#rabidworld

Playing with Trevor's hands. They're big, they're rough, they're scarred, and they're scabbed. You don't really hold hands ever, but sometimes when you're idle, when he's doing something else, he'll allow you to grab his hand and trace the planes of it. He'll act like he doesn't notice, as if you're not there at all. He can't admit he likes such things. You poke the calluses on his palm below each finger. Thumb the scars on the back. Pet the cuts on his knuckles. You squeeze his wrist so you can watch the way it makes his fingers flex like a cat's paw and you make him curl it into a fist until he forms one himself, and allows you to start your evaluation all over again.

Begging Trevor to fuck you. He tries to resist, he really does, but when you start rubbing yourself over your shorts he can't really see why he'd stop himself. You're on your back and he's slotted between your legs. He chuckles at the pure mess you're making, wet noises filling the room with every thrust. Between the haze of your own sick desperation to feel something and his need to fill every void in your life, he's cocking his black pistol -- your favorite -- and shoving it past your lips so hard it clinks against your teeth. You immediately roll your hips up into his which earns an approving growl. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He shoves the barrel farther into your mouth --- the sight scratching the soft flesh of the roof. "Fucking slut. God, you're disgusting. I love you." You can't even grunt a response before the gun is so far down your throat you can't breathe. "Maybe I should blow your fucking head off. Maybe that's what you want. Seems to be the only thing that gets your little cunt wet." Trevor's thrusts get faster, harder, more exacting, and with that his grip on the gun tightens, practically pinning your head to the bed with how deep he's pressing it into your mouth. You can't help but buck your hips up in time with his, searching for your high. "You're a whore. That's what you are. A depraved, psycho slut. But that's okay. Because you're my little slut. And you make Daddy T so proud. So," One slow deep thrust. "Fucking," Two. "Proud!" Trevor's cock twitches inside you as he cums. Your own orgasm rips through you so hard your ears ring. Trevor pulls the gun from your mouth, spit connecting the barrel and your lips for half a second, before he sets it on the bedside table and rolls off you. You're both breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, muscles aching. You turn your head to look at him and he looks at you in turn, eyes immediately traveling to your swollen lips. He moves in without making eye contact and places a chaste kiss on your forehead, before rolling over to face the wall. You can't help the smirk that grows on your face as you watch the muscles in his back rise and fall with every breath.

Kissing the swallow tattoo behind Trevor's ear gently. Peppering it with a closed mouth. When you feel him smile -- after a dozen or so smooches -- you give it kitten licks and soft nips with your front teeth. It's your favorite decoration on your favorite holy temple.

Trevor "Liking Men is the Least Interesting Thing About Me" Philips

Fucking Pope to Waco, Texas by Ethel Cain and accidently saying you love him, causing him to slow down, and you immediately apologize until he buries himself in your neck and pounds you harder into the mattress, mumbling "I love you too" over and over

Can I kiss Trevor on the lips please please please sloppy kissing please it won't make me insane I promise I'll be normal just like five kisses maybe twelve just like normal kisses with our tongues down each other's throats

Sucking on Trevor's middle and pointer finger while your head lays in his lap on the couch. They taste like dirt and dried blood. Mostly blood.