"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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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."