Austen 🌀

“It’s probably not even human,” he mumbled around a steaming spoonful of what barely qualified as stew, pausing only to squint thoughtfully at your horrified face. “Unless… that gas station job…” Then he just shrugged, smiled to himself, and downed the rest of the bowl like a shot of tequila.

Since then, his penchant for biting during sex has had you, like, mildly concerned.

But hey, could be worse.

You could be sipping overpriced wine in your beige apartment, with your beige furniture and your beige friends, talking about beige things. Like how rude Kathy from pilates class was for not holding the gym door open that one time two months ago, or how outrageous it is that people with tattoos are allowed to be doctors. Tattoos. On their arms.

Oh, the humanity! 

Yeah. No. You’d rather kill yourself. 

Or snort coke and let Trevor Philips bend you over the rickety armrest of his ratty couch and rock your shit like nobody else ever has.

Sure, it might lead to the same end result, but at least this option comes with earth-shattering orgasms and a false sense of being adored. You’re well-aware it’s more of an unhealthy obsession type situation on his part, but as long as he doesn’t start mailing you body parts to prove his undying love, you’re not complaining.

He did threaten to skin that poor kid with the dreadlocks – the one who’s always hanging around, talking about the Insane Clown Posse or his cousin Floyd with that narcissistic bitch of a fiancée who thinks she’s a big shot ‘cause she has a career – just for saying your name in a tone that was “too familiar,” but overall? Trevor’s not as bad as people make him out to be.

He always makes sure you come first. 

Never denies you a single fantasy, no matter how fucked-up.

Even agreed to take a full STD panel after your drunken first hookup, the one where he talked you into doing it raw with his hand down your pants and his lips on your neck. Like you could’ve said no. Like your brain wasn’t mush and your body putty in his rough hands.

He’s been good about pulling out since. Which is honestly impressive, considering he has the impulse control of a rabid raccoon with a meth habit. And it’s a very good thing, too, ‘cause you’re comically bad at remembering your birth control.

Isn’t coke supposed to make you more alert, energized, productive, even? That’s what they say, at least. But for you? It just makes you feral and so violently horny you want to claw your own face off if Trevor doesn’t split you open hard enough, deep enough, or often enough to leave you so sore and bruised you can’t tell which way is up anymore.

The white powder flooding your bloodstream – courtesy of T. P. Industries, Incorporated, or whatever the fuck he’s calling it this week – turns every single one of your nerves electric, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose through an endless slurry of obscene images and warped sounds. You get flashbacks sometimes. Loud. Intrusive. Snippets of things you’ve done, things you ache to do, and things you wish you could scrape out of your memory entirely. 

Combine that with a beer or three and the way Trevor drives you absolutely insane with that musky, sweat-soaked smell, his deep voice, his broad shoulders, his dumb fucking tattoos, and that stupid accent you find so irresistible for no goddamn reason… and you’re already done for before he even touches you.

Things get messy when you’re flying like that.

He wants to lock the door and ramble about cutting you open and climbing inside your chest cavity to “always be with you?” – Sounds good.

He wants to press a knife against your thigh while he fucks you and draw a little blood, you know, as a treat? – Sure. Why not.

He wants to get you high, tie you into a human pretzel, and take a few very tasteful pics he’ll “definitely delete, baby, don’t you worry”? – Yeah. Whatever you say, T.

Your fears don’t just dull, they evaporate. It’s crazy. Any sense of self-preservation dies the second Trevor’s calloused fingertips graze your throat, leaving behind nothing but ugly, animalistic need driving you to commit sins that would make the devil blush.

Case in point–

Trevor’s got you pinned. One rough hand locked around your neck, grinding your face into the scratchy fabric of the couch cushion while he ruts into you with so much raw, manic force your legs kick out involuntarily, pain shooting up your spine with every thrust. 

You’re not sure if you’re moaning or choking, pawing frantically at the cushions, so close to coming again it hurts. Tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks and mingling with sweat and spit. Your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it wants out.

And for one sharp, fucked-up second, you think this is it. You’re gonna die. Right here. Face-down, bare-assed with a lunatic’s cock shoved inside you. He’s gonna snap your neck, finish, and then–

Your brain stutters.

–and then what?

Dump your body in the Alamo Sea? Prop you up like a doll and keep you around for a bit? Turn you into stew and psychologically scar the next chick he lures into his den of depravity?

Either way, he’d do funny things to your corpse for sure. 

The thought should make you recoil. Instead, it makes you giggle. Breathless and hoarse, as your surroundings blur into a symphony of chaos pressing in on you, creating the perfect storm.

The suffocating desert heat creeping in through cracked windows. The busted radio on the kitchen counter blasting aggressive punk rock. The weight of Trevor slamming into your ass. His grip crushing your neck, cutting off air, making your vision shimmer at the edges. Your pussy dripping wet, swollen and sore, stretched raw from hours of relentless fucking.

And then there’s Trevor. Ranting, again, about God knows what. You’re only half-listening, barely registering the words anymore, your last two working brain cells too focused on how his fat cock is splitting you open, again and again and again. 

“…can’t fuckin’ hustle a hustler, sugar. Fuck, I love you. Ask the–shit–ask the last guy that tried…”

“Wha–”

“...wah wah wah, I hate myself. Wah wah wah, therapy. Well, I hate you, too, Mikey! Does that mean I don’t have to go to therapy? Asshole…”

“Huh?”

“…could fly planes, so he signed up for the Air Force to–to fly all day long and an evil witch in charge of psych evals told him he was unstable…”

“Who–”

“...pork chop!”

“D’you jus’ call me por–pork chop?”

“...was never about the money. Ever. I don’t–I can’t live without…”

“Trevor–”

You’re about to tell him to shut the fuck up, tell him you don’t understand a single word coming out of his mouth and it’s starting to freak you the fuck out, but then he shifts, angles his hips just right, and your mind goes blank.

It’s like he knows how to press those exact buttons to shut down your whole system, every time. You’re powerless. Mind, body, and soul. Completely at the mercy of this grimy man’s dick, or his hands, or his tongue, or whatever makeshift sex toy he’s decided to ruin your holes with that day. 

It’s kind of like a magician’s hat. Only the magician is a maniac with a hair trigger, and instead of a bunny or a bouquet, he pulls out duct tape and an empty beer bottle, and tells you to “hold still.”

The showmanship’s there, though. All the movement. The flair for spectacle. You’re also pretty sure you heard him yell “tada!” the first time he made the bottle disappear inside you.

Nice trick. 

Terrifying trick.

You’re just starting to come back to yourself very slowly, piecing together the untethered parts of your brain, when Trevor’s voice crashes through the haze like a gunshot, yanking you back violently.

“Ffffuck–god damn, your pussy’s insane,” he groans, knuckles white on your hips as he slams into you. “Anyway–anyway, I tell him, I say, you gotta–you gotta quit that shit, man. Fucker can’t run for–for shit, wheezing like one of those overbred dogs with their creepy flat faces. I mean, come on. Look at me! A little speed, a little dope, a–a little gasoline, baby. Best shape of my–of my fucking life,” he pants, voice cracking on the edge of a manic laugh as sweat drips from his brow in fat drops, splattering hot onto your arched back.

“Oh, I could still take him. I could. Fat snake sitting by the pool all day, drinking his disgusting kale juice like the–like the pretentious bitch he is. Kale. Like that’s gonna make Amanda wanna suck his–ohhh, wow. Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, that’s it, sugar. You gonna come again? Hang on, I got you. I got you, baby.”

Without slowing down, Trevor snakes his left hand between your wet thighs and the couch, pressing the rough pads of his fingers to your throbbing clit. His thrusts stay steady, vicious, and he rubs you just hard enough to hurt, right there on that razor’s edge between agony and bliss.

“Can’t get enough, eh?” he pants, eyes rolling back into his skull. “One of–one of these days I’m–I’m gonna have a heart attack and you’re gonna have to ride my priapism ‘til you’re satisfied, you insatiable little minx.”

It takes maybe a dozen more punishing thrusts – each one slamming balls-deep into that swollen, spongy spot that turns your brain to static – before your cunt clamps down like a steel trap. Your walls seize around Trevor’s cock so hard it feels like you’re trying to crush him, milk him dry, strangle the last drop of sanity out of him.

His right thumb is hooked deep in your mouth, yanking your jaw wide open so spit pools and drips in thick strings onto the cushion below your face. He fucks you straight through the peak with short, brutal snaps of his hips that keep his cock grinding against that exact spot, forcing every last spasm out of you while your tongue curls helplessly around his thumb, tasting salt and the metallic bite of him.

You moan, loud and involuntary, as he bottoms out with a pained groan and holds there, hips fused to your ass, cock throbbing ferociously inside you. Every thick pulse of your orgasm massages him in rhythmic waves, dragging him dangerously close to the edge of explosion.

“Oh shit… shitshitshit–” he hisses through clenched teeth, whole body locked rigid with the effort of not blowing his load right then and there.

Your legs are gone. Completely fucking useless. 

Shaking uncontrollably, knees buckling, thighs slick and gleaming with your own gushing release, the wet shine catching the sunlight pouring into the trailer like oil. Every nerve in your body is screaming bloody murder as your clit throbs in time with your frantic heartbeat.

Fifth time in two hours and your body is still greedy for more.

“Good fucking girl,” Trevor growls, that crooked grin splitting his face wide as he feels your pussy flutter and flood around him, soaking his balls. “Y’know, sweetheart, I’ve met a nympho or two in my day. Lonely sailors, mostly. Hobos, jackin’ you off for a ride. Strung-out hookers who’d let you piss on their tits for an extra twenty. But none of ‘em–none–were this crazy for my cock.”

He yanks his thumb free with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting it to your swollen lips for a heartbeat before snapping. Then he drags the slick digit down your cheek, through the mess of bodily fluids and smudged mascara, smearing it across your mouth.

“If that ain’t true love,” he rasps, eyes wild and glassy, locked on yours so intensely you shiver, “I don’t know what the fuck is.”

And you see, that would be kind of sweet – if there wasn’t a chainsaw lying on the floor ten feet away from you, the blade still clearly flecked with drying crimson, the handle wrapped in electrical tape gone dark and sticky with god-knows-what.

You’ve clearly got a death wish, ‘cause you’re seriously about to open your big mouth and ask what the hell that’s about, when the universe hands you an ex machina in the form of Trevor’s hand cracking down right on your clit. The sting explodes through you like lightning; your hips jerk violently, a broken whimper ripping out of your throat.

“Owww–fuck!”

Chainsaw? Blood? Possible brain matter? All the other red flags screaming at you? 

Forgotten. 

“Aww, that one got ya good, eh? Shhh, shhh, shhh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. We’re not done playing,” Trevor purrs, voice all fake-soothing and dripping with sadistic glee as he immediately pinches your raw, puffy little nub between two rough fingers and twists. “Yeah, that’s it. Hurts so good, don’t it?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth sinking into your bottom lip so hard you taste copper, but the pain is already melting into that sick, addictive heat again. Your hips roll up on their own, chasing his fingers, chasing his cock, chasing whatever the fuck he’ll give you next.

Trevor laughs, amused by your predilection for receiving pain, and grinds his hips in slow, controlled circles, cock stirring deep inside your spasming cunt, dragging every thick ridge along your oversensitive walls while his fingers keep torturing your clit with just enough pressure to keep you on your toes.

The wet squelch of him moving inside you is obscenely loud in the trailer’s stale air, especially now that the radio has decided not to provide background noise for your depraved performance anymore.

Then, without warning, Trevor pulls out. The sudden emptiness is shocking, leaving your pussy gaping and clenching desperately on nothing. A thick rope of your mixed arousal stretches between his glistening head and your swollen entrance, the sight coaxing a muttered “beautiful…” out of him. His cock hangs heavy between his legs; shiny with you, veins dark and pulsing, head flushed angry-red and still leaking.

“No, no, no, please,” you whine, biting your lip unconsciously, “Trev… don’t–don’t stop…”

Real fear claws up your throat. Fear that this is it. That he’s done and you have to go home to your Kraft mac and cheese and your unfolded laundry and your reflection in the microwave door that looks more tired every day. Back to staring at the ceiling while the comedown whispers that you have no one to blame but yourself. Your life suddenly feels like a prison now that you’ve tasted what it’s like to be wanted this badly, even if it’s by a man who’ll snap your neck if you look at him wrong.

He spills on your back and you have to go home, high and unsatisfied. 

The thought makes you want to sob.

But thankfully Trevor doesn’t leave you hanging for too long. His big hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he yanks you back toward him in one rough jerk.

“Mmm, my baby’s really flyin’, huh? C’mon, sugar. Show me that pretty pussy and that tight backdoor of yours. C’mon, open up for T.”

Your legs are jelly but you obey instantly, moving your sore body back a little, forearms planted beneath your face, ass high and spread for him. The position leaves you completely exposed, dripping down your thighs.

Trevor drops to his knees behind you with a heavy thud that shakes the couch.

“Jesus H. Christ on a cracker…” he breathes, spreading your cheeks wide with both thumbs. “Look at this sloppy fucking masterpiece. Pussy all puffy and wet, cum button poking out begging for my attention, and that little pucker winking at me so nicely. Fucking gorgeous.”

He leans in and drags his tongue in one long, filthy stripe from your clit all the way up, swirling through your soaked folds, over your perineum, then circling your asshole before pushing the tip inside. The wet heat of his tongue pressing into you makes you jolt and moan, Trevor’s hands gripping you harder. 

“Don’t move.” He nuzzles between your cheeks, licking up again, dragging his warm tongue through your folds to slurp up as much of your juices as possible. “Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he mumbles, face soaked. “Best fucking cum I’ve ever tasted.”

You moan at the delicious combination of his rough treatment and his own brand of compliments. Anyone else said half the shit he says to you, you’d kick them in their balls and/or tits, but for Trevor? It just works. Probably ‘cause you can tell he genuinely means every word he utters.

If the man says your cum’s the best he’s ever guzzled, then that’s how it is. 

And to be honest? You’d take this over “we have to talk” or “you’re too much” or “I think you have a problem” any day.

“Mmmph–fuck, you smell like the sea,” Trevor groans, voice muffled against your skin, cock leaking precum onto the floor. “I could eat this ass for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Mmm, how ‘bout–how ‘bout you stay here and let me eat you out all day and night, huh? Fuck, I could come just from you riding my face. I’d–I’d feed you, I’d fuck you, I’d snort lines off your clit and lick the residue right back off. We’d get so high we forget there’s a world outside. Just you and me, baby. Forever.”

“Trevor…” you start, but the thought dissolves on your tongue. You forget how to speak. You forget how to think. All you can do is moan pathetically and chase your next orgasm. 

And Trevor’s having the time of his life.

He spits a thick glob right on your hole, watches it drip, then dives back in, lapping at your ass with shameless, noisy enthusiasm. Two thick fingers sink into your cunt without warning, curling hard against your G-spot in a rhythm that matches his tongue – in, out, in, out – until your whole lower body is jerking like you’ve been shocked.

He switches again: tongue plunging into your ass while his fingers pump your pussy, then lips sealing around your clit for one hard, wet suck that makes your hips buck off the couch. He licks through your folds in long, greedy drags, slurping up every drop like he’s dying of thirst, then returns to your hole, tongue-fucking you open while his thumb grinds messy circles over your clit.

You’re shaking so hard the couch creaks under you. Your moans are pathetic, hips rocking back against his face on pure instinct, chasing more, more, more. You’re babbling now, barely coherent:

“Trev… oh my fucking god… fuck me… nghh, need your cock… need it so bad–”

But he doesn’t hear you.

Or he does and just doesn’t care.

Too high, too drunk on the taste of you, too lost in his own pleasure or whatever the fuck is bouncin’ around in that strange brain of his. And sure enough, mid-lick, he starts rambling again. 

Or more like, full-on spiraling. 

“You know what I love about you, sugar? You get–you get lit with me, you suck your own ass off my dick, you–you want me to choke you out and fuck you, you’re down to get sloppy. That’s fucking honesty right there. No Trevor, you’re disgusting, Trevor, not so rough, Trevor, Jesus, your beard’s scratchin’ me… prissy little bitch… always hoggin’ the blanket…”

His face is buried so deep between your cheeks you can feel his nose pressing against your tailbone, chin soaked and dragging with every sloppy drag of his tongue. He’s high as hell and the words come out slurred, half-mumbled into your skin, breaking apart between licks and groans.

“…thought we were solid, y’know? Like… brothers. Late nights, sharin’ smokes, sharin’… whatever. That used to mean something…” 

He spits on your pussy and the glob clings for a second, then breaks, trailing sticky threads that cool against your overheated skin. He spreads you open with both thumbs, rough pads digging into the soft flesh of your lips, yanking them wide until the stretch burns sweet and sharp. Your clit throbs visibly under the exposure, swollen and glistening, the tiny hood pulled back so every nerve is laid bare. Spurred on by your moans he spreads you open wider and wider, until you’re sure one more slow tug would tip you over the edge without anything else.

“Used to stay up with me when I was too wired to sleep. Then–poof. Gone. Nine years. Nine fucking years. Turns out he’s not a man. Turns out I’m not… I’m not… aargh! The lies!” He sucks on your slippery labia a little too roughly, tongue sliding into your pussy with vigor. “Cool now, though,” he pants between licks. “Yeah. We’re cool. Real cool. Just… hurts sometimes. Y’know? Like a bad tooth you can’t stop pokin’…”

You moan, digging your nails into your palms, too far gone to care about his homoerotic obsession with this Mikey character, or any of Trevor’s incoherent ranting. The world narrows down to how it feels as he drags his tongue through your folds in one long stripe – slow enough to make you whimper desperately – then circles your clit once before plunging back into your ass, tongue fucking deep and sloppy while his thumbs stay locked, holding you open.

“You think he could handle this? Mmph–no fucking way. He’d cry. His whole fat back would give out. He’d fuckin’ pull a hamstring trying to get in this deep. Fucking yoga. Fuck, baby, you’re soakin’ me… love that… love how you just drip… He’d wipe his mouth after… rude fuck… but you? You let me drown… yeah… keep pushin’ back… good girl…”

When he finally pulls back with a groan, his face is shiny with you, lips glistening. He stands, slaps his heavy cock against your soaked asshole a few times, then leans over your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You want me to fuck your ass, baby?” he murmurs, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder sharp enough to make you yelp, then immediately soothing it with a slow, wet drag of his tongue over the fresh mark. “I can go slow. Get the lube, open you up nice and easy… stretch you wide till you’re beggin’ for it, hm? You picturing it, sugar? My fat cock buried in your guts, balls slapping your pussy, filling you up till it leaks down your thighs?”

You do picture it. Fuck, you do. 

The brutal stretch burning so good, that impossible fullness pressing everywhere at once, Trevor’s broken moans vibrating through your back, his hairy chest plastered to your spine, the wet smack of skin, the way he’d lose his mind and start babbling heartfelt apologies and poetic love declarations while destroying your asshole.

Say what you will, but the man does contain multitudes. 

Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at the thought. But right now you’re aching and desperate, clit throbbing needily. Anal’s a marathon. It’s intense, yes, and it scratches that specific itch you get every once in a while. But you need to come again right the fuck now. Fast and filthy and shattering.

So you shake your head, a tiny, muffled “mm-mm” humming in your throat.

“Aww, no?” Trevor lets out a soft, warm chuckle that rumbles straight through his chest into yours with deranged affection. He presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck, lips surprisingly soft. He nuzzles there, beard stubble scratching your skin, voice dropping to that gravelly, lovesick purr. “Alrighty then, pussy it is. My girl gets what she wants.”

He bends down again, your juices so irresistible to him he just needs to lick you again before finally coming himself. His tongue trails through your wet folds again, and he groans like he’s in pain as he jerks off slowly in time with his tongue. 

“Fuck me,” he groans between licks. “I should… should just chain you to the radiator and never let you–”

He freezes, tongue still pressed flat to your clit, chest heaving like he just remembered he left the stove on.

You’re not even sure if you can take more.

So of course, he gets creative.

“Hold up, hold up–fuck, I got an idea,” he grunts, suddenly pulling away from you. 

“Tr–Trev,” you slur, “what the fuck–”

“Yeah, yeah, hold that thought, baby.” 

You blink, dazed, the world already tilting sideways from the last orgasm, and before you can even process it, he’s gone from between your legs, scrambling across the trailer like a man on a mission. Junk crashes. Something shatters. You hear him muttering to himself.

“Where is he, where is he, where is he–aha! You filthy little freak, c’mere.”

Goosebumps race up your spine, your breath shallow and ragged. Your stomach flips. Arousal and dread twist together so tight you can’t tell which is winning. Part of you is terrified he’s about to do something unhinged. Another, more honest part of you is already throbbing harder at the thought.

“Ohhh…” Trevor’s voice is gleeful. “This is gonna be so good.”

You barely lift your head before he’s back, cock bobbing heavy and angry between his legs, holding Mr. Raspberry Jam by the scruff of his worn, stained neck. Yes. You’re seeing that right. It’s the teddy bear with the missing eye, the red ribbon, and the pink panties. You’ve seen it once before, lying face down on top of a crumpled porno mag in Trevor’s bed, a tub of petroleum jelly open on the nightstand.

“Sorry, buddy,” Trevor sighed before picking the cum-stained bear up and putting him on the dresser. “But this lovely little lady and I need our space… You understand, eh?”

…and you still hopped on his dick without a single ounce of shame. Okay, yeah. Something is definitely wrong with you. 

