warnings : male masturbation; Gator kinda have a kink for innocence; reader falling in love easily; nothing else needed i guess; proofread; possible grammatical errors ; english is NOT my first language
💌 Lillie talks : umh sooo here’s the first part of my little serie about Gator because i’m having an obsession with him right now. Enjoy girls !! 💕(posting this at 2 a.m btw i need some sleep ig) Read more of my work here : masterlist. Request are always open, feel free to ask anything !
The day Gator laid eyes on you, he was captivated. It was an early Sunday morning. You were sitting front row at church, the pastor standing right in front of you behind the altar while he pronounced the sermon. You listened carefully, hands folded on your lap and a small grin on your lips.
The church was surprisingly full today, most of the time there was a lot of missing people, those who only came on important days or once a month just because it looked right. But you, you were here every Sunday. For the past five months since you arrived here, you hadn’t missed a single one service. You always sat on the first pew so you could hear well and always wore a dress from your "church-appropriate" collection. The old ladies that have been coming here for decades always took the time to help you feel a little more at home in this church.
Gator Tillman arrived mid sermon, wearing a black button-up shirt with a black pant, his sheriff’s badge hanging around his neck. The sound of his boots on the tiles echoed through the building, making everyone turn towards him and cutting the pastor in his words. That was something Gator knew how to do—draw attention. Most of the time, all eyes were on him no matter where he was. He was handsome, and every girl had a chance with him as long as things didn't get serious. Plus, he was the son of the Roy Tillman.
Those were the first things we told you when you arrived. Some old women told you that the sheriff’s son was a pretty boy, able to take care of you and protect you. On the contrary, girls your age said he was the biggest jerk who ever lived, with his stupid slicked-back hair and that smirk he always had on his face — at least when he wasn’t in a mood.
His eyes wandered around the room, taking in each person sitting in front of him. Then his gaze settled on you. He had never seen you before. He checked on you from head to toe, paying attention to every detail of your figure. Starting with your straight hair who were slightly curled on the end, they fell perfectly on your shoulders. Then he saw the dress you wore, a little white dress with short, puffed sleeves that fell to your knees, embellished with a few lace details at the collar and sleeves. He saw your hands resting on your thighs, then lower down, your pink ballet flat decorated with a small pink ribbon.
He scoffs once and shook his head, clearly thinking that an innocent looking creature like you shouldn’t be living around here. His gaze leaves you to focus back on the pastor, even if he wasn’t truly listening.
When the ceremony ended, he hurried out before anyone else. When he reached his car, he didn't get in, he just leaned his back against the door, crossed his arms and waited. Waited for you. He needed to know more about the new girl in town.
When you got out, he spotted you almost immediately in the crowd. You walked with an old lady gripped on your arm to steady herself, you were smiling to her. He could see your face properly now. Your perfect smile spread across your face, your eyes lightened by the sun. That gold necklace around your neck reflecting the sun’s rays.
He takes a puff on his vape, his brows furrowed and eyes slightly squinted from the day light. He knew you were coming his way because he was parked next to a convertible Mini Cooper, and who else could possibly be driving a Mini Cooper ?
You politely smiled to the old lady before heading toward your car. Gator quickly puts his vape in his pocket and walked slowly toward you already standing beside your car.
He leaned against the door with his forearm, “Hey, miss.” He said, “You’re new here ?”
You looked up and met his gaze, he was almost a head taller than you. “Not really,” you smiled politely after seeing his badge, “I moved here five months ago.”
His eyes inspected you once again, seeing that your golden necklace was a small cross. “Never seen you around.” His gaze lowered down again, landing on your hands and your red-painted nails.
“I’ve never seen you either.” You said with a small grin making him smirk.
“Living alone ?” He asked.
“No,” you shook your head, “I live with my parents.”
He nods once, “’K,” his eyes inspecting you one last time, “be safe, wouldn’t want a pretty girl like you to get in trouble.” He winked at you before returning to his car. Your cheeks flushed pink as he looked at you one last time in the side mirror, before leaving.
You felt a little bit embarrassed, this was a weird first meeting. You shook your head to get that out of your mind before you get in your car and start the engine.
It was a fifteen minutes drive from the church to your house, fifteen minutes of listening to random pop girlie songs on your favorite radio.
When you finally arrived, you parked your car in the driveway in front of your house. It was a small white one story house, with green shutters and a brown tiled roof. There was a wooden porch, decorated with flowers and vines, on which rested two armchairs. High trees surrounded the building, slightly hiding the small ranch behind the house. And beside your car was parked your grandfather red truck, an old pickup that was a little beat up.
It was your grandparents house before you moved in, well it basically still is because your granddad is still alive. You and your parents moved in with him after the death of your grandmother, he was feeling so alone. And since she was the one who took care of him since he’d lost his ability to walk, someone had to replace her. So you left your peaceful life to come here in North Dakota.
When you opened the door, you found him alone in the living room, sitting in his wheelchair in front of the TV. He was watching an old baseball match he’d already watched a thousand times before. He loved seeing his team win. You smiled and quickly climbed up the stairs to your room.
You couldn’t really stop thinking about Gator, you weren’t really sure about his name but he was for sure the sheriff’s son and you doubted that there was two handsome men his age in the Tillman’s lineage. You thought about the way he looked at you from head to toe while licking his lips. How he smirked and winked at you, called you a pretty girl and then just walked away like nothing happened.
Maybe because it was nothing, it meant nothing. Gator had a reputation with girls and you knew it. You couldn’t help but blush thinking about him, it was stupid, he literally talked to you for less than a minute. But still, the way he stared at you gave you butterflies in your stomach. You always felt like that when a beautiful man talked to you.
When people told you about him, you didn’t imagine him like that. You thought he might be the kind of narcissistic guy who think he’s more handsome than everybody else, even tho your dead grandma is prettier than him. But shit, Gator was in fact really handsome. He managed to make your stomach shutters with less than 30 words.
The thing you didn’t know is that Gator thought the same about you. I mean, in his own way. Since his eyes found you in the church, he couldn’t stop thinking about that innocent looking girl he’d never seen before. But yet, in only an hour he managed to remember your entire body, and every single details about it.
Around 8 p.m., you were sitting across from your mom at the table, your dad sat next to her and your grandpa by your side. You ate in a silence filled with the sounds of the TV.
But then your mom spoke, “Joyce told me that you met the Deputy at church this morning.” Joyce has been her best friend since childhood, they told everything to each other, and you, talking to Gator Tillman was a gossip for some reason.
You looked up and found her gaze, “Uh.. yeah.”
“What did he told you ?”
You shook your head once, “Oh nothing, he just asked me if I was new here.” She nodded and got back to listening to the News playing on the TV.
After sipping the delicious tomato soup your mother had prepared, you quickly got back to your room. Tonight was the first truly warm night of spring, the air felt good and the breeze was cool enough to relieve you of the night's heat.
So you sat down by your window, with the windows wide open to air out the room, and went back to reading your romance novel. It was a cute little story between a young woman working in a coffee shop, who falls in love with her most regular client. You loved this book because you work in a coffee shop and secretly hoped that one day the love of your life will just pass the door and change your future.
—
While you were reading your fabulous book, Gator laid on his bed and thought about this morning. That white dress drove him crazy as his hand slid to his boxer, palming himself through the thin fabric. His breath fastened as he started stroking his dick over his boxer, still thinking about you.
“Fuck-” He said under his breath. You looked so beautiful to him, so angelic.
—
After reading for an hour, your eyes began to close automatically. So you stood up and kneeled down beside your bed to pray, before getting comfortable under the sheets and fall asleep quickly. This night you dreamt about Gator.
You imagined him pulling you over because you were driving too fast when you were late for work. He was leaning on your opened window frame with his forearm. His eyes scanned the inside of your car while you admired him standing just few inches from you. His breath was hot on your face when he leaned closer, his hazel eyes searched deep inside yours. Even in your dream he had that stupid grin, even in your dream he looked pretty.
Or maybe you weren’t dreaming ? Because right now Gator Tillman was giving you a ticket for driving 68 mph in a 45 zone.
“I didn’t saw the sign.” You tried to protest.
“That’s not my problem, miss.” He was dead serious. His brows furrowed and that grin absent, “I’m doing my job.”
You exhaled, “Please. I’m not driving like this usually, i’m just late.” You leaned in the window frame and gave him one of those look, the one that says ‘i’m an innocent girl that beg you to forget what just happened’. He suddenly stopped writing on his piece of paper and looked down at you.
He laughed once and put his pen and paper back in his vest pocket, “Where ‘you working ?”
“At Crux Coffee, officer.” (i actually found a real coffee named like this in Fargo and i thought let’s cross universe)
“That’ll do it for now.” He leaned down on your window again, “And it’s deputy, pretty girl.” He said with that same grin, before taping gently against your car to tell you to leave.
Your breath caught and your cheeks flushed pink from everything that happened right now. You weren’t even sure if this was real or if you were stuck in your dream from last night. Did he just called you ‘pretty girl’ again ? Or it was your imagination playing tricks.
The horn of his Sheriff car snapped you out of your thoughts. When you looked in the rearview mirror he was staring at you, gesturing to you with his hand to tell you to leave. So you did, you started your engine again and got back on the road to go to work.
Near the end of your shift, people stoped coming, only the two regular old men sat by the window and a young writer sipped her coffee at the center. Until the door bell rang, signaling that someone just entered the building.
You looked up and saw Gator, already leaning on the counter with his forearm.
“Oh, hey.” You said with a shy smile, your cheeks turning pink once again.
“Hey.” He leaned over a little more, “I’d like a black coffee, miss.”
“Yeah, of course.” You smiled to him, taking a deep breath before turning around to make his coffee. His gaze immediately lend on your ass in those jeans skirt. He licked his lips and smirked at the sight.
After few minutes, his coffee was finally ready, and you immediately served it to him. “There it is.” You said as you gently placed the cup on the counter.
He laughed once, “Thank you, pretty girl.” He winked, turned around and disappeared.
The next Sunday, Gator was at church, it was a record at this point. Gator Tillman coming to service two Sundays in a row was truly impressive. He was still siting at the back, still watching you. This time you were wearing a white embroidered blouse with a baby yellow shorts that reached down to your knees, and an other cute pair of suede ballet flats. Your hair were in a messy French braid, that gold necklace still hang around your neck and today you did a light makeup, just some blush and some mascara.
Gator licked his lips while his eyes roamed over your body, your clothes clung to the right places, leaving just enough for his imagination and making him bite on his lower lips. You looked so innocent sitting there in front of the Pastor, smiling widely when he looked at you while repeating his sermon.
When the ceremony ended you quickly got up and your gaze catches his. He nodded at you from the other side of the buidling, a way to say hello, with a slight smile on his face. You got out first, he was busy talking with the pastor, and when you walked past him his eyes instantly focused on you, making your cheeks flush pink and a faint smile spread across your face.
When you reached your car and sat inside, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Why does Gator Tillman have such an effect on you ? Why did you kept thinking about him for the past few days ? Why were you blushing every time he was around you ? Why do you get butterflies in your stomach every time he calls you ‘pretty girl’ ?
You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing your eyes. Then you started the car — at least you tried, because a weird sound came from the engine making it impossible for the car to start.
“Shit-” You said under your breath. If your mother had heard you she would have told you to put a dollar in the jar for the curse you just pronounced. A stupid rule she imposed when you were five, after learning a lot of curse words from the boys in your neighbourhood. That rule never really disappeared, it just became a habit.
Suddenly Gator’s head appeared behind the window, before gently tapping on it. You rolled down the window and smiled softly to him.
“A problem, miss ? Heard your car making a weird sound.” His hand gripped to the roof of your vehicle, as he leaned down to see you better.
“Yeah.. It won’t start.”
“Can I take a look ?” He nodded to the front of your car.
You nodded as an answer, then he opened the hood and leaned down again to check on the engine. You stayed beside for the whole five minutes he spend searching for an answer to your problem. But he found nothing.
“‘Don’t really see what’s wrong in there.” He straightens and wiped his hands. You couldn’t help but stared at them. His veins were thick, his fingers long and his forearms, god his forearms, they were breathtaking. A white soft skin, full of freckles and moles. You bit your lower lip, your heart beat fastened somehow and your cheeks flushed pink once again.
When you lifted your head and found his eyes, he was smiling and scoffed once, shaking his head slowly. “Can I offer you a ride ?”
“A- a rid- Yes, yeah, please.” You tried to smile, but your entire face turned red now. Either from embarrassment, either because the most handsome man (in your opinion) just offered you a ride home. He laughed once again, walked towards his car and sat in the driver seat before you could even start to walk.
You moved quickly when he closed the door and reached for the passenger seat. You sat down, and even before you could close the door, Gator started driving.
“So,” He started after driving for five minutes, “where do you live ?”
“After Roy-” You cleared your throat, “your father’s election sign, you turn on the first one on the right, it’s the first white house you see after 2 miles.”
“‘K” He said quietly.
You spent the last 10 minutes in a pure silence, the only sound behind the hum of the car. When you arrived, he parked in the hallway and stopped the engine, before turning toward you.
“You’ve arrived to your destination, miss.” He said with a playful grin.
You smiled shyly again, “Thank you.. Mister.”
He laughed quietly, “Call me Gator, baby.”
Your breath catches and your face turn red for the hundredth time since you met him last week. Baby ? You gave him a small smile before opening the passenger door and stepping a foot on the ground.
“See ‘ya.” He smirked, driving away. You exhaled slowly and took a deep breath before finally getting inside your house.
