“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! ♡