth, cheeks puffing up as he slides off the desk. "Sorry about your prom date." Another sly remark, but by the last word, his breath is rushing against the base of Gator's cock. He punctuates it with his tongue--tit for tat--scraping root to tip with the help of his hand. For now anyway.
Both hands squeeze the back of Gator's knees, eyes come back up to his full of challenge. "Put me in the fucking cuffs."
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@tillman
When Tillman gives him a look that says exactly what Quentin expects, he jokes about getting a tour. Jokes about making it worth his time. Watches when Tillman laughs and the grizzled men around them laugh harder, and lets the topic move on. He buys the deputy a beer (the most he can afford, thanks for your service, man) and lets small talk take over, dodges questions about where he's come from or how long he's staying, and trusts that he'll be able to tell later if that seed he just threw is going to take.
When Quentin goes out for a smoke, maybe to try to find a ride, Tillman follows him. When he says he might have some time to spare for a tour, Quentin grins around his cigarette and takes a last drag before telling him to lead the way. It's practiced, casual guy talk on the ride to the station, not so flirty that he comes off faggy, not so tryhard manly that he comes off disinterested. If Tillman is looking to get laid, the openness is there, and if he's not--well, they're just hanging out. A little Stark County hospitality, no big deal.
Relief hits him dizzyingly hard when they scuffle into the dark of the empty station and Tillman gets him by the arm and the mouth and Quentin lets out the breath he's been holding all night, rushed through his nose. Cool. Cool cool cool. Not getting hatecrimed yet. He's going to have bruises from bumping into desks as they grope their way across the office, but he doesn't feel them while he's sucking on Tillman's tongue. Gator can paw at him, he'll find skin and bones and a worn out wallet through the layers of fabric, heat radiating through his t-shirt as he breathes greedily. Quentin paws back, fingers denting into the collar and arm holes of the tactical vest, thumbs squeezing possessively at the soft space between the kevlar and Tillman's belt.
He expects to be stopped when his hand wraps over the closed holster at Tillman's thigh. A fist closes around his wrist, and Quentin pulls back from the kiss with a gasp and a reedy laugh. "Easy. Just--you wanna--take that bad boy off? Or is this a, uh. Gear stays on kinda thing?"
no subject
As Quentin grasps at his thigh, namely the holster, Gator wraps his fist around his wrist and squeezes. Not enough to hurt him too badly, but as a warning. You break it, you fucking buy it. That, meaning Gator will more than happily pull it and place it to Quentin's head as an example. It ain't like brains aren't a picture-pretty decoration. His dark eyes glitter at Quentin's question, and as Gator flips his ballcap off and tosses it, the kevlar comes next. He's got on a form-fitting black t-shirt, and that comes off next. He then places his hand on Quentin's belt, yanking it.
"I take it off, you fuckin' take it off."
He's half-naked, pressing Quentin to the desk with his hips. He keeps the holster on, as he's not sure he completely trusts this slippery bastard past how he can fuck him. He brushes a few curls from Quentin's forehead, tongue slipping out to run down his bottom lip.
"Or is that too much to fuckin' ask? I'll rip it, you know. Right off."
no subject
But he's happy to shed his jacket and toss in generally towards the direction they came in from, and even take his eyes off Gator long enough to peel out of his threadbare tee. It fully undoes the little bit of work Gator did on his hair, a gesture that just feels sweet, sweeter than he prefers for this kind of hookup. The moment he pops out of his shirt, Quentin ducks into to suck that bottom lip into his mouth, spreads palms wide over his chest, pinkie skimming (and skimming back) over the fucking nipple ring.