When you opened the door your mom stood beside the door, she was putting on her mud boots to go feed the horse.
“Oh, hey mom.” You smiled to her, your face was still red and unfortunately she noticed.
“Hey, girl.” She smiled back, “Gator’s making you such an effect.” She laughed.
You laughed quietly, closing the door behind you. “No, no I just-” You shook your head and smiled foolishly. And without finishing your sentence you climbed up the stairs to your room, hearing your mother laughing downstairs.
You threw yourself on your bed and kicked your feet in the air from excitement. Gator called you baby, and told you to call him by his name, after driving you home. Typic romcom story. It was stupid because this probably meant nothing. But you never really had a boyfriend before and nobody ever talked or looked at you the way Gator did.
On the drive back to the Tillman’s ranch, Gator bit his lips thinking about you. He had a new idea, a new goal. This goal was you. Gator wanted to fuck you. His cock hardened at the thought of you vulnerable under him, for him.
I’m the number 1 Gator Tillman is a huge sub truther so I simply must request a Gator made with straight whiskey - on the rocks - with a salty rim and a spicy rim, and added chili flakes 👀
This drink would be so nasty if I actually had to drink it lol
ruin you softly
pairing: gator tillman x reader
summary: he’s crude, cocky, and never shuts up. he's a badge-wearing headache with a vape addiction and a chip on his shoulder the size of Stark County. you don’t give him the time of day beyond a few fleeting moments of playing with him. until he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, frustrated, drunk, and hard… asking why he can’t get off to anyone but you.
you didn’t mean to break him, but now you’re the only one who knows how to put him back together.
wc: 17,602 (HEHE OOPS)
order up: an enemies-to-lovers Gator fic where the reader holds the upper hand and a submissive Gator is unraveling under it. He’s possessive but vulnerable, torn between pride and need, and the tension burns through every touch.
tw: smut (explicit), mild dubcon implications (power imbalance, alcohol), emotionally repressed, praise kink, unprotected sex, dry humping, power exchange, oral (m&f receiving), sub drop themes, dirty talk, jealousy, mild obsession, internalized misogyny, soft domination, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, body worship, power reversal
masterlist
oh anon, i had fun with this one.
The library smells like glue sticks and hand sanitizer. Gator’s been here five minutes and already wants to smoke about three cigarettes in a row.
He’s leaning against a shelf in the back corner of the kids’ section, arms crossed, badge catching the light. Roy’s campaign flyers are still stuffed in his jacket pocket, but the sheriff himself is off shaking hands at some VFW luncheon with Karen. So Gator gets the twins.
Jessica and Maude are crisscrossed on the carpet in front of the story circle, practically vibrating with excitement, and Gator’s trying not to look like a complete piece of shit while he waits. Failing, no doubt.
Then he sees you.
You’re sitting on one of those tiny upholstered cubes, one leg tucked under you, reading The Poky Little Puppy like it’s Shakespeare. Your voice is soft, steady, singsong in a way that makes half the kids go glassy-eyed. You wear a cardigan with little sunflowers on the buttons. There’s a pin shaped like a bat on your collar. You smile when you say ‘good morning’ to the group and it punches him square in the dick.
Jesus.
Your lips move like they’ve been rehearsed. You gesture gently, like every kid in front of you is made of glass. Your skirt hits just above the knee and your legs are crossed and it’s not even sexual, not really, but his brain is already off somewhere it shouldn’t be.
He shifts his stance. Regrets it immediately.
You probably live in some little pastel-colored house with a welcome mat that says wipe your paws and a bookshelf full of weird novels with fairies on the cover. Probably bake muffins on Sundays and drink tea with actual fucking honey. You probably think he’s a dirtbag just for existing in your vicinity.
He’s not offended.
You’re right.
But still. It’s the voice.
The book ends and the twins go running to pick out stickers from the treasure box, but Gator doesn’t move. You stand and straighten your skirt, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and then your eyes catch his.
He grins.
You don’t.
He saunters over anyway.
“Hell of a story,” he says. “That dog ever find the damn dessert?”
You glance at him sideways. “It’s a classic.”
“Sure. Just think he should’ve mauled one of the other puppies, maybe. Add some stakes.”
Your expression is polite. Dismissive. You reach for the stack of books beside your chair.
“You workin’ the front desk too? Or you just hang out back here with the rugrats?”
“I’m on shift until two. Deputy Tillman, right?”
He tips his Stark County Sheriff cap, probably thinking it's funny.
You don’t smile. You barely acknowledge him. Just start shelving books without giving him the time of day.
But he watches the way your fingers move over the spines.
“Y’know,” he starts, leaning a little too close to the cart you’re pushing, “my dad and Karen- well, a couple folks downtown too- they been sayin’ you’re sneakin’ in some woke shit during storytime.”
You don’t look up.
“Stuff about identity and… communism. Sharing and shit.” He makes a face like those are dirty words. “Guess that’s got 'em real nervous.”
Your hand freezes halfway through shelving a board book. You glance over your shoulder at him.
“So… empathy?”
He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can even try.
“Inclusive language isn’t a threat, Deputy. Telling a group of five-year-olds that it’s okay to be different doesn’t mean I’m handing out Molotov cocktails with the alphabet blocks.”
He blinks.
You turn back to your cart. “But if you’d like to take it up with the Board of Trustees, I’m sure they’d love to hear your thoughts on basic human decency.”
Gator frowns. Rubs the back of his neck. His mouth works like he wants to fire back but knows he shouldn’t.
Truth is, he probably doesn’t even believe half the shit Roy spouts in closed-door meetings. He just grew up marinating in it. And lately it’s started to feel like wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit.
Still, he’s got a job to do. And, in this case, the job is making a fool of himself in front of a hot librarian.
“I like the bat pin,” he tries. “Very seasonal. You into all that spooky shit?”
“Kids like Halloween.”
“You ever do costumes?” he asks, casual as hell, leaning one arm on the book cart like he owns the place.
You don’t answer, too busy shelving a stack of paperback Berenstain Bears. He keeps going.
“Bet you’d make a real cute witch,” he says, smirking. “All black and mysterious. Pointy hat. Stockins’, if you’re into that.”
You pause.
He grins wider. “Or like… a sexy librarian. That one’s kinda on the nose, though.”
Still no reaction.
“Or a cat. With the tail. Tight little bodysuit, ears up here—” He gestures vaguely near his head, eyes sliding down your figure. “You know, slutty Halloween classic. Me-ow and all that.”
Now you straighten. Slowly. Turn to face him with the full force of your unimpressed stare. Your voice doesn’t raise, doesn’t change tone. Just slices clean.
“Deputy Tillman, I’m working.”
It goes straight down his goddamn spine.
He blinks. Smiles, wide and wolfish.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Loud and clear.”
You go back to shelving. He makes himself walk away.
He’s still grinning when Jessica runs up to grab his hand, still grinning when Maude tries to show him the glitter sticker she picked out, still grinning when the door shuts behind you and he thinks about your mouth forming his name.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
Like, legally, he really shouldn’t be doing this.
But that doesn’t stop him. Never has.
Gator’s halfway down Maple Street in the cruiser, windows cracked, radio turned low, trying to come up with some halfway believable excuse for what he’s about to pull. Something about a neighbor complaint. Suspicious music. Kids tagging garages again. He’ll come up with the details on the porch.
Truth is, he’s been thinking about you all goddamn week.
Your mouth. That little sunflower cardigan. The way your voice went all quiet and scolding when you told him you were working. Like he was some idiot teen chewing gum too loud.
He’s jerked off three times since picking up the girls on Tuesday. Not that he’s counting. Once in the shower. Once in the car on lunch break, parked behind the old grain mill. Once in his room with the lights off and your voice playing on a loop in his head saying Deputy Tillman, I’m working.
He slows when he sees the pastel yellow bungalow with the porch swing. There’s a metal watering can on the steps. A string of paper leaves taped up in the window. He checks the address like he hasn’t already done that three times today.
Heart beating like a fucking idiot, he gets out and walks up to the door.
You open it after two knocks.
You look different in jeans and a sweatshirt. Still soft. Still pretty. Hair pulled back in a way that shows your neck. He tries not to look too long.
“Deputy Tillman,” you say, eyebrows raising slightly. “Is everything okay?”
“Got a call about a noise complaint,” he lies, hands resting easy on his belt like this is official business. “Figured I’d check it out.”
Your expression doesn’t change. You tilt your head. “I was listening to a podcast. About frogs.”
“Yeah? Must’ve been real rowdy frogs.”
Silence.
Then, impossibly, you smile. Just barely.
“Well, come on in then,” you say, stepping aside.
He swallows.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon and apples. There’s a bookshelf lined with worn paperbacks. A little crocheted blanket over the back of the couch. You don’t have the heat blasting, but it’s warm anyway. Cozy in a way that makes his chest feel weird, a way his home never felt.
He follows you toward the kitchen.
“So,” you say, casual, opening a cabinet. “Who made the complaint?”
“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anonymous. Neighbor didn’t leave a name.”
You hum like you don’t believe him, but you’re still pulling down a mug. He watches as you open a tin of looseleaf tea.
“You want honey or lemon?”
He blinks. “What?”
You glance over your shoulder.
“For your tea.”
“You’re—” He clears his throat. “You’re makin’ me tea?”
“Well, you came all the way out here for a noise complaint,” you say lightly, spooning out fragrant leaves like this is the most normal thing in the world. “It’s the least I can do.”
He leans against the counter and tries to play it cool, but something about the way you move is killing him. You’re not even trying. That’s the thing. You’re not trying, and it’s working.
He watches your hands again. The way your fingers cradle the handle of the kettle. The curve of your waist when you reach for the lemon. The pink of your lip when you bite it, just briefly, focused on the steam rising from the mug.
Christ.
You got mugs that match.
You got tea that doesn’t come in a bag.
You smell like books and soap and I’m gonna blow a fuse right here in your kitchen.
You set the mug down in front of him and he doesn’t even know what to say. Just stares at the little swirl of steam and wonders what the hell he thought was gonna happen here.
You sit down across from him at the little kitchen table, resting your chin in your hand.
“So, Deputy,” you say, soft voice like honey dripping off a spoon, “are you gonna need to investigate the rest of the house?”
He looks up.
You blink at him. Sweet. Innocent. Like it’s a real question.
He swallows hard. Tries not to smile like a goddamn cartoon wolf.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back. “Might be protocol.”
You nod. Push your chair back and stand.
“Well,” you say, voice light as air, “the bedroom’s this way.”
And then you walk down the hall.
And he follows, thinking he’s finally about to be in charge of something.
You lead him down the hall like it’s no big deal, like you’re not already two steps ahead of whatever clumsy plan he’s cooked up in that badge-polished brain of his. His boots thud behind you like he’s chasing something he thinks he’s already caught.
You step inside and he follows, dumb and hopeful, eyes skating over the room like he’s casing it for more than just fantasy. He’s already got his hands halfway into his vest when the door clicks shut behind him.
He turns.
You’re standing right in front of it, arms relaxed, head tilted. Watching him.
He opens his mouth. Probably to say something cocky, something crude and stupid like he always does. But before he can get it out, you’re already moving toward him and backing him up until his spine hits the wood of the door.
It’s not even hard, just firm. Unavoidable.
Your hands skim his vest like you’re checking the fit. His breath catches.
He reaches for your waist, lips curving in that smug little grin of his, already talking.
“Yeah,” he mutters against your cheek, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d feel good. Knew you’d come around eventually. Can’t fake it forever.”
His mouth is at your jaw now, sloppy and too eager. His hands go to the hem of your sweater, like he thinks he’s already got you spread across the bed in his head. He noses at your neck like it’s something to claim, muttering half-sentences against your skin.
Then your hand slides down.
You palm him over the front of his camo cargos, slow and certain.
He stutters out a breath like it surprises him, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him with that kind of control. His hips stutter, trying to chase your grip, but you stay exactly where you are.
You lean in close. So close your lips almost brush the shell of his ear.
And then you speak in a tone that’s like you’re reading him a bedtime story.
“Take off your vest and go lie down for me.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.
Then his mouth parts a little, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out except a breathy, choked little “yeah.”
You smile. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just patient.
Like you already knew this was how it was gonna go.
Gator swallows, but his eyes are already a little wide, his pupils already blown.
He doesn't take his vest off yet, but his hands find the hem of your sweater and push up under it. You stop him immediately.
"That wasn't what I asked. Do you need help?"
You sound so calm.
He's looking at you like he wants to eat you, like he's thinking about tearing through all the layers between you. Like he doesn't understand why he's not.
So you guide him by his hand to the bed, undoing his vest as you stand in front of him. It slides off his shoulders and onto the comforter and he looks down at you like he wants to say something.
"Now, will you sit for me?"
You ask it like a question, but it isn't. He knows it. You know it.
So he sits and looks up at you expectantly.
You smile. Gently, you run your hand along his face.
"There we go," you murmur, thumb rubbing along his stubbled cheek.
He makes a little noise, not quite a whimper. Not quite. He clears his throat immediately, like he was covering up what just escaped him.
"You're awfully quiet, Deputy." You say, the same hand trailing down his chest over his black t-shirt. "Cat got your tongue?"
You can see the way he fights himself not to lean into the touch, and the fact that he doesn't is endearing.
When he speaks, it's clear he's trying to take control again.
"Just thinkin' about what's gonna happen when I get my hands on you," he says, leaning back, arms braced against the mattress.
You smile, and your fingers trace over his chest more. "But you're still following directions, aren't you, Deputy Tillman? That's very good."
