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The convention wristband is still around your wrist when Gen pulls onto the expressway.
You’ve been idly worrying at the edge of it without even noticing, more interested in the way his hand keeps leaving the wheel to knock the shifter into the next gear. The Supra answers with that low, expensive growl you’ve been feeling in your ribs since you left, and the blow-off valve gives a sharp little psshh when he changes again. His car is as smug as he is.
Gen raises one eyebrow. "Still can’t believe the judgment over my new bumper stickers."
A pixel-heart decal on the bumper of a car like this is an atrocity, you think—but you also like that he loves it. There’s a charm in how he refuses to care what anyone thinks.
"It’s not the car I’m judging," you say. "Now it looks like it’s owned by a fifteen-year-old with a Twitch channel."
"And yet," he says, flicking you a glance, his mouth twitching, "you still got in."
The highway is a blur of streaking streetlights and black asphalt, but inside, everything is bathed in the pink-violet glow of the footwell LEDs. The glow catches on the edges of Gen’s white sneakers as he works the pedals with a practised, twitchy precision. A scruffy little Godzilla air freshener swings from the rear-view mirror whenever he takes a bend. On the dash, a tiny Legendary Pokémon figure sits with all the self-importance of a shrine ornament. There’s a charging cable spilling from the centre console, and a Tamagotchi hanging from the driver’s side visor, chirping now and then.
"It’s amazing anyone takes you seriously," you say, grinning.
"Everyone takes me seriously," he replies, voice easy. His thumb drums the rim of the wheel, an idle little tic you could watch for hours. "That’s what makes it funny."
His hair is down, the darker length brushing his jaw while the dyed front catches silver whenever the streetlights cut across the windscreen. Off-duty clothes on him are unfairly hot: a black bomber jacket, a dark shirt tight against his muscles underneath it. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearstick—a weighted aluminium knob—custom-made with a tiny, pixelated 8-bit sword etched into the top. So him.
You’ve been staring at him since you both left the convention centre carpark; the broad line of his shoulders under the seatbelt, the way his jacket sleeves are bunched up on his forearms, how they pull tight when he steers one-handed into a lane change. The backs of his hands are veined where he grips the wheel, thick cords showing every time he changes gear. He chews his lower lip absentmindedly when a corner comes up; his jaw tightens, the muscle rolling. You watch him bite that lip, and your pulse stutters. All of it makes looking out at the road a complete waste of time.
"You’re doing that thing again," he says.
"What thing?"
Gen scoffs. "That thing where you act casual while you eye-fuck me."
The engine (that rebuilt 2JZ he’s so defensive about) gives a deep, smug growl that vibrates through the floorboards and straight into your bones.
You lean back, a curve to your lips. "I’m just admiring the view. And by view, I mean the fact that you haven’t managed to kill that Tamagotchi yet."
"I don’t lose," he counters, "not at games, not at combat, and definitely not at keeping tiny digital dinosaurs alive. It’s about specs, Princess. High-spec performance requires high-spec attention."
He accelerates suddenly, the turbo whine climbing in pitch until it’s a metallic scream. The sheer G-force pins you back into the bucket seat. He handles the car as though it’s an extension of his own nervous system, his movements fluid and dismissive, every movement cleaner than it needs to be because he knows you’re watching, despite your obvious lie.
You watch his leg tense, the muscle of his thigh visible through the dark fabric of his jeans as he braces against the footrest. He’s so damn certain of himself. It half-makes you want to see him falter, just a little.
"You make it hard not to stare," you admit, finally.
It lands. You see it in the way his shoulders square, just slightly.
"Yeah?" he says, too casual.
The cabin smells of leather, of engine heat, of his cologne. The city is thinning behind you. Road signs flash overhead and are gone. The music is low, something with too much bass and not enough subtlety.
You let your gaze drop, pointedly, to where his thighs spread under the steering column. The seat is set low. His jacket is open. You let your hand settle on his thigh. Your fingers move without thinking, slow at first, palm flattened so he has a second to object. He doesn’t buck his hips; he’s far too disciplined for that, but you feel the muscle beneath your fingers go rigid.
You rub him through the denim, watching his face. He’s pretending he’s unaffected, lips pressed into a line, but his breath gets shallower until you feel the outline of him start to strain against your palm.
"Getting distracted while driving is a rookie mistake, Gen," you say, teasing, your voice dropping an octave.
He swallows; it’s a visible thing. A corner approaches, and he downshifts without a glance off the road. His hand tightens on the shifter, knuckles pale, and then loosens.
"You’re gonna make me crash," he says, half laughing.
"Oh? But you seemed so confident a second ago."
"I am confident." Another clean gear change. Another quick psshh. "I’m also driving."
You smile, finding the tab of his zipper and dragging it down. "Multitasking’s good for the brain."
His laugh comes out rougher than before. He tips his head back against the seat for the briefest second, then looks over at you, his eyes darker than they were a minute ago.
You slide your hand inward, your fingers finding him there. He’s thick, hot, and already weeping a bead of salt-slick heat against his underwear. You give a slow, firm squeeze, feeling the pulse of him through the fabric. A low sound catches in his throat; the beginning of a protest that he doesn’t have the heart to finish. The Supra swerves almost imperceptibly before he corrects it.
"You’ve got awful timing," he rasps, his jaw setting. "We’re on a public highway. My reputation is literally built on being the best."
You ignore him, hooking your fingers into the waistband and freeing him into the cool air of the cabin. This time, his reaction is impossible to miss. Gen lets out a ragged exhale, his head tilting back against the headrest for a heartbeat before he forces his eyes back to the windshield. The faint pink glow under the dash brushes over the velvet skin of his cock, showing the flushed head and the veins along the underside.
His fingers stay fixed at ten and two as though he’s trying very hard to remember he is, in fact, behind the wheel of a fast car on an open road.
