Work Text:
Shit.
Red. Blue. Purple. The lights flash and roll like waves inside their glass enclosures, a pretty picture painted in your rearview mirror. You murmur a string of expletives to yourself, yanking your foot off the gas pedal, letting your car coast off the side of the road, past the solid white line, pulling onto the gravely shoulder. Between a thick line of trees and the two-land road–the less-traveled path that serves as the opposite of a shortcut from campus to your apartment but has far less rush-hour traffic–you push the gearshift into park.
Grateful to finally be out of the dormitory trenches, you have enjoyed living off-campus with roommates you got to pick and choose, and a designated parking spot in the covered garage. However, the drive from five o’clock to six-thirty was a hellish adventure, one you’d try to bypass as much as possible. Exam season was upon you, and late nights in the library were unavoidable. As were eager police officers trying to meet their end-of-month quota.
You take in a deep breath, pressing your shoulders against the cool leather seat to collect yourself for just a moment before reaching into the passenger side glove box to retrieve your registration and car insurance, kept neatly organized in an envelope for this exact occasion. Your license is in your wallet, inside the front pocket of your backpack, sitting erect on the seat next to you. All three documents in hand, you roll down the window just in time for the officer to approach.
Cut off at the shoulders by the low roof of your sedan, his body stands outside your car door. With a flashlight in tow, he leans down, flickering the light into the inside of your car.
“Good evening, officer,” you say as politely as you can muster while also being temporarily blinded.
“Hello there,” he responds in a single breath. The words are courteous, but his tone is unmistakably professional and cold. “Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Aghast at the accusation, you gasp, pressing a flat palm to your chest. “No, of course not. I’m just driving home from the library.”
He hums, nodding. “License and registration.” Not a question. Not a request. A command.
Officer Kennedy, as reads the patch on his shirt, aims the flashlight down to the ground outside, and once your pupils adjust for the second time, you’re able to make out the details of his face: as chiseled as a Greek statue yet as soft and warm. All rosy cheeks and dimples. He’s in uniform, dark pants and a button-down shirt in the same color, short-sleeved to show off the well-maintained arms that extend from them. Handsome.
You hand him the documents and he raises the flashlight once more, directing the light to your driver’s license and the tri-folded paper behind it. Blue eyes scan the card, his brow creasing.
“So, um…” Your voice trails off as you decide the most polite way to phrase the question so eager on the tip of your tongue. “Why was I pulled over, officer?”
“Your license is expired,” he says, ignoring your question, though if you ask why he gave you a ticket, you’re sure that would be the answer.
“What?” Your lips part, mouth pursing to form a circle. Surely he can hear the genuine shock in your voice. Right? “Are you sure?”
He lowers his eyes, giving you a daring look. “Yes, I’m sure. It says right here, miss.” His finger comes up to point at the date printed on the card, nestled in nicely right beside your picture. It expired last week. “It’s against the law to drive with an expired license.”
“I seriously had no idea,” you plead, throwing your hands up in defense. “I swear, officer. I’m a student. It’s exam week. I haven’t even looked at my license in…well, forever. If I knew, I definitely would have gone to the DMV to have it renewed, I swear.”
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, gestures thick with disapproval. “It’s your civic duty to pay attention to these things, miss. Like I said, driving with an expired license…it’s a misdemeanor.”
The word is heavy, hitting your ears like the cupped hands of a boxer. It knocks the wind out of your lungs. Goodbye, grad school. Goodbye, career. Vicious tears well up on your lashline.
“Officer, please,” you cry, fingernails digging into the leather of the interior door. “I had no idea, really. This is my first time being pulled over, and I don’t even know what I did wrong or why. And I had no idea my license was expired, really. I promise.”
“I’ll be right back,” is all he says, taking your documents to the sedan parked behind you, lights still blaring from the roof.
You sit inside your car, hands trembling, lip quaking, eyes red and bleary. Not so much as a parking ticket is on your record. Not so much as a jaywalking charge. He won’t find anything, and that gives you a sliver of hope, the only beacon of light keeping you from melting into a puddle of worry on your seat.
A misdemeanor. That’s serious. That’s a strike–more than a strike. That’s permanent. A misdemeanor can mean assault, drunk driving, or theft. A misdemeanor can mean jail time. Time you can’t afford.
A fine.
A fine you can’t afford, not as a student on an already hermetic budget.
