"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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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."