Trevor holds the bear up like a trophy, shaking him lightly so its limp arms flop around pathetically. You catch a glimpse of his manic smile, pupils blown from coke and lust. 

“There’s my fuzzy little pervert! You been enjoying yourself, Raspberry? Getting off on my girl gettin’ railed, huh?”

He laughs, delighted, and brings the bear right up to his face. Without hesitation he hocks a thick, glistening rope of spit straight onto its plush snout. It lands with a wet splat.

Your breath catches. A fresh gush of heat floods between your legs even as your brain screams what the actual fuck. You’re so overwhelmed you hear blood rushing in your ears. You’re horrified. You’re soaked. You’re frozen in place, ass still presented, pussy still aching, unable to look away.

Trevor smears the spit around with his thumb, coating the bear’s entire face until the plush fibers are clumping. Then he leans in and plants a loud, sloppy kiss right on the wet muzzle, like it’s a lover.

“Good boy.”

He turns back to you, eyes glittering with that unhinged adoration you’re still not quite used to.

“Mr. Raspberry Jam here’s gonna help me take care of you proper now, ain’t ya, buddy?” He strides back, cock still rock-hard, bouncing with every step. He doesn’t say a word at first, just plants his bare feet wide on either side of yours, looming like a wall of heat and muscle behind you. 

You feel the mania radiating off Trevor’s body, smell the faint metallic tang of coke-sweat combined with the sharp musk of arousal. His heavy balls brush the backs of your thighs when he leans in close, the coarse hair there tickling and teasing as you feel him everywhere.

He presses forward until his hips slot flush against your ass, cock sliding hot and slick along your folds without entering yet; just grinding along your slit, coating himself in you while the head nudges your hole with every slow roll. His hands come down hard on your hips, fingers digging in, thumbs spreading your cheeks wider so he can get a good look.

The couch dips as he settles. Then, without warning, the warm, damp, fuzzy pressure of the bear’s spit-soaked face presses firmly against your asshole. The texture is wrong, alien, obscene: soft plush dragging over your sensitive pucker, Trevor’s thick saliva transferring in cool, slippery streaks, the faint synthetic smell of old fabric and spit mixing with the raw stench of sex filling the air.

“There we go,” he growls. “Nice and cozy.”

You let out a broken sound as the bear’s worn fur rubs up against your rim, and Trevor just moans, dragging his cock along your soaked entrance again.

“Ohhh, fuck, baby, that’s the shot. That’s the goddamn money shot.”

He slams back into your pussy without warning, rough, balls-deep, knocking the breath out of you in a choked gasp. He snaps his hips so hard the whole couch is scraping across the trailer floor, the bear’s face still glued to your asshole, rubbing in sloppy circles with every thrust.

“That’s it, baby–fuck, feel how deep I am? That pretty–that pretty cunt’s suckin’ me in like it never wants me to leave. My perfect little cockwarmer, my sweet dirty angel…”

He feels it before you do, the sudden, violent flutter deep inside you, your walls rippling, your whole body going rigid as every muscle in your abdomen strains so hard you feel like you’re gonna pass out–

“Oh shit–oh shit, sugar, you gonna come again? Fuck yeah. C’mon, give it to me, let me see–”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

In one rough, possessive move, Trevor hooks your right leg over his arm, yanking it just a little higher and tilting your hips open. And then – God help you –  he shoves the bear under your hips, wedging him right between the armrest and your mound, firm snout pressed tight against your folds. 

“Oh my god—” you start, but the words disappear when he thrusts back into you with a growl, hard and deep, pushing you forward so your clit grinds against the bear’s face with every snap of his hips.

You cry out, body arching, hands clawing at the backrest of the couch as he buries himself to the hilt with no hesitation. The pressure of the bear under you makes everything worse. More friction, more stimulation, like your pussy’s caught in a vice between Trevor and the filthy token of his degenerate love.

“There we go,” he groans, one hand holding your leg up, the other clamping down around your throat from behind. “Fuckin’ knew you‘d like this shit.”

You’re moaning nonstop now, each drag of fur sending a jolt straight through your spine.

The mix of slickness, pressure, and that awful, ridiculous texture is too much, and Trevor only fucks you harder, getting off on the way your body jerks with every bounce.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Riding my fuckin’ bear like the filthy little freak you are.”

Your breath hitches, body clenching hard around him.

“Oh, you like that, huh? Humpin’ a teddy bear while I stretch this sweet pussy out? Jesus fuck, baby–fuck–you’re gonna make me come just watching that.”

You try to speak, to breathe, to even think, but you’re too far gone. It’s filthy. It’s stupid. It’s degrading and so Trevor that you don’t even care anymore. You grind down harder with each thrust, chasing it, high and needy and out of your mind.

“Feel that, baby?” Trevor murmurs against your ear as he leans in, voice cracking with need. “He’s–he’s giving you the sloppiest kiss while I wreck this cunt. Ain’t he sweet? My two favorite things lovin’ on my girl at the same time.”

He grinds harder, deeper, hips snapping like he’s possessed. The bear’s fur is drenched now, all the fluids leaving your bodies mixing into a messy, obscene slide.

“C’mon, Mikey, lick her good. Make her–make her come all over us. She deserves it, don’t she? Yeah… that’s it. You were always good at that, eh? Fuck, I still remember the first time we–”

The only thing cutting through the haze clouding your senses is the roar of your own blood in your ears and a thin, distant voice screaming get out get out get out.

You’re conscious enough to register the pain, though: the bruising grip on your leg, the relentless stretch, the way his hand is crushing air from your lungs. Conscious enough to know he’s hurting you.

But you’re also so fucking close to coming that you honestly couldn’t care less at this point.

It’s right there, coiling tight and electric, hovering just out of reach. Every brutal thrust shoves you closer, every grind against that spot inside you makes the pain twist into something molten and addictive. Your body is betraying you in the loudest possible way: clit throbbing, walls fluttering, thighs trembling from exertion, slick running down your legs in hot, shameful streams.

Trevor’s voice drops into that manic-sweet growl as he notices you getting close, bear still rubbing your clit, the dual sensation driving you straight toward another screaming orgasm.

He feels it before you do, the sudden, violent flutter deep inside you, your pussy choking his cock, your whole body going rigid.

“Oh shit–oh shit, sugar… you’re–you’re gonna… oh, fuck you’re such a good fucking girl. C’mon, give it to me. Do it. Fuckin’ do it–”

You don’t mean to.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s already too late.

Your whole body locks up, spine arching, thighs snapping shut around the ruined bear beneath you, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a broken scream. The pressure in your lower belly explodes into release, and suddenly you’re gushing uncontrollably, all over Trevor’s cock, all over the bear, soaking the cushion beneath you with wave after wave of hot, shaking wetness. 

Trevor’s eyes roll back and he lets out the most unhinged, delighted moan you’ve ever heard from him.

“FUUUUCK YES–look at that! That’s what I’ve been waiting for! So fucking beautiful, so nasty, so perfect–Jesus Christ I love you, I love you, I love you–”

He fucks you you through it, grip on your hips tightening like he’s about to break you — then he pulls out fast, cock dragging wetly from your twitching cunt. You collapse forward, shaking, gasping, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t give you even a second to breathe.

He spreads your ass wide with both hands, watching the mess pour out of you, spray still dripping, soaking the already filthy fur beneath you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide, enthralled. “You fucking blasted him.” 

You’re too far gone to speak, cheek pressed into the cushion, thighs trembling violently, cunt spasming around nothing now, but still aching, still leaking. And all Trevor does is stare at the bear under you, glistening with your release, soaked through like a used rag.

After a long moment, he snatches the toy up and swipes it through your dripping, hypersensitive folds so roughly another fresh set of tears escapes your eyes, the wet fur dragging over your raw clit in a stinging slide. He smears your squirt all over the plush, then presses the ruined bear to his face and huffs deep, eyes fluttering shut like he’s getting high off it.

“Ahhh–yes, yes, yes. Mmm… goddamn, sugar. Didn’t know you could squirt like a fountain. You’re too good to me. Too fuckin’ good.”

He keeps the bear pressed to his cheek for a second longer, inhaling like it’s oxygen, then lets out a wrecked, reverent laugh.

“Next time you’re doing that on my face.”

Your mind is spinning and you’re finally so sore that you’d actually be okay with stopping now. But Trevor hasn’t come once and he’s fucked you good, so you’re not about to tap out before he finishes. 

You scratch my back and I’ll let you come all over me. Or whatever the saying is…

You hear him panting like a dying animal – chest heaving, breath ragged, cock throbbing so painfully inside you that every tiny shift feels like torture. His toes curl against the floor, balls drawn up so tight they ache, whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. You can feel how close he is, the frantic pulse of him buried deep, the way his hips stutter like they’re about to give out.

And then something in him snaps.

Maybe it’s the way your pussy feels like velvet and fire wrapped around him. Maybe it’s the way your tear-streaked face looks almost serene in the afternoon light. Or maybe the drugs are finally getting to him, stripping away the last thin layer of control and leaving only raw, desperate need.

He suddenly wants to crawl inside you.

More than usual, that is.

“Baby…” His voice cracks. “Baby, I need–I gotta look at you. Need to see your face, need to be close… it hurts so bad, I’m gonna lose my mind…”

Before you can even take another breath, Trevor hauls you up, spins you around and drops you onto your back on the couch. He climbs on top immediately, heavy and warm and sweating, covering you completely. 

The second he pushes in you almost come from the sound alone: that little strained groan he makes when his thick head meets resistance and he has to lean into it, forcing his girth inside inch by inch until he finally bottoms out with a relieved sigh.

“There we go… there’s my girl. Hey, hey, shhh. Look at me, sugar. C’mon. Eyes on me while I fuck you.”

He starts moving again in grinding, possessive strokes that hit every spot. Your legs wrap around his waist despite the pain, and you’re already climbing again, that familiar heat building fast because all about him just feels too fucking good.

Trevor’s face is inches from yours, eyes wild and glassy and softer than they have any right to be, rough hands cradling your head as he suddenly leans in, lips parted expectantly. You react at the last second, turning your head, cheek pressing into the cushion.

He freezes mid-motion, hot breath catching against your skin.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, voice small, like a lost puppy. “Sorry. Sorry, baby.”

He drops his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse in soft, apologetic kisses. His scruffy beard stubble scrapes gently over your skin as he trails lower, open-mouthed and hungry, inhaling you.

One hand slides down, grabbing your breast. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches hard enough to make you gasp, rolling the sensitive peak between rough fingers while his mouth keeps worshipping your neck. The other hand stays braced beside your head, keeping some of his weight off your chest but still close enough that you feel every shudder that runs through him.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he mumbles against your throat, voice cracked. “It hurts. My balls are so… so full for you, it–it feels like I’m dyin’...”

He keeps rocking his hips, grinding instead of thrusting, letting you feel every inch while his hand keeps playing with your tits: kneading, tugging, thumb flicking your nipples until they’re hard and aching under his touch.

His lips find the spot just below your ear, sucking roughly, then kissing the sting away.

He’s so close now you can feel it in every movement; cock swollen thick, balls drawn up tight against your ass, hips locked flush like he’s trying to weld himself to you permanently. And then he starts whining – actual pathetic, broken whining – voice cracking higher with every roll.

“Baby… fuck, you–you feel so good… so tight… gonna come… so full for you… please…”

Usually, at this point, he’d slide out, fist his cock, and paint your belly or tits with his cum. But somehow he’s not even twitching toward withdrawal. His hips stay locked flush, pressing deeper, heavier, pinning you down. His weight settles more fully, chest crushing your breasts, thighs caging yours, forearms braced on either side of your head like bars. 

He’s not moving away. He’s moving in.

Your pulse jumps. You tap his bicep – once, twice – trying to get his attention.

“Trev–”

“Nghh–just–just this once, baby… I’ll be good, I swear… wrap it up and–and everything…”

Your stomach drops. He knows what he’s doing.

“Trevor,” you say, pushing at his shoulders weakly. “No, we–we can’t…”

You try to shift, try to arch away, create even an inch of space, but his hand moves fast. Slides up. Wraps around your throat. Thumb resting over your racing pulse. 

He’s not even trying to be subtle. You feel it in the slight flex of his fingers, the way his body goes still except for the slow, deliberate grind of his cock.

“I know… I know I’m a piece of shit… but I can’t… can’t stop… love you so much… I’ll never ask again… I’ll be good… I’ll do anything… make you feel so good, baby…”

The begging loops, frantic and desperate, each plea punctuated by another deep grind that shoves you closer to your own edge. He’s not budging. Not even a millimeter. Every thrust hits deeper, heavier, pinning you harder. His weight is crushing, hand on your neck tightening slightly every time you try to move. Fucker even has the nerve to stroke your pulse like he’s soothing you while he’s trapping you.

You try one more time, voice cracking. “Trev… pull out–”

But he just whines louder, hips stuttering, cock throbbing so hard you feel every pulse.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man… I’m not tough at all, I’m just a baby. I’m a baby and I hate myself and I always have. I always have and that’s the truth… a baby…”

You try to speak, but the words die in a choked gasp as his next grind slams your G-spot just right, cock dragging slow and thick against every nerve, your orgasm coiling so tight and hot it’s almost painful. You can’t fight it. Can’t fight him. Can’t fight the stupid, horny part of your brain screaming yes yes yes, let him come inside you, let him fill you up, let him claim you, like that’s not the dumbest fucking idea in the entire universe.

“...sugar, please, please I can’t–I can’t–”

What a brilliant plan. Getting knocked up by a deranged meth dealer who fucks teddy bears and cries about a guy you’re pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

Peak life choices, you absolute dumb bitch.

“Baby…”

You snap. 

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, STOP WHINING AND COME ALREADY!”

The sound Trevor makes is pure relief and animal need at the same time.

“Oh, sweet Jesus… thank you, baby, thank you–”

He fucks you as hard as he can, grabbing your jaw so you’re forced to look into his eyes, and the second he feels you start to clamp down around him again he loses it completely.

“I’m–I’m cumming–fuck, I love you, I love you, I love you–”

His orgasm shakes him so ruthlessly he can’t even form a proper thrust, so he’s just left to grind his cock into you with stuttering hips, his heavy body pressing you into the cushion as his kisses smear across your throat.

His whole body seizes up and he floods you – thick, hot, endless ropes of cum pumping deep inside, so much it leaks out around his cock instantly. He keeps thrusting through it, whimpering the false name you gave him like a prayer, grinding every last drop into you while your own orgasm washes over you, pussy spasming and milking him for everything he’s worth.

He collapses onto you like a felled tree – dead weight, muscle and heat weighing you down – still buried to the hilt, cock twitching with the last weak, lazy spurts that leak hot inside you.

Your bodies are fused in a swamp of sweat, cum, spit, and your own gushing release; every inch of you is coated in him, cooling in places while burning in others. The trailer air reeks of sex, the sickening metallic bite of blood from your split lip, the chemical remnants of coke still clinging to both your breaths. 

…and also the regret of what you just did. 

It’s all so fucked.

You taste him on your tongue, feel him in your throat, smell him in the tiny hairs on your arms. A shower won’t be enough to scrub him off of you. You’ll carry him under your skin for days.

“Oh, I love you…” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, voice wrecked, lips dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over every patch of skin he can reach; jaw, cheek, collarbone, pulse point, the soft spot behind your ear. 

“I love you so fuckin’ much, my sweet girl… my perfect, dirty angel…” Each word vibrates through you, low and desperate. “Don’t leave. Everyone always leaves. But you–you’re different… You’re different, sugar, you’re–”

The words splinter. His arms tighten around you like iron bands, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers digging into your sweat-damp neck, the other splaying wide over your lower belly. His touch is possessive yet careful, trying to keep every drop he pumped into you from escaping. His cock gives one final, weak pulse inside, and you clench around it on instinct, drawing a broken groan out of him.

That sound… oh, that sound. 

It rips a secret, hidden part deep in your chest wide open. 

You’re drowning in it. That terrifying, exhilarating surrender, the way your ribs feel cracked, heart hammering against bone so fiercely you feel it in your fingertips. You’re flooded with this… this clawing, bone-deep ache. Not love. Nuh-uh. You don’t do that. But it’s there and you can’t ignore it no matter how hard you try. It’s this desperate, stupid need to be claimed, to be filled, to be kept. Like if he pulls out now, if he leaves that hollow space inside you empty, you’re convinced the world will tear you into pieces too small to gather up again.

The drugs make it worse. Every sensation is cranked up to eleven; your skin feels peeled, nerves raw, emotions boiling over until you’re shaking and feeling shit you don’t want to feel. That’s not what you’re fucking here for. You’re here to get high as giraffe pussy, get your back blown out with the bonus thrill of maybe getting murdered, and block out your boring-ass life for a few hours. 

No strings, no “how was your day,” no fucking after. 

All fine and dandy, but there’s a glitch in your genius blueprint.

You’re not heartless.

You may be a walking disaster with a coke habit, a death wish and a nihilistic streak wide enough to drive a monster truck through, but you’re not heartless. And right now, with Trevor trembling on top of you, hot breath fanning dangerous promises against your throat like there’s even a sliver of a chance you two could end up as anything other than a deadly trainwreck, you feel the last frayed thread of your defenses starting to snap.

And he’s heavy. Too heavy.

His full weight pins you to the ruined couch, chest crushing your breasts flat, belly sticky and pressing your stomach, thighs caging yours so tight you can’t even twitch. Every inhale is shallow and labored, your lungs burn like they’re filling with smoke instead of air. Black spots bloom in front of your eyes, the room tilting sideways in slow, sickening waves. Your arms feel leaden, fingers tingling as circulation falters. You’re sinking deeper into the cushions, deeper into him, deeper into whatever fucked-up gravity he exerts, and your body is starting to give up the fight.

You hear your own voice echo inside your skull. 

It’s small and lost, and it sounds wrong. It’s not your voice, not really; it’s too soft, too malleable, too willing to break for this man. The sound of it makes your skin crawl, like listening to a stranger beg through your own mouth as you’re drowning. 

The realization that you’re dying doesn’t land like a shock. It’s kind of comforting, actually. You feel the oxygen leaving you with every weak, stuttering pulse. Your vision narrows to a soft gray tunnel, edges feathering black. The trailer, your body, Trevor’s weight, his cum inside you – it all starts to recede, distant and unimportant.

Everything pours out.

Every barbed wire knot of shame you’ve carried since you were old enough to hate yourself. Every bruise you pretended didn’t hurt. Every time you smiled through the ache because stopping would mean admitting defeat. Every dream you buried so deep you forgot what it tasted like. They bleed out slowly with the rest of you.

And hey.

You don’t have to go to work tomorrow if you’re dead.

That’s something, right? Small victories. No alarm, no emails, no signing stupid birthday cards, no pretending to be functional while your head screams. Just quiet. Just nothing.

Until Trevor decides to bite your neck hard and the pain yanks you back into your body like a meat hook through the sternum. 

You force one arm up, kind of annoyed you’re still here, muscles protesting, and tap his bicep. Once. Twice. The third time is weaker, barely there.

“Tr… Trev…” Your voice is a hoarse, breathless rasp. “Can’t… breathe…”

He grunts, offended you would ask him to move even an inch away from you. “I can hear ya breathe just fine.”

You pull his hair at the nape of his neck and he finally gets the message. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs deeply and lingers for one more heartbeat, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize the smell of whatever soap you used that morning. He presses a soft kiss on the spot he bit, then shifts reluctantly, finally sliding out of you with a final wet drag that makes you both hiss. The moment the head pops free, a thick, pearly glob of cum immediately wells up and spills from your swollen, puffy entrance. It slides down your ass, dripping in a heavy, viscous rope onto the stained cushion beneath you. 

It stares at you, very accusingly, in bright daylight: the culmination of your bad decisions pooling between your thighs, cooling fast against your overheated skin. You try to ground yourself by focusing on catching your breath as your thoughts spin and spin and spin around. 

God, you’re an idiot. 

Trevor exhales through his nose, low and rough, eyes dropping down to your pussy. “Good lord…” he mutters, “look at that.”

He can’t tear his eyes away. They’re locked on the creamy white trail leaking out of you, mesmerized, almost hypnotized. 

Without thinking, he swipes two thick fingers through the wetness on your inner thigh, gathering the slick mix of your cum, then pushes them back inside you slowly. The stretch is gentle but insistent; your walls flutter weakly around the intrusion, still oversensitive and raw. He curls his fingers just enough to press the cum deeper, smearing it against your insides like he’s trying to paint every inch, seal it in.

A broken groan rumbles out of him. He keeps his fingers inside you, holding the load in place, thumb brushing lazy circles over your clit like he’s trying to soothe it while he just… keeps everything where it is. 

You feel the warmth trapped inside you, the faint pressure of his hand refusing to let it leak further. He’s in a trance – eyes glued to where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your swollen lips hug them, the way a little more dribbles out around his knuckles despite his efforts.

“Are you, uh–” Trevor murmurs, hesitant. “Have you ever thought about… y’know…?”

You tilt your head, heavy eyelids fluttering open, and catch his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils still bigger than normal, a truth buried in there you’re too out of it to dig up. His thumb pauses on your clit, waiting. For a beat he holds your stare, mouth opening like he’s about to say something more, but then he just blinks. Closes his mouth. Looks away fast, jaw ticking.

“Nah,” he mumbles to himself, almost too quiet to hear. “Bad fuckin’ idea. Stupid. Forget it.”

But he doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He lingers, one more slow curl inside you, one more gentle press of his thumb over your clit, savoring the fantasy for just a few more seconds before reality crashes back.