He’s back before you can begin your breakdown, tapping on the frame of the door with the butt of his flashlight. “I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle, miss.”
“What? Why?”
“Please do what I ask, and you’ll be on your way before you know it.”
“Can I ask why you need me to step outside? Why was I even pulled over in the first place?”
“Step outside the car, miss.”
In an act of complete and total desperation, you shrug your cardigan off your arms. Now clad in nothing but a tank top and skirt, you unlock your car door and step outside, the rubber soles of your flats squelching on the gravely asphalt. The air smells like petrichor, pine, and loam–wet and cold. You can already feel your nipples harden beneath your too-thin, barely-there bra as a brisk Spring wind passes by, slapping against your face and arms.
His eyes fall to your chest, if only for a fleeting moment, before rising back to meet your gaze.
“Thank you.”
Officer Kennedy is young, probably not much older than yourself, and he isn’t horrible looking. No, he’s handsome. And he’s new, guessing from the textbook language he used, and his own shaky hands as he handles your license.
“Why was I pulled over?” You prod, deciding this may not be the best tactic for getting yourself home before dawn. Too late, the words have already left your tongue in a defensive tone, causing Officer Kennedy to narrow his eyes and crease his brows.
“You were swerving into the other lane,” he replies shortly, placing one hand on his belt, the other gesturing to the dotted line in the middle of the road. “I’m going to have you complete a field sobriety test–”
“What?”
He ignores you. “Now can you please recite the alphabet backwards, starting at ‘z’.”
“No one can do that,” you whine, throwing your hands up in defeat. “Not even sober. It’s impossible.”
He blinks hard, perhaps thinking that you’re right and it’s an unfair ask. A tired exhale leaves his nostrils, shoulders faltering. “Are you refusing to comply with the test?”
“Yes–no–I mean, it’s not fair. I–”
Idiot. You should have just tried, even if your brain is mush from studying for twelve hours, even if you feel super defensive right now, even if you’re running on two hours of sleep and three-hundred milligrams of caffeine.
It’s too late. You hear the metallic clink of handcuffs as he pulls a pair from his belt, asking you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.
You open your mouth to refuse–to explain–but it’s of no use.
“Turn around,” he repeats, voice lower this time, though with just as much feigned authority as before. And you do. You turn around and give him your wrists, letting him cage them in the metal prisons, letting him walk you to the back of his car, hand coming to the crown of your head to guide you into a seated position on the cool leather cushion beneath your thighs.
Before he can ask you to pivot your legs inside the car, or move to shut the door, you stick one limb out, keeping it open.
“Surely, there has to be another way, officer.”
The words disgust you as they leave your tongue, but you can’t deny the excitement bolting through your nerves. You should really get some sleep or take a break from the textbooks, because you’re not feeling much like yourself tonight. Too bold. Too reckless. Bribing a police officer with sex might land you with two charges, but you trust that the handcuffs won’t come off until you’re booked for the night, so this really is your last chance for freedom. Your last chance to sleep in your own bed tonight.
His eyes widen as your legs part, exposing the drenched gusset of your panties to him as you lean back, pressing your weight into your palms. He stutters, mumbling an incoherent string of nothingness. You can make out something about this being unethical, maybe, or how it’s against the law to bribe an officer–nothing that was said with a whole lot of conviction.
But you’re determined. Determined to not go to jail. Determined to get back to your cozy apartment, beneath the blankets of your own bed. Determined to make it to your 9am study group.
You lift one foot off the ground, point your toe to drag it up the length of his slack-clad thigh. A full-body shudder rolls through him, causing a hand to race to the side of the door, fingertips clawing at the white paint. A groan as the toe of your shoe traipses closer and closer to his groin.
“S-stop that,” he whines, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t back up or pin you down or shut the door. In fact, his hips jolt forward, giving you all the non-verbal permission you need to continue. “You’re under arrest.” His voice is weak.
“Come on, Officer Kennedy,” you goade. “It’s late. Isn’t there something I can blow on to prove that I wasn’t drinking?”
Pupils eclipsing the blues of his irises, he stares down at you.
“I wasn’t drinking,” you affirm. “I can prove it.”
“How’s that?” It’s barely above a whisper.
“Come kiss me.” You trace the lines of your lips with your tongue, an obscene, pornographic gesture. “And see if you taste any alcohol.”
