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It’s hot. You should’ve expected it, seeing as you’re in the middle of a desert, but it’s so hot.
Trevor’s just about done with his beer. The heat is becoming uncomfortable — you shift and tug at your shirt and he looks at you absentmindedly. The fan is halfway across the room but you don’t know if you can bother moving. You hear Wade outside and Trevor somehow manages to lob the bottle through the front door where it shatters.
Poor Wade yelps, but you’re too hot to feel bad for him.
“Y’know,” he doesn’t seem to be bothered at all, at home in the mess he’s made like always. “If you’re this hot we can just…” Trevor oozes closer, unabashedly putting his hand high up on your thigh. He’s wearing his intentions on his sleeve and both of you know it, but do you care?
“We can just what?” You take a tentative sip of your water and Trevor zooms in on your mouth, and you almost regret licking your lips. “Fuck the heat away?”
Trevor makes an appreciative sound and it rumbles through his chest and out his throat like a motor, and suddenly he’s very close and very there, two fingers hooked onto the belt of your pants so he can tug on it insistently. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant, kid.” You go quiet for a moment before you take another, big sip of your water and set the bottle aside.
“Fine. Sure.”
Trevor wraps himself around you, wonderful Trevor, awful Trevor. Wiry, lean and hungry Trevor, all teeth and skinny fingers, all breath and sweat and anger and his hands make dips in your skin like he’s known nothing else all of his life. You remember he’s called Michael a fat snake before, but Michael isn’t the one with his arms around you, and Michael isn’t the one who’s trying to eat you alive.
You lift your lower half up and he helps you kick your jeans off before sliding his fingers, hot, like it is outside, down your pants. Easy, you murmur, be gentle, and he mocks you halfheartedly. When he kisses your jaw, you feel stubble and your insides squirm with his fingers inside you.
He leans on you, heavy, so he can free his hand and free himself of his own pants, already hard — no surprise there — but you push him away.
He stares at you, long and intense. “What?”
“Bedroom.” You don’t need to be a snob to want to fuck somewhere else than the couch. You can think of a few better ways to wake up than half naked with a porno mag stuck against your ass, and though the bedroom isn’t exactly a proper upgrade it’s still a whole new world compared to whatever the living room has to offer.
Thankfully, relocating is pretty easy, all things considered. You hobble there with Trevor practically stuck to you, leeched onto your skin with his hands down your pants and up your shirt like they belong nowhere else before you collapse on the bed in a mess of limbs and quiet noises. He whispers hurriedly against your ear in a half-kiss, where, how, will you sit on him, will he fuck you, will you fuck him, because the possibilities are endless and he’s not sure he can last a whole night. Hell, anything longer than a couple of minutes is too much at this point, too excited and too revved up to do anything but fuck until he’s done, but that’s Trevor.
Trevor buries his face in your neck and you make a noise, small and low and calm while he rocks against you, cock strained and leaking just a little against your thigh. You spread your legs, hands around his neck and legs ready to cinch around his waist, or his hips, anywhere you can grab on and he descends like a blanket of moral filth — after he’s rolled on a condom. He melts into you with a relieved groan that reverberates all the way from his tummy to his throat, hefting his hips into you messily.
It’s gentle for Trevor, but it isn’t really gentle by any other standard; you’re prepared for sore joints and marbled bruises on your sides from the way his hands are holding onto you, but you aren’t looking forward to dealing with it tomorrow.
Well, maybe a small part of you is.
The way Trevor fucks is perpetually impersonal. You don’t really like the idea of getting introspective while you’re literally connected at the hip to him, but it’s something that’s always stuck out to you no matter what, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t going to stop anytime soon. He breathes against your neck.
He fucks you faster.
A whole half of you separates itself from the part of you he’s fucking, and from that perspective it’s almost pitiful, in some sort of beautiful way, confused and lost in the moment — but then again, isn’t that what he is? Trevor practically embodies confusion, but he’s found a safe haven with you, in you, that you don’t mind providing as long as he gives as good as he gets, which he does. Thank god he does.
Trevor sinks into a haze of I love you-s and Oh, God-s with his mouth jumping between your mouth and your shoulder and he holds you tight. There’s a sort of security to be found in the mutual entanglement — you hold him back — that you’ve come to care a lot about, but maybe it’s just that you’ve come to care a lot about him.
He runs his hands down your sides and they come to rest on your ass and he squeezes, pulls you in close so when he thrusts you’re flush against him, sticky with sweat and the heat and it feels so good that you’re afraid for a moment that you might burst at the seams — but you don’t. The irrational height-of-the-moment panic fades away with a low moan and you cant your hips, closer and closer until your skin jitters and your mouth goes dry, the byproduct of an oozing orgasm and lack of water, but you don’t care, you can’t make yourself care while you ooze on down, Trevor following, sloppy thrusts throwing every conceivable hint at you in the most endearing way you know of, and his grip turns to steel when he comes, pulling you so tight against him that it feels like he’s trying to pull you into him, too tired of being left alone or just left in general.
It’s still hot, you think, but the covers are nice against your skin. Trevor falls asleep moments after pulling out, absorbed by the warm air and the promise of a decent sleep for once. You stumble onto your feet, sliding off the edge of the bed to retrieve the bottle of water sitting lonely on the living room counter before you amble back to the bedroom, and when you slide back into bed, next to Trevor, he wraps an anchoring arm around your waist despite your mild protests and buries his face in the nape of your neck.
“I can’t reach my water,” you murmur, and he scoffs fondly against your skin.
Sleep comes easy, even in the heat. Even if it’s the afternoon, and even if you’re essentially sleeping away half a day.
Still, sleep is sleep. You feel like Trevor is more than rightfully entitled to a proper rest.