The words make him swallow hard, and you can see him tense, unsure of what to say or do, clearly thrown by your response.
"I don't know what you think you're doing but-"
"You don't need to talk, Deputy. Unless you need help. Do you need help?"
He's quiet again, watching you, and it's clear he doesn't know how to respond.
"Answer me. Or I'll stop." You say it firmly, and it makes his mouth open and close like he's trying to think of a snarky response.
Your hand trails down lower to his belt, just sort of tracing the shape but not doing anything more.
"Fuck, okay, I don't, I don't need help," he grumbles, and you can feel the way he's trying not to press against your touch.
"Good boy. Thank you."
It's clear that the phrase startles him, and the way his mouth opens just slightly, eyes going a little wider, makes the whole thing even better. You start to undo his belt, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, but then he snaps it shut again.
"Now, let's see what you've been hiding," you murmur, lowering to your knees in front of him and you move to unzip his cargos next.
"Uh, what?"
"This is what you wanted, right?" You look up at him, after you unzipped his pants, your hands on his thighs.
God he could finish just from that, just from the sight of you between his legs, just from the fact that it's actually happening, after a week of jerking off to the sound of your voice in his head.
"Use your words."
His breath catches. "Yeah. Yeah, it's what I want."
"I know."
His cheeks flush, and he has the urge to hide his face like a fucking idiot, but also, the sight of you there is almost too much to take.
"Do you want me to use my mouth on you, Deputy?"
"Fuck, yeah, yeah, I want you to, I want- "
You smile up at him.
"Then ask for it."
He's looking at you like a deer in the headlights, like his brain can't even compute what's happening. You wait patiently, not breaking eye contact.
"I don't beg," he finally blurts out, desperate, and it sounds almost painful, but his eyes are on your mouth, on the way you're just sort of waiting for him to comply. He's not sure why but the fact that he's sitting there, his dick twitching under the weight of your gaze, is making him even more turned on.
"Well, then I guess you're not getting it, Deputy."
You move to stand, and the panic sets in almost immediately.
"Wait, fuck, please. I- I'll beg, please," he says quickly, his voice strained, and god it shouldn't be hot, shouldn't be, but he's not really thinking about it.
"Oh?"
"Please, please I want- I want your mouth on me," he mumbles, eyes downcast, and there's something in his voice, something soft and desperate that wasn't there before.
"That's a start," you say softly, and now you're looking at him with a fondness, and your hands are working his cargos off. "Lift your hips for me."
"Yes, ma'am."
It's automatic, the words and the action, and it's clear that he wasn't planning on saying that, based on the way his eyes flick away from you. But he complies anyway, lifting his hips off the bed.
His cargos are down, and his black boxer briefs are tight, and his erection is clear and straining against the fabric. You move to palm him through the briefs, and his breath catches.
"Fuck, please," he whimpers.
"What do you want?" You look up at him.
"Please, can you- fuck, I'm so fucking hard."
You smile. "You'll have to be more specific, Deputy."
"Can you- fuck, just suck me off already," he blurts, and he's flushed, the color rising in his cheeks and ears.
"That sounds an awful lot like a command, Deputy."
He groans. "No, fuck, it wasn't, please. Please suck me off. Please."
"I think I like the sound of you begging. Maybe you should keep going."
He huffs. "I want- I want your mouth," his voice is strained, and his cock is twitching, and his breathing is a little more labored. "Please, please can you- can you just put me in your mouth? I've been thinkin' about your lips all goddamn week. Please, please just do somethin' already."
His words are rushed, and the fact that he's actually begging makes heat rush straight between your legs.
"Well, color me surprised, I didn't think you'd actually fold that easily." You say it lightly, like his pleading isn't having any effect on you, and when you speak, his eyes meet yours, and there's a vulnerability there that wasn't there before.
You palm him gently again, and the way he groans makes you bite your lip.
"Please." His voice is soft.
"Look at you," you say, and there's something in your tone, something warm and approving, and you can see the way it hits him.
"Please."
You lean forward, and your nose grazes the outline of his cock. "Well, since you asked so nicely."
He lets out a breath through his nose and you smile, mouthing along his length through his briefs, and the way his hips jump is almost enough to make you laugh.
"Fuck," he mutters, and the word comes out choked.
You hum, and the vibration makes him let out a small moan, one that he immediately covers up.
"What was that, Deputy?"
"Nothin', nothing, I'm-"
You lick along the outline of his cock, and his breath catches, a soft, choked sound escaping him.
"Fuck, oh my god," he murmurs.
You smile, and it's a little wicked, and it's enough to make his cock twitch again.
"Do you like that, Deputy?" You're teasing him, and it's clear, and he can't help but groan, his face flushed and eyes downcast.
"Yeah, I do, fuck, please don't stop," and he's practically rambling, like his mind can't process the fact that his cock is leaking and you haven't even taken his briefs off yet.
"Hmm," you say, and then you pull his briefs down, and his erection bobs out, flushed and red and dripping precum. He's so hard and he's so desperate. God, if anyone could see him like this, he's not sure he'd survive.
"Oh, wow," you breathe, and the way you're looking at him is almost too much, and he swallows hard.
"Please," he croaks, and the desperation in his voice is obvious.
"You're so pretty, Deputy," you murmur, and then your lips are ghosting the tip, and his hips buck, and the sound he makes is high and strangled.
"Men... men aren't supposed to be pretty," he manages, and his voice is unsteady, like he's repeating something he's only heard and doesn't actually believe.
"But you are. Look at you."
You're just mouthing little kisses along his length now, and it's making him crazy.
"M'not pretty," he manages.
You hum against his shaft and it makes him jerk.
"S'true, I'm not. Men aren't, fuck, they aren't-"
"Shh, Deputy, you're okay," and your voice is soothing and gentle.
"I'm okay," he echoes.
"Mm-hm."
You take his tip in your mouth, just sucking softly, and the groan he lets out is long and needy.
"Please," he chokes, his voice cracking.
"Shh," you say, and then the hand not resting on his thigh comes up to stroke the base of his cock, and the noise he makes is desperate.
"Holy fuck, oh my god, please," his words are tumbling out, like his brain has completely shut off.
Your lips slide down lower, and your tongue moves along the underside of his shaft, and the choked moan he lets out is obscene.
He's trembling a little, and the hand not in his hair is clenching the comforter, and the sight is beautiful.
"Shh," you say, pulling away with a pop. The sound he makes is involuntary.
"Please, please, oh my god, oh my fucking god," his eyes are closed, and his brow is furrowed, and his breath is coming in shallow little pants.
"Gator."
The word comes out softly, gently, but his eyes snap open. There's a vulnerability there, something a little wide and shocked.
"I'm gonna go nice and slow, and I want you to count. Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," and his voice is low and breathy.
You lean in again, taking him slowly, his breath catching.
"One," he manages, and his hips are trembling.
"Good boy," you murmur, pulling off, and the praise makes his breath catch.
"Two."
You move back in, sucking along his shaft, the noise he lets out is long and low.
"Thr-three."
You work him deeper, a desperate, needy groan escapes him.
"Four."
His voice is soft, like the numbers are something to hold on to.
"Five," he gasps.
Your hand reaches up to rest on his chest and the contact makes him groan again. The way his hips jerk makes you smile.
"Six."
His breaths are ragged and labored, the sight is a beautiful thing as you look up at him, your mouth full of his cock. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, just slightly, like his mind can't even process what's happening. His usually slicked back hair is slightly messy from him running his hands over it.
"Please, please, oh my god, fuck, seven, fuck," voice is a little higher, a little more unsteady, and the fact that his control is slipping is delicious.
You start to work his cock faster, and the choked moan he lets out is loud.
"Fuck, please, please, please. Eight. Nine, oh my god, nine."
He's stuttering, his eyes closing.
Your mouth is moving, and the sounds are lewd, and the fact that you're doing this to him, the fact that you're the one who is in charge, the fact that you're the one bringing him apart is making him crazy.
You're bobbing, the hand that was stroking his base is moving lower to massage his balls, eliciting a strangled and desperate noise.
"Fuck, ten, oh my god, eleven, fuck, twelve, oh my fucking god, thirteen, fourteen," his brain is melting, and it's the prettiest thing.
Your other hand reaches up to gently run down his torso, underneath his shirt, and the contact makes his body shiver.
His cock twitches in your mouth and you moan a little around him. The sound is enough to make his eyes snap open, the noise that escapes his throat a strangled, choking sort of sob.
"Shit, fuck, fuck, oh my god, I'm, shit, twenty, oh my fucking god," and the words are a jumble, and his hips are jerking, and his thighs are trembling, and it's obvious how close he is.
When your nails scratch down his torso just a little, his back arches.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, fuck, oh my god, please." His words are rushing out as his hands clench.
You're moving faster and the wet sounds are filthy, the way his breath is catching is perfect. You look up and catch his eyes with your own, making him spill a litany of curses and prayers, his voice breaking deliciously.
You can tell he's close. You pull off just enough to say "ask me nicely," and the whine he lets out is pathetic, like the act of speaking is impossible.
His voice is broken, like he's never asked for anything before. “Please.”
"Please what, Deputy?" Your words are a purr.
"Can I- fuck, can I cum? Wanna cum so bad, wanna cum for you…”
"Eyes on me." You say softly, before sticking your tongue out and stroking him slowly.
"Yes, fuck, please, thank you, yes.” The gratitude is a little surprising, a little sweet.
He cums in hot spurts, his eyes a little wet. You have a hard time catching all of it in your mouth, so some leaks out.
"Thank you, thank you, holy shit." He looks completely wrecked.
You swallow and the way his cock twitches makes him let out a desperate whine.
"That was so good, Deputy," you murmur, wiping the corner of your mouth. "You did such a good job."
The phrase is enough to make his eyes widen a little, his chest heaving, and it's clear to you then that praise is a shock for him.
"Did a good job," he echoes, and the words are soft, like he's testing the sound of them.
"You did. You did a great job." You place a soft kiss to his now limp cock. "So good for me."
"Yeah," he manages, and it's obvious he's trying to process what's happened.
You start to get up, watching him as you do. His gaze is on you, and it's clear that the fact that you're still clothed, while he's half bare and panting, is starting to sink in.
"I think I might take a shower," you say casually, walking towards the bathroom.
"Wait, wait, are you—you're leaving?"
The way he says it is vulnerable, a little uncertain.
You turn around then.
"I think the only noise complaint was coming from your mouth, Deputy."
His eyes widen a little.
"Get yourself cleaned up. You know the way out."
"But-"
You're already stepping into the bathroom, closing the door.
There's a pause, and the silence feels heavy.
He swallows, clears his throat, runs a hand down his face. Sits there, half-naked and dumb, his mouth hanging open, his brain still fuzzy.
He doesn’t have to be here.
In fact, there’s probably some minor infraction happening across town. Like someone jaywalking, or the high school kids smoking behind the Taco Bell again. And yet, Gator’s cruiser is parked right outside the public library like he’s got a goddamn overdue research paper.
He told Roy he was “checking on a community concern.” Left it vague on purpose. It’s not even a lie, technically. The concern is that his brain hasn’t stopped replaying the sound of your voice saying “good boy” on a loop for seventy-two hours, and if he doesn’t see you again soon he might actually melt into the vinyl seat of his patrol car.
When he walks in, you're behind the main desk typing something into the computer. Sweater again, this one pale blue with little cloud buttons. Your hair’s pulled back. Glasses on.
You don’t look up when the door chimes.
You don’t flinch when he walks past the kid’s section.
You don’t even blink when he leans one elbow on the counter and says, “Afternoon.”
You glance up, totally placid. “Deputy Tillman. Everything alright?”
He swallows. Your voice is light. Polite. Absolutely fucking criminal.
“Uh, yeah. Just followin’ up on that… noise complaint.”
You blink. Tilt your head a little, a quirk he won’t admit he finds cute. “The frogs?”
“Right. Rowdy bunch.”
You nod once, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. “Well, I haven’t played any amphibian-themed podcasts at top volume lately, if that’s what you’re here about.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Community check-in, then. Public safety and such.”
“Mmm. Of course.”
You go back to typing.
He stands there like a dumbass, just watching your fingers move across the keyboard like they didn’t make him beg a few nights ago. Like you didn’t lick the tip of his cock and praise him like he was something worth praising.
The contrast is making him crazy.
You glance up again. “Did you need help with something?”
He clears his throat. “Thought maybe I’d, uh, do a walkthrough. Safety inspection.”
“Of the library?”
He nods, almost too fast. “Uh-huh. Could be… fire hazard, exposed wiring, structural…” His eyes flick to a clearly labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door behind the desk. “Mold.”
You blink once, slow. “Right. The hidden black mold epidemic in rural North Dakota.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
A beat. Then you close the lid of your laptop and gesture toward the hallway behind you.
“Well, you’re welcome to take a look around, Deputy. Just don’t get lost in the archives.”
He nods, stepping around the desk like he belongs there, like he’s not just following the smell of your perfume and the ghost of your mouth on his cock. The hall is narrow, lined with staff posters and a flickering light overhead. You’re already walking ahead of him, casual as anything, hands in the pockets of your skirt.
And then you stop in front of a half-closed door marked “STAFF WORKROOM.”
You glance over your shoulder. “This one’s usually the messiest. Just FYI.”
He swallows, heart knocking around in his chest like it wants out.
“Appreciate the warning,” he mutters, trying to sound casual, but his voice is already lower, rougher. Hungry.
You open the door.
You step inside.
He follows.
And just like that, you’re alone again.
Same silence. Same still air.