Finally he withdraws, fingers glistening, coated in the creamy evidence of what he just did. He reaches for the nearest thing – his own crusty red-and-black flannel shirt, tossed in a heap on the floor earlier, stiff with old sweat and dirt – and brings it between your legs. The fabric is rough and scratchy against your oversensitive skin, but he’s at least trying to be careful, wiping in quick, haphazard swipes.

“Easy, sugar… easy,” he murmurs every time you wince or twitch from the overstimulation. “I got you.”

A couple more lazy passes with the flannel and Trevor deems it good enough. He tosses the ruined piece of clothing aside like trash, but you catch the quick, hungry glance he gives it before it lands. Yeah, he’s definitely going to wrap that thing around his fist and jerk off into it at 3 a.m. when he can’t sleep and you’re not there to drown out the voices in his head.

You can already picture the grainy videos he’ll send: shaky phone footage, low growls of your fake-ass name, the flannel clutched so hard in his hand his knuckles are white. Maybe even a little crying. 

Oh, what a lucky girl you are.

You push yourself up slowly, whole body protesting. You sit on the edge of the couch, rub your fingers over your lips for a moment, then reach for the hand-knitted blanket folded neatly on the backrest. You drape it over your lap, covering the worst of the mess between your legs. The fabric is soft and smells overwhelmingly like Trevor. You wonder if he falls asleep with it often. You wonder if it was a gift. You wonder if it brings him comfort when he’s sick. 

Trevor grunts and stands on wobbly legs, cock softening, your slick drying on his foreskin. He’s only wearing his faded black Love Fist shirt, hem barely skimming the tops of his thighs, hairy ass completely out, shameless and unbothered. No fucks given. One of the reasons you keep coming back to him.

He yanks open the fridge. The light spills out, cold and blue. He grabs a Pißwasser, pops the cap with his teeth, takes a long pull.

“You want one?” he asks over his shoulder, voice rough but casual.

You shake your head, throat too raw to speak.

He scratches his balls absently, eyes flicking to you, still limp on the couch, chest heaving, fresh cum visible on your crossed legs despite his half-assed cleanup. Something proud and possessive flashes across his face before realization hits. 

“Oh… right. Shit.”

He pads toward the trailer door. The floorboards creak under his weight; the screen door’s already hanging half off its hinges from the last time he kicked it in a fit of rage.

He yanks it open with one hand, letting the hot desert wind blast in, carrying dust and the overpowering smell of a literal dumpster fire from somewhere down the road. Standing framed in the doorway – shirt riding up, cock dangling, legs spread wide – he bellows at full volume, voice cracking the quiet like a whip.

“WAAAADE! WADE, YOU SNIVELING LITTLE SHIT! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

His roar echoes across the sandy lot outside, bouncing off rusted trailers and abandoned cars. Somewhere in the distance, a dog starts barking hysterically.

There’s a clatter, metal on metal, then frantic footsteps crunching gravel. You move slightly to see the kid with dreadlocks appear around the corner a second later, out of breath, eyes wide beneath his pierced eyebrows. He’s in his usual Fatal Incursion jersey and the baggy JNCO-style blue jeans you kind of want to buy for yourself, his hands are already twisting nervously in front of him like he’s expecting a beating.

“Hey there, Trevor. I was just... I was just out back checkin’ the hoses like you said earlier. Didn’t hear nothin’ till… did you forget to put on pants again? Happens to me, too, someti–”

“Shut your goddamn mouth and listen,” Trevor snaps, pointing one cum-sticky finger right at Wade’s face. The shirt rides up higher as he leans over the porch railing, flashing everything. “My girl needs Plan B. Go to the pharmacy in Sandy Shores, steal it if you have to, I don’t give a shit. Bring back the good stuff, not that cheap generic crap. And if you’re not back in twenty minutes I’m gonna cut your arm off, got it? MOVE!”

There’s a beat of confused silence outside, followed by Wade’s faint voice:

“Plan B… is that like a breakfast burrito or somethin’?”

“IT’S A GODDAMN PILL, YOU HUMAN CLOG!” Trevor screams, veins bulging in his neck. “FOR SEX! TO UN-DO THE FUCKING–JUST FUCKING GO!”

You hear a crash. Something falls. Possibly Wade.

Trevor turns back inside, mumbling under his breath, letting the door swing shut with a high-pitched squeak. He scratches the back of his neck, then walks back over to you, still sitting on the couch with the blanket, covering up as best you can while your heart’s trying to escape your chest.

“Handled,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt.

His expression softens the second he sees you, eyes going all gooey and worried in that weird Trevor way. It’s the look of a predator who’s decided you’re a little lamb he wants to protect, a little lamb he’ll cradle in his rough hands instead of tearing it apart.

For now.

‘Cause you know how it goes with men like him. The gentleness lasts only until hunger wins out, or boredom creeps in, or the moment you try to slip away. Then the lamb becomes prey again, and those same hands that were just keeping you safe turn into claws.

“Hey... gorgeous,” he murmurs, flopping down onto the couch beside you with a groan, body still radiating heat, his hand blindly reaching for yours. You let him take it. “I didn’t hurt you too much, did I? I got a little… enthusiastic at the end there.” 

No words come out of your mouth. Instead, your eyes wander to your bag sitting on the kitchen counter, wondering how many missed calls your phone’s gonna show you once you dare open it. You shudder at the thought, let your head fall back.

Trevor turns his head to look at you, brows creased, reaching out and clumsily brushing some sweat off your forehead, palm cradling your hot cheek.

“Hey. Tell me you’re good.”

You finally look at him – naked except for that stupid band shirt, covered in bodily fluids, eyes so full of love it’s ridiculous – and you can’t help it.

You smile.

You sigh. Deeply. 

But you smile. 

“Yeah, Trev… I’m good.”

His whole face lights up like you just handed him the moon on a string.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, lifting your arm to kiss the back of your hand, slow and deceptively sweet. “Now, how about some pancakes? Gotta be starvin’ after all that, huh.”

Food? The thought makes you want to puke. You’re sore as fuck and you’re already dreading the “I gotta go, but I’ll be back” talk, but that’s future you’s mess to clean up.

“Sounds good, Trev,” you mutter, exhaling hard.

“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes your thigh, hops up, and struts to the kitchenette, ass out, humming some butchered Love Fist tune, hips swaying like he’s on Fame or Shame. You watch him like a lion on safari, unsure if what you’re feeling is awe or terror. What’s clear is he’s too damn close.

A little more of his cum leaks out of you and you shoot a silent plea to whatever higher power might still be listening to your trifling ass: Spare me another pregnancy scare, and I’ll be on my best fucking behavior. Knitting. Church. The works.

Cue the good ol’ existential dread creeping in, right on schedule.

You’re not in the mood. Not today.

So you slump there, coming down slowly, while Trevor flips pancakes in a greasy pan with a naturalness that makes your head spin. Like it’s normal. Like any of this is normal. 

He glances back, quick, almost shy, and your stomach lurches. Half nausea, half disturbing flash of some doomed domestic hallucination. You in his shirt, him burning breakfast, little giggles tugging at his leg. Two heartbeats of pure delusion before Trevor curses as he steps on a used meth pipe, curb-stomping the blurry scene in your head.

You blink it away, huff through your nose, and let your head flop back against the cushion.

Mr. Raspberry Jam glares from the floor, crusty and judgmental as ever.

— — —

Thank you for reading & pls let me know your thots! ♡

Instead, whilst all of your companions were constantly obsessing over the cutest guys in school or every new, young, and hot celebrity, you had always been the one friend with the rather odd preferences. Ever since you were a young teen, whilst your pals were fawning over the star quarter back or infatuated by the most popular guy within your grade, you had been attracted to your math teacher. There was just something so alluring about his entire personality, from his sharp intelligence to the dark bags of exhaustion visibly situated beneath his eyes.

You often became obsessed with men who were much older than yourself, guys within their forties or fifties. Guys your age were much too cocky and arrogant, honestly believing that they were the God damn cat's meow. Whereas, men at least a decade or two older than yourself were both humble and modest, well aware of the reality that dating someone so young and beautiful, such as yourself, was a once in a life time experience. You wanted a partner who was capable of praising your entire existence.

In all honesty, you desired a man who was completely obsessed with you, well aware of just how lucky they truly were to have obtained you as their girlfriend. You wanted a man who was completely infatuated with you, maybe even to a deranged extent. Especially guys who weren't exactly good for you (men with obvious issues, truly believing that you could somehow change them. Reasonably, who wouldn't become completely obedient with a girlfriend such as yourself?).

And ever since the moment you had first been informed Trevor's existence, you had become completely fixated. He was dirty, depraved, and absolutely disgusting. He always appeared as if he hadn't slept within at least two days, often behaving rather erratic, energized, and almost insane. Exactly as you favored.

You were well aware of Trevor's obvious problems, from his involvement within crime, drug addiction, and mental issues, to his current living situation, manic personality, and general lack of cleanliness. To anyone else, such details would be regarded as rather revolting. Yet, within your mind, Trevor was comparable to that of a stray dog, a rather timid and savage creature you were determined to successfully train and condition, with the proper amount of both love and affection of course.

Yet, there was one major problem: He was your best friends uncle. Well, not exactly a blood relative, but certainly something adjacent.

You were around twelve years old when you first moved to Los Santos, once your parents had finally separated (at least, for the last time) and your mother had relocated you and your siblings from Sandy Shores to the big city. You were obviously nervous, moving to a brand new middle school, during the most formative years of your life. At the time, you were an extremely shy child, the kid with hand me down clothes and a visible lack of confidence. Yet, from the moment you met Tracey, it was as if your entire social life had suddenly been flipped upside down.

At the time, you and Tracey had been very different: She was confident, captivating, and genuinely outgoing. She was the exact type of person you would desire to be friends within during your school years. Whereas you had been quiet, nervous, and shy, the kid who sat alone during lunch and lacked even a singular friends. At the time, the two of you were polar opposites. However, there was one main thing that had drawn you together: The fact that you were both the new kids.

Upon your very first day of school, you had trudged into the main office, expecting to collect your schedule and be paired with a random kid, a child who had obviously been forced to show you around the building, entirely against their own will. Yet, as you entered the office, you were soon introduced to a young girl named Tracey De Santa, swiftly learning that she had just moved as well, and that this was her first day too. Ever since then, the two of you were practically sewn together by the hip.

The two of you shared every class, sat together at lunch, hung out after school, and even formed your own group of companions, whilst always remaining best friends of course. She was much better off than yourself, her family possessing a lot more money. Therefore, as a result, Tracey had introduced you to an entirely new world, an existence overwhelmed with brand new clothing, the most recent electronics, and popularity as well.

Even as the two of you grew older, graduating from high school and beginning your adult lives, you had continued to do everything together. The two of you were never apart, attending every party, all gatherings, and each junction together. You spent more time at her home compared to your own.

From the very first day in which Tracey had brought you to her house, the two of you both twelve and naive, her parents had welcomed you with open arms. Even though Tracey had appeared rather ignorant in regards to your home situation (seemingly unaware of your tattered clothing, every bruise, and your rather odd behaviors), both Michael and Amanda hadn't been as dismissive. "You can stay here as much and as long as you'd like, hun." Tracey's mother had informed you upon many different occasions. "Come on, kid. Let's go get you some new clothes. Think of it as an early birthday present." Her father had declared on a random day, when you had arrived within a pair of old pajama pants and a shirt that was much too small, despite the reality that your birthday was still months within the future. The De Santas had treated you like their second daughter from the moment you had first entered their home, and you would never been able to repay them for such an opportunity. Without their kindness, you certainly wouldn't be the woman you are today: Confident, assured, and properly taken care of.

After all of the years you had been best friends with Tracey, the various occasions in which you had spent almost months on end at their house, they had never once mentioned an Uncle T. Yet, you weren't exactly upset.

Trevor had appeared rather abruptly one evening, an unfamiliar man suddenly situated within their living room, a person no one else had appeared to even address, despite the fact that you had never once perceived his existence before. There was no introduction or explanation regarding his sudden arrival, as if he had been there all along. He was like some sort of random family pet, a dog that no one ever paid any attention to. You wondered if he actually had been there all along, looming just outside your peripheral vision, far enough to become successfully dismissed, and you were the one who had simply ignored his presence this entire time.

After a rather lengthy and intense yacht party, you and Tracey had returned to her home late within the evening. You were supporting nothing but the modesty provided by a rather skimpy bathing suit as you stumbled through the front door, visibly experiencing the physical effects of the large amount of alcohol you had previously consumed. The two of you were laughing and giggling like a pair of drunk baboons, cackling like witches as you trudged up the drive way. You were prepared to simply alter your outfit, reapply some make up, and properly adjust your appearance before venturing to yet another party.

However, upon entrance, you were instantly greeted by both Michael and Amanda, situated directly in front of the door, supporting a matching pair of disappointed expressions visibly plastered across their features.

Of course, the two had immediately started to both scold and reprimand you and Tracey in regards to your irresponsible decisions, exclaiming that they were extremely dissatisfied by your rather immature behaviors. Typically, most parents would fail to properly berate their child's best friend, due to the reality that the other kid hadn't belonged to them. However, after over a decade of you being apart of their lives (present during every vacation, featured in various family photos, and even possessing your own personal dresser within Tracey's bed room), you were no longer considered a simple friend of their daughter. Instead, now you were their daughter.

However, as Tracey began to argue and verbally disagree with her parents, you were much too focused upon the random stranger currently situated upon the couch. The man was silently observing you from across the room, arms folded upon his chest, peering towards you from over his shoulder, and a rather smug smirk stretched across his lips. He was currently surveying your general existence as if he was starving and you were his very next meal, a hint of primal hunger actively glazing his vision.

"Who was that? The dirty old man sitting on your couch?" You inquired, once the two of you had successfully ventured towards her bedroom.

Although both Michael and Amanda had been extremely adamant that the two of you were not to be traveling to another party and that you were to remain home for the rest of the evening. Instead, you and Tracey were now getting ready for the second party, prepared to simply escape through the usage of her bedroom window.

You were currently situated upon her bed, selected a new set of earrings and a proper outfit, whilst Tracey reapplied her make up within the mirror. She had responded to your prior question rather absently, as if it was just a simple inquiry, much too focused upon situating eye liner upon her water line to successfully pay attention. She should have known better than that.

"Thats my dad's best friend: Trevor." She had responded, lazily tossing the black pencil off to the side before obtaining a tube of mascara.

It was silent for a few moments, the sudden quietness causing Tracey to glance towards your reflection currently displayed within the vanity mirror. And as soon as your separate vision had connected, a rather devious smirk slowly quivered across your lips, a both smug and sly expression depicting that of a young child who had just got caught within the middle of a lie.

Tracey was your best friend, your other half since you had originally met within middle school. She was well aware of exactly who you were, from your favorite shoe brand, the type of music you listened to, even informed of all of your secrets, to your rather odd affinity towards men your father's age. Therefore, she was familiar with that stupid expression, the one of flustered affection and sly knowledge currently etched across your features.

Tracey suddenly disregarded the tube of mascara currently situated within her grasp, causing the small make up product to collide against the surface of the vanity before clattering onto the floor. She immediately spun within her seat, movements both swift and rapid, in order to properly face you. In fact, her motions had been so quick, if you had even blinked, you certainly would have missed it.

"No, no, no, no! Don't you dare, (Y/N)! Thats my uncle! You cant fuck him!" She had started to whine, depicting that of a young kid actively throwing a tantrum "He's so gross, thats so gross."

Tracey was now shaking her head within a rather childish display of disapproval, expression twisted into that of extreme disgust. A rather dramatic reaction that had only managed to even further amuse you, soft giggles now escaping your lips. Even though the two of you weren't technically siblings, you had always enjoyed teasing her as such.

"He's cute." You might say whilst visiting the mall, gesturing towards a random employee working within the food court, a statement in which Tracey would often respond with something along the lines of "Ew, stop. He's like fifty." One time, whilst you were driving to a party, you had accidentally missed a turn, simply due to the fact that you were much too focused upon a random construction worker digging a hole into the ground. "Bitch, I swear, you'd miss a punch to the face if there was an old man within a ten mile radius." Her rather extreme reactions never failed to further motivate your torment attempts.

"Look, all Im saying is he's kind hot. In a dirty and perverted kinda way." You had stated with a shrug of your shoulders, your laughter only intensifying when Tracey had responded with a dramatic groan of disgust.

A few weeks later, you had been occupying the afternoon alongside Tracey, just as you had always done since you were only twelve years old. The two of you had initially awoken that morning around eleven, prepared for the advancing day, and ultimately decided to visit the beach. You had spent hours simply basking beneath the sun, gaining a rather flawless tan, all whilst Tracey awaited any sort of male attention. She supported her most provocative bathing suit, accentuated her cleavage with the usage of some extra padding, and had even posed for some rather lewd photos right there upon the sand. However, after she had failed to secure the interest of even a singular man, the two of you had eventually returned home.

Together, you had decided to simply watch random movies whilst scrolling through social media. At some point, Tracey had received an unexpected call, her phone blaring to life with a rather piercing ringing audio. Of course, she had accepted the call, and after ten minutes of consistently both giggling and flirting over the phone, she had finally returned. Tracey explained that she was just gonna head out for a bit, in order to connect with some random dude.

Your best friend had offered for you to accompany her, requesting that you join her during the short trip to some random guy's house, attempting to properly persuade you by declaring that it would be "fun" and maybe "he has a friend for you too." Yet, you had ultimately declined, well aware of exactly what was about to occur. You had experienced it many times before: Tracey would meet up with the guy, they would disappear into either his car, house, or even a random building, all whilst you awkwardly waited outside for about half an hour. A long time ago, you had learned to just let her have her fun. And besides, the De Santa's never minded your presence. At that point, it was basically your house as well, you never felt awkward utilizing their home for your own relaxation.

Once Tracey had finally vanished, you had occupied your time with various different activities. You had painted your nails, participated within some online shopping, and lounged by the pool before eventually returning inside, finally deciding to order a pizza.

Whilst awaiting the food delivery, you were situated upon the couch. You had been observing some random reality television show, one where a group of about ten or twenty trashy celebrities are forced to live together for a few months. Sure, such entertainment was both stupid and rather foolish, but it was also extremely entertaining. Who wouldn't be consumed by multiple adult woman actually fighting over who gets to sleep with the guy who literally looks like a walking form of birth control?

However, as the show had just started to get good (with one of the guys initiating a fist fight between another man, simply over a bitch with shitty highlights), you suddenly perceived the audio of the front door slamming shut, the repetitive sound of heavy footsteps following soon after.

You had expected to be greeted by Michael, both frustrated and upset following some sort of undisclosed argument between him and his criminal coworkers. Sometimes, he would return within the late hours of the evening completely covered within mud, visibly agitated whilst he continuously muttered to himself. Upon other occasions, he would arrive soaking wet, as if he had just been swimming within the ocean, completely clothed. Yet, whenever someone would attempt to inquire about his irritability (along with his confusing appearance), he would fail to properly respond, typically just mumbling something along the lines of "Just a long day." Or "Stupid fucking FIB." Michael was prone to stomping through the front door whenever he returned home, so the audio wasn't very unusual.

However, what was unusual was the fact that as you peered over your shoulder, searching for the cause behind such the rather unexpected sound, you failed to perceive Michaels presence. Instead, you had soon discovered Trevor. In comparison, he did not appear mad or angry, actively muttering to himself like a lunatic (although he was covered within a layer of dirt). Rather, it was if he had just walked that way, not out of rage or fury, but simply as a result of his natural instincts. As he turned around the corner, successfully venturing into the living room, he seemed just as shocked by your presence as you had been by his own.

Trevor's movements suddenly faltered within the doorway, physically skidding to a stop as soon as he detected you. His brows were furrowed, confusion lacing his vision, and his lips were twisted into a thin line of skepticism. He was actively surveying your presence as if you were some kind of alien situated before him, obviously completely perplexed by your general existence. Just as the rather infamous Uncle T had never once been brought up within the past, Trevor was also completely unaware of your existence as well.

"Hellllooo?" He had finally inquired, a rather snarky tone of doubt currently lacing his words, like you were the stranger and he wasn't the one who had been absent for almost a decade.

In response to his rather demeaning tone, you raised a brow in return, peering towards him as if he was the improper individual. Realistically, who did he think he was? Why was Trevor so surprised regarding your presence? Since you were only twelve years old, you had been spending almost every day of the week at Tracey's house. The De Santa's had taken you school shopping every year, they purchased birthday presents for you, the family even prepared you your own plate during the holidays. But one day, after almost a decade, this strange man just randomly shows up, waltzing in like he owns the place, and now you're the misfit? What did he expect? That he could just randomly return after nine years and everything would remain the exact same? Lots of things had changed over the years, and in all honesty, you were the one who should be glaring at him as if he was the outlier, not the other way around. Suddenly, you felt defensive, territorial, and rather competitive, as if there was some sort of secret battle actively occurring. There could only be one family friend, and you were completely prepared to fight for such a title.

"Hiiii?" You had responded, utilizing an extremely similar, condescending tone.

After a moment of brief hesitation, he finally began to trudge further into the living room. Of course, Trevor wasn't scared of you. After all, you were just a meek young woman, with well maintained hair and expensive acrylic nails. You were obviously the type of person who fussed tirelessly over their appearance, and certainly not some buff and menacing enemy. Instead, he was rather weary, as if you were the families feisty dog and he wasn't exactly sure how to properly interact with.