In the dark, in this close, hopefully Gator doesn't clock the gruesome scars over Quentin's left shoulder. Guys like this don't tend to ask; that's an awful lot like giving a fuck. Still, Quentin keeps them close, pushing back at the hips in kind, pinching at that ring and smirking against Gator's mouth. He tastes like smoke and juice. Long fingers snake between his legs, lazy passes at Gator's dick through his pants as Quentin wonders aloud, "You're pretty comfortable stripping in here. Is this where you take all your hookups?"
no subject
His nipple is worked over by Quentin as they kiss, Gator's eyes slide closed, brow furrowed. He's rough with it, sucking on Quentin's lip and pulling back on it, biting down. He's never been particularly gentle, the lack of kindness in his blood boiling, overflowing, foaming at the fucking mouth.
"Sometimes. You jealous or somethin'?" Brows shoot up, and Gator fights the urge to backhand Quentin for such bullshit. It's insolence is what it is, pure as the driven snow outside. Deliberate sass. One of his eyes twitches. "You ain't gonna have it like this again, so I'd shut that shit up if I were you, sweetheart."
no subject
He spears those long fingers into his belt to wrench it open. "Thinking about--what you look like when you get into it. You look mad enough before you start fucking, you must be a fucking animal in the middle of it." Is it dirty talk if it's delivery in this effervescent tone, like a guy greeting a golden retriever. There's a notable dip in the register, though, when Quentin gets his hand down the front of Gator's pants, winding bold and stern around his cock. Head craned up, he butts his mouth against Gator's ear, rumbles there, "Thinking about if you have cuffs on you."
no subject
It's sarcastic, venom on the edge of his tongue. He's a knife, and he loves to dig into flesh. When that tone comes from Quentin, Gator's upper lip curls in disgust. Addressing him like a goddamn animal? Gator rolls his tongue around his teeth, gathering saliva, before he spits it right next to Quentin's head. His eyes narrow, dark slits, and Gator tilts his head slowly. Dangerously.
"You think that kind of shit is cute, don't you? Well, it ain't. You're gonna call me Deputy, you understand?" It's rough, hand around Quentin's throat. When he asks about the cuffs, though, hand down Gator's pants - he relents after a moment of pure rage flickers across his face.
His hips buck into Quentin's palm, a grunt exiting his lips. He dangles the cuffs from his back pocket, dropping one so that it claps against the other. Looking down at Quentin, he licks his upper lip slowly. "Why, you wanna be cuffed up tonight? Treated like a real fuckin' criminal?" A laugh, vile and predatory.
no subject
Despite the goosebumps spidering up the back of his neck, he splits his knees to roll up against Gator, ringed thumb and finger twisted around the head of his cock. "I wanna suck you off with my hands behind my back." His eyes drift to the side, where Gator spit. "You missed my mouth, Deputy."
no subject
He backs off of him completely, hips stopping, and he stares at Quentin, dark gaze sparkling with meanness. He wants to cause a little pain, he wants to envelop them in violence. It's simpler that way, it's what Gator knows. Hurt, all of it, all dripping sickness into his mouth like ambrosia. He unzips himself, opening his pants just so, exposing himself and nodding at Quentin to get on his knees.
"Then fuckin' act like you want it. Don't pussy out like some fuckin' prom date." His fists ball up, and he's a second away from snatching Quentin off of the desk and fucking his mouth - no matter what Quentin wants. That's how Gator plays the game - coming is coming, and he likes doing it.
no subject
And then Gator looks him straight in the eye and leaves him flat out like an asshole. For a split second, cold without his shirt or the heat radiating off the other man's body, uncomfortably and embarrassingly hard in his half-open jeans, he has an image of Gator leaving. Laughing. Just flat shooting him, who knows, but the ice in those eyes reminds him of something awful. For a second, it feels like he's the one in a trap.
The rattle of buckle and polyblend snaps him back to the moment, the negging snaps him back to the moment. It feels a hell of a lot more comfortable than the look he's getting, so Quentin wets his mouth, cheeks puffing up as he slides off the desk. "Sorry about your prom date." Another sly remark, but by the last word, his breath is rushing against the base of Gator's cock. He punctuates it with his tongue--tit for tat--scraping root to tip with the help of his hand. For now anyway.
Both hands squeeze the back of Gator's knees, eyes come back up to his full of challenge. "Put me in the fucking cuffs."