Only now there’s a copy machine humming in the corner and the scent of dust and paper and whatever lotion you’re wearing.
He turns toward you. You’re already shutting the door behind you.
The door clicks shut and the lock slides into place like a punctuation mark. Gator stands there, hands on his hips, trying not to stare but already failing. He doesn’t know what he expected. A dusty filing cabinet. Maybe an unplugged laminator.
You don’t say anything at first. Just turn around slow, eyes dragging over him like you’re measuring something. He feels like a piece of furniture.
A big, twitchy, half-hard piece of furniture.
“Deputy,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
He licks his lips. “Think so.”
You move slowly across the room, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Pale blue sweater, neat little collar poking out, sleeves pushed to the crook of your elbows. You’re not even trying to be sexy. Which makes it worse.
Gator’s eyes drag down you. The way your skirt shifts when you move. The soft curve beneath the waistband. He swallows, shifts his stance. Tries not to imagine what your tits look like without the sweater in the way. Fails immediately.
Bet they’re soft. Bet they’d fill both hands just right. Jesus. Stop. Focus.
But he doesn’t look away.
You pause, fingers absently straightening a stack of construction paper. Not a single glance in his direction. You’re letting the quiet stretch, just to see what he does with it.
And Gator? Gator’s dumb enough to fill the silence.
“You always keep the door locked on inspection tours?” he asks, voice a little rough.
You hum like you’re thinking about it. Still not looking at him. “Only when I know you’re gonna stare at my tits again.”
Gator chokes.
You finally turn.
Eyes calm. Voice sweet.
“Been catching you,” you continue, stepping toward him, “Every time you think I’m not looking.”
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
You stop in front of him, just a little too close. Close enough he can smell whatever lotion you’re wearing. Close enough he can see the edge of lace peeking from under your sweater collar. His brain drops the rest of its vocabulary.
“I don’t mind,” you say. “Just figured you should know I notice.”
Your hand lifts—gentle, light—and smooths the edge of his collar. He’s standing still now, statue-stiff, cock already heavy in his pants. It's fucking humiliating.
“But if you’re gonna gawk,” you murmur, “you might as well be useful about it.”
You’re already backing him toward the chair.
He doesn't resist, just lets himself be guided. Just like in your bedroom.
You nudge him into the seat and lean over his shoulder, voice soft against his ear.
"Don't move, Deputy."
Then you straighten, step back, and slowly unbutton your sweater, placing it neatly on a stack of books like you have all the time in the world.
The white camisole underneath is thin and sleeveless, and the fabric clings to the shape of your body, tracing the line of your bra and the dip of your waist. Gator can see the curve of your breasts and the outline of your nipples through the thin cotton.
He doesn't move, just watches, transfixed.
You step forward, one hand on the back of the chair and the other sliding across his chest, up his shoulder. You lean down, the soft fabric brushing his cheek.
"Doing okay, deputy?"
He's not.
He can't remember what words mean, or how his hands are supposed to work.
"Uh-huh," he mutters.
"You want to touch? Just a little?"
He nods, dumb as a stump, eyes locked on the way the fabric clings to your curves. You reach for the hemp of your camisole, lifting it up slowly, inch by inch. Your navel, the line of your waist, the bottom swell of your breast, the underside of your collarbone. All the way to the neckline, pulling it over your head.
You go to take your glasses off next but he touches your free hand. "No..."
"No?"
He licks his lips. "Please... leave them."
You pause. "Alright."
Gator swallows, hands hovering uselessly, palms sweaty. You lean forward and his breath catches, eyes roaming over the soft lace of your bra that barely contains the curves of your tits.
You set the camisole with your sweater, careful and precise. You straighten. Turn.
"Hands."
He obeys, setting his big palms on your waist, callused thumbs brushing the soft skin just above the skirt band.
"Good boy."
He shivers, cock jerking against his zipper.
Your fingers are gentle on his, guiding them to your breasts, pressing his hands over the lace.
His breath catches, eyes wide and mouth open, thumbs already tracing the edge of the fabric. You hum, low, approving.
"That's it," you murmur, letting him squeeze, feeling the warmth of your skin.
Your hands move, guiding his upward, slipping the straps off your shoulders, sliding the cups down until his palms brush bare skin.
Your eyes lock on his face, watch him react.
It's everything he wanted and nothing like he expected.
The weight of your tits in his hands, the way they fill his palms, the softness, the heat. He strokes the pads of his thumbs across your nipples, watching them pebble beneath his touch. You inhale, slow and deliberate, moving to straddle him in the chair. Your skirt bunches up at your hips as you hover there, not fully letting your weight settle against him yet.
His hips buck up almost involuntarily, like he's chasing the feel of you. You tut, soft and gentle. "Keep your hands here."
He nods, and you reward him by grinding down just enough for him to feel the heat of your pussy.
"That's it," you whisper, rolling against him again, slow and steady. "You're doing so well."
His fingers tighten, and he has to bite back a groan. You lean forward and press a gentle kiss against the side of his neck. "Want more? Ask nicely."
"P... please."
Your nails rake up his arms, just hard enough to leave marks. "Please what? Be specific. You can do that, can't you?"
"Let me..." he mutters, breathless, voice trailing off.
"Let you what?"
"Please... I wanna... want your nipples."
"To do what, exactly?"
"Suck 'em."
"Mmmm, good boy."
His hands shake as you guide them behind your back. He fumbles with the clasp, and when he finally manages it, his breath catches in his throat as you slip your bra off your arms.
He leans forward and his mouth is on your nipple, tongue tracing the sensitive skin, his breath hot and fast. You sigh, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.
"Just like that."
His teeth graze your skin and you arch against him, grinding down as he sucks, hands tight on your waist. He groans around your tit, muffled and hungry.
Your breath catches as his grip tightens.
"Fuck..." He releases your nipple with a pop, breathing hard, mouth open. "I... fuck, sorry, I-"
"You really like those, don't you?"
His face is red. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes.
"Yeah."
"Good. They're nice, aren't they? Soft and warm."
"Mhm."
"Why don't you kiss the other one and show me how much you like it?"
He licks his lips, glances up, and then leans forward again.
You can feel him trembling, breath ragged and desperate. His lips are soft, almost hesitant, but when he wraps his mouth around your nipple, you can't help but gasp, arching into him.
He moans, the sound muffled around the flesh in his mouth, and sucks. Hard.
One of his hands is on your waist and the other is kneading your opposite breast, pinching and rolling.
You start to grind on him again, and this time he arches up, meeting the movement. You can feel his cock through his pants, hard and hot, rubbing against panties.
He releases your nipple, and you shiver when he exhales.
"F... fuck..."
You smile, tugging his hair and guiding his head back to your breast. "Good boy. You're being so good. But I didn't say you could stop."
He doesn't, immediately returning to sucking and nipping at the flesh, making you gasp and writhe against him. He groans around you, and his hips buck up again.
The chair squeaks, and his hands are on your hips now, gripping so hard you can feel his fingers twitch and you wonder if he'd be holding onto you the same way if his belt was undone.
He's still thrusting against you, the rhythm growing unsteady, and you stroke your hand through his hair while you praise him. "Such a good boy for me, aren't you? Getting so excited you can't sit still."
He makes a desperate noise and tries to grind against you harder. You tug his hair, just enough to get his attention. "Eyes on me, Gator."
He looks up, switching to the other nipple and licking eagerly, his gaze focused on yours, the picture of obedience.
"There you go," you breathe, your own hips moving faster, seeking more friction. "So eager, so good."
He knows he's going to cum in his pants and he can't find it in him to care.
Your fingers dig into his scalp and the muscles of your legs are starting to shake, but Gator's still latched onto your tit, sucking and nipping, lost in the feel of you.
You grind down harder and he arches up, meeting the rhythm. His breath hitches, and his whole body is trembling.
"You can cum," you murmur. "It's okay. I know you want to. Cum for me, baby. Cum in your pants. I know you'll be a good boy and clean up afterward. You want to, don't you?"
His moan is muffled by your tit, but the vibration makes your pussy clench.
"That's it," you encourage, voice breathy and shaking. "That's a good boy. Let go. Cum for me. Cum all over yourself."
You can feel him shaking, feel his hips jerk and his grip tighten.
He lets go, cums so hard he can't see straight, whines like a dog when his hips stop moving.
"There you go," you whisper, still rolling against him, chasing your own orgasm. "You're so good, Gator. So good."
He moans, face buried in your tits, still shaking. Your voice is shaky, but he can tell you're trying to stay calm, stay in control. It only makes him hotter.
He's dizzy. Breathless. He feels like he's been wrung out and tossed in a heap.
You kiss his forehead before you untangle yourself from him, and the gentleness of the gesture makes his chest hurt.
You pull your bra up, putting your cami and sweater on with the same care you took taking them off. You don't speak until you're fully dressed, hair neat, and glasses straight.
"Well," you say, voice light, casual. "I'd say that was a successful inspection. Thank you, Deputy. I'll leave you to clean up after yourself. Don't forget to lock the door on the way out."
Then you walk out.
And just like that, Gator's alone in a library staff room, sticky and spent and trying to catch his breath.
His first thought is, holy shit, that just happened.
His second thought is, what the fuck does he do next?
He shifts, hissing a little at the mess in his boxers, and takes a moment to just breathe, replaying the last few minutes. Your hands, guiding his across your tits, your hips rolling against his cock, the feeling of your hands in his hair.
Fuck.
He needs to move.
Now.
He pushes himself up and grimaces at the state of his pants, sticky and uncomfortable, and he's suddenly struck with the urge to laugh. Here he is, a grown man, getting off in his work pants because some girl told him to.
The girl who is currently out there, behind the main desk, probably acting like nothing happened.
Gator shakes his head, straightens his shirt, and tugs the hem of his jacket down, trying to disguise the wet spot.
It's a lost cause, but maybe no one will notice. He's just gonna have to hope for the best. And also, probably, that none of the town gossips are lurking near the reference section today.
Because if he gets seen like this?
The rumor mill will grind him into paste.
He can hear them now, all of the old biddies at the coffee shop, sitting around the tables and sipping decaf with extra foam, talking about the state of his fly and the state of his dignity.
All he can smell is spilled vodka and cucumber melon body spray.
It assaults his nose as one of the girls is on his lap, straddling him like it’s a job (which, to be fair, it is) but she’s doing that fake moan thing in his ear like she actually gives a shit. Gator exhales through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, past the glitter and the strobe lights. His buddies are hooting and hollering in the next booth over, trying to shove bills between a brunette’s ass cheeks. Sheriff’s department morale night.
Fuckin’ great.
She’s pretty, he guesses. Long lashes. Little shorts. Tits pressed up under his chin like a goddamn buffet. She keeps asking what he wants her to do and it’s supposed to be hot, supposed to make him feel powerful, wanted.
She’s pliant. Willing. Waiting for direction.
And he’s bored out of his goddamn mind.
His cock hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t even twitched. It’s like his whole body knows something his brain doesn’t want to admit.
He shifts under her, lets her grind against him a little more. Tries to focus. Tries to pretend it’s working. She leans in and whispers something about the champagne room and he almost laughs.
He could fuck her. Right now. Right outside in his truck if he wanted.
Bet she’d let him pull her panties to the side and bend her over the hood. Probably wouldn’t even blink. Would make some fake little gasping sounds and call him daddy and let him talk dirty right into her throat.
He should want that.
Jesus, he used to want that.
He pulls on his vape instead, a bitter strawberry cloud filling his throat. She’s still moving on him and he just stares past her at the neon Bud Light sign behind the bar, wondering why the hell his skin feels too tight.
You flash through his head before he can stop it.
Your voice. Your hands. That soft cardigan with the sunflowers. The way you looked at him like you were peeling him apart one piece at a time. The way you told him to lie down like he wasn’t even in the goddamn room unless you said so.
He exhales slow, lets the vape hang between his fingers.
"You're not hard," she pouts, tilting her head like maybe that’ll change something.
"No shit," he mutters.
She blinks. Smiles again. Still trying. “We could—”
He doesn’t let her finish.
Gator plants both hands on her hips and lifts her off like she weighs nothing, setting her to the side like she’s a gym bag. Her eyebrows shoot up but he doesn’t even look at her. Just stands, adjusts his belt, and heads for the door.
One of the guys yells his name, but he waves them off. Another hits the table, laughs loud. “Tillman’s too fucked up to function!”
He doesn’t correct them.
Out in the parking lot, the wind hits him like a bucket of water. Cold. Sober-ish.
He lights a cigarette, something he hasn’t done in a while since he got this stupid strawberry thing, and smokes it down like it was nothing. Then climbs into his truck with a slam of the door. The upholstery still smells like grease and fast food. He doesn’t even turn the heat on.
His leg’s bouncing before he’s halfway out of the lot.
God, what the fuck is wrong with him?
You. That’s what.
You, standing in your kitchen acting like tea is some kind of sex drug. You, pulling your glasses down just a little to look at him. You, locking that goddamn workroom door like it was nothing.
He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter than he needs to and now he’s hard. Not when some perfect piece of ass was grinding all over him, but when he thinks about some fucking sunflower buttons on a sweater.
Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the strip club. Maybe it’s the fact that the last time he came from a woman was with your voice in his ear and his pants still on.
He sucks on the vape again. Harder.
You’re in his head like a fucking landmine.
By the time he pulls up outside your house, his palms are sweating. Lights are off except for the warm little glow from the porch. Same paper leaf garland. Same ceramic pumpkins from Target or wherever the hell people like you shop. You’re probably asleep. Probably curled up under a quilt with some weird fantasy book and a mug of herbal shit that smells like orange peel.