In all honesty, Trevor felt as if he was currently staring at the younger, female version of himself through a mirror, gazing a decade into the past, when he had once been the designated family friend. Compared to the rest of the De Santa's, with their brand name clothing, uptight personalities, and rich ass fake personalities, you were obviously the much more interesting individual, the eccentric secondary character who had somehow become apart of the snobby family, similar to Kimmy Gibbler from Full House or Steve Urkel from Family Matters. Yet, your individuality wasn't due to your annoying personality or strange fashion sense, details most family friends are typically defined by. Instead, your originality was because you weren't just another rich asshole.

No, you reminded Trevor of himself. For a moment, a part of him felt jealous, unable to willingly share the role of the quirky family friend. However, a different section of his mind felt concerned, debating whether or not he should fight you or warn you.

Initially, Trevor failed to properly situated himself upon the couch beside you. Rather, he just leaned over the back edge of the sofa, in order to successfully observe you, without accidentally becoming vulnerable by relaxing into the cushions.

"Do I know you?" He asked.

Trevor had regarded you within the same manner as he would have interacted with a disoriented homeless person who had just accidentally wandered into a random house. He was speaking to you like you were some sort of lazy home invader, who was just simply observing some trashy reality television upon the large screen, instead of actively robbing the home.

You immediately shifted within Trevor's direction, a brow raised and mouth slightly agape, an expression of rather amazed confusion, as if such a question was completely foolish. For the last decade, you were the one who had spent every holiday with the De Santa's, the individual who was present during each celebration, the family had even thrown you your own graduation party after you had concluded high school. Christ, the God damn mail man knew your name, so who did Trevor think he was?

"Im Tracey's best friend, (Y/N)." You had responded, your tone extremely pragmatic "Do I know you?"

As a result, Trevor had scoffed in return, shaking his head as if you were now the stupid one.

"Im Trevor, Michaels best friend, sooo..." Conversing with Trevor was similar to interacting with a moody teenage girl, attempting to win some sort of invisible social hierarchy contest; the two of you were actually arguing over which one of you were the true family friend.

Although Trevor had acted as if he was completely unaware of your general existence, that certainly wasn't the case. Instead, him and Michael had shared a very similar interaction that initial evening, when you had first stumbled through the front door following the infamous yacht party. It was a conversation that had been comparable to the one in which you and Tracey had previously shared.

Once both Michael and Amanda had finally concluded the task of successfully yelling at the two young women (with Tracey arguing back whilst you simply gazed towards Trevor, as if you were completely hypnotized), and as soon as they had eventually wandered upstairs, disappearing into the depths of Tracey's bedroom, Trevor had immediately attempted to capture Michaels attention.

"Psst. Hey. Mikey. Come here." Trevor had whispered, gesturing for Michael to join him with a rapid wave of his arm.

He had waited until Amanda had successfully ventured into the kitchen before he whispered towards Michael, attempting to avoid accidentally capturing her attention within the process. Of course, Trevor was both deranged and rather idiotic at times, but he was smart enough to acknowledge the reality that sharing such a conversation in front of Amanda certainly wasn't the best idea.

In response to Trevor's rather dramatic whispering, Michael had visibly rolled his eyes, extremely familiar with his efforts. Sure, him and Trevor hadn't been in contact in almost a decade at that point, but he was still accustomed to the manner in which Trevor would behave whenever he had become even slightly interested within something, whether that be drugs, money, or, in this case, women.

"What?" He had suddenly snapped, releasing an intense sigh as he slowly shifted within Trevor's direction.

Typically, he would have instantly become both offended and irritated regarding Michael's rather rude tone, immediately relying upon anger in order to protect his own dignity. However, he was much too distracted by one, major thought to even consider such a drastic response. In fact, as Michael turned towards him, he failed to encounter any sign of rage or frustration. Instead, he swiftly discovered the rather smug and somewhat sly smirk currently plastered across Trevor's features, depicting that of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, all teeth and shifty vision.

"I didn't know you had another daughter. I know I joke about it a lot but did you actually get one of those prostitutes pregnant? I mean, Christ, Mikey, she looks nothing like you. How did you managed to keep this a secret for so long?" Trevor had started to ramble, somewhat serious but mainly just teasing. Just like himself, Michael had always been relatively easy to torment, and his rather irritable reactions never failed to successfully amuse Trevor.

In response to such a claim, his face instantly contorted into that of disgust, his brows furrowed, lips pursed, and nose scrunched as he rapidly shook his head. Sure, he hadn't necessarily said anything volatile, but Michael was well aware of exactly what he had ben imply. He had heard it many times before, in regards to a random drug addict upon the side of the street, to his own wife, no woman would ever be free from Trevor's depraved scrutiny.

"Would you shut up, man. Thats Tracey's friend, (Y/N)." Michael had responded, now whispering as well, attempting to avoid Amanda's wrath alongside Trevor.

The grin currently plastered across his features had only further expanded in response to Michaels confession, as if the previous boundaries he had been attempting to respect had suddenly crumbled. Trevor would never even consider messing with his best friend's daughter, that would be like becoming intimate with Tracey. Trevor was many things, but he certainly wasn't that type of guy. However, the other young woman wasn't his kid, she just some girl.

"I was about to say: She's much prettier than anything your genetics could even dream of achieving. Have you seen Jimmy? If a stink bug and a fat stripper fucked, he would be the result. Thats basically what happened anyway, right?" Trevor hummed, his current facade of relaxation almost sickeningly annoying.

Michael instantly guided a finger in front of Trevor's features, pointing at him within the same manner you would scold a naughty dog after it had pissed on the floor, chewed up the furniture, and completely wrecked the house, even though its owners were only absent for five minutes.

"Alright, alright. She might not be my real daughter but she mind as well be. So I don't appreciate you talking about her like that." Michael had stated, voice both firm and serious, as if he was somehow attempting to command Trevor.

Yet, his rather dramatic response had only further motivated Trevor, within the same manner a delinquent child enjoys frustrating their parents. In all honesty, it was hard to avoid becoming amused with the manner in which Michael was currently reprimanding him as if he was some sort of lousy teenager who had just failed their math exam.

"Whaaat? Come on, she's gorgeous, thats all Im saying." Trevor had shrugged, acting as if he was the mature individual within the entire situation and Michael was the one being dramatic.

With that, Michael had immediately shifted upon his heels, attempting to simply avoid Trevor, well aware of his obvious torment tactics. Trevor was similar to that of a school yard bully: If you simply ignored his teasing, without some form of entertainment or satisfying results, he would eventually become bored and move onto his next victim.

"Well keep that to yourself. She deserves better than a drug addict like you. She's a good kid." Michael had declared as he ventured towards the kitchen once more, unable to successfully leave without gaining the final word.

However, Trevor was just as petty, and his teasing had failed to finally conclude.

"Yeah, I bet she is." He had purred, dragging his tongue across the surface of his upper teeth, within the same manner someone way lick their lips when viewing a delicious Thanksgiving meal. Such a statement was practically dripping with suggestive innuendos.

Immediately, Michael shifted upon his heels once more, successfully rewarding Trevor with an extremely stern and serious glare, attempting to some how threaten him into submission with the usage of such an assertive gaze.

"I said: Enough." He practically barked.

You simply rolled your eyes, releasing a rather astonished scoff as you returned your attention towards the television screen situated in front of you. You had regarded Trevor as similar to a tyrannosaurus rex: Maybe if you remained completely motionless, silent, and even refrained from breathing, he would eventually just leave you alone. And it had worked, for a few seconds at least, before Trevor had finally continued, as if he was unable to remain quiet for longer than just a singular moment.

"Where is everyone?" He asked, hopping over the back edge of the couch in order to situate himself upon the available cushion beside you, no longer seeming to consider proximity as an issue.

As much as you pretended to remain completely unfazed, even somewhat disgusted (subtly shifting a few inches away whilst rewarding Trevor with a rather judgemental glare), something about his sudden vicinity had caused your heart to begin to race. With his body now located only a few inches beside your own, you could perceive the heat radiating from his form, instinctually consuming his rather addicting scent of dirt, motor oil, a rather sour hint you were unable to successfully decipher. Yet, you had managed to remain visibly calm, actively dismissing Trevor as if he was just any other person, behaving completely uninterested and even somewhat annoyed. Obviously, you would refrain from confessing just how much you were actually attracted to this dirty, disgusting, and somewhat menacing man. He was insane, who knows what he would do with such information.

"Tracey went out, Amanda had yoga, I don't know where the Hell Jimmy is, and your bestie is hanging out with his bestie: The big bad Solomon Richards." You explained.

You perceived the subtle huff of frustration that Trevor had suddenly released, his form further melting into the sofa, but not due to relaxation or comfort. No. Instead, more the result of both irritation and defiance, within the same manner in which a young child may refuse to exit the car during an immature tantrum. It was as if Trevor was actively attempting to make some sort of silent statement of protest.

"That old fuck is not his bestie." Trevor mumbled beneath his breath, voice laced with audible frustration, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself, attempting to somehow reassure himself.

You had rewarded Trevor with a rather criticizing side glare, brows furrowed and head slightly reared back, somewhat bewildered by such an odd statement. He was a grown ass man, obviously within his mid to late forties, and here he was, becoming jealous in regards to his best friend, another adult man. It was a rather shocking contradiction: A grown man acting like a teenage girl. In all honesty, the display reminded you of all the occasions in which your friends would argue over who knew each other better throughout the duration of your middle school years.

However, as if Trevor hadn't said anything at all, he quickly continued, completely dismissing his own rather odd reaction.

"So it's just you then?" He inquired, hesitating for a moment, as if to add some sort of dramatic pause between his two questions, the tense silence almost menacing "All alone?"

If Trevor had been any other man, whether that be the dude who sells you alcohol without properly checking your ID at the gas station, or the creepy guy who always offers you a ride home following each of your scheduled work shifts, you would have instantly become extremely terrified. Although the question itself was simple, his words were somewhat daunting. You felt like a fragile little bunny currently situated directly beside to a starving fox prepared to pounce.

However, that had not been the case. Instead, it was just Trevor. Of course, you still felt somewhat nervous and uncomfortable. But, in all honesty, the slight twinge of fear was somewhat addicting. The purr of his deep cadence and extremely suggestive words caused a thick lump to suddenly form within your throat.

"Yup, looks like it." You had finally responded; despite the fact that your mind was currently screaming at you to just run away, you had somehow managed to maintain your confidence, assuming your typically nonchalant and somewhat dismissive tone "Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

Similarly, if it had been anyone else situated beside him within that exact moment, if someone else had regarded him within such a judgemental manner, Trevor would have instantly became angry. Your previous question was laced with an audible tone of disrespect, evaluating him as if he had no right to be there without Michael (even though that was exactly what you were currently doing: Occupying the De Santa's home without Tracey's company). God forbid Michael, Wade, Ron, or literally anyone else had asked him such a petty question, Trevor would be completely enraged.

However, that had not been the case. It was not one of his random friends or a simple acquaintance currently located upon the couch alongside him. Instead, it was you.

Even though this was the first formal interaction the two of you had shared, Trevor had already acquired some sort of attraction towards you. He had always been a collector, and you were seemingly his newest souvenir; he was basically hypnotized by your natural magnetic pull, like a hound dog tracking the scent of its prey, you were absolutely irresistible.

Trevor was familiar with the specific type of women who usually entered his life: Rather trashy ladies with an awful personality and an even worse physical appearance. He was accustomed to woman with gaudy hair, tacky make up, and sleazy clothing. Most of the female's within his life had treated him like some sort of wild animal, regarding him within a rather inferior manner. Over the years, he had relieved his fair share of "God, you're such a pervert." Or "You're disgusting, Trevor." As if he was a flee infested stray dog. Typically, woman would practically abuse Trevor, using him for their own personal benefit before immediately kicking him to the curb.

Yet, throughout the two minutes the pair of you had been talking, he was well aware of the reality that you were certainly different.

In comparison to all of the other woman he had previous interacted with, you were rather poised. Sure, you were currently supporting a set of pointy acrylic nails, a home made crop top, and perfectly curled hair. Yet, such an appearance was supported within a much more composed manner compared to most others. You failed to seem trashy or vile. Instead, with your large jewelry and air brushed make up, you appeared confident, assured, and absolutely beautiful. In fact, you were possibly the most gorgeous person Trevor had ever once encountered.

Furthermore, you failed to regard him as if he was similar to that of a feral animal. You did not mock his behaviors, you failed to judge him as some sort of inferior, and you did not treat him like a dog, as most others typically did. Instead, you had interacted with Trevor within the same manner you would regard others: Like he was normal. You were not revolted by his rather eccentric and erratic behaviors, intimidated by his somewhat uncomfortable qualities. No. Rather, you had shared a normal conversation with him. Of course, you would provide him with the occasional sideways glance or execute some sort of teasing joke, but thats just how you interacted with everyone.

You were extremely easy to talk to, fun to share a conversation with, and you possessed a rather unique sense of humor that Trevor had enjoyed. You were witty, sharp, and rather amusing, all whilst actively participating within the interaction. You with the first person within a very long while that he felt actually inclined to chat with, and Trevor truly believed that he could occupy days upon end simply talking with you, without eventually becoming bored, angry, or upset. In all honesty, Trevor was so enamored by you, you could have literally spit in his face and referred to him as every offensive name possible, and he wouldn't have cared.

"That seems rather convenient." He stated, referencing the fact that you were completely alone, the smirk currently etched across his features audible within his voice.

You glanced towards Trevor through your peripheral vision, supporting a rather disgusted expression, as if he had just sneezed directly onto you. Such a claim was rather unnerving; if he had been anyone else, you would have been successfully terrified. Yet, within that exact moment, you were almost excited, your heart briefly fluttering within the confines of your chest as you considered exactly what he was implying.

"I don't know if convenient is the word I would use. Maybe unfortunate." You had instinctually retorted, the words tumbling from your lips before you could even properly contemplate such a response.

However, once again, instead of becoming angry or offended, Trevor released a dry cackle, a rather forced laugh. Obviously, such a chuckle was a facade, your words clearly effecting him more than he would like to admit. Yet, in all honesty, he was somewhat impressed by your quick remark, a witty and sharp response that appeared so natural, it was almost stunning. You were a funny girl, that much was obvious.

With Trevors rather dramatic response, one that you were not quite accustomed to (you were much more familiar with Michael's irritated "Don't test me, kid." Or Tracey's annoyed "Shut up." Whenever you had managed to execute such a snarky comment), it was now your turn to become somewhat tense within his presence. Such an unexpected reaction had caused you to become both stiff and nervous, unsure how to properly control the situation. Therefore, you attempted to successfully destroy the awkwardness with the usage of your own voice, further continuing the conversation.

"What are you here for anyway?" You asked.

In all honesty, such a question was intended as completely harmless, simply wondering about his random arrival and attempting to discover if there was anything that he needed. You were no longer trying to annoy or irritate him, simply just politely chatting. However, your inquiry had not been received that way. Instead, as Trevor peered within your direction, a flicker of anger suddenly glimmered across his features, the same hint of territorial jealousy that had appeared when you had confessed that you were the new family friend, basically his replacement.

"Im just here to visit. Ain't a man allowed to visit his best bud?" Trevor had responded, tone both short and snarky, revealing his true sense of defensiveness within that exact moment "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out with Tracey?"

Obviously, he was somewhat upset, visibly becoming frustrated as a result of your general presence. In all honesty, as much as you were both entertaining and fun to converse with, Trevor was extremely territorial, and he certainly did not appreciate someone randomly barging in upon a relationship he had spent decades carefully crafting amongst Michael and his family.

You were well aware of just how dangerous Trevor could be. Ever since his return, Michael had began to change. Sure, him and Amanda had always possessed their own problems, supporting a marriage that was constantly upon the brink of destruction. Yet, suddenly, the two were fighting, arguing, and bickering much more often. Additionally, Michael was retuning at odd hours, often covered within both filth and grime. You certainly were ignorant to the many conversations you had accidentally perceived between him and a random individual over the phone, often talking about money and agreements within an extremely shady whisper. And obviously, such alterations certainly weren't a simple coincidence.

Yet, for some unknown reason, you just couldn't help but smile within return. Not a smug or petty smirk. No, a genuine grin, an expression of soft affection. You obviously weren't as sensitive as Trevor, certainly not as easily offended or frustrated. Instead, you were capable of admitting defeat when the time was correct, and within that exact moment, maybe you had been much too harsh.

"I suppose thats what Im doing as well. And besides, Tracey's out with one of her little boyfriends." You had grumbled, emphasizing the final sentence with the usage of a rather high pitched, mocking tone.

You weren't upset with Trevor, somehow annoyed by his presence or the current conversation. Instead, you were rather irritated with your best friend. Of course, you loved Tracey, the two of you spent almost every day together, she knew you better than anyone else, possibly even yourself. Without her, you certainly wouldn't be the person you are today. She was basically your sister. But, that didn't mean you weren't upset with her. In fact, you were becoming somewhat frustrated by her recent behaviors.

Previously, the two of you were extremely loyal, often choosing each other over anyone else. There were many occasions in which one of you would completely ditch scheduled plans, simply in order to spend time together. Upon multiple different occurances, Tracey had skipped an important party or you had called out of work, entirely due to the fact that the other was upset. But lately, she had started to change, no longer prioritizing your friendship, and now emphasizing her obsession with a different man every week. You didn't mind simply hanging out at the De Santa's house while she was absent, it was basically your second home anyway. And you obviously supported each of her actions, no matter how immature and thoughtless they may have been. Yet, she was still your best friend, and you missed her company. In all honesty, you had started to feel rather lonely and somewhat insecure recently, as a result of her general absence lately.

"One of her little boyfriends?" Trevor had repeated, sounding much more concerned rather than annoyed, as you had been.

The simple mentioned of such a topic caused your eyes to roll. Sure, maybe you were a bit jealous, envious of the constant male attention she appeared to always receive. It would be nice to experience the thrill of a new relationship sometimes. However, you were much more upset, annoyed that Tracey had started to prioritize random guys over yourself. As she was seemingly moving up in the world, earning phone number after phone number everywhere the two of you went, you were still stuck becoming infatuated with every older man with a motorcycle you had gained even a slight view of. Maybe it was time to finally release your fantasy of sharing a dramatic and intense relationship with a guy your own fathers age, and simply settle for some lousy frat bro. However, that was an option you weren't mentally prepared to consider just yet. A girls allowed to dream, right?

"Yeah, uhm, how do I say this nicely. She's got many pursuers, if you will." You had exclaimed with a lazy wave of your hand.

You perceived the audio of Trevor grumbling from beside you, crossing his arms over his chest as he further settled into the couch. He possessed a rather odd dynamic amongst the De Santa family, not exactly a blood relative, but he was obviously something adjacent. When Trevor had first returned, after almost a decade of his absence, you certainly weren't ignorant to the manner in which both Tracey and Jimmy had reacted. The siblings behaved as if he was Santa Clause himself, all smiles and happiness. Maybe he still viewed the children as he had all those years ago: With Jimmy being just an eleven year old boy and Tracey as an innocent young teen. Obviously, it was hard to consider her as a grown woman with sexual relationships, especially due to the fact that last time Trevor had viewed her, she was only in middle school.

"I don't think Mikey would be happy to hear that." Trevor muttered, audibly irritated.

Of course, you understood his perspective, the fact that Tracey was still just a little girl within his mind, certainly not old enough to possess a boyfriend just yet, and multiple partners at that. However, she wasn't a kid anymore. She was a grown woman who was capable of making her own decisions, despite the fact that such choices were often both foolish and irresponsible. Michael already treated her as if she was just a stupid child, Tracey certainly didn't deserve such discourse from yet another individual, especially someone who wasn't even a real relative.

Therefore, you did exactly what all best friends do: You protected her.

"Thats why Mikey doesn't need to know. Understand?" You had declared.

Your voice was both firm and stern, much less of a request and more of a demand. Sure, Trevor was a grown man who wasn't required to follow the rules of those around him anymore. Just like Tracey, he was old enough to make his own decisions. However, you were also a grown woman as well, and you wouldn't reasonably allow him to further destroy your best friends social life by avidly letting Trevor snitch on her to her own father. You were all adults, there was no reason to go around tattling on each other anymore, right?

In all honesty, Trevor was rather surprised by your sudden assertiveness; only moments prior, the two of you had been teasing one another, actively attempting to annoy each other through the usage of rather childish and immature taunting tactics. But suddenly, you had become both firm and direct, speaking to him with extreme confidence, as if you were the least bit hesitant to defend those you cared for. As a result, Trevor was somewhat impressed by your boldness, a smug smirk inching across his lips as he shifted within your direction.

"I like you, (Y/N). You're fun." He had stated with a chuckle, obviously amused by your extremely confident personality "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, and this family is great and all, but..." He paused for a moment, as if he was contemplating his future claim "How did someone like you find yourself amongst people like them?"

Trevor wasn't required to properly confirm who he was referencing, it was obvious he was talking about the De Santa family. Yet, that didn't dismiss the reality that you became somewhat dazed by such a statement.

"I don't think I understand." You had declared with furrowed brows and subtle tilt of your head.

Trevor chewed upon the inside of his cheek for a moment, completely silent as he absently gazed towards you, as if he was mentally deciding the best way to go about further exploring such a topic. He obviously wasn't trying to accidentally offend or upset you. Christ, he had been within your position at one point, extremely loyal and completely determined to protect those he cared for the most, especially in regards to his best friend (the man who just so happened to be the father of your own best friend, and as much as Michael hated to admit it, him and Tracey weren't very different. She was his daughter after all).