Without a second to waste, he dives into the backseat of his vehicle, landing on top of you with all the desperation and enthusiasm of an empty-belled puppy. His body is warm against your exposed skin, carved arms coming to either side of your waist, fingertips digging into your flesh. He kisses you, hungry and needy, tongue gathering yours in a sultry tango. He tastes like mint and his lips are soft.
“This is so wrong,” he huffs into your mouth, the chastisement directed more at himself than at you. “We shouldn’t.”
So easy.
“Officer K–”
“Leon,” he corrects, breaking away from a kiss to meet your gaze. Leon. The newbie cop arresting a college student to prove he’s so big and strong. Leon. The twenty-something boy that, in another life, could be in one of your classes. Leon. The office you’re kissing in the back of his police car.
“Leon,” you repeat aloud, pushing up to plant another onto his lips, though you’re sure you prefer calling him ‘officer’.
He’s so beautiful, you think as you pull away an inch to admire the lines and curves of his face. A soft jaw and even softer cheeks. A straight nose that draws the eyes down to the dimple in his chin, sitting below a set of plump lips. Perhaps, this has become less of a way to get out of these cuffs and on your way back home, and more of a way to take out the pent-up tension from weeks of back-breaking study. Flash cards and study guides replaced by Leon’s mouth on yours, his fingers curling at the hem of your panties.
You let out a gasp as he dusts his thumb across your throbbing clit. Your hips buck up, trying to find the sensation once more. His name is a whisper on your lips as his mouth comes to your neck, hot and wet, and his hand comes to the small of your back, keeping most of your weight off your cuffed hands, helping you stay erect, sitting up.
“Can I push these to the side?”
He looks up at you, fingers ghosting the crotch of your panties, inserting one as you nod in permission. There’s no resistance as he slides in another finger, collecting your arousal on his palm as he fucks the digits into you. The stretch has you purring like a kitten, and once he’s knuckle-deep inside, pressing the button that has your vision blurring at the corners, you’re crying out for him to keep going.
Part of you wants to stay cuffed, so you don’t dare complain about the metal digging into the raw skin of your wrists. Part of you want to be set free so you can grab at the taut muscles of his back as he fucks you on his hand, pumping harder as you approach your climax.
“Woah,” he says, eyes blown with awe. “I can feel that.”
You’re clenching around his fingers as the peak of your orgasm hits you, abdomen tensing and releasing, walls throbbing. You cry out like a wounded animal, the pleasure in your voice echoing off the roof of the sedan.
He whines as you confess that you want to feel him inside you. He whimpers when you open your knees wider.
“Please, officer.”
“Are you sure?” He asks, already unzipping his pants, shoving them down alongside his briefs.
In the dark of the night, you can’t make out the details of his cock, but you can feel the head as he guides it to your entrance, soaked and desperate for something to cling to, ready to be stretched.
“Yes, I’m sure,” you promise in a pitchy cry. “Need you inside me, Officer Kennedy.”
He curses under his breath, whether from the feeling of his head pressing inside you, or the formal address…you’re not sure.
And you don’t really care, because once you feel the white-hot sensation of his cock filling you up, there’s no room for anything else to occupy your thoughts. He bottoms out, falling down onto you, pressing your back and arms into the seat.
“Fuck,” he groans at your ear before begining to pump in and out of you, pulling his cock out an inch, returning with twice the amount of force and heat. “You feel so good.”
“So do you, officer,” you mewl in a seductive rasp, tossing your head back in the pleasure the rhythm brings as he trusts his hips, the head of his cock hitting the button behind your pelvis. “So good.”
He fucks you into the seat, his hands gliding up and down your back, your waist, the flesh of your thighs, grabbing and taking like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. His cock pistons into you at a growing speed, and his grows turn deeper, more desperate. His movements become sloppy, less ordered and precise, as he gives into the molten pleasure running through him.
“Holy shit,” he gasps as you clench one more, this time around him, as you chase after your second orgasm, which is fast approaching. “I’m gonna come.”
The two of you find your releases, one after the other, and Leon crashes on top of you as he finishes inside you…at your request, of course. Chest heaving, he plants tiny pecks down your jaw, the length of your neck, huffing out labored breaths as he does so.
“Told ‘ya I wasn’t drunk,” you quip, looking up at Leon as he pulls himself out of you, all flushed and ruddy and glistening with sweat. “Though I think you might be under some sort of influence now.”