Gator kills the engine. Sits in the dark. Lets the silence press in tight.
His dick’s still hard and aching just from thinking about you in pajamas.
He hits the vape again.
Then again.
Then, finally, he gets out of the truck.
You can’t sleep.
It’s almost one in the morning and the chamomile isn’t doing shit, but you make the tea anyway.
Old habits.
The house is still except for the kettle and the wind tapping against the windows. You’re in an oversized t-shirt and socks, hair tied up and glasses slipping down your nose. You figure maybe a book will help, or a walk around the living room. Maybe if you just sit with it, your mind will settle.
Then comes the knock.
Three sharp raps, straight to the center of the door. Not loud. Just confident.
You don’t jump. You just sigh.
You already know who it is.
You open the door with the mug still in your hand, steam curling into the night air.
And there he is.
Not in uniform. Not in anything even close to it.
Same camo cargos he probably rarely washes, black leather jacket, and a backwards mesh hat that makes him look about five years younger and ten times more pathetic. The porch light casts a yellow haze over his face. His eyes are bloodshot. His cheeks pink from the cold. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to fidget, like if he shifts too much you’ll see the hard-on pressing against his fly.
You raise an eyebrow. Keep your voice even.
“Deputy Tillman. What brings you by at this hour?”
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t even try to be smooth or come up with an excuse
“I’m pissed,” he blurts.
You blink. “Okay…”
“I’m fuckin’ pissed at you,” he repeats, louder now, shifting from one foot to the other like he’s trying to work something out of his system. “Can’t even jerk off without thinkin’ about your voice. Got this chick grindin’ on me for half an hour at the strip club and nothin’. Not even a twitch. She’s hot, too. Like, normal hot. Tits out, moaning in my fuckin’ ear, beggin’ me to take her in the private rooms or whatever. And I got nothin’. Zilch. Fuckin’ dead inside my own pants.”
You stare at him over the rim of your mug.
He keeps going.
“You wanna know the worst part? You didn’t even do anything last time. Just told me what to do. Like I was one of those little kids in your storytime circle. And I came so hard in my pants I thought I was gonna pass out.”
He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising with every word. You don’t say anything. You just wait.
“And now I’m fucked,” he says. “Now I’m hard all the time. Or not hard at all. I don’t even know anymore. I just know you ruined it. You got in my head with your little teacher voice and your fuckin’ soft hands and now I can’t think straight.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I think you might be having a crisis.”
He looks miserable. And furious. And still hard.
“I am havin’ a crisis,” he snaps. “And I need you to do somethin’ about it.”
You sip your tea. Hold his gaze.
Then, without a word, you open the door a little wider.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just steps past you like he belongs here, like this is where he was always meant to end up.
You shut the door behind him and start walking toward the hall. He follows without hesitation, boots heavy on the hardwood.
No words. No teasing.
You don’t need to say anything.
You just lead him to the bedroom.
Inside your bedroom, you set your mug down on the nightstand like this isn’t the end of the fucking world. Like you’re not about to peel him apart in the dark with a whisper and a fingertip.
The room smells like you- a hint of whatever perfume clings to your sweaters.
You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like you’re trying to figure something out.
He’s standing there like a goddamn idiot. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders squared too tight. Whole body is twitchy like he’s waiting for a command, like he doesn’t know what to do unless someone tells him. His dick is still hard and his throat is dry and there’s something itchy trying to crawl out of his chest.
You come to him slow.
Touch his face like he’s made of glass.
And ask, real soft, real serious, “Why do you hate this so much?”
He swallows. Tries to laugh. It doesn’t land.
“I don’t hate it,” he says, eyes flicking away from you. “That’s the problem.”
You keep looking at him.
He shifts.
“It’s just—” he starts, then stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Men are supposed to be strong. That’s what my dad always said. Like, if you give someone the reins, you’re fucked. That’s weakness. That’s—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because your mouth is at his jaw.
Just a ghost of a kiss. Barely there.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He should stop this. He should say something mean or horny or stupid just to make the feeling go away, but all he can do is stand there while you unzip his jacket. Carefully. Like it’s not even a piece of clothing, just another layer to peel back.
You drape it over the chair. Take his dumb hat off next and toss it somewhere out of sight. Your fingers graze his scalp.
He wants to say something but his voice won’t work right. There’s a burn building behind his eyes and he swallows it down like hot bile.
“Take your boots off,” you murmur.
So he does. Awkwardly. One at a time. Leaves them by the bed like a kid coming in from the cold.
You don’t ask him to sit. He just does it. Drops onto the edge of the mattress like his knees gave out.
And then you climb into his lap.
It’s slow. Sure. Like it’s just a thing you were always gonna do.
You kiss him again, this time at the curve of his neck. Up along his jaw. His hands hover at your thighs but he doesn’t grab, doesn’t grope, just holds still like he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.
And then he notices.
You haven’t kissed him.
Not on the mouth.
Not once.
And he’s not even the kind of guy who gives a shit about kissing. That’s for girls in rom-coms and teenagers with prom corsages and people who read those shitty sex advice columns in Cosmo. He’s not that guy.
But suddenly he wants it.
God, he wants it.
He shifts up toward you, just a little, like maybe you’ll meet him halfway.
You don’t.
You pull back, just enough to keep the distance.
“Kissing’s too intimate for what this is,” you say, matter-of-fact.
It hits him like a brick.
His mouth opens, shuts. He lets out a noise, part groan, part whine, something that feels embarrassing the second it leaves his chest.
“I don’t care,” he mutters.
You blink, caught off guard because he means it.
He doesn’t care if it’s too intimate or too soft or too fucking vulnerable. He wants to kiss you. He wants to be kissed. He wants to come home to you and have you make him tea and rub the knots out of his shoulders and tell him he’s good. He wants to sit on this stupid bed and let you undo him like a fucking bedtime routine.
You study him for a long moment, and something in your face makes him start talking again. Words tumble out, low and rough, like he’s afraid they’ll rot if he keeps them inside.
“I don’t wanna be like him,” he says. “My old man. With the young wives and the bruises nobody talked about. He calls it love, but it’s just noise. I can’t—” He stops, jaw tight, searching for the right piece of language that never seems to fit. “I don’t wanna grab at people just ‘cause I can.”
Your hand is still at his cheek, thumb just below his eye. He looks younger than you’ve ever seen him. Almost fragile. The words keep coming, halting but honest.
“I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know how to do the… gentle part. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—” He laughs once, humorless. “I just need to feel like I ain’t wreckin’ everything I touch.”
The air in the room feels different now, quieter. He’s still talking, softer.
“I could try,” he murmurs. “If you’d let me. I could learn. I swear I could.”
He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he’s still trying to apologize for existing. It isn’t lust anymore. It’s just raw need to be seen as something more than the badge he didn’t earn, more than his last name. More than a fuck up or a loser.
You hesitate. Long enough for his breathing to start to shake. Then you lean forward, so close that your forehead touches his. He stops talking. The silence stretches until it almost breaks.
And then, finally, you kiss him.
It's soft, and his lips are so eager for it that you want to laugh. He doesn't try to take over, he just melts under the weight of it, like he's been waiting for permission. You let your hands cup his face, and you can feel him shaking, almost imperceptibly.
"Good boy," you whisper. "You're being such a good boy for me. You're so good."
He's so responsive to praise, it makes your head swim.
You can feel his breath catch, his lips part. You keep kissing him, deep and slow.
His arms wrap around your waist, but he's not trying to move you, not trying to take. Just holding, like he's trying to convince himself he's allowed.
It's intoxicating.
The way he just leans into it, letting you lead, the way his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. You speak to him in between kisses.
"You just want to be good don't you? That's all you want. To please me, make me happy, make me proud. Don't you?"
His hands grip you tighter, a little desperate. He's nodding before you even finish, breath catching as you kiss the corner of his mouth. "Please."
It's barely audible.
"Please, yes, I wanna..."
"Shhh."
Your hands slip from his face, moving down his shoulders, tracing the planes of his chest, your fingers splayed. You press closer, feeling his erection through his pants.
He whimpers, and it's still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. You palm him through the fabric, as his eyes flutter shut. You don't know how long he's been hard for, but you know he's sensitive.
"You know..." You start, truths spilling out of you. "I'm very aware of your reputation."
He chokes out a breath, but doesn't respond, and you continue.
"Everyone in this town knows how you are. But none of them matter." You move your hand lower, tracing the outline of his cock. "I don't care how many people you've fucked or how hard you've fucked them."
You press the heel of your palm against him and he groans.
"I bet it feels so empty..." You continue. "Doesn't it? Those girls don't matter. They're nothing but a body and a warm hole to fill. They'll spread their legs for anyone with a badge and a nice truck. That's not what you want. That's not what you need."
He moans, grinding into your hand, trying to seek out friction.
"I... please... I need-"
You lean forward, pressing another kiss to his lips, and when you pull back, your eyes are locked on his.
"It's okay to want to be taken care of, Gator. Let me take care of you."
He nods, breathing harder, and you pull back, moving to unbuckle his belt.
He watches, eyes wide, as you unzip his fly, and tug his pants down. He lifts his hips, eager to comply, and the fabric slips over his ass, his thighs. You slide his boxers off next, and his cock springs free.
"Such a pretty cock. So hard for me." You wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly, watching his face. He moans, low, hips arching toward your hand. "Take your shirt off."
He doesn't hesitate. The tee joins the pile on the floor. His arms are toned, corded with muscle, and you take a moment to run your fingers over his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the freckles on his shoulders.
He's beautiful.
You stroke him a little faster, and he lets out a noise that's half moan, half whimper. He's fully naked under you and you haven't even taken off a piece of clothing.
You move up his body, straddling him, and grind against his bare cock. You're wearing cotton panties, the soft fabric rubbing against him.
"Look at me."
His eyes lock on yours.
"Are you gonna cum? From a little friction? A few strokes?"
He swallows hard. "Yes."
"Well...we can't have that." You say, easing off of him, standing in front of him as he sits there, naked and pathetic in the most gorgeous way. His big eyes stare up at you, full of need. "You showed up really late, Gator. And I can tell you've had a few drinks. And your breath tastes like cigarettes..."
He winces a little.
"So, you're gonna have to make it up to me."
You lift off your large shirt and drop it on the floor, standing there in your panties and nothing else, before letting you hair down and setting your glasses on the nightstand. You take his hand and gently pull him to stand up, putting his calloused hands on your breasts as you speak.
"Everyone knows Gator Tillman fucks fast and hard," you begin. "But they also know he isn't a giver."
You reach down and cup his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
"You're going to learn how to fuck someone properly. And you're not gonna cum until I tell you."
He nods as you turn the both of you around, taking a seat on the bed, legs spread.
"On your knees."
He wants to protest, wants to say he's not gonna lick you out like some dog or something equally as crude, but the words die before they leave his tongue. It was true, he never even thought to do it, he was too busy thinking about how to get his cock wet.
You sit, legs spread, the fabric of your panties damp. He licks his lips, looking at the wet patch, and then up at you. You smile.
"Knees."
His throat goes dry, and his body moves without his mind telling it to, sinking onto the hardwood. You guide him between your legs, his hands on your thighs.
"Take my panties off."
He doesn't speak as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband and tugs them down, slow, like he's unwrapping a gift. You raise your hips, helping him slide them off. Then you lean back on your elbows, hair falling around your shoulders.
"Gonna be bad at this," he mutters, staring at your bare pussy.
"It's okay. You'll figure it out."
He takes a breath and moves forward, his hands sliding up your thighs. His thumb finds the apex of your folds and he swipes up, slow. His voice is rough when he speaks. "You're already wet."
"Mhm. How does that make you feel?" God, your voice is so gentle, that slight condescending tone.
"I... I dunno." He lies.
"Yes you do. Tell me."
"Like you want me," he mutters. "Want me bad."
"Do I?"
"Mhm. Can't wait for me to eat your pussy."
"You sound pretty sure about that. Have you ever eaten a girl out, deputy?"
His mouth opens, but he can't think of an answer. Not a truthful one, anyway.
"That's what I thought."
Your hand is gentle on the back of his head, and you guide him forward, toward your pussy. He can feel you, wet and hot and waiting. His pulse is pounding in his ears.
He's never done this. Not really. Not even with his high school girlfriend who liked to boss him around. She didn't want his mouth anywhere near her pussy. He remembers that much.
You're not asking.
Your thighs are warm beneath his hands. He can smell the soft lotion you wear. Your fingers tighten in his hair.
"Prove that pretty mouth can do so much more than talk shit."
And his mouth is on you.
It's warm and wet and his nose is pressed against your skin, and it's not what he expected, not at all.
You're guiding his head, just a little, just enough that his stubble is scratching the inside of your thighs and the tip of his nose brushes your clit and his mouth is making these soft little noises like he's drinking straight from the tap.
He's never felt a pussy this close before. It's different. Slicker. Hotter. You're already wet, and the smell is intoxicating, sweet and musky and raw. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to look at you while his tongue darts out, but he can't keep it up for more than a few seconds before he has to close his eyes and inhale the scent of you.
"There you go," you breathe, the pressure at the back of his head relaxing, letting him explore. "Such a good boy. Don't overthink it. Just use that smart mouth."
He moans, and his cock twitches, heavy and aching between his legs.
He keeps licking, his tongue flat against the apex of your folds, the taste coating his tongue and filling his head. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know if he should try to spread you or grip your thighs, doesn't even know if he should be looking up or focusing on what he's doing, but you haven't told him to stop yet.