"Okay, uhm, you know how you're like lively and feisty, in an entertaining sort of way?" Trevor had finally declared, cautiously examining such a sensitive subject, whilst also attempting to avoid accidentally being perceived as rude or disrespectful. It wasn't very hard to unintentionally offend someone whilst explaining their personality.

"Yeeeaaah?" You had responded, urging him to further continue with a nod of your head and raised brows of anticipation.

Trevor currently depicted that of a weary little puppy dog from beside you, vision hesitant as he struggled to properly maintain eye contact. It appeared as if he was much too nervous to successfully gaze upon you for very long, worried that you might accidentally become offended in response to what he was about to claim.

"Well, they" he motioned around the room, gesturing towards the various family photos currently displayed upon the surrounding walls "aren't exactly what I would describe as necessarily interesting."

For a grimy drug addict, Trevor certainly possessed a rather wordy vocabulary. Despite the fact that he appeared homeless, he spoke within a rather elegant manner. And maybe that had been the reason you had suddenly laughed, or possibly just due to the reality that you were extremely nervous. Whatever the reason may have been, you suddenly released a rather amused giggle, a response that caused Trevor to visibly relax, all of his previous worries (concerned he might have unintentionally offended you) immediately evaporating.

"And what would you describe them as?" You smiled, attempting to successfully dismiss the remaining giggles that were currently lodged within your throat, thoroughly entertained by the conversation you were currently sharing with the rather interesting man.

In response, a similar smile of delight had suddenly quivered upon Trevor's lips, not exactly laughing for the same reason as you had been, but simply because he enjoyed the evidence of your own amusement. He was so reassured by your visible glee that he couldn't help but release a few faint chuckles of his own. Reasonably, the entire conversation was rather comical.

"I don't know, maybe: Dull, normal, boring. These four are the epitome of your typical rich pricks who cant just seem to enjoy their wealth in peace and harmony." Trevor had declared.

As much as you loved Tracey, you could admit that Trevor wasn't exactly wrong. Ever since you were born, your family had always experienced money issues, struggling to properly possess a home, and battling to simply provide proper meals. Your mother worked three jobs and your father was almost always absent, typically visiting crack house after crack house (when he wasn't in jail that is), simply searching for his next high, rather that prioritizing his own family. To this day, you possessed multiple jobs and worked relentlessly to successfully support yourself. However, in comparison, all Tracey ever had to worry about was what she was gonna wear for tomorrows latest party.

Maybe it was insensitive and somewhat rude, but within your mind, Tracey had always had it pretty good. You never understood why both her and her family couldn't just accept such a reality, the fact that they weren't living upon the streets, and that was more than most others could say within Los Santos. If your family had possessed that much money, then almost all of your problems would have disappeared.

Almost uncontrollably, you suddenly released a bark of laughter.

"Fucking finally! Someone who actually gets it. I mean, I love Tracey and all, but theres so many more important issues than worrying about when your daddy is gonna buy you a new car. Christ, my dad only cares about money when he has enough to buy crack." You had begun to ramble, unavoidable giggles seeping through each of your words.

Trevor smirked towards you, a silent and almost accepting smile, as if he completely understood. Suddenly, within that exact moment, you didn't feel as distant towards him as you had only a few minutes prior.

"I think you and I might have been cut from the same cloth, kid." He stated, tone somewhat fond and almost soft.

As your laughter slowly dissolved, you silent observed his presence; you dragged your vision up the length of his form, surveying each detail, from his blood soaked boots, the ominous stains currently adorning his clothing, to his dwindling hair. All whilst your locks remained both thick and well maintained, make up completely flawless, and outfit perfectly curated. From an outsiders perspective, the two of you couldn't appear any more different. However, in all reality, Trevor had just embraced his routes, whilst you worked desperately to conceal such a history.

"I wouldn't exactly say that, but sure." You had finally responded, successfully dismissing the smile of amusement that had previous stretched across your lips.

It was silent once more, with the two of you simply staring at one another, the sound of the trashy reality show currently being broadcast upon the television screen acting as some sort of distant background audio. You were no longer actively observing the show. Instead, you had started to regard it has simple white noise, within the same manner someone might turn on a fan to help them properly fall asleep.

"Tell me, (Y/N). How did you and Tracey meet?" Trevor had eventually asked.

Suddenly, the two of you were no longer both laughing and smiling together, as you had been only moments prior. Now, you had returned to your previous, formal conversation, talking amongst each other within the same manner you would interact with every unfamiliar person you encountered: Both polite and proper. There were no jokes or teasing. Instead, the civil question asking had resumed.

"We met in middle school." You responded, shifting your attention away from him and towards your own lap, awkwardly avoiding his unfaltering eye contact.

Trevor had simply nodded, executing a hum of approval from beside you. It was quiet once more, silent as the two of you sat within a rather brief hesitancy. Yet, it wasn't long before he had continued, utilizing a rather shocking inquiry in order to successfully destroy the tranquility. Trevor failed to ask about your personal life or your own career. He did not rely upon the typical questions asked during an initial conversation between yourself and a new acquaintance, such as "Whats your favorite color?" Or "Do you have any pets?" Instead, he had supported a rather surprising inquiry, a pattern you had swiftly perceived: Trevor was often rather unpredictable. One moment, he could go from angry before suddenly laughing with amusement. Similarly, he could be sharing a rather formal conversation one second, and then be completely erratic the very next moment.

"Does anyone ever tell you that you're the pretty one?" He asked, almost casually, as if such a question was completely normal and certainly not the least bit odd.

You were well aware of the reality that you were pretty. You possessed agreeable features, a flawless form, and dedicated most of your days to maintaining your appearance. Your characteristics perfectly matched one another, from your nose size to your eye width, your features were flawlessly situated upon your face. Additionally, you never failed to style your hair each and every morning, you memorized various make up techniques, and always saved all of your tip money for new clothing. You were a gorgeous girl with an alluring style, including: A wide variety of both tank tops and crop tops, you favored jean shorts, adored fake nails, and owned a large collection of flashy jewelry. You supported a rather seductive appearance within the most nonchalant manner possible.

As a result, you were accustomed to the many ogling stares and compliments you received. Of course, you were humble, but you were also able to admit the reality that you were certainly situated above the typical beauty standard. You constantly labored over your appearance (despite your daily life), and you were proud to embrace it.

Even when you were a young kid, cursed with lousy parents and not much money, you had grown accustomed to the back handed compliments you would often receive. "You're such a pretty girl, honey. And you'd be even prettier with some good clothes." Your friends grandmother had declared when you were only nine, visiting her home for the very first time. "I would die for your hair. Be a kid for as long as possible, sweetheart, because the second you get old, you wont be as fortunate." A random woman had stated when you were only fifteen, obviously jealous of your youthful appearance. "You'll grow up to be a gorgeous woman." Your mother often repeated, visibly ashamed of the reality that she was unable to provide you with a proper life. Even poverty had been unable to effect your natural beauty.

Of course, Tracey possessed a similar reality, with beautiful features and a body to die for. However, the only difference between you and your best friend was the fact that she was rarely ever rejected. Tracey wasn't forced to possess a job of her own (due to the fact that she wasn't required to fight for her own survival upon a daily basis), she was repeatedly given money by her parents, and she was extremely well off. Whereas, you hadn't lived with your own family since the moment you graduated high school, immediately beginning to work over forty hours a week, whilst also preserving the proper amount of time to party alongside your best friend.

You were accustomed to guys rejecting you as soon as they discovered the reality that you weren't living the same life style as your best friend. Whilst you possessed a few different jobs, such as being a waitress along with bar tending, Tracey was free to do whatever she desired each and every day. You would never be able to provide these men with exactly what they desired: Money and unconditional attention. And in return, your confidence had received many harsh blows, especially when the guy you had been attracted to suddenly ditched you for your own best friend, once he had discovered the fact that you weren't just another spoiled rich kid he could leach off of.

"What?" You had asked, audibly surprised.

You shifted towards Trevor, an expression of confusion visibly plastered across your features, with brows furrowed and irises both narrow and skeptical. You weren't exactly sure if you should be feeling flattered or angry. On one hand, he had just complimented you. However, on the other, he had also just insulted your best friend.

"Don't get me wrong, Tracey is a gorgeous girl and all, but you're just..." Trevor briefly hesitated, mentally deciding how to properly word his next statement "Sweetheart, you're something else."

Within that exact moment, you were extremely conflicted.

Such a claim was rather alarming, especially when you were completely alone within the house, only provided with the company of a crazed drug addict. Trevor was a criminal and he had obviously become rather captivated by you.

Yet, that was also the most genuine and sincere compliment you had ever once received. Of course, you were accustomed to young men attempting to court you through the usage of foolish and rather lazy claims, such as "I had the wildest dream about a girl who looked just like you last night." Or "I just cant get over how good you look right now. I bet you'd look even better on top of me." All in a simple attempt to turn you into just another notch within their belt. However, Trevor seemed truly enamored, as if you were some sort of celestial being currently situated before him. He sounded completely mesmerized, executing a genuine compliment that lacked even the slightest hint of sexual suggestiveness.

You should have felt scared, nervous, or even awkward. However, as the audio of his rather breathy and entirely serious voice entered your ears, you were unable to successfully dismiss the small smile that suddenly quivered upon your lips. Trevor was the exact type of man you would typically become infatuated with, someone who was much older than yourself, rather disheveled, and somehow interesting. Yet, he was also rather charming, swiftly managing to become intrigued by you, subtly obsessed within the exact manner you had favored.

In an attempt to conceal your own appreciation (in order to avoid creating a situation you weren't completely prepared for), you had briefly glanced towards your lap. You had shielded your face behind the curtain of your own hair, secretly pursing your lips in an effort to completely erase the rather flattered smirk that was currently trembling across your features. You obviously did not desire to reveal your true emotions of both gratification and delight to the rather dingy man currently located beside you, aware of the reality that he would probably regard such satisfaction as some sort of invitation. And maybe it was, but that wasn't a reality you were entirely prepared to consider just yet.

"How did you and Michael meet?" You suddenly asked, attempting to divert the conversation towards a much less tense topic.

And your efforts appeared to succeed, due to the reality that Trevors current demeanor had instantly shifted. Only moments prior, he was behaving both charming and coy, attempting to somehow court you. However, suddenly, he was instantly silent, actively reminiscing upon some sort of distant memory. It was obviously rather simple to successfully distract him, a detail you would keep in mind for future usage.

"God, that was many years ago. In the nineties I think? We were both smuggling dru-" he quickly interrupted himself, his previous statement encountering an abrupt halt.

Trevor had swiftly stopped himself within the same exact manner a group of adults may avoid some sort of serious topic as soon as a child entered the room. He glanced towards you with wide vision, appearing completely shocked and even slightly terrified, as if he had just swore in the middle of church.

"Im not a kid anymore, Trevor. You can be honest." You laughed, extremely amused by his rather adorable actions.

As a result, he released a rather exacerbated huff, a gruff chuckle bubbling within his throat as he further relaxed into the sofa.

"In comparison to me, you're basically a baby, sweetheart." He teased. However, he had instantly become silent as soon as he perceived the rather piercing glare you had directed towards him, obviously not amused by such a joke. "Anyway..." He cleared his throat awkwardly "We were both young criminals, smuggling drugs, and the rest is history."

You nodded politely whilst releasing a thoughtful hum, obviously considering a small detail Trevor had previous dismissed, before you finally continued.

"Then what happened?" Yet, you had decided to further clarify such a question as soon as you perceived the blatantly confused expression currently plastered across his features "Like: Why haven't I met you before? Obviously, something must have happened."

Trevor became silent once more. However, this time, such quietness was not the result of mental recollection, visualizing the memories of his past within the confines of his own mind. Instead, such muteness was due to anger. A visible wave of frustration suddenly exploded throughout his system, causing his figure to both tense and stiffen, features tightening into a twisted expression of rage, and even his fists had curled into balls of fury. Trevor was completely unpredictable; one moment, he could go from both laid back and relaxed, avidly laughing and joking with you. Yet, the next, he would instantly transform. Similar to a light switch being flipped, Trevor would become emotionally distraught at the drop of a hat.

"Michael is what happened. That slimy shit screwed me over, like he never even gave a fuck about me. After everything that happened, everything we had been through, he acted like I was nothing to him. You're a nice girl, (Y/N), you watch out for these shifty De Santas." He declared, tone rather stern whilst he was practically fuming with anger, a twinge of venom lacing the manner in which he had spitefully worded the specified last name.

You shifted within your seat rather awkwardly, glancing towards Trevor within the same manner you would peer towards a twitching drug addict upon the side of the street: Both weary and rather nervous. The man was comparable to that of a ticking time bomb, prepared to detonate at any moment, as soon as he perceived something he obviously did not appreciate.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." You had murmured rather awkwardly, somewhat startled by the sudden shift within his demeanor. Only a few seconds ago, Trevor was rather delightful, actively teasing and flirting with you without any sign of reluctance. But now, there was practically steam billowing from his ears, practically depicting that of an old timey cartoon.

It was silent for a few moments, with Trevor's chest rapidly rising and falling with every harsh inhale he successfully consumed. The two of you sat within a rather tense quietness, with you nervously observing the television screen and Trevor acting as if everything was completely normal, before he had suddenly stood. He swiftly bound to his feet, his unexpected movements causing you to flinch. His motions were both erratic and sudden, almost within a narcotic manner. He was managing to increasingly terrify you with every second that had passed.

"Wanna go swimming, kid? Huh? Let's go swimming." He declared, his voice supporting a rather unnerving pitch, much less of a request and more of a demand.

As he extended his hand towards you, like some sort of formal invitation, you were unable to dismiss the sudden notion of hesitancy that was currently infiltrating your system. Maybe you had been much too naive, genuinely allowing yourself to become comfortable within the presence of the older man. He was obviously unpredictable, his unexpected mood swings comparable to that of a ticking clock. Sure, he had entertained you, and you had honestly enjoyed the rather pleasant conversation the two of you had been sharing only moments prior. Yet, this obviously wasn't the same man you had just been laughing along side. No. The individual before you was now erratic, unstable, and unpredictable. Who knows what he would have done if you had accepted his offer and actually grasped onto his palm, possibly attacked or harmed you whilst you remained captive within his clutches.

"Im sorry, I just ordered pizza." You had responded wearily, obviously attempting to reject his offer within the most reasonable manner possible.

Of course, such a reality wasn't false, you had just ordered food only a few minutes prior to his initial arrival. However, your response was much less due to the prospect of pizza, and more the result of your own terror. He probably would have gone crazy if you had outright stated that no, you didn't want to go swimming with him, that he was insane, and you worried he might drown you. So, you resorted to a much more civil and kind response, in an attempt to preserve your own safety.

"Fuck the pizza." He exclaimed, as if simply ignoring the arrival of the food you had literally paid for was completely reasonable. However, the very next moment, he was much less dismissive, actually providing you with a proper idea. His reactions were changing so swiftly, you could barely keep up "We'll leave the back door open, so we can hear when the doorbell rings. Just take a little swim with your good old Uncle T."

It wasn't an awful idea, probably the same exact thing you would have done under any other circumstance. If Tracey had been the one suggesting that the two of you go swimming, you would have done exactly that without even a slight sign of hesitation. But this wasn't Tracey. No. Instead, this was a grown ass man covered within both dirt and a variety of other mysterious substances, desperately attempting to persuade you into joining him within the pool for some unknown reason.

However, as soon as Trevor had perceived your rather uncertain expression, the reality that his begging hadn't been successful, he resorted to a much more immature option: Provoking you.

"Come on, don't be a baby." He purred with a rather menacing smirk.

It was as if he had known you for years, aware of exactly how to properly torment and tease you, in order to gain exactly what he wanted. You were never able to reject any sort of challenge when taunting was involved. And obviously, the very last thing you had desired was to allow this man regard you as some sort of child.

"Fine." You huffed within defeat, aggressively standing to your feet, obviously annoyed that his immature form of torment had somehow managed to successfully persuade you.

In response to your rather begrudging form of agreement, a wide smile instantly exploded across Trevor's features. Due to how excited he currently appeared, you were surprised he hadn't started to jump up and down with delight. Even as he began to traipse towards the backdoor, he would occasionally peek over his shoulder, in order to confirm that you were actually following him, just as you had promised.

Once you arrived before the pool, you wearily observed the gentle water situated below you, as if to accept the reality that you were most likely about to die at the hands of this insanely attractive criminal, within that exact pool. Yet, what was done was done, and for some odd reason, you were unable to simply reject his previous taunting.

"Do you have a bathing suit? Or should I grab one of Michael's?" You had inquired as you perceived Trevor beginning to haphazardly kick his boots off.

He remained silent, failing to successfully answer your previous question. However, your inquiry was soon resolved once Trevor had swiftly toed his socks off and disregarded his shirt, absently tossing them onto the ground alongside his forgotten boots, before he immediately dove into the depths of the pool.

He collided against the water with a large splash, the water spraying up around his point of entry as he glided a few feet beneath the surface. Once he finally emerged, a wide grin currently plastered across his features, you were unable to refrain from briefly consuming his displayed figure. His bare chest was now entirely revealed, a dusting of dark hairs adorning his skin, a variety of rather crude tattoos engraved across his form, and a thin layer of water glazed his soft flesh, depicting that of a warm and enticing glazed donut. The vision of his soaked pants clinging to his legs was rather upsetting, but also extremely alluring at the exact same time. With the wet fabric adhering to his form, you were able to decipher every curve, each bend, and even the faint outline of his crotch. For a rather disgusting drug addict, Trevor possessed an extremely agreeable figure, with lean muscles that caused your mouth to begin to salivate.

"Ain't ya gonna join me?" He smugly asked, a devious smirk etched upon his lips whilst a hint of anticipation glimmered across his irises.

"I don't..." You hesitated, unsure how to successfully reject his offer without accidentally offending him. The idea of submerging yourself within the confines of the pool (which had basically been transformed into some sort of scientific experiment, due to whatever bacteria managed to swiftly detach from his figure and explore the expanse of the water) was rather unpleasant "Ill just watch."

Trevors features suddenly screwed into an expression of annoyance, obviously upset in response to the alteration of your previous agreement. Just a minute ago, you had accepted his offer, but now, you had changed your decision? He had seriously allowed himself to get excited over nothing? No, he obviously wouldn't accept such an answer.

"No. You said you'd swim, so let's swim." He retorted, wading against the weight of the water until he was located directly in front of your feet, now leaning against the concrete barrier of the pool.

You were prepared to further protest, to exclaim that you better wait for the pizza delivery guy to arrive before possibly entering the confines of the water. However, Trevor had perceived the evidence of your continuous hesitation, and before you knew it, he had reached up and grasped onto your wrist. With his fingers properly wrapped around your arm, Trevor had swiftly yanked you into the pool, successfully tossing you into the water.

Maybe you should have been upset, immediately yelling at him in regards to his blatant disrespect. You had clearly declared your decision, and he had avidly dismissed such a choice. You should have both screamed and hollered at him before storming out of the pool and promptly disappearing inside, ignoring him for the remainder of the evening. If he had been anyone else, that was exactly what you would have done. Yet, something about the entire interaction was somewhat sweet, reminding you of the manner in which you and Tracey would frolic together within the pool as young girls: Splashing and playfully pushing one another. As you had grown older, there was not much interest within such rowdiness amongst your peers, most of them preferring to simply tan beneath the warmth of the sun. In all honesty, you had enjoyed Trevor's impishness, it was both lighthearted and fun, a childish experience you had deeply missed.

As you breached the surface of the water, you couldn't help but laugh, both amused and delighted by his unexpectedly playful actions. And Trevor had returned the same sentiment, rewarding you with a goofy grin of his own. The sight of you avidly smiling and giggling had caused an intense warmth to suddenly engulf his chest.

"You're such a prick, Trevor." You chuckled, rewarding him with a soft and rather flirtatious slap against his exposed chest.

However, he failed to respond with some sort of further remark or a teasing statement. He did not continue to play or frolic with you, splashing you with water or dunking you beneath the surface. Instead, Trevor had remained completely silent, staring towards you as if he was completely hypnotized. The intense gaze was rather stressful, his unfaltering vision causing you to become slightly nervous and insecure. Had be perceived something he didn't enjoy? Would the attention you gained from the one man who met each of your desires soon disappear, simply because he didn't like the way your hair appeared when it was wet? His gaze was both heavy and rather intimidating.

Yet, all of your previous worries and concerns were soon dismissed as he leaned forward. You were hesitant for a moment, fearing he might somehow offend or insult you, possibly even attack you as you had previous assumed. However, as your lips finally connected, you had failed to successfully object. Instead, you basically melted into the embrace.

As Trevor situated his palms upon your hips and whilst you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, further pushing your chests together, the kiss had failed to even momentarily falter. His mouth collided against your own within the most addicting manner, consuming your lips as if he was a dying man and you were his only cure. Your heart had began to flutter within the confines of your chest; after all these years of constantly dreaming about an older man providing you with the pleasure you had always fantasized of, it was finally happening.

The kiss had only further deepened, with small whimpers escaping the confines of your mouth and his erection continuously stiffening, Trevor guided you backwards. With his palms situated upon your hips, he successfully pinned you between his own form and the barrier of the pool. His tongue dipped passed the seal of your lips as he pressed his concealed erection against your groin, rewarding you with a gravelly groan of his own upon impact. Your fingers traveled up the expanse of his neck, dancing across his flesh until you had successfully laced the thin strands around your digits. With each gentle thrust he executed, you would reward him with a firm tug, basically enthralled by each desperate moan and depraved groan he would release in response to every slight yank.