"So pull over?" You suggest, your thumb brushing over the swollen head.
"No," he growls, "That sounds like quitting."
He reaches out, his hand fumbling for the lever on the side of his seat. With a mechanical clunk, the back of the driver’s seat drops just enough to give you room without his eyes ever fully leaving the road. He takes the next exit lane smoothly, not stopping, just cutting onto a darker stretch where the traffic thins even more.
"Get over here," he commands.
You unbuckle, the chime of the car’s warning system adding a frantic rhythm to the air, and lean over the handbrake, onto his lap. His hand leaves the wheel just long enough to touch your jaw, thumb pressing once at the corner of your mouth before he lets go again. It isn’t soft, exactly. It’s intent. A quick claim on your attention.
"Knew you were full of bad ideas," he murmurs.
"You bought the car, then got behind the wheel looking like that. I’m just reacting appropriately."
His laugh breaks on the way out. "You’re insane."
You love him like this—still cocky, but all frayed at the edges, trying to keep himself together. The LEDs throw colour across the underside of his jaw. Gen spreads his legs as wide as the bucket seat allows, his left hand still navigating the wheel with a terrifying, one-handed confidence. He looks down at you, his pupils dilated until that thin rim of red is almost gone.
You don’t make him wait. You wrap your lips around him, the heat of his cock shocking against the coolness of your lips. He’s massive, stretching you until your jaw aches, tasting of salt and that heady male musk.
Gen’s head hits the seat with a dull thud. "Fuck," he hisses, his fingers tangling in your hair. His palm flattens at the base of your skull and guides, the curve of his thumb braced so every bob you take matches his drive.
You set a rhythmic pace, your tongue swirling over the sensitive underside of him while your hand reaches up to pump the base. You can feel every vibration of the car through him; the rhythmic thud of the tyres, the hum of the transmission. When he shifts gear, his right leg tenses, the movement forcing him deeper into your throat. You take it all, eyes watering, because if you’re going to do this in his stupidly gorgeous car, you may as well do it well.
The smugness goes out of him in increments. Not all at once. Bit by bit. A broken-off breath. The tendons in his neck standing out. A hard swallow he doesn’t hide quickly enough. The Supra gets louder when he pushes it, the sound filling the car and sinking into your bones. He’s driving by feel now, his focus split between the blurred road and the wet, suctioning heat of your mouth. His hand presses more firmly into your hair, not cruel, just honest about how gone he’s getting.
"Shit," he mutters, voice dropping lower. "You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?"
You do. That’s half the fun, too.
The last of his composure goes fast after that. His hips jerk upward, an instinctive, searching movement that he can’t quite suppress. You use your hand to massage his balls, your tongue flicking over his slit, before taking him so deep that your nose nudges against his jeans.
The speed readout on the dash climbs, and you feel it like a pressure in your chest. His teeth catch the inside of his cheek, and he begins to give himself up in smaller, sharper noises: a string of broken syllables, a sound that could be a laugh. You turn your head a little to look up at him, mouth full of him, and see his face transformed. The arrogance is gone, replaced by a raw, glassy-eyed desperation. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s turning white, his head rolling from side to side.
You feel the tremor start low in his pelvis and climb through the length of him. His hand on your head suddenly goes rigid. He clamps his fingers into your hair, pressing you down, forcing you to take every inch of him as he bottoms out in your throat.
"Come on," he breathes above you, not a command so much as a plea. "Make me—"
He hits his limit with a low, strangled growl. You swirl your tongue, hollowing and drawing until the first flood shocks you—hot, thick, filling your mouth in a way that almost knocks the air out of you. He holds you there, forcing you to swallow every drop, and you do, even as he continues to twitch inside you.
Then, the Supra decelerates, the engine braking providing a heavy drone as Gen finally lets off the throttle. It stays true in its lane anyway, as if the car itself has learned to accommodate his worst habits. Gen is slumped back in the seat, his hand still heavy on your head, his chest heaving.
You pull back slowly, still tasting him in the back of your throat, smiling with the smugness of someone who knows they’ve won. There’s a softness at the edges of him now; he seems dazed. His hair is a mess, the grey and black strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looks at you as if he’s never seen you before—as if you just managed to pull off a move he didn’t even know existed.
Afterwards, he’s quiet. Not for long (he’s still Gen) but long enough to enjoy.
You sit back in the passenger seat and reach for your seatbelt again, not bothering to hide your grin. Your lipstick is probably gone. Your hair definitely isn’t where you left it.
Then he glances over and catches your expression.
"Oh, don’t do that," he says.
"What?" You feign innocence.
"That look."
"I have no idea what you mean."
He laughs once, incredulous, then scrubs a hand over his mouth. "You are so full of yourself."
He shifts, pulling his trousers back together with hands that are still visibly trembling. He looks out at the road, then back at the dashboard where the Tamagotchi is still blissfully asleep.
"You’re the one who told me to get over there."
"Yeah, well." He shifts down, the car answering with that same deep growl. "I was curious."
You turn toward him fully, resting an elbow against the door. "And?"
His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. That tiny tell; effort not to hand you a win too easily. Then he looks at you with the corner of his mouth lifting, eyes still a little hazy despite himself.
"And," he repeats, "you’re not allowed to act surprised when we get home and I return the favour."
You grin. The Supra drops into the next stretch of road like it owns it.
He drives one-handed for a moment, the other coming over to squeeze your knee, and even now—hair a mess, ego dented, bottom lip still a little swollen—he looks devastating.
"I still hate your new bumper sticker," you say.
He barks out a laugh so sudden it fills the whole car.
"Shut up," he says, smiling now. "You love my taste."
You swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the last of him, and let your grin widen.
"Hell yeah, I do."