"You're holding back." You groan. "Don't think that's fair to me, after how good I've treated you. Don't be shy, Gator. Put your whole mouth on me. Suck and lick. I know you've wanted to taste me."
He doesn't respond. He just follows the direction, his lips wrapped around your clit. He sucks, and your breath hitches, the first sign of anything other than control. It's intoxicating, and his own dick is painfully hard, bobbing in the air, neglected.
He pulls off your clit and drags his tongue lower, feeling the wetness coat his chin. He dips his tongue into your entrance, and you moan.
"That's it," you whisper. "Just like that. So good, Gator. You're being so good for me."
Your hands are gentle, guiding his head back up to your clit, and he groans as you roll your hips, grinding against his mouth.
His hands move, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, and he can feel your body start to shake.
He sucks, hard, and his own cock aches at the way you whine. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he keeps licking, the slick wet heat making him dizzy.
You're close, he can tell. You're trembling, rolling against his mouth, and the soft noises coming from you are the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard.
He closes his eyes and sucks, trying to keep his rhythm, and then you're there.
You're gasping, body going tight, and your hand is pulling his hair so hard it hurts. But he doesn't care, he keeps sucking, licking, groaning against you, because you're grinding on his mouth and your cunt is wet and hot and perfect and you taste so fucking good he could do this forever.
You ride his face, and he's lost in the sound of you.
Your nails rake across his scalp and it makes him moan again, the sound muffled, but it's the only noise in the room, aside from the slick sounds of him eating you out.
When you're spent, you relax, legs slipping down onto the bed, and Gator pulls back, breathing hard, eyes dark, chin glistening. Once your breathing steadies, you brace yourself on your elbows, looking down at the man between your legs.
He looks a mess, panting and hard and desperate. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are flushed and his cock is leaking.
"Look at you," you coo, reaching down to run a finger along his bottom lip, collecting some of your wetness.
He shudders, eyes falling shut, and he leans in toward the touch.
"You're so pretty on your knees," you say. "I think you might be prettiest this way."
He groans, his own cock twitching between his legs, and you let your eyes trace down the lines of his chest, down to the swollen red tip, shining with pre-cum.
"You want to cum don't you? I bet you've been hard since before I took your pants off."
He doesn't answer, just nods, and you tilt his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Get on the bed baby. Lay down."
His hands grip your hips as he rises to his feet, and you can see his muscles working under his skin. He's a beautiful man, all lean muscle and strength. He's bigger than you, taller, but you don't feel intimidated. He could pick you up and toss you around, but you know he won't.
Not unless you asked.
He turns and sits, and then lays on his back. He looks so big on the mattress, all those broad shoulders and corded muscle, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the thick length of his cock jutting up, curved slightly. You can't help but admire the view.
"I could cum just from lookin' at you," he mutters.
You don't respond. Instead, you climb onto the bed and straddle his hips. You can feel him, hot and hard, and his hips buck, just a little.
"Please." He says, the word barely audible.
"Patience."
You grind against him, his cock slick from his own precum, and his jaw clenches.
"You want me to ride you?"
"Fuck."
You raise an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
"Yes. God, yes."
You rise up, just a little, and then sink down on him. The slide is slow. You're still wet from his mouth, and your breath catches when his cock pushes into you.
He groans, and his hands clench the sheets before you move them to your hips.
You take him slowly, sinking down until your ass is pressed against his thighs. You can feel him twitching inside of you, his whole body shaking.
"Look at me." You command.
His eyes lock on yours.
"I can't-"
"You're not allowed to cum. Do you understand?"
He nods, his grip on your hips tightening. You start to move, rising up and sliding back down, and his jaw is clenched.
"You look so good beneath me," you murmur.
His throat works as he swallows, and his eyes are fixed on yours.
You reach out, running a finger along his lip. He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth, letting you slip two fingers inside.
He doesn't hesitate, taking the digits in, closing his lips around the intrusion.
"I'm on the pill." You say softly, working your fingers in and out, watching his lips. "But you should ask before you cum inside me. Is that clear?"
He can't answer, not with your fingers in his mouth, and his hips buck involuntarily, making him groan.
"Is that clear?"
He nods, eyes wide, and you pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva.
"Good boy."
You keep moving, rolling your hips, the slide easy, the stretch delicious. You work him harder, riding his cock, and the sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy.
He's shaking, gripping your hips, eyes still locked on yours. He's not moving, not thrusting, just following your lead. His lips part and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, his cock throbbing inside of you.
You're so wet, the slide so smooth, the angle hitting your clit just right. You're already close, and the way he's watching you, like he's trying not to get burned, makes the pressure build.
You keep working yourself, rolling and rising and falling, and his whole body is tense, muscles straining, the tendons in his neck standing out. You're so close and you want him to cum with you, to fill you up.
"Cum," you murmur. "Cum now. Right now. Don't think about it. Just cum."
His eyes flutter closed, his hips arch up, and then he's spilling into you, his hands gripping you so tight it almost hurts.
"Yes," you breathe through your own release. "Just like that. That's it. So good."
He moans, low, his whole body shaking. He doesn't even have to think about it. Your voice is a command.
And his body responds deliciously.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, as the last of his release leaves him. "Jesus. Jesus."
You ease off him slowly, the mess of his cum spilling down your thigh. You lay on your side, placing gentle kisses down the column of this throat as his head is still thrown back, panting, his eyes squeezed shut.
"I..."
"Shhhh. Relax. Take a deep breath."
"Fuck."
"Shhhh."
He lets out a low groan and takes a deep breath, chest rising, then falling, then rising again, until his pulse steadies and his body relaxes, sinking into the bed. You lean on your elbow and run a finger across his jaw, the slight stubble scraping at your skin. His eyes open, half lidded, and his gaze fixes on yours.
"Fuck," he mutters again.
"Did you enjoy that?"
He huffs, almost a laugh, and the corner of his mouth curls up. "Mhm."
"How much?"
His eyebrows lift, but his gaze stays on the ceiling. "More than I thought possible."
"You can look at me, you know."
"Don't know if I can. Kinda afraid I'm dreamin'."
"Well, if you are, then you might as well enjoy it."
He sighs, and turns his head toward you, meeting your eyes. He doesn't speak, and neither do you, just studying his face.
His expression is almost blank, eyes dark, mouth still parted, cheeks still flushed.
"What happens now?"
The words come out quieter than he means them to, and you blink.
"That's up to you."
His face shifts, brows pulling together, lips twisting in something close to a pout. It's almost comical, given who he is.
"Don't play dumb," he says. "You know what I mean."
Your hand traces up the curve of his bicep, across his collarbone, then along his cheek, fingers grazing his stubble. He sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. You study his profile, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the soft, dark hair falling loose around his ears.
"Look, I'm not askin' to date you," he mutters, like that makes it less serious. "I just—"
"You need someone," you murmur.
His throat tightens, his cheeks warm. He's not used to feeling this raw. This open. It's terrifying.
"Yeah," he admits, and the word cracks a little. "I need someone."
Your hand is soft on his chest, right above his heart.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the ceiling. The sheets are tangled, the air thick, and you’re right there, breathing slowly beside him. Your hand found his chest like you were checking to see if his heart still worked.
It does. Too much, maybe.
He turns his head a little, just enough to look at you. You’re watching him like you’re waiting to see if he’ll bolt or break.
He feels like doing both.
He wants to say something, but the words line up wrong in his throat. He thinks about what he said earlier, about not wanting to be like his dad. About needing someone. It sounds stupid now. Childish. Like something you’d hear on a late‑night call‑in radio show between country songs.
You just keep your hand where it is, fingers resting right above the spot where his pulse won’t settle.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he says quietly. “But when I’m with you, it feels like maybe I could get it right. For once.”
Your thumb brushes his skin, barely there. He exhales, slow and shaky, like the air’s been trapped in him for years.
He thinks about the noise of the strip club, the lights, the girl with too much perfume, the emptiness that followed. Then he looks at you, in this soft, dark room, and something inside him goes still.
Maybe it’s not about being in charge. Maybe it never was.
He shifts closer. Not for sex. Not for anything he can name. Just to feel the warmth of your body and the weight of his own breath starting to even out.
“Don’t know what happens now,” he murmurs, voice thick.
“Then don’t think about it,” you answer. “Just rest.”
He wants to say thank you. He wants to say don’t stop touching him. He wants to ask if this counts as love, if it could be, if maybe he didn’t fuck it all up already just by showing up at your door like some broken animal in heat.
Instead, he says the only thing he can get out.
“I don’t wanna go back to bein’ the guy I was before this.”
Your hand stills against his chest. The silence stretches before you whisper, steady as ever, “Then don’t.”
Summary : What looks like a routine pull-over quickly reveals Gator’s intentions
Gator Tillman x f!reader
Warnings : smut, unprotected piv, Gator being a brat lol, dom switch ?, hookup, public/risky sex, no use of y/n
Words : 3,2K
A/N : this is really lame guys sorry, I didn’t even reread it so good luck with that lmao. I can’t just keep it in my drafts lol
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
The road was empty. Just a long stretch of dark highway cutting through fields and sleeping farmhouses. Your headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the night, the only thing moving for miles.
Then, red and blue lights bloomed in your review mirror.
You glanced down at the speedometer, you were exactly at the limit, not even exceeding it. Your eyes lifted back to the mirror, and you sighed through your nose.
You didn’t pull over right away. Instead, you let the car roll a little longer, slowing down just enough to make it obvious you noticed. The patrol truck followed patiently, lights washing the road behind you in violent flashes of color.
Gravel crunched when you finally guided the car onto the shoulder, and the trunk pulled in behind you a second later. The red and blue lights kept spinning, bleeding through your rear window and filling the car with restless color. You drummed your fingers against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead while you waited.
The door behind you slammed and a knock hit your window a minute later. You turned your head, lowering the window only halfway when—
Of course.
You rolled your eyes before the window had even finished sliding down.
“Evenin’, Tillman.”
Your father had always said Roy Tillman was trouble. A man who wore the badge like it belonged to him more than the law did. But Roy, at least, knew how to pretend. Your dad could tolerate him in that stiff, tight way men in small departments sometimes had to.
Gator, though ? Gator was something else entirely.
Roy’s son carried all the worst parts of his father, sharpened and stripped of whatever restraint the older man still possessed. Reckless. Unpredictable. Mean in that casual way that made it hard to tell when he was joking and when he was about to do something stupid or cruel just to see what happened.
Your dad hated that.
Hated the way Gator moved through town like he owned it. Hated the badge he wore like it was a toy someone shouldn’t have given him. And he hated—most of all—the way Gator seemed to take personal joy in pushing every single one of his buttons.
Especially when it came to you.
Gator leaned down slightly, one hand resting on the top of your car door like he had every right to be there. His broad silhouette cut through the flashing lights behind him, but not enough to hide the crooked, entertained look on his face.
That bastard was already enjoying this.
“Well,” he said slowly, dragging the words out like he was savoring them. “Ain’t this a surprise.”
You leaned back in your seat, unimpressed. “Didn’t realize going fifty-five was a crime now.”
His eyes flicked down the empty highway, then back at you again, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Depends who’s driving.”
You scoffed, “Right.”
He didn’t move away from the window. If anything, he leaned a little more, forearm settling against the door like he got all the time in the world. “License and registration.”
“You know who I am.”
“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “That’s kinda the problem.”
You stared at him for a long second, before leaning over and popping open the glove compartment with a little more force than necessary.
Papers shifted and crinkled while you dug through them, making a show of the inconvenience. Your license slid out of your wallet, the registration from the mess of folded insurance slips, and you held them through the half-open window.
Gator didn’t take them immediately. He just looked at you.
“You were real mouthy earlier today.”
Your jaw tightened, “Maybe you deserved it.”
He quiet chuckle slipped out of him before he finally reached and took the papers. “Oh, I definitely did.” He said easily. “But that ain’t the point.”
He flipped your license between his fingers like it was a poker chip, barely glancing down at it before his eyes lifted back to yours.
“You’re always this bitchy,” he asked, “or is it just when your daddy ain’t around ?”
You felt the irritation spike instantly. “My dad’s got better things to do than babysit me.”
Gator grin widened just a little. “Funny. Coulda sworn he was doing plenty of that earlier.”
Your grip tightened on the steering wheel as the image flashed back before you could stop it.
Your dad stood stiff in front of the desk, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping near his ear. Roy talked in that slow, patronizing voice of his that made every word sound like an insult. And Gator had been leaning against the wall behind him, watching the whole thing like it was the best show he’d seen all week with that stupid smirk of his.
“Enjoying the show ?” You’d said.
You dad had muttered your name under his breath, warning, but you ignored it completely.
Gator pushed off the wall slowly, head tilting as his eyes settled on you like he’d just noticed you for the first time. “Oh,” he’d said, smiling like it was Christmas morning. “She talks.”
You rolled your eyes. “Must be nice,” you shot back, “getting handed a badge instead of earning one.”
The grin on his face had sharpened instantly, “Careful. You keep running that mouth—”
“Or what ?”
For a second, it had looked like he might actually do something for once, but then, he’d just laughed. And the look he gave you before you turned to leave, that assessing look, had stuck with you all day.
Back on the side of the road, Gator tapped your license lightly against the window frame.
“Think I’m starting to understand something.” He said.
“Oh yeah ?”
“Yeah.” His eyes dragged over your face slowly, taking his sweet time. “You like poking the bear.”
You leaned toward the window slightly. “Maybe the bear should mind his own business.”
Gator pushed away from the door, “Stay right there.”