Completely consumed by the intense passion of the entire situation, Trevor wedged his palm between your compressed figures, his hand immediately delving into the depths of your bathing suit bottoms, desperately searching for your aching clit. Once again, you had failed to properly object. Instead, you had willingly allowed him to explore your slick folds, a deep groan bubbling within his throat as soon as he discovered just how aroused you truly were. Sure, Trevor had possessed many lovers within the past, but none that were obviously as receptive compared to yourself. You genuinely wanted him, he wasn't just some lousy fuck you discovered as some sort of last resort. And in return, he yearned for you almost ten times more.

With his thick fingers, Trevor rubbed lazy circles against your clit, one of his digits occasionally penetrating your throbbing entrance. All whilst he continued to thrust his aching erection against your figure, searching for any form of friction himself. You arched into his touch, a jolt of pleasure instantly exploding throughout your system upon impact as you began to grind against his palm. Much too overwhelmed to even consider the task of both kissing him and chasing your own pleasure at the same exact time, you had swiftly detached your mouth from his own, promptly burry your features into the junction of his neck, your moans now muffled against his warm skin.

With the new found position, Trevor was now allowed to whisper rather dirty and lewd comments directly into your ear. "Yeaaah, thats it, sugar. Just like that. Let your Uncle T make you happy." He would murmur in response to each moan you released. "Say my name, I wanna hear you say my name when I please you." He whispered upon every occasion in which you further ground against his fingers. His gravely voice was only further assisting your extreme satisfaction. You desired nothing more than to perceive the endless mewls and random mumbling he declared when you soon returned the favor, within that exact same gruff tone.

As you neared your rapidly advancing conclusion, you suddenly bit down upon Trevor's shoulder, as if you were attempting to somehow ground yourself, causing him to release a grunt of both pleasure and pain in response. You worried you might have been dreaming, that if you hadn't confirmed that everything was entirely real at that exact second, you might awake at any moment. And with his flesh now situated between your teeth, skin warm and his grunt thick with lust, you were certain that you obviously weren't asleep.

Trevor certainly wasn't ignorant regarding the reality that you were close, due to the manner in which your repetitive thrusts became increasingly lazy, your moans suddenly much more frequent, and your form now trembling within his grasp, legs threatening to give out at any moment. All whilst his fingers remained completely unfaltering against your throbbing clit. The sensation was rather overwhelming, but also extremely satisfying within the most addicting manner possible. God, if you could stay within that moment forever, with his hand down your pants and his figure pressed firm against your own, you would have lived the rest of your days a very happy woman.

"Cum for me, you dirty girl. Cum on your Uncle T's fingers." He growled, utilizing the rather weird, self claimed nickname he seemed so fond of, the odd title you had decided to simply ignore, for your own sake.

The entire situation was disturbing, perverted, and completely fucked up, but for some unknown reason, it was the most satisfied you had ever once been; his gruff tone pushed you directly over the edge, demanding that you finish upon his fingers as if it was the air he required to breath. Your orgasm crashed down upon you like a tsunami, an intense moan exploding from your lips as you trembled within his grasp. All whilst Trevor failed to even briefly stop, continuing to stimulate you throughout the duration of each throb of pleasure, thumbing your clit until you had eventually collapsed within his arms, only capable of repeatedly whimpering his name like some sort of lost puppy.

As if he was searching for some place to reasonably reside his digits, Trevor suddenly pushed his fingers into your tight entrance. You immediately jolted within his arms, a surprised gasp escaped your lips as your walls started to flutter around the width of his thick digits. The sensation of your tight core currently wrapped around his fingers (evidence of just how satisfying it would be when he soon buried his cock inside of you instead), caused Trevor to release a rather deep and sensual groan, the same exact moan he might have executed upon the initial bite of a delicious pastry.

"God, you're so fucking tight, sweetheart. I cant wait to worship this pussy." He whispered against the shell of your ear, certainly not ignorant to the manner in which your body had naturally reacted to his rather lewd comment, causing your walls to suddenly flutter around his fingers once more.

However, the two of you were soon interrupted by the audio of Michael's booming voice paired with the sound of Tracey's rather dramatic gasp.

"T!" Michael hollered, causing both of your attention to instantly jolt towards the direction of his loud voice "What the fuck are you doing?!"

As you released a shocked gasp, obviously rather surprised and somewhat frightened, Trevor had simply chuckled, a deep and gravely laugh that vibrated against your flesh, causing your entrance to flutter once more. God, that mans voice was absolutely addicting.

"Shit." He muttered, sounding rather amused.

"Ew ew eeewww! I told you not to fuck my Uncle, (Y/N)!" Tracey shrieked.

“It’s probably not even human,” he mumbled around a steaming spoonful of what barely qualified as stew, pausing only to squint thoughtfully at your horrified face. “Unless… that gas station job…” Then he just shrugged, smiled to himself, and downed the rest of the bowl like a shot of tequila.

Since then, his penchant for biting during sex has had you, like, mildly concerned.

But hey, could be worse.

You could be sipping overpriced wine in your beige apartment, with your beige furniture and your beige friends, talking about beige things. Like how rude Kathy from pilates class was for not holding the gym door open that one time two months ago, or how outrageous it is that people with tattoos are allowed to be doctors. Tattoos. On their arms.

Oh, the humanity! 

Yeah. No. You’d rather kill yourself. 

Or snort coke and let Trevor Philips bend you over the rickety armrest of his ratty couch and rock your shit like nobody else ever has.

Sure, it might lead to the same end result, but at least this option comes with earth-shattering orgasms and a false sense of being adored. You’re well-aware it’s more of an unhealthy obsession type situation on his part, but as long as he doesn’t start mailing you body parts to prove his undying love, you’re not complaining.

He did threaten to skin that poor kid with the dreadlocks – the one who’s always hanging around, talking about the Insane Clown Posse or his cousin Floyd with that narcissistic bitch of a fiancée who thinks she’s a big shot ‘cause she has a career – just for saying your name in a tone that was “too familiar,” but overall? Trevor’s not as bad as people make him out to be.

He always makes sure you come first. 

Never denies you a single fantasy, no matter how fucked-up.

Even agreed to take a full STD panel after your drunken first hookup, the one where he talked you into doing it raw with his hand down your pants and his lips on your neck. Like you could’ve said no. Like your brain wasn’t mush and your body putty in his rough hands.

He’s been good about pulling out since. Which is honestly impressive, considering he has the impulse control of a rabid raccoon with a meth habit. And it’s a very good thing, too, ‘cause you’re comically bad at remembering your birth control.

Isn’t coke supposed to make you more alert, energized, productive, even? That’s what they say, at least. But for you? It just makes you feral and so violently horny you want to claw your own face off if Trevor doesn’t split you open hard enough, deep enough, or often enough to leave you so sore and bruised you can’t tell which way is up anymore.

The white powder flooding your bloodstream – courtesy of T. P. Industries, Incorporated, or whatever the fuck he’s calling it this week – turns every single one of your nerves electric, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose through an endless slurry of obscene images and warped sounds. You get flashbacks sometimes. Loud. Intrusive. Snippets of things you’ve done, things you ache to do, and things you wish you could scrape out of your memory entirely. 

Combine that with a beer or three and the way Trevor drives you absolutely insane with that musky, sweat-soaked smell, his deep voice, his broad shoulders, his dumb fucking tattoos, and that stupid accent you find so irresistible for no goddamn reason… and you’re already done for before he even touches you.

Things get messy when you’re flying like that.

He wants to lock the door and ramble about cutting you open and climbing inside your chest cavity to “always be with you?” – Sounds good.

He wants to press a knife against your thigh while he fucks you and draw a little blood, you know, as a treat? – Sure. Why not.

He wants to get you high, tie you into a human pretzel, and take a few very tasteful pics he’ll “definitely delete, baby, don’t you worry”? – Yeah. Whatever you say, T.

Your fears don’t just dull, they evaporate. It’s crazy. Any sense of self-preservation dies the second Trevor’s calloused fingertips graze your throat, leaving behind nothing but ugly, animalistic need driving you to commit sins that would make the devil blush.

Case in point–

Trevor’s got you pinned. One rough hand locked around your neck, grinding your face into the scratchy fabric of the couch cushion while he ruts into you with so much raw, manic force your legs kick out involuntarily, pain shooting up your spine with every thrust. 

You’re not sure if you’re moaning or choking, pawing frantically at the cushions, so close to coming again it hurts. Tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks and mingling with sweat and spit. Your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it wants out.

And for one sharp, fucked-up second, you think this is it. You’re gonna die. Right here. Face-down, bare-assed with a lunatic’s cock shoved inside you. He’s gonna snap your neck, finish, and then–

Your brain stutters.

–and then what?

Dump your body in the Alamo Sea? Prop you up like a doll and keep you around for a bit? Turn you into stew and psychologically scar the next chick he lures into his den of depravity?

Either way, he’d do funny things to your corpse for sure. 

The thought should make you recoil. Instead, it makes you giggle. Breathless and hoarse, as your surroundings blur into a symphony of chaos pressing in on you, creating the perfect storm.

The suffocating desert heat creeping in through cracked windows. The busted radio on the kitchen counter blasting aggressive punk rock. The weight of Trevor slamming into your ass. His grip crushing your neck, cutting off air, making your vision shimmer at the edges. Your pussy dripping wet, swollen and sore, stretched raw from hours of relentless fucking.

And then there’s Trevor. Ranting, again, about God knows what. You’re only half-listening, barely registering the words anymore, your last two working brain cells too focused on how his fat cock is splitting you open, again and again and again. 

“…can’t fuckin’ hustle a hustler, sugar. Fuck, I love you. Ask the–shit–ask the last guy that tried…”

“Wha–”

“...wah wah wah, I hate myself. Wah wah wah, therapy. Well, I hate you, too, Mikey! Does that mean I don’t have to go to therapy? Asshole…”

“Huh?”

“…could fly planes, so he signed up for the Air Force to–to fly all day long and an evil witch in charge of psych evals told him he was unstable…”

“Who–”

“...pork chop!”

“D’you jus’ call me por–pork chop?”

“...was never about the money. Ever. I don’t–I can’t live without…”

“Trevor–”

You’re about to tell him to shut the fuck up, tell him you don’t understand a single word coming out of his mouth and it’s starting to freak you the fuck out, but then he shifts, angles his hips just right, and your mind goes blank.

It’s like he knows how to press those exact buttons to shut down your whole system, every time. You’re powerless. Mind, body, and soul. Completely at the mercy of this grimy man’s dick, or his hands, or his tongue, or whatever makeshift sex toy he’s decided to ruin your holes with that day. 

It’s kind of like a magician’s hat. Only the magician is a maniac with a hair trigger, and instead of a bunny or a bouquet, he pulls out duct tape and an empty beer bottle, and tells you to “hold still.”

The showmanship’s there, though. All the movement. The flair for spectacle. You’re also pretty sure you heard him yell “tada!” the first time he made the bottle disappear inside you.

Nice trick. 

Terrifying trick.

You’re just starting to come back to yourself very slowly, piecing together the untethered parts of your brain, when Trevor’s voice crashes through the haze like a gunshot, yanking you back violently.

“Ffffuck–god damn, your pussy’s insane,” he groans, knuckles white on your hips as he slams into you. “Anyway–anyway, I tell him, I say, you gotta–you gotta quit that shit, man. Fucker can’t run for–for shit, wheezing like one of those overbred dogs with their creepy flat faces. I mean, come on. Look at me! A little speed, a little dope, a–a little gasoline, baby. Best shape of my–of my fucking life,” he pants, voice cracking on the edge of a manic laugh as sweat drips from his brow in fat drops, splattering hot onto your arched back.

“Oh, I could still take him. I could. Fat snake sitting by the pool all day, drinking his disgusting kale juice like the–like the pretentious bitch he is. Kale. Like that’s gonna make Amanda wanna suck his–ohhh, wow. Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, that’s it, sugar. You gonna come again? Hang on, I got you. I got you, baby.”

Without slowing down, Trevor snakes his left hand between your wet thighs and the couch, pressing the rough pads of his fingers to your throbbing clit. His thrusts stay steady, vicious, and he rubs you just hard enough to hurt, right there on that razor’s edge between agony and bliss.

“Can’t get enough, eh?” he pants, eyes rolling back into his skull. “One of–one of these days I’m–I’m gonna have a heart attack and you’re gonna have to ride my priapism ‘til you’re satisfied, you insatiable little minx.”

It takes maybe a dozen more punishing thrusts – each one slamming balls-deep into that swollen, spongy spot that turns your brain to static – before your cunt clamps down like a steel trap. Your walls seize around Trevor’s cock so hard it feels like you’re trying to crush him, milk him dry, strangle the last drop of sanity out of him.

His right thumb is hooked deep in your mouth, yanking your jaw wide open so spit pools and drips in thick strings onto the cushion below your face. He fucks you straight through the peak with short, brutal snaps of his hips that keep his cock grinding against that exact spot, forcing every last spasm out of you while your tongue curls helplessly around his thumb, tasting salt and the metallic bite of him.

You moan, loud and involuntary, as he bottoms out with a pained groan and holds there, hips fused to your ass, cock throbbing ferociously inside you. Every thick pulse of your orgasm massages him in rhythmic waves, dragging him dangerously close to the edge of explosion.

“Oh shit… shitshitshit–” he hisses through clenched teeth, whole body locked rigid with the effort of not blowing his load right then and there.

Your legs are gone. Completely fucking useless. 

Shaking uncontrollably, knees buckling, thighs slick and gleaming with your own gushing release, the wet shine catching the sunlight pouring into the trailer like oil. Every nerve in your body is screaming bloody murder as your clit throbs in time with your frantic heartbeat.

Fifth time in two hours and your body is still greedy for more.

“Good fucking girl,” Trevor growls, that crooked grin splitting his face wide as he feels your pussy flutter and flood around him, soaking his balls. “Y’know, sweetheart, I’ve met a nympho or two in my day. Lonely sailors, mostly. Hobos, jackin’ you off for a ride. Strung-out hookers who’d let you piss on their tits for an extra twenty. But none of ‘em–none–were this crazy for my cock.”

He yanks his thumb free with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting it to your swollen lips for a heartbeat before snapping. Then he drags the slick digit down your cheek, through the mess of bodily fluids and smudged mascara, smearing it across your mouth.

“If that ain’t true love,” he rasps, eyes wild and glassy, locked on yours so intensely you shiver, “I don’t know what the fuck is.”

And you see, that would be kind of sweet – if there wasn’t a chainsaw lying on the floor ten feet away from you, the blade still clearly flecked with drying crimson, the handle wrapped in electrical tape gone dark and sticky with god-knows-what.

You’ve clearly got a death wish, ‘cause you’re seriously about to open your big mouth and ask what the hell that’s about, when the universe hands you an ex machina in the form of Trevor’s hand cracking down right on your clit. The sting explodes through you like lightning; your hips jerk violently, a broken whimper ripping out of your throat.

“Owww–fuck!”

Chainsaw? Blood? Possible brain matter? All the other red flags screaming at you? 

Forgotten. 

“Aww, that one got ya good, eh? Shhh, shhh, shhh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. We’re not done playing,” Trevor purrs, voice all fake-soothing and dripping with sadistic glee as he immediately pinches your raw, puffy little nub between two rough fingers and twists. “Yeah, that’s it. Hurts so good, don’t it?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth sinking into your bottom lip so hard you taste copper, but the pain is already melting into that sick, addictive heat again. Your hips roll up on their own, chasing his fingers, chasing his cock, chasing whatever the fuck he’ll give you next.

Trevor laughs, amused by your predilection for receiving pain, and grinds his hips in slow, controlled circles, cock stirring deep inside your spasming cunt, dragging every thick ridge along your oversensitive walls while his fingers keep torturing your clit with just enough pressure to keep you on your toes.

The wet squelch of him moving inside you is obscenely loud in the trailer’s stale air, especially now that the radio has decided not to provide background noise for your depraved performance anymore.

Then, without warning, Trevor pulls out. The sudden emptiness is shocking, leaving your pussy gaping and clenching desperately on nothing. A thick rope of your mixed arousal stretches between his glistening head and your swollen entrance, the sight coaxing a muttered “beautiful…” out of him. His cock hangs heavy between his legs; shiny with you, veins dark and pulsing, head flushed angry-red and still leaking.

“No, no, no, please,” you whine, biting your lip unconsciously, “Trev… don’t–don’t stop…”

Real fear claws up your throat. Fear that this is it. That he’s done and you have to go home to your Kraft mac and cheese and your unfolded laundry and your reflection in the microwave door that looks more tired every day. Back to staring at the ceiling while the comedown whispers that you have no one to blame but yourself. Your life suddenly feels like a prison now that you’ve tasted what it’s like to be wanted this badly, even if it’s by a man who’ll snap your neck if you look at him wrong.

He spills on your back and you have to go home, high and unsatisfied. 

The thought makes you want to sob.

But thankfully Trevor doesn’t leave you hanging for too long. His big hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he yanks you back toward him in one rough jerk.

“Mmm, my baby’s really flyin’, huh? C’mon, sugar. Show me that pretty pussy and that tight backdoor of yours. C’mon, open up for T.”

Your legs are jelly but you obey instantly, moving your sore body back a little, forearms planted beneath your face, ass high and spread for him. The position leaves you completely exposed, dripping down your thighs.

Trevor drops to his knees behind you with a heavy thud that shakes the couch.

“Jesus H. Christ on a cracker…” he breathes, spreading your cheeks wide with both thumbs. “Look at this sloppy fucking masterpiece. Pussy all puffy and wet, cum button poking out begging for my attention, and that little pucker winking at me so nicely. Fucking gorgeous.”

He leans in and drags his tongue in one long, filthy stripe from your clit all the way up, swirling through your soaked folds, over your perineum, then circling your asshole before pushing the tip inside. The wet heat of his tongue pressing into you makes you jolt and moan, Trevor’s hands gripping you harder. 

“Don’t move.” He nuzzles between your cheeks, licking up again, dragging his warm tongue through your folds to slurp up as much of your juices as possible. “Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he mumbles, face soaked. “Best fucking cum I’ve ever tasted.”

You moan at the delicious combination of his rough treatment and his own brand of compliments. Anyone else said half the shit he says to you, you’d kick them in their balls and/or tits, but for Trevor? It just works. Probably ‘cause you can tell he genuinely means every word he utters.

If the man says your cum’s the best he’s ever guzzled, then that’s how it is. 

And to be honest? You’d take this over “we have to talk” or “you’re too much” or “I think you have a problem” any day.

“Mmmph–fuck, you smell like the sea,” Trevor groans, voice muffled against your skin, cock leaking precum onto the floor. “I could eat this ass for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Mmm, how ‘bout–how ‘bout you stay here and let me eat you out all day and night, huh? Fuck, I could come just from you riding my face. I’d–I’d feed you, I’d fuck you, I’d snort lines off your clit and lick the residue right back off. We’d get so high we forget there’s a world outside. Just you and me, baby. Forever.”

“Trevor…” you start, but the thought dissolves on your tongue. You forget how to speak. You forget how to think. All you can do is moan pathetically and chase your next orgasm. 

And Trevor’s having the time of his life.

He spits a thick glob right on your hole, watches it drip, then dives back in, lapping at your ass with shameless, noisy enthusiasm. Two thick fingers sink into your cunt without warning, curling hard against your G-spot in a rhythm that matches his tongue – in, out, in, out – until your whole lower body is jerking like you’ve been shocked.

He switches again: tongue plunging into your ass while his fingers pump your pussy, then lips sealing around your clit for one hard, wet suck that makes your hips buck off the couch. He licks through your folds in long, greedy drags, slurping up every drop like he’s dying of thirst, then returns to your hole, tongue-fucking you open while his thumb grinds messy circles over your clit.

You’re shaking so hard the couch creaks under you. Your moans are pathetic, hips rocking back against his face on pure instinct, chasing more, more, more. You’re babbling now, barely coherent:

“Trev… oh my fucking god… fuck me… nghh, need your cock… need it so bad–”

But he doesn’t hear you.

Or he does and just doesn’t care.

Too high, too drunk on the taste of you, too lost in his own pleasure or whatever the fuck is bouncin’ around in that strange brain of his. And sure enough, mid-lick, he starts rambling again. 

Or more like, full-on spiraling. 

“You know what I love about you, sugar? You get–you get lit with me, you suck your own ass off my dick, you–you want me to choke you out and fuck you, you’re down to get sloppy. That’s fucking honesty right there. No Trevor, you’re disgusting, Trevor, not so rough, Trevor, Jesus, your beard’s scratchin’ me… prissy little bitch… always hoggin’ the blanket…”

His face is buried so deep between your cheeks you can feel his nose pressing against your tailbone, chin soaked and dragging with every sloppy drag of his tongue. He’s high as hell and the words come out slurred, half-mumbled into your skin, breaking apart between licks and groans.

“…thought we were solid, y’know? Like… brothers. Late nights, sharin’ smokes, sharin’… whatever. That used to mean something…” 

He spits on your pussy and the glob clings for a second, then breaks, trailing sticky threads that cool against your overheated skin. He spreads you open with both thumbs, rough pads digging into the soft flesh of your lips, yanking them wide until the stretch burns sweet and sharp. Your clit throbs visibly under the exposure, swollen and glistening, the tiny hood pulled back so every nerve is laid bare. Spurred on by your moans he spreads you open wider and wider, until you’re sure one more slow tug would tip you over the edge without anything else.

“Used to stay up with me when I was too wired to sleep. Then–poof. Gone. Nine years. Nine fucking years. Turns out he’s not a man. Turns out I’m not… I’m not… aargh! The lies!” He sucks on your slippery labia a little too roughly, tongue sliding into your pussy with vigor. “Cool now, though,” he pants between licks. “Yeah. We’re cool. Real cool. Just… hurts sometimes. Y’know? Like a bad tooth you can’t stop pokin’…”

You moan, digging your nails into your palms, too far gone to care about his homoerotic obsession with this Mikey character, or any of Trevor’s incoherent ranting. The world narrows down to how it feels as he drags his tongue through your folds in one long stripe – slow enough to make you whimper desperately – then circles your clit once before plunging back into your ass, tongue fucking deep and sloppy while his thumbs stay locked, holding you open.

“You think he could handle this? Mmph–no fucking way. He’d cry. His whole fat back would give out. He’d fuckin’ pull a hamstring trying to get in this deep. Fucking yoga. Fuck, baby, you’re soakin’ me… love that… love how you just drip… He’d wipe his mouth after… rude fuck… but you? You let me drown… yeah… keep pushin’ back… good girl…”

When he finally pulls back with a groan, his face is shiny with you, lips glistening. He stands, slaps his heavy cock against your soaked asshole a few times, then leans over your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You want me to fuck your ass, baby?” he murmurs, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder sharp enough to make you yelp, then immediately soothing it with a slow, wet drag of his tongue over the fresh mark. “I can go slow. Get the lube, open you up nice and easy… stretch you wide till you’re beggin’ for it, hm? You picturing it, sugar? My fat cock buried in your guts, balls slapping your pussy, filling you up till it leaks down your thighs?”

You do picture it. Fuck, you do. 

The brutal stretch burning so good, that impossible fullness pressing everywhere at once, Trevor’s broken moans vibrating through your back, his hairy chest plastered to your spine, the wet smack of skin, the way he’d lose his mind and start babbling heartfelt apologies and poetic love declarations while destroying your asshole.

Say what you will, but the man does contain multitudes. 

Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at the thought. But right now you’re aching and desperate, clit throbbing needily. Anal’s a marathon. It’s intense, yes, and it scratches that specific itch you get every once in a while. But you need to come again right the fuck now. Fast and filthy and shattering.

So you shake your head, a tiny, muffled “mm-mm” humming in your throat.

“Aww, no?” Trevor lets out a soft, warm chuckle that rumbles straight through his chest into yours with deranged affection. He presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck, lips surprisingly soft. He nuzzles there, beard stubble scratching your skin, voice dropping to that gravelly, lovesick purr. “Alrighty then, pussy it is. My girl gets what she wants.”

He bends down again, your juices so irresistible to him he just needs to lick you again before finally coming himself. His tongue trails through your wet folds again, and he groans like he’s in pain as he jerks off slowly in time with his tongue. 

“Fuck me,” he groans between licks. “I should… should just chain you to the radiator and never let you–”

He freezes, tongue still pressed flat to your clit, chest heaving like he just remembered he left the stove on.

You’re not even sure if you can take more.

So of course, he gets creative.

“Hold up, hold up–fuck, I got an idea,” he grunts, suddenly pulling away from you. 

“Tr–Trev,” you slur, “what the fuck–”

“Yeah, yeah, hold that thought, baby.” 

You blink, dazed, the world already tilting sideways from the last orgasm, and before you can even process it, he’s gone from between your legs, scrambling across the trailer like a man on a mission. Junk crashes. Something shatters. You hear him muttering to himself.

“Where is he, where is he, where is he–aha! You filthy little freak, c’mere.”

Goosebumps race up your spine, your breath shallow and ragged. Your stomach flips. Arousal and dread twist together so tight you can’t tell which is winning. Part of you is terrified he’s about to do something unhinged. Another, more honest part of you is already throbbing harder at the thought.

“Ohhh…” Trevor’s voice is gleeful. “This is gonna be so good.”

You barely lift your head before he’s back, cock bobbing heavy and angry between his legs, holding Mr. Raspberry Jam by the scruff of his worn, stained neck. Yes. You’re seeing that right. It’s the teddy bear with the missing eye, the red ribbon, and the pink panties. You’ve seen it once before, lying face down on top of a crumpled porno mag in Trevor’s bed, a tub of petroleum jelly open on the nightstand.

“Sorry, buddy,” Trevor sighed before picking the cum-stained bear up and putting him on the dresser. “But this lovely little lady and I need our space… You understand, eh?”

…and you still hopped on his dick without a single ounce of shame. Okay, yeah. Something is definitely wrong with you. 

Trevor holds the bear up like a trophy, shaking him lightly so its limp arms flop around pathetically. You catch a glimpse of his manic smile, pupils blown from coke and lust. 

“There’s my fuzzy little pervert! You been enjoying yourself, Raspberry? Getting off on my girl gettin’ railed, huh?”

He laughs, delighted, and brings the bear right up to his face. Without hesitation he hocks a thick, glistening rope of spit straight onto its plush snout. It lands with a wet splat.

Your breath catches. A fresh gush of heat floods between your legs even as your brain screams what the actual fuck. You’re so overwhelmed you hear blood rushing in your ears. You’re horrified. You’re soaked. You’re frozen in place, ass still presented, pussy still aching, unable to look away.

Trevor smears the spit around with his thumb, coating the bear’s entire face until the plush fibers are clumping. Then he leans in and plants a loud, sloppy kiss right on the wet muzzle, like it’s a lover.

“Good boy.”

He turns back to you, eyes glittering with that unhinged adoration you’re still not quite used to.

“Mr. Raspberry Jam here’s gonna help me take care of you proper now, ain’t ya, buddy?” He strides back, cock still rock-hard, bouncing with every step. He doesn’t say a word at first, just plants his bare feet wide on either side of yours, looming like a wall of heat and muscle behind you. 

You feel the mania radiating off Trevor’s body, smell the faint metallic tang of coke-sweat combined with the sharp musk of arousal. His heavy balls brush the backs of your thighs when he leans in close, the coarse hair there tickling and teasing as you feel him everywhere.

He presses forward until his hips slot flush against your ass, cock sliding hot and slick along your folds without entering yet; just grinding along your slit, coating himself in you while the head nudges your hole with every slow roll. His hands come down hard on your hips, fingers digging in, thumbs spreading your cheeks wider so he can get a good look.

The couch dips as he settles. Then, without warning, the warm, damp, fuzzy pressure of the bear’s spit-soaked face presses firmly against your asshole. The texture is wrong, alien, obscene: soft plush dragging over your sensitive pucker, Trevor’s thick saliva transferring in cool, slippery streaks, the faint synthetic smell of old fabric and spit mixing with the raw stench of sex filling the air.

“There we go,” he growls. “Nice and cozy.”

You let out a broken sound as the bear’s worn fur rubs up against your rim, and Trevor just moans, dragging his cock along your soaked entrance again.

“Ohhh, fuck, baby, that’s the shot. That’s the goddamn money shot.”

He slams back into your pussy without warning, rough, balls-deep, knocking the breath out of you in a choked gasp. He snaps his hips so hard the whole couch is scraping across the trailer floor, the bear’s face still glued to your asshole, rubbing in sloppy circles with every thrust.

“That’s it, baby–fuck, feel how deep I am? That pretty–that pretty cunt’s suckin’ me in like it never wants me to leave. My perfect little cockwarmer, my sweet dirty angel…”

He feels it before you do, the sudden, violent flutter deep inside you, your walls rippling, your whole body going rigid as every muscle in your abdomen strains so hard you feel like you’re gonna pass out–

“Oh shit–oh shit, sugar, you gonna come again? Fuck yeah. C’mon, give it to me, let me see–”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

In one rough, possessive move, Trevor hooks your right leg over his arm, yanking it just a little higher and tilting your hips open. And then – God help you –  he shoves the bear under your hips, wedging him right between the armrest and your mound, firm snout pressed tight against your folds. 

“Oh my god—” you start, but the words disappear when he thrusts back into you with a growl, hard and deep, pushing you forward so your clit grinds against the bear’s face with every snap of his hips.

You cry out, body arching, hands clawing at the backrest of the couch as he buries himself to the hilt with no hesitation. The pressure of the bear under you makes everything worse. More friction, more stimulation, like your pussy’s caught in a vice between Trevor and the filthy token of his degenerate love.

“There we go,” he groans, one hand holding your leg up, the other clamping down around your throat from behind. “Fuckin’ knew you‘d like this shit.”

You’re moaning nonstop now, each drag of fur sending a jolt straight through your spine.

The mix of slickness, pressure, and that awful, ridiculous texture is too much, and Trevor only fucks you harder, getting off on the way your body jerks with every bounce.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Riding my fuckin’ bear like the filthy little freak you are.”

Your breath hitches, body clenching hard around him.

“Oh, you like that, huh? Humpin’ a teddy bear while I stretch this sweet pussy out? Jesus fuck, baby–fuck–you’re gonna make me come just watching that.”

You try to speak, to breathe, to even think, but you’re too far gone. It’s filthy. It’s stupid. It’s degrading and so Trevor that you don’t even care anymore. You grind down harder with each thrust, chasing it, high and needy and out of your mind.

“Feel that, baby?” Trevor murmurs against your ear as he leans in, voice cracking with need. “He’s–he’s giving you the sloppiest kiss while I wreck this cunt. Ain’t he sweet? My two favorite things lovin’ on my girl at the same time.”

He grinds harder, deeper, hips snapping like he’s possessed. The bear’s fur is drenched now, all the fluids leaving your bodies mixing into a messy, obscene slide.

“C’mon, Mikey, lick her good. Make her–make her come all over us. She deserves it, don’t she? Yeah… that’s it. You were always good at that, eh? Fuck, I still remember the first time we–”

The only thing cutting through the haze clouding your senses is the roar of your own blood in your ears and a thin, distant voice screaming get out get out get out.

You’re conscious enough to register the pain, though: the bruising grip on your leg, the relentless stretch, the way his hand is crushing air from your lungs. Conscious enough to know he’s hurting you.

But you’re also so fucking close to coming that you honestly couldn’t care less at this point.

It’s right there, coiling tight and electric, hovering just out of reach. Every brutal thrust shoves you closer, every grind against that spot inside you makes the pain twist into something molten and addictive. Your body is betraying you in the loudest possible way: clit throbbing, walls fluttering, thighs trembling from exertion, slick running down your legs in hot, shameful streams.

Trevor’s voice drops into that manic-sweet growl as he notices you getting close, bear still rubbing your clit, the dual sensation driving you straight toward another screaming orgasm.

He feels it before you do, the sudden, violent flutter deep inside you, your pussy choking his cock, your whole body going rigid.

“Oh shit–oh shit, sugar… you’re–you’re gonna… oh, fuck you’re such a good fucking girl. C’mon, give it to me. Do it. Fuckin’ do it–”

You don’t mean to.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s already too late.

Your whole body locks up, spine arching, thighs snapping shut around the ruined bear beneath you, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a broken scream. The pressure in your lower belly explodes into release, and suddenly you’re gushing uncontrollably, all over Trevor’s cock, all over the bear, soaking the cushion beneath you with wave after wave of hot, shaking wetness. 

Trevor’s eyes roll back and he lets out the most unhinged, delighted moan you’ve ever heard from him.

“FUUUUCK YES–look at that! That’s what I’ve been waiting for! So fucking beautiful, so nasty, so perfect–Jesus Christ I love you, I love you, I love you–”

He fucks you you through it, grip on your hips tightening like he’s about to break you — then he pulls out fast, cock dragging wetly from your twitching cunt. You collapse forward, shaking, gasping, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t give you even a second to breathe.

He spreads your ass wide with both hands, watching the mess pour out of you, spray still dripping, soaking the already filthy fur beneath you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide, enthralled. “You fucking blasted him.” 

You’re too far gone to speak, cheek pressed into the cushion, thighs trembling violently, cunt spasming around nothing now, but still aching, still leaking. And all Trevor does is stare at the bear under you, glistening with your release, soaked through like a used rag.

After a long moment, he snatches the toy up and swipes it through your dripping, hypersensitive folds so roughly another fresh set of tears escapes your eyes, the wet fur dragging over your raw clit in a stinging slide. He smears your squirt all over the plush, then presses the ruined bear to his face and huffs deep, eyes fluttering shut like he’s getting high off it.

“Ahhh–yes, yes, yes. Mmm… goddamn, sugar. Didn’t know you could squirt like a fountain. You’re too good to me. Too fuckin’ good.”

He keeps the bear pressed to his cheek for a second longer, inhaling like it’s oxygen, then lets out a wrecked, reverent laugh.

“Next time you’re doing that on my face.”

Your mind is spinning and you’re finally so sore that you’d actually be okay with stopping now. But Trevor hasn’t come once and he’s fucked you good, so you’re not about to tap out before he finishes. 

You scratch my back and I’ll let you come all over me. Or whatever the saying is…

You hear him panting like a dying animal – chest heaving, breath ragged, cock throbbing so painfully inside you that every tiny shift feels like torture. His toes curl against the floor, balls drawn up so tight they ache, whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. You can feel how close he is, the frantic pulse of him buried deep, the way his hips stutter like they’re about to give out.

And then something in him snaps.

Maybe it’s the way your pussy feels like velvet and fire wrapped around him. Maybe it’s the way your tear-streaked face looks almost serene in the afternoon light. Or maybe the drugs are finally getting to him, stripping away the last thin layer of control and leaving only raw, desperate need.

He suddenly wants to crawl inside you.

More than usual, that is.

“Baby…” His voice cracks. “Baby, I need–I gotta look at you. Need to see your face, need to be close… it hurts so bad, I’m gonna lose my mind…”

Before you can even take another breath, Trevor hauls you up, spins you around and drops you onto your back on the couch. He climbs on top immediately, heavy and warm and sweating, covering you completely. 

The second he pushes in you almost come from the sound alone: that little strained groan he makes when his thick head meets resistance and he has to lean into it, forcing his girth inside inch by inch until he finally bottoms out with a relieved sigh.

“There we go… there’s my girl. Hey, hey, shhh. Look at me, sugar. C’mon. Eyes on me while I fuck you.”

He starts moving again in grinding, possessive strokes that hit every spot. Your legs wrap around his waist despite the pain, and you’re already climbing again, that familiar heat building fast because all about him just feels too fucking good.

Trevor’s face is inches from yours, eyes wild and glassy and softer than they have any right to be, rough hands cradling your head as he suddenly leans in, lips parted expectantly. You react at the last second, turning your head, cheek pressing into the cushion.

He freezes mid-motion, hot breath catching against your skin.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, voice small, like a lost puppy. “Sorry. Sorry, baby.”

He drops his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse in soft, apologetic kisses. His scruffy beard stubble scrapes gently over your skin as he trails lower, open-mouthed and hungry, inhaling you.

One hand slides down, grabbing your breast. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches hard enough to make you gasp, rolling the sensitive peak between rough fingers while his mouth keeps worshipping your neck. The other hand stays braced beside your head, keeping some of his weight off your chest but still close enough that you feel every shudder that runs through him.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he mumbles against your throat, voice cracked. “It hurts. My balls are so… so full for you, it–it feels like I’m dyin’...”

He keeps rocking his hips, grinding instead of thrusting, letting you feel every inch while his hand keeps playing with your tits: kneading, tugging, thumb flicking your nipples until they’re hard and aching under his touch.

His lips find the spot just below your ear, sucking roughly, then kissing the sting away.

He’s so close now you can feel it in every movement; cock swollen thick, balls drawn up tight against your ass, hips locked flush like he’s trying to weld himself to you permanently. And then he starts whining – actual pathetic, broken whining – voice cracking higher with every roll.

“Baby… fuck, you–you feel so good… so tight… gonna come… so full for you… please…”

Usually, at this point, he’d slide out, fist his cock, and paint your belly or tits with his cum. But somehow he’s not even twitching toward withdrawal. His hips stay locked flush, pressing deeper, heavier, pinning you down. His weight settles more fully, chest crushing your breasts, thighs caging yours, forearms braced on either side of your head like bars. 

He’s not moving away. He’s moving in.

Your pulse jumps. You tap his bicep – once, twice – trying to get his attention.

“Trev–”

“Nghh–just–just this once, baby… I’ll be good, I swear… wrap it up and–and everything…”

Your stomach drops. He knows what he’s doing.

“Trevor,” you say, pushing at his shoulders weakly. “No, we–we can’t…”

You try to shift, try to arch away, create even an inch of space, but his hand moves fast. Slides up. Wraps around your throat. Thumb resting over your racing pulse. 

He’s not even trying to be subtle. You feel it in the slight flex of his fingers, the way his body goes still except for the slow, deliberate grind of his cock.

“I know… I know I’m a piece of shit… but I can’t… can’t stop… love you so much… I’ll never ask again… I’ll be good… I’ll do anything… make you feel so good, baby…”

The begging loops, frantic and desperate, each plea punctuated by another deep grind that shoves you closer to your own edge. He’s not budging. Not even a millimeter. Every thrust hits deeper, heavier, pinning you harder. His weight is crushing, hand on your neck tightening slightly every time you try to move. Fucker even has the nerve to stroke your pulse like he’s soothing you while he’s trapping you.

You try one more time, voice cracking. “Trev… pull out–”

But he just whines louder, hips stuttering, cock throbbing so hard you feel every pulse.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man… I’m not tough at all, I’m just a baby. I’m a baby and I hate myself and I always have. I always have and that’s the truth… a baby…”

You try to speak, but the words die in a choked gasp as his next grind slams your G-spot just right, cock dragging slow and thick against every nerve, your orgasm coiling so tight and hot it’s almost painful. You can’t fight it. Can’t fight him. Can’t fight the stupid, horny part of your brain screaming yes yes yes, let him come inside you, let him fill you up, let him claim you, like that’s not the dumbest fucking idea in the entire universe.

“...sugar, please, please I can’t–I can’t–”

What a brilliant plan. Getting knocked up by a deranged meth dealer who fucks teddy bears and cries about a guy you’re pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

Peak life choices, you absolute dumb bitch.

“Baby…”

You snap. 

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, STOP WHINING AND COME ALREADY!”

The sound Trevor makes is pure relief and animal need at the same time.

“Oh, sweet Jesus… thank you, baby, thank you–”

He fucks you as hard as he can, grabbing your jaw so you’re forced to look into his eyes, and the second he feels you start to clamp down around him again he loses it completely.

“I’m–I’m cumming–fuck, I love you, I love you, I love you–”

His orgasm shakes him so ruthlessly he can’t even form a proper thrust, so he’s just left to grind his cock into you with stuttering hips, his heavy body pressing you into the cushion as his kisses smear across your throat.

His whole body seizes up and he floods you – thick, hot, endless ropes of cum pumping deep inside, so much it leaks out around his cock instantly. He keeps thrusting through it, whimpering the false name you gave him like a prayer, grinding every last drop into you while your own orgasm washes over you, pussy spasming and milking him for everything he’s worth.

He collapses onto you like a felled tree – dead weight, muscle and heat weighing you down – still buried to the hilt, cock twitching with the last weak, lazy spurts that leak hot inside you.

Your bodies are fused in a swamp of sweat, cum, spit, and your own gushing release; every inch of you is coated in him, cooling in places while burning in others. The trailer air reeks of sex, the sickening metallic bite of blood from your split lip, the chemical remnants of coke still clinging to both your breaths. 

…and also the regret of what you just did. 

It’s all so fucked.

You taste him on your tongue, feel him in your throat, smell him in the tiny hairs on your arms. A shower won’t be enough to scrub him off of you. You’ll carry him under your skin for days.

“Oh, I love you…” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, voice wrecked, lips dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over every patch of skin he can reach; jaw, cheek, collarbone, pulse point, the soft spot behind your ear. 

“I love you so fuckin’ much, my sweet girl… my perfect, dirty angel…” Each word vibrates through you, low and desperate. “Don’t leave. Everyone always leaves. But you–you’re different… You’re different, sugar, you’re–”

The words splinter. His arms tighten around you like iron bands, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers digging into your sweat-damp neck, the other splaying wide over your lower belly. His touch is possessive yet careful, trying to keep every drop he pumped into you from escaping. His cock gives one final, weak pulse inside, and you clench around it on instinct, drawing a broken groan out of him.

That sound… oh, that sound. 

It rips a secret, hidden part deep in your chest wide open. 

You’re drowning in it. That terrifying, exhilarating surrender, the way your ribs feel cracked, heart hammering against bone so fiercely you feel it in your fingertips. You’re flooded with this… this clawing, bone-deep ache. Not love. Nuh-uh. You don’t do that. But it’s there and you can’t ignore it no matter how hard you try. It’s this desperate, stupid need to be claimed, to be filled, to be kept. Like if he pulls out now, if he leaves that hollow space inside you empty, you’re convinced the world will tear you into pieces too small to gather up again.

The drugs make it worse. Every sensation is cranked up to eleven; your skin feels peeled, nerves raw, emotions boiling over until you’re shaking and feeling shit you don’t want to feel. That’s not what you’re fucking here for. You’re here to get high as giraffe pussy, get your back blown out with the bonus thrill of maybe getting murdered, and block out your boring-ass life for a few hours. 

No strings, no “how was your day,” no fucking after. 

All fine and dandy, but there’s a glitch in your genius blueprint.

You’re not heartless.

You may be a walking disaster with a coke habit, a death wish and a nihilistic streak wide enough to drive a monster truck through, but you’re not heartless. And right now, with Trevor trembling on top of you, hot breath fanning dangerous promises against your throat like there’s even a sliver of a chance you two could end up as anything other than a deadly trainwreck, you feel the last frayed thread of your defenses starting to snap.