He turned and disappeared toward his truck. You watched him through the rearview mirror, irritation simmering under your skin while he climbed in and shut the door. The flashing lights kept spinning across the empty road, red and blue washing over everything. He didn’t immediately start writing a ticket like a normal person would.
“Unbelievable.” You muttered under your breath.
After a moment the truck door opened again and his boots crunched over gravel as he came back.
“Let me guess,” you said flatly as he reached the window. “You gonna give me a lecture now ?”
He trapped your license lightly against the edge of the window. “Nope.”
You glanced up toward him and something about the look on his face made your stomach tightened.
“Step out of the car.”
You blinked, “Excuse me ?”
“Out of the car.”
You stared at him like he totally lost his mind. “For what ?”
“Failure to cooperate.”
A short laugh escaped you, “Are you serious right now ?”
His expression didn’t change. “Out.”
For a second you considered refusing just to see what he would do, but you already knew the answer to that. So, with an exaggerated sigh, you shoved the door open and stepped out onto the gravel. Gator had already started circling the front of your car, completely unhurried.
You crossed your arms, cold air hitting your face. “This is ridiculous.”
“Mhm.” He jerked his head toward his truck. “Get your ass in the car.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You want me in your truck ?”
“Sure do.”
“And why exactly would I do that ?”
His head tilted slightly, that same lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, option A is I put you in the back of mine. And I’m sure you don’t want to know the second one.”
You glared at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I ain’t joking.”
For a moment the two of you just stood there, staring at each other down in the flashing lights. The wind pushed through the empty road, and finally you scoffed and brushed past him toward the truck.
“Fuck you.”
Behind you Gator chuckled and couldn’t help but stare at your ass. “Been told that already.”
You grabbed the passenger door and yanked it open, climbing up into the seat. The radio crackled quietly with static from the dashboard and a second later the driver’s side door opened. Gator climbed in beside you, broad shoulders filling the space as he slammed the door shut with a heavy thud. The flashing lights suddenly felt farther away.
He reached up and flicked a switch, dimming the overhead light until the cab dropped into a low, shadowy glow lit mostly by the dashboard and the occasional wash of red and blue through the windows. Then he looked at you.
“You know,” he said slowly, “most people get a little nervous when I pull ‘em over.”
You leaned back against the seat like you were settling in for a long ride. “Most people probably think you’re scary.”
His eyes slid toward your body, “And you don’t ?”
You shrugged, “Should I ?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes narrowed slightly, studying you like he was trying to figure something out. “You got a real attitude problem.”
You smirked, “Funny. My dad says the same thing about you.”
That earned a quiet huff of laughter. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Your daddy and I got a lot of disagreements.”
You leaned a little closer across the console, sarcasm dripping thick. “No way. Really ?”
Gator let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you ?”
You met his eyes without backing down. “Nope.”
For a moment he just watched you. And for some reason, instead of annoying him, it seemed to make him more interested.
“Well ?” You said after a beat. “You gonna start driving or are we just sitting here all night ?”
He glanced at you once more, then, without answering he started the engine. The truck rolled forward off the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. But instead of turning back toward town, he swung the wheel the other way. Down a narrow dirt that cuts between dark fields.
You straightened slightly in your seat. “That’s not the way to the station.”
“I know.”
The headlights swept across tall grass and a leaning fence line as the truck bounced lightly over the uneven road. The farther he drove, the rougher it got—ruts in the dirt, patches of loose gravel. Nothing but fields no either side. No houses. No lights.
“Tillman.”
He didn’t answer and the irritation in your chest started twisting into something else.
“You can’t just take people wherever you want,” you said, sharper now. “That’s not how this works.”
He finally glanced over. “Sure it is.”
A few seconds passed before he slowed the truck and pulled into a wide patch of open dirt near an old abandoned shed, its roof half-collapsed and leaning to one side like it had been forgotten for years. The truck rolled to a stop as Gator reached over and flipped another switch. Outside, the flashing lights died instantly, darkness settled over the fields. Then you heard a quiet click.
Your eyes snapped back to him, “Did you just—”
“Relax.”
“Unlock the door.”
He leaned back in the seat like he was completely comfortable, one arm stretching along the backrest behind you like he owned the whole damn truck. You rolled your eyes hard enough it almost hurt.
“God, you’re such an asshole.” You stared at the passenger window, your jaw set.
“Takes one to know one.” He muttered, grabbing you suddenly by the waist and pulling you onto his lap.
You gasped, your leg swinging over the center console, your knee digging into the worn upholstery beside his thigh, and then the other, until you were straddling him in the driver’s seat.
“You’re a real dick sometimes.” You whispered just before your lips met in a hungry kiss, tongues dueling for dominance.
You moaned, your pussy already aching with need as you reached down, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer against the steering wheel. He groaned into your mouth, his own hands coming up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging into the denim of your jeans.
You broke the kiss, painting. “You think you can just pull me over and fuck me ?”
“I’m the one with the cuffs.” He shot back, hands moving to your ass, squeezing it tightly.
You let his hands wander under your shirt then, pushing the fabric up. You arched your back as he yanked your shirt and bra up in one rough motion. He took your nipple between his lips, suckling hard, and a sharp, punched-out gasp escaped you. Your fingers tangled in his hair to hold him there, cause fuck, he knew how to use his mouth.
“Good boy.” You managed, your voice shaky despite your attempt at control. “You do what I let you do.”
He switched to your other breast, his tongue circling the taut peak before drawing it deep, looking up at you through his eyelashes. His hands went to the button of your jeans and shoved the denim down over the curve of your ass, just enough. His fingers slipped inside your panties and found your already soaked pussy.
A low, ragged moan tore from you as he slid two fingers inside. “Fuck, Gator.”
“That’s the idea.” He growled against your skin.
He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made your whole body jolt. You rocked against his hand, your hips moving in a frantic rhythm. This was the part you hated to love—the way he could reduce you to a writhing pleading mess with just his hands.
You pushed his hands away, reaching between you two. Your hands fumbled with his belt, yanking it open and shoving his zipper down. Gator’s breath hitched, but he let you push his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his erection.
You stroke his thick cock firmly from the base to tip as it throbbed in your palm, pre-cum slicking your fingers as you pumped him. Then, you shifted your panties aside, positioning his cock at your entrance, your hand guiding him. “You like that, huh ?” You taunted, your breath hot against his ear.
You didn’t make him beg for once, and sank down onto him in one slow, excruciatingly motion. The stretch felt like a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs. “Fuck, you’re so big.”
You bottomed out, grinding your clit against the coarse fabric of his jeans with every descent, setting a punishing rhythm as you rode him. Your hands brace on his shoulders to control the pace as a guttural sound ripped from Gator’s chest, his head falling back against the headrest, while his hands clamped onto your hips like vices.
“Shit, yeah ride that dick like you own it.” He thrust up, meeting you halfway but you pinned his hips down with your weight.
You watched his face, shadowed in the dark, contort with pleasure and a smug satisfaction bloomed inside you. You rolled your hips in circles that made his cock drag against your insides.
“You’re soaking my balls already.” He rasped, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple hard. “This pussy loves getting filled.”
You moaned despite yourself, slapping his chest, but kept bouncing. “Shut up. I do this ‘cause you’re easy.” You groaned and let your head fall back, “Always hard and ready like a fucking slut.”
Gator had never been one to follow anyone’s lead for long, and even less yours. His patience snapped and his grip on your hips tightened, knuckles turning white. He growled, his body moving even faster. Then, in one powerful motion, he surged up, forcing your back against the steering wheel. The horn gave a short bleat that was lost in the night.
He held you there, pinned, and began to thrust up into you, hard and deep. Each driving upward stroke hit a spot so deep inside you it felt like he was touching your soul. Then, he snarled, bucking up hard enough to lift you off the seat.
In one swift move, he flipped the both of you and shoved you back into the back seat, your legs splayed wide as he loomed over you. He ripped off your panties, cock slipping out just long enough to reposition. “My turn to fuck you proper.”
You laughed breathlessly, defiant even as he hooked your legs over his arms. “Took you long enough, coward.”
But your words cut off in a gasp as he slammed back inside your pussy, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
“Goddamn, you're tight when you're mad.” He grunted, pounding into you, each stroke hitting your cervix with a jolt that blurred pain and pleasure.
“Harder, asshole. Is that all you got ?” You taunted, nails raking down his arms, drawing red lines. Your pussy clenched around him, slick sounds filling the cab as he fucked you faster, the seatbelt digging into your back.
“You talk like you hate it, but you're creaming all over me.” Gator shot back, leaning down to bite your neck, sucking a mark into the skin. “Tell me you don't want this dick owning your cunt.”
“Fuck you.” You panted, but your hips bucked up to meet his, chasing the friction. “Hate how you make me come—fuck, right there !”
He adjusted, grinding against your clit with every plunge, his balls slapping your ass. “Yeah ? Then why're you squeezing me like a good little slut ?” He reached between them, thumb circling your clit roughly, making you arch.
You couldn’t even form words to answer him, your moans swallowed by his shoulders. Your nails scored down his back, feeling the muscles bunch and release with every thrust. The worlds narrowed to the slap of his skin against yours and your ragged breaths fogging the windows.
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck !” Your words became a chant as he drove into you harder, a mantra that broke apart as the first shockwave of your orgasm hit.
Your banter dissolved into curses and demands—"Deeper, you prick.”, “Take it, bitch. Milk my cock.”—as the pace turned frantic. Your orgasm hit first, crashing over you with a scream, your walls fluttering and gushing around him.
“Fuck, Gator !” You grunted, your breath hot on his neck.
It tore through you, blinding and absolute, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. But he didn’t stop, thrusting through your spasms until his own release barreled down. And with a final brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, a long sound of pure release as he spilled inside you.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of your labored breathing and he stayed inside you while his cock softened. Then, slowly, he pulled back.
“Asshole.” You muttered, wiping the little mess he made on your skin.
He chuckled darkly, “You love it.”
Gator reached over, fumbling for a pack of cigarettes on the dash. The lighter flared, illuminating his sharp features for a second before he took a drag and exhaled a plume of smoke toward you.
“You don’t have that stupid vape of yours ?” You asked, your voice hoarse.
“Fuck you.” He answered, passing you the cigarette.
You laughed, your hand trembling as you took it. “We’re gonna run out of nowhere places to do this.”
okay, I am still working on drink order fic requests but this has been in the drafts for a bit and i needed to post t because I'm back on my Gator bullshit after getting into more dark romance books. don't judge me. (jk, you're all just as down bad as me <3)
especially then
gator tillman x reader
He’s scarred, blind, and bitter, you’re the nurse paid to keep him alive and the only one stubborn enough to push back when he bites. Between soup disasters, sharp banter, and late-night confessions, the line between duty and desire starts to blur. You're not afraid of finding softness in the spaces where he lets you in.
wc: 15576
[smut smut smut after the initial long long opening because its meeeee and i cant stop with long exposition to save my life]
tw: blindness (post-injury, adjustment struggles), burn scars & facial disfigurement, mentions of past violence/murder, therapy sessions, caretaker/patient dynamic (blurred boundaries), unprotected sex, rough language (gator swears like it’s punctuation), masturbation, jealousy, gator being a stubborn bastard but also needy as hell, yes i cried at writing this and i hope y'all see how much i trully love this sad pathetic bastard of a man, as always no use of y/n
The thud of his palm slamming the counter echoed off the laminate walls. “Don’t need you hoverin’ like I’m goddamn five,” Gator snapped back, voice thick with frustration, edged in that familiar drawl. “Got hands, don’t I? Can still feel where shit goes.”
"You’re gonna burn the whole goddamn place down," you mutter, stepping into the tiny kitchen just in time to see him jabbing at the microwave buttons.
Gator doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even turn toward you. His face stays pointed at the humming box of plastic, one hand braced on the counter, the other hovering over the keypad like it's a landmine he’s got half a mind to trigger.
"I’m not helpless," he says, jaw tight. "Can still work a fuckin’ microwave."
"Then stop trying to cook soup on defrost, genius."
You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.
"You always this bossy with your patients?"
You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.
"I didn’t ask for you."
"No. The state did. Big difference."
That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.
You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."
You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.
"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."
"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."
"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."
The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.
He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.
He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.
“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.
Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”
You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”
He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.
You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”
His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”
“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”
There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.
"You were different back then," you say finally.
He swallows. “Back when?”
“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”
You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."
You nod. “I remember.”
He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.
He doesn't say thank you.
He doesn’t have to.
Because he knows you’ll be there.
Even when he’s acting like a bastard.
Especially then.
The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.
“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”
“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”
You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”
Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”
His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.
You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.
“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”
“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”
He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.
You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”
“You enjoy shaving me?”
“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”
“Convenient.”
“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”
“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.
You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.
But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.
He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.
You don’t.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.
It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.
And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.
You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.
Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.
Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.
Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.
He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.
And you’re still here.
Even when he doesn’t ask.
Especially then.
You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.
"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"
You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”
“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.
She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.
You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.
“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”
“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”
You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.
She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.
“You heading out?” she asks gently.
“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”
Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.
“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”
You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.
“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”
You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.
She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”
“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”
You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.
You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.
The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.
“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.
“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”
“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”
“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.
You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.
And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.
The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.
And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.
You’re just there.
And he knows it.
Even when he won’t say it.
Especially then.
The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.
He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.
“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”
You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”
He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”
You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”
“Came close,” he mutters.
You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.
“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.
You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.
“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”
“And before that…”
He groans. “Med check.”
You’re already walking over. “Face check.”