And he’s heavy. Too heavy.

His full weight pins you to the ruined couch, chest crushing your breasts flat, belly sticky and pressing your stomach, thighs caging yours so tight you can’t even twitch. Every inhale is shallow and labored, your lungs burn like they’re filling with smoke instead of air. Black spots bloom in front of your eyes, the room tilting sideways in slow, sickening waves. Your arms feel leaden, fingers tingling as circulation falters. You’re sinking deeper into the cushions, deeper into him, deeper into whatever fucked-up gravity he exerts, and your body is starting to give up the fight.

You hear your own voice echo inside your skull. 

It’s small and lost, and it sounds wrong. It’s not your voice, not really; it’s too soft, too malleable, too willing to break for this man. The sound of it makes your skin crawl, like listening to a stranger beg through your own mouth as you’re drowning. 

The realization that you’re dying doesn’t land like a shock. It’s kind of comforting, actually. You feel the oxygen leaving you with every weak, stuttering pulse. Your vision narrows to a soft gray tunnel, edges feathering black. The trailer, your body, Trevor’s weight, his cum inside you – it all starts to recede, distant and unimportant.

Everything pours out.

Every barbed wire knot of shame you’ve carried since you were old enough to hate yourself. Every bruise you pretended didn’t hurt. Every time you smiled through the ache because stopping would mean admitting defeat. Every dream you buried so deep you forgot what it tasted like. They bleed out slowly with the rest of you.

And hey.

You don’t have to go to work tomorrow if you’re dead.

That’s something, right? Small victories. No alarm, no emails, no signing stupid birthday cards, no pretending to be functional while your head screams. Just quiet. Just nothing.

Until Trevor decides to bite your neck hard and the pain yanks you back into your body like a meat hook through the sternum. 

You force one arm up, kind of annoyed you’re still here, muscles protesting, and tap his bicep. Once. Twice. The third time is weaker, barely there.

“Tr… Trev…” Your voice is a hoarse, breathless rasp. “Can’t… breathe…”

He grunts, offended you would ask him to move even an inch away from you. “I can hear ya breathe just fine.”

You pull his hair at the nape of his neck and he finally gets the message. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs deeply and lingers for one more heartbeat, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize the smell of whatever soap you used that morning. He presses a soft kiss on the spot he bit, then shifts reluctantly, finally sliding out of you with a final wet drag that makes you both hiss. The moment the head pops free, a thick, pearly glob of cum immediately wells up and spills from your swollen, puffy entrance. It slides down your ass, dripping in a heavy, viscous rope onto the stained cushion beneath you. 

It stares at you, very accusingly, in bright daylight: the culmination of your bad decisions pooling between your thighs, cooling fast against your overheated skin. You try to ground yourself by focusing on catching your breath as your thoughts spin and spin and spin around. 

God, you’re an idiot. 

Trevor exhales through his nose, low and rough, eyes dropping down to your pussy. “Good lord…” he mutters, “look at that.”

He can’t tear his eyes away. They’re locked on the creamy white trail leaking out of you, mesmerized, almost hypnotized. 

Without thinking, he swipes two thick fingers through the wetness on your inner thigh, gathering the slick mix of your cum, then pushes them back inside you slowly. The stretch is gentle but insistent; your walls flutter weakly around the intrusion, still oversensitive and raw. He curls his fingers just enough to press the cum deeper, smearing it against your insides like he’s trying to paint every inch, seal it in.

A broken groan rumbles out of him. He keeps his fingers inside you, holding the load in place, thumb brushing lazy circles over your clit like he’s trying to soothe it while he just… keeps everything where it is. 

You feel the warmth trapped inside you, the faint pressure of his hand refusing to let it leak further. He’s in a trance – eyes glued to where his fingers disappear into you, watching the way your swollen lips hug them, the way a little more dribbles out around his knuckles despite his efforts.

“Are you, uh–” Trevor murmurs, hesitant. “Have you ever thought about… y’know…?”

You tilt your head, heavy eyelids fluttering open, and catch his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils still bigger than normal, a truth buried in there you’re too out of it to dig up. His thumb pauses on your clit, waiting. For a beat he holds your stare, mouth opening like he’s about to say something more, but then he just blinks. Closes his mouth. Looks away fast, jaw ticking.

“Nah,” he mumbles to himself, almost too quiet to hear. “Bad fuckin’ idea. Stupid. Forget it.”

But he doesn’t pull his fingers out right away. He lingers, one more slow curl inside you, one more gentle press of his thumb over your clit, savoring the fantasy for just a few more seconds before reality crashes back.

Finally he withdraws, fingers glistening, coated in the creamy evidence of what he just did. He reaches for the nearest thing – his own crusty red-and-black flannel shirt, tossed in a heap on the floor earlier, stiff with old sweat and dirt – and brings it between your legs. The fabric is rough and scratchy against your oversensitive skin, but he’s at least trying to be careful, wiping in quick, haphazard swipes.

“Easy, sugar… easy,” he murmurs every time you wince or twitch from the overstimulation. “I got you.”

A couple more lazy passes with the flannel and Trevor deems it good enough. He tosses the ruined piece of clothing aside like trash, but you catch the quick, hungry glance he gives it before it lands. Yeah, he’s definitely going to wrap that thing around his fist and jerk off into it at 3 a.m. when he can’t sleep and you’re not there to drown out the voices in his head.

You can already picture the grainy videos he’ll send: shaky phone footage, low growls of your fake-ass name, the flannel clutched so hard in his hand his knuckles are white. Maybe even a little crying. 

Oh, what a lucky girl you are.

You push yourself up slowly, whole body protesting. You sit on the edge of the couch, rub your fingers over your lips for a moment, then reach for the hand-knitted blanket folded neatly on the backrest. You drape it over your lap, covering the worst of the mess between your legs. The fabric is soft and smells overwhelmingly like Trevor. You wonder if he falls asleep with it often. You wonder if it was a gift. You wonder if it brings him comfort when he’s sick. 

Trevor grunts and stands on wobbly legs, cock softening, your slick drying on his foreskin. He’s only wearing his faded black Love Fist shirt, hem barely skimming the tops of his thighs, hairy ass completely out, shameless and unbothered. No fucks given. One of the reasons you keep coming back to him.

He yanks open the fridge. The light spills out, cold and blue. He grabs a Pißwasser, pops the cap with his teeth, takes a long pull.

“You want one?” he asks over his shoulder, voice rough but casual.

You shake your head, throat too raw to speak.

He scratches his balls absently, eyes flicking to you, still limp on the couch, chest heaving, fresh cum visible on your crossed legs despite his half-assed cleanup. Something proud and possessive flashes across his face before realization hits. 

“Oh… right. Shit.”

He pads toward the trailer door. The floorboards creak under his weight; the screen door’s already hanging half off its hinges from the last time he kicked it in a fit of rage.

He yanks it open with one hand, letting the hot desert wind blast in, carrying dust and the overpowering smell of a literal dumpster fire from somewhere down the road. Standing framed in the doorway – shirt riding up, cock dangling, legs spread wide – he bellows at full volume, voice cracking the quiet like a whip.

“WAAAADE! WADE, YOU SNIVELING LITTLE SHIT! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

His roar echoes across the sandy lot outside, bouncing off rusted trailers and abandoned cars. Somewhere in the distance, a dog starts barking hysterically.

There’s a clatter, metal on metal, then frantic footsteps crunching gravel. You move slightly to see the kid with dreadlocks appear around the corner a second later, out of breath, eyes wide beneath his pierced eyebrows. He’s in his usual Fatal Incursion jersey and the baggy JNCO-style blue jeans you kind of want to buy for yourself, his hands are already twisting nervously in front of him like he’s expecting a beating.

“Hey there, Trevor. I was just... I was just out back checkin’ the hoses like you said earlier. Didn’t hear nothin’ till… did you forget to put on pants again? Happens to me, too, someti–”

“Shut your goddamn mouth and listen,” Trevor snaps, pointing one cum-sticky finger right at Wade’s face. The shirt rides up higher as he leans over the porch railing, flashing everything. “My girl needs Plan B. Go to the pharmacy in Sandy Shores, steal it if you have to, I don’t give a shit. Bring back the good stuff, not that cheap generic crap. And if you’re not back in twenty minutes I’m gonna cut your arm off, got it? MOVE!”

There’s a beat of confused silence outside, followed by Wade’s faint voice:

“Plan B… is that like a breakfast burrito or somethin’?”

“IT’S A GODDAMN PILL, YOU HUMAN CLOG!” Trevor screams, veins bulging in his neck. “FOR SEX! TO UN-DO THE FUCKING–JUST FUCKING GO!”

You hear a crash. Something falls. Possibly Wade.

Trevor turns back inside, mumbling under his breath, letting the door swing shut with a high-pitched squeak. He scratches the back of his neck, then walks back over to you, still sitting on the couch with the blanket, covering up as best you can while your heart’s trying to escape your chest.

“Handled,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt.

His expression softens the second he sees you, eyes going all gooey and worried in that weird Trevor way. It’s the look of a predator who’s decided you’re a little lamb he wants to protect, a little lamb he’ll cradle in his rough hands instead of tearing it apart.

For now.

‘Cause you know how it goes with men like him. The gentleness lasts only until hunger wins out, or boredom creeps in, or the moment you try to slip away. Then the lamb becomes prey again, and those same hands that were just keeping you safe turn into claws.

“Hey... gorgeous,” he murmurs, flopping down onto the couch beside you with a groan, body still radiating heat, his hand blindly reaching for yours. You let him take it. “I didn’t hurt you too much, did I? I got a little… enthusiastic at the end there.” 

No words come out of your mouth. Instead, your eyes wander to your bag sitting on the kitchen counter, wondering how many missed calls your phone’s gonna show you once you dare open it. You shudder at the thought, let your head fall back.

Trevor turns his head to look at you, brows creased, reaching out and clumsily brushing some sweat off your forehead, palm cradling your hot cheek.

“Hey. Tell me you’re good.”

You finally look at him – naked except for that stupid band shirt, covered in bodily fluids, eyes so full of love it’s ridiculous – and you can’t help it.

You smile.

You sigh. Deeply. 

But you smile. 

“Yeah, Trev… I’m good.”

His whole face lights up like you just handed him the moon on a string.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, lifting your arm to kiss the back of your hand, slow and deceptively sweet. “Now, how about some pancakes? Gotta be starvin’ after all that, huh.”

Food? The thought makes you want to puke. You’re sore as fuck and you’re already dreading the “I gotta go, but I’ll be back” talk, but that’s future you’s mess to clean up.

“Sounds good, Trev,” you mutter, exhaling hard.

“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes your thigh, hops up, and struts to the kitchenette, ass out, humming some butchered Love Fist tune, hips swaying like he’s on Fame or Shame. You watch him like a lion on safari, unsure if what you’re feeling is awe or terror. What’s clear is he’s too damn close.

A little more of his cum leaks out of you and you shoot a silent plea to whatever higher power might still be listening to your trifling ass: Spare me another pregnancy scare, and I’ll be on my best fucking behavior. Knitting. Church. The works.

Cue the good ol’ existential dread creeping in, right on schedule.

You’re not in the mood. Not today.

So you slump there, coming down slowly, while Trevor flips pancakes in a greasy pan with a naturalness that makes your head spin. Like it’s normal. Like any of this is normal. 

He glances back, quick, almost shy, and your stomach lurches. Half nausea, half disturbing flash of some doomed domestic hallucination. You in his shirt, him burning breakfast, little giggles tugging at his leg. Two heartbeats of pure delusion before Trevor curses as he steps on a used meth pipe, curb-stomping the blurry scene in your head.

You blink it away, huff through your nose, and let your head flop back against the cushion.

Mr. Raspberry Jam glares from the floor, crusty and judgmental as ever.

— — —

Thank you for reading & pls let me know your thots! ♡

The sight of you in your little pool, desperate to cool your too-hot skin, bikini bottoms floating next to you as you shoved a dildo into your aching hole was his breaking point. 

And now here you are, stuffed full of throbbing, thick alpha cock. Because you begged him, all fat tears and plump pouts as your heat clawed at your insides. 

He might be too old for this, but he’ll never get tired of how fucking stupid omegas get for dick. 

“The t-toys just weren’t…weren’t good enough.” 

You’re pinned between him and the pool wall, lips of your cunt dragging along his length over and over again as you try to find release. 

Copious amounts of slick gush from you, making his thrusting easier. Pearly strings of your cream float around the pool, lost to splash of him fucking into you. 

But even still, he’s so engorged with blood and hormones ready to knot that his fat cock struggles against your gummy walls. You hiss, not from pain, but from relief, so happy to be full that no amount of stretching will detract from your pleasure.

“You’re fucking pitiful.” 

Shame briefly shines in your blown-out eyes, a bit of humanity peeking through the haze of animal instincts. Shit. This is why he hates this, why he’s tried to avoid all the breeding nonsense. Omegas are so emotionally squishy. 

Not that he’s any better. One pout from you as you locked eyes with him across the yard made him jump a fucking fence and plunge his cock into your weeping hole at two in the afternoon. 

“Just can’t help it, can you, kid?” 

Red eyes trace over the body he’s been trying so hard not to imagine. The triangle fabric of your swimsuit is peeled away from your tits, your nipples puffy from how hard you were tugging on them before he got his hands on you. 

A little mhmmmm-mhmmmm sounds from lips pressed too tightly together, your head lolling back as you keep bucking against him with your eager, exposed pussy. 

You’re a mess, all swollen and gooey and desperate. 

“Such a dumb omega,” he groans and wraps his arms around your back, pressing your soft body all the way against his, “fucking yourself out in the open. Wanted me to find you? Wanted the old man next door to fuck you stupid.”

“N-no,” you lie so easily. “Too hot, was too hot and couldn’t get off and—”

“Bullshit. You started splashin’ around out here just praying I’d catch your scent.” 

“C-can’t help it, pr-promise. You just always smell so fucking good, alpha.”

Makes sense now why you always seem to be out on a walk when he gets home from work, and why you always seem to need something from him. He was a nice neighbor and gave you his number when you moved in all on your own, a little omega lost in a big college town. You would message him for help around your place at least once a week—changing light bulbs, fixing a leaky faucet, even opening a goddamn jar a few nights ago. 

He told you several times to stop bothering him, yet you never could catch the hint that fooling around with an alpha was going to get you bitten. 

Relentlessly he pounds his hips, the buoyancy of the water making it effortless to hold you and fuck in deep. His thighs barely feel any strain, his back muscles rolling like a true predator as he starts to use his arms to pull you up and down. 

Katsuki slides his fat cock until it’s barely in your pussy, mushroom tip caught by the suctioning ring of muscle inside of you. Then he bottoms out, balls connecting with your ass under the water with a muted thump. 

“God, fuck, that’s good, so good,” you’re fucking loud, “feel so fucking good in my pussy.” 

“Christ, you wanna let the whole neighborhood knowing I’m fucking you?”

​​The fuck-drunk little smile on your face tells him that maybe you do. 

And he thought he was the perv. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he whispers furiously, kissing you with so much force it makes your back arch in his strangle hold. 

A thick hand wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just leaves it there possessively as his tongue forces its way between your lips. You unconsciously moan, your own tongue meeting his, but he presses it down, not wanting it in the way. You give in, letting him encircle your tongue with his own so he can taste you. He pulls back to suck your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth roughly dragging against it.

“Like feeling my cock spread you apart, hm? Maybe I’ll get you a dildo my size for next time you wanna put on a little show.” 

You purr and it makes him want to scratch you to pieces. 

The burning stretch of your omega cunt is bliss. The smell of sex and chlorine sting his nose, make him lose it a bit and press so hard inside of you that his cock nearly meets the resistance of your cervix. Not that you seem to mind it—your nails are sinking into his wet shoulders, holding on for dear life as he fucks you in the heat of a summer afternoon. 

When Katsuki shifts his hips down, heavy cock sliding out of your tight hole, you bare your teeth and growl at a man nearly double your age.  

“Easy, tiger,” he tuts and drops you in the warming water, “turn around and let me hit it from the back.”

He loves that your instincts are to obey.

You turn your back to him with an indignant little huff, bending over the edge of the pool and waiting. Katsuki locks his arms around your thighs, pushing up and letting the water do the work. Your legs float open easily, spreading wide as he spears his way back into your slutty hole. 

“Ever been knotted before, kid?”

Looking over your shoulder, you shake your head, hiccuping as he works his shaft in and out of you. 

“Please, please, ah, knot me. Wa-wanna know what it feels like.”

He’s toying with an ancient fire, he knows that. One fat knot from an alpha and you might be begging to move in with him, but it’s worth it. Your pussy feels too goddamn good and he’s too worked up not to plug you full. 

Katsuki works you into an absolute frenzy, waves of water splashing onto the edges of the pool as you mewl and focus on how effortlessly he fucks you. Your walls meld to him, each thrust hasty and claiming, scented sweat steaming from the heat of your body and the blistering of the sun. His dick curves just perfectly inside you, cockhead purposefully brushing against the most sensitive, spongy spots within your depths. 

“Surprised none of your stupid boyfriends knotted this tight cunt before.”

“Wouldn’t,” your fingers are gripping the edge of the pool for dear life, like you’re gonna drown any second, “wouldn’t let them.” 

“And you’re gonna let me? Just a slut for older men?” 

“Slut for you,” you correct him with a bounce of your ass against his pelvis, “love a big, strong alpha.” 

He rolls his eyes at the shameless flattery, yet still the ego inside him flares to life. 

“Young, stupid omegas always think they can get whatever they want,” he growls, all while keeping a rough pace inside your body, watching how the water parts for the two of you grinding into one another. 

You give him a knowing gaze over your shoulder, sultry and coy. 

You are getting exactly what you want. All you had to do was get his attention, pry at his most basic instincts and now here he is losing his mind over the tight squeeze of your omega cunt. 

Maybe you aren’t so stupid after all.

But he’ll fuck you stupid, he’s sure of that. 

“I’m too old for silly games, kid. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

He proves his point by pawing at your belly under the water, pressing in until you can both feel how deep he is in your guts. The realization makes you whine, pushing hard back against him. 

“You think I’m just some toy to use during your heat?” Katsuki tuts, licking at one of his canines. “Just wait until I knot this stupid cunt and you beg me to keep coming back.”

A symphony of sex is ringing in your backyard, sounds of primal grunts, shrill little screams, balls slapping against your ass, water gurgling and splashing.

Any animal nearby knows what’s happening, that nature is running its course and you’re both nothing but senseless bodies looking for the simplest relief.

Katsuki slides the hand on your stomach lower, pinching your aching clit before he starts swirling it under the pads of experienced fingers. You start thrashing, cunt sucking so tightly he’s sure you’re hurting with the need to cum. 

“Pleasepleaseplease oh god please!” 

You shatter and his pride nearly bursts with you. Your cunt clenches, so pleased to cum around a thick alpha cock. You babble absolute nonsense, beg for his knot and a string of thanks yous and pleases and alpha alpha alpha dripping from your mouth into the wake of the pool.

The way your pussy squeezes him tells him you’ve been looking for this orgasm for hours, walls so swollen and pulsing. You must’ve been fucking yourself with useless toys since morning and finally got desperate enough to make a scene and get him to fuck you the way you needed. 

“Poor thing,” he coos, watching your cream float to the surface of the water. 

You’re totally mindless now as he continues to fuck you, body sloshing in the pool as he manhandles you to take what he wants. 

“Don’t even know if you can handle a knot, kid. You’re too tight.” 

That stirs you, makes you flatten your hands against the edge of the pool and push back to meet his rhythm. Over and over, you keep up with him, so fucking fraught to finally feel an alpha swell in your guts.

“Please don’t stop, please. Need to feel it, been in heat for d-days.”

“Oh omega, have you been fucking yourself silly with all the wrong toys, hm? Been stuffing yourself all alone in your room? Should’ve, ah, just asked me to come fix it.”

“You told me to stop b-bothering you…” 

“You’ll annoy me when your sink’s leakin’ but not when your pussy is? So fucking stupid.”

Only he’s starting to go dumb at the wrap of your cunt around him. The beast in his belly is raging, alpha instincts boiling in the summer sun. 

“C’mon, slut, milk my cock,” he pants and slams into you, lost in the way the water reflects around your curves and how your thighs are locked around his waist. He swears your body listens, some reflexive instinct that has your pussy clamping around his shaft until he can feel the veins of his cock squishing into your walls. 

The orgasmic build starts rushing up his spine, inflating the base of his cock inch by inch. 

“Holy shit, fuck~” you whimper at the first stretch of his knot. “Kat–Katsuki, ‘m so fucking full!” 

Finally he bursts, knot bulging into your gumminess until you’re plugged with him. His cum spills into your tight channel, filling you whole. 

Your sweet, stupid omega brain can barely comprehend the stretch. Another orgasm wrecks your body, has you falling face first into the pool. Katsuki scrambles to grab you, hoist you up and into his arms as you gasp and crest and cum all over him again. 

He can’t help but chuckle, easily maneuvering his back to the pool’s edge. He lets you calm down in his hold, your head falling against his shoulder as you try to breathe. 

“Get what you wanted, brat?” 

Katsuki pats your bloated belly, making you squeal as he rubs the heel of his hand against his knot. 

You nod dumbly, eyes closing to focus on the feel of him. He smirks realizing you’ll never forget him, your first knot. Omegas really are so emotional. 

Yet he’s taunted by the stupid bikini bottoms still floating in the water, mocking just how easy it was for you to boil him down to his base instincts.