“I hate this part,” he says.
“I know.”
But he lets you do it anyway.
You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.
“You ready?”
“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.
“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”
He snorts. “That’s a lie.”
You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.
Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.
He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.
“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”
He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”
You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”
He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”
You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.
“Didn’t say they didn’t.”
That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different.
You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.
He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.
Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”
“I know,” he says.
You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.
The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.
But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.
He won’t say what that means.
You don’t ask.
Especially then.
The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.
He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.
“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.
“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”
The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.
“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”
More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.
“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.
“You mean besides this circus?”
“Yes.”
Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”
“Alone?”
Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.
“Mostly,” he muttered.
The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”
Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.
The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”
There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.
“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”
“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”
“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”
“Anyone else?”
Gator hesitated.
“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”
“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”
Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.
“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”
The therapist didn’t speak.
“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”
“But this one… you let her close.”
“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”
Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.
“What?” Gator growled.
“You talk about her differently.”
“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”
Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.
After a beat, he smirked.
“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.
Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”
“Says the guy with a functioning face.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Damn right I am.”
“You ever try not doing that?”
Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”
And the silence returned.
Like it always did.
Especially then.
You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.
“You smell different.”
You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”
He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”
You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”
“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”
“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”
“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”
You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”
He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”
“Bergamot.”
There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”
“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”
He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.
His hand goes still.
It’s clear the second he notices.
You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.
“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.
You hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Huh.”
You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”
“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”
“No,” you say. “I have a date.”
He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”
“Who is he?”
You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”
You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.
“He got two workin’ eyes?”
You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”
“What? That a requirement now?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”
“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.
“Must be nice.”
You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”
You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.
Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.
“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”
You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.
“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.
You open the door and step out into the night.
You don’t slam it.
But you don’t close it softly either.
Especially then.
The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.
The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.
He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.
Bergamot. That’s what you said.
Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.
Fucking bergamot.
You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.
The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was, trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.
Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.
He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.
The apartment still smelled like you.
Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.
He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.
His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.
You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.
His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.
He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.
He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.
His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.
That scent clung to everything you’d touched.
His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.
He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.
And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.
He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.
His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.
Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that.
The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.
His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.
He didn’t say your name.
But his mind did.
Again and again.
The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.
He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.
All he could smell was you.
And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.
And what someone else might be seeing now.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Especially then.
You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.
Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.
You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.
Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.
He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.
Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.
“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”
You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”
“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”
“I know that.”
His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”
“You think I care what people think?”
“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”
You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.
“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.
He scoffs. “Of what?”
You don’t answer. Neither does he.
You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.
“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”
You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.
He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.
“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.
“I’m working.”
“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”
He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.
He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.
You glance at the clock, then back at him.
You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.
“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.
He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.
You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.
He follows.
You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.
And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.
Especially then.
The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.
You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.
It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.
Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.
The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.
He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.
“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.
You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.
“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”
He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”
You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.
“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”
He grunted, amused. “Classic.”
“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”
Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”
“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”
He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”
“You say that like it’s a challenge.”
You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.
“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”
“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”
You laughed. “You asked.”
He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”
“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”
“Sure.”
You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.
He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.
He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.
So he said it, casual, low.
“Never been into girls like that.”
You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.
“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”
Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.
Hell, he wondered too.
“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”
He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.
“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”
He let that one sit.
Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”
You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.
He didn’t need eyes for this part.
He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.
And it was doing something to him too.
Especially then.
You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.
It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.
You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,
“Can I ask you something weird?”
He grunts in a way that means yes.
“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”
Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.
“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”
You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”
He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”
You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”
You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.
“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9
You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.
He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”
He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”
You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”
He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah, well. I can.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”
“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”
Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.
Then—
“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.
You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then.
Especially then.
He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.
“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.
He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”
You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”
He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”
You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”
He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.
He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.
“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”
You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.
He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.
But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”
His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.
“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”
He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.
“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.
His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.
Dammit, Todd.
He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”
You didn’t speak. He kept going.
“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.
“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”
You didn’t pull away. Not this time.
So he held on.
And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.
"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."
Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.
"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."
"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.
He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.
"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."
Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.
"Gator."
"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."
You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.
"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."
He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."
That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.
"You think I'd want to?"
"I know you do."
Silence.
"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"
You swallow hard.
"Do I what?"
"Do you ever think about me like that?"
It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"
"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."
He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.
"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."
"That ain't what I asked."
"You're right."
"So."
"So what?"
He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."
It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.
"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."
Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.
"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."
He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.
"You can hear me." You say, whispered.
He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."
You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."
Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?
"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."
His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."
"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."
You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.
He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.
He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.
"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.
"You're not." You reply.
He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."
"It's not."
"Then what am I?"
"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."
His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.
"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.
You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.
"Whatever you want me to."
He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.
"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."
"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."
"Yeah."
You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.
You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.
"Lie down." You say.
He does.
You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.
Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.
You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.
Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.
"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.
"You can't see me. What's it matter?"
He groans. "It matters."
You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."
He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.
The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.
"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."
"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.
He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.
You reach for the button of his jeans.
"Do you want these off too?"
"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."
His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"
"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"
He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none.
"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."
You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.
"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."
He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.
"Why?" he asks.
"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."
"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.
You can't help but laugh. "What?"
"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."
"Yeah, but.."
"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"
You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"
He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.
"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."
He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.
"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."
You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."
He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.
"Get on top of me," he commands.
"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.
You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.
"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."
"You are touching me," you say, breathless.
"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."
You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.
"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."
You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.
"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."
You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.
"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.
"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.
"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."
He kisses you, hot and hungry.
"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"
"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"
"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."
"You're cute when you're horny."
He growls. "Shut up."
You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."
He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you.
"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.
He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.
"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."
He's scared, you can feel it.
"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."
His cock twitches and he hisses.
"Fuck, I want you."
"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."
He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.
"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."
"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."
You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.
"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.
He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.
Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."
You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.
"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."
You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.
"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."
"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.
"You won't. Please."
You can't say no to him when he begs.
"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."
He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”
"I love it. Fuck."
You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.
"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.
You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce.
"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."
He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.
"Open," he rasps.
You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.
"Suck," he orders.
You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.
"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."
You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.
"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.
"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.
"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."
His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.
"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.
"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"
"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."
You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.
"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"
"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.
"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."
You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.
"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.
"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"
"Please," you whine.
"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."
"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."
He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.
The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.
He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.
You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.
"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."
"Yeah," you agree.
There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.
You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.
You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.
"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.
The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up.
"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.
"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."
He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.
"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.
"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"
He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.
"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.
He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.
When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.
"Oh."
"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."
You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.
Useless.
The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep.
The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.
You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.
He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”
“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”
You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.
Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”
You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.
“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”
Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.
“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”
You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”
He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”
Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.
“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”
You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”
He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.
And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.
Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.
“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”
He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”
You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”
There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.
“Do you trust me?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”
You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”
You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.
You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.
“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.
“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.
You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”
You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.
“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”
You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”
You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”
Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”
He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.
“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.
You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”
You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.
He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”
“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”
You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.
Then his hand drifts lower.
He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.
“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.
“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”
You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.
“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.
“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.
You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.
You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.
You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.
His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.
“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”
He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.
“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.
Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it.
“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.
You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.
“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”
“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”
He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.
“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.
He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.
“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”
He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.
After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”
“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”
“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.
“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”
You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.
Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.
The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway.
Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.
He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.
There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.
But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.
And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.
The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.
Especially then.
WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!
If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!
What if Bucky is super insecure because he has gotten a lot more grey in his beard so the reader shows him how much she loves it by riding his beard/face :pp
ੈ✩‧₊˚ told you so! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)
He has a headache, this is seriously giving him a headache. He fresh from the shower, towel wrapped around his hips, hair dripping water onto his skin, he slicks it back and sighs. The grays in his hair he can handle, except it’s two hairs that have gone gray. That’s whats so annoying, his fucking beard is graying before his hair is! He leans away from the mirror when he hears a knock on the door. “Come in baby, ‘s not locked.” He grumbles.
You poke your head inside, it’s steamy inside the bathroom, and smells like his soap. Piney, sorta woody, minty—all Bucky. Water drips down his the cleft of his chest down his abdomen, he’s gotten squishier, the abs are still there, less defined, but still there. “Sorry, I needed to brush.” You chirp sweetly, padding over to the sink. He pats your ass as he moves past you to your guys’ bedroom to get dressed. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the dresser and sighs again, rubbing the side of his jaw. He dresses himself, just in time for when you walk in minty fresh.
“Hi, sorry—I wasn’t trying to be pervy, walking in on you.” You say sheepish and it makes him smile. “I wasn’t naked, and you’re not pervy, I also don’t care if you see me naked.” He says grasping your hips when you clamber onto his lap. “Hi gorgeous.” He hums, “Hi handsome.” You croon back, rubbing under his jaw, he winces slightly which makes you confused. “Sorry, did I scratch you?” You ask softly, pulling your hand away quickly. “No, sorry, no, you didn’t nick me.” Bucky reassures quick to soothe you. “Something wrong?” You murmur, looping your arms around his shoulders. He sighs, he should just tell you. “I have grays.” He grumbles, it makes you laugh. “Bucky, so what? You’ve have ‘em for like…years.” You say incredulously. “I didn’t have as many though! I’ve gotta ton now.” He pouts, for most people it’d be jarring to see the winter soldier pouting, you kiss it away. “It’s sexy, very…silverfox!” You hum, running your knuckles against the salt and pepper hairs. “You’re just sayin’ that.” He grumbles once more, “Am not.” You deny, “Are too.” He says with an airy laugh. “Lie down.” You croon, “Why?” He murmurs suspiciously, going down easy when you push down on his chest.
You crawl over him, hovering over his stomach. “It’s sexy, hot, attractive, whatever adjective.” You mumble. “What’re you doing?” He asks, squinting at you, placing his calloused hands on your hips, pushing your shirt up. He’s not surprised to see pink panties with polka dots, but it’s still incredibly pleasant. “Nothin’ just showin’ you how much I like the salt and pepper.” You say cheeky, climbing higher till your cunt is level with his mouth. He smiles feeling hot, if he realized being a little whiny would result in getting to see your cute drooly pussy he would’ve started bitching way earlier. “Oh honey.” He croons, tugging your panties till they bunch up, tickling your folds softly through the fabric, he can feel the patch of wetness seeping through the gusset. “Bucky!” You whine, trying to push your hips forward for something more. “Need somethin’?” He asks teasingly, thumbing your clit as he presses his nose against you clothed folds. You’re stuck between wanting to push forward to keep his thumb circling your sensitive clit, or pulling away so he quits sniffing. “Bucky! Stop! That’s so gross!” You blubber and he rolls his eyes. He pulls away, pulling your panties to the side, kissing the inside of your thigh, gently scraping the skin with his teeth. “I can’t have any fun without you squealing.” He says, cupping the back of your thighs up to your ass, squeezing your cheeks in his large palms, making sure your panties are kept to the side. “Shut up!” You hiccup, leaning forward and bracing your hands on the headboard. He noses through your slit, his facial hair grazes against your skin, it makes you throb, rolling your hips down. “Mhm.” He hums, forcing you down, slurping up all your sticky pre, it makes you feel hot, how lewd. He kisses your outer lips, practically making out with your pussy. His hand trails from your behind to your front, pulling your hood back, giving him full access to your clit. He kisses it softly, bobbing his mouth lightly rolling it between his lips, drawing slow circles with his tongue. You fold forward, “Fuck!” You shiver your thighs shaking around his head. He dips his pointer finger between your lips, getting it sticky and wet, pushing it inside, massaging your gooey insides, adding a second finger when you’ve barely adjusted to the first. “Already?” He croons, feeling you start to get all jittery, rolling your hips onto his fingers, curling your toes when he slips his tongue out to flick your clit. “Shut up! ‘M sensitive” You sputter, “Keeping going—Oh!” You hiccup, going taut, he keeps you upright, rolling his tongue around your clit, keeping his fingers curled inside you as you cum all over his mouth. Pulling away only when you get all twitchy.
“Told you I liked it.” You murmur afterwards, sleepy, yet blissed out. “Yeah.” He scoffs, drunk off your syrupy cunt, wiping the aftermath of your orgasm off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So I shouldn’t buy beard dye?” he hums “I’d kill you.” You murmur. “Noted.”
Warnings: Southern Gothic setting, suggestive themes, longing, age-appropriate obsession, minor religious guilt, emotionally charged romantic tension, kissing, not entirely innocent thoughts, suggestive content, TWINK SCHLATT!!!
Summary: You’ve always watched him from afar. Jay, the loud-mouthed boy with bruised knuckles and a laugh that makes you feel dizzy. You’re sweet, or at least you were, before he looked at you like that. Now you can’t stop thinking about him. And worse, he’s finally started noticing you back.
A/N: Hope this ruins you in the softest, most Southern gothic Ethel Cain way possible. 😘 fr though I love this song with schlatt and this plot/setting just screams twink schlatt to me okay- like all of the skinny trashy boys I had a crush on in high school who smoked way too much weed
You saw him for the first time the summer you turned nineteen, when the heat came in thick and slow like molasses, and the pavement outside the gas station bubbled under your sneakers. You were elbow-deep in freezer burn, rearranging popsicles behind the counter, when the bell above the door rang and your world tilted just a little.
He walked in like he owned the place, all long limbs and loud voice, laughing at something one of his friends said. God, that laugh. Big and brash, like the kind of boy who didn’t apologize for anything.
He was wearing a cut-off tee with a band you didn’t know and a backwards hat that barely contained the curls at the back of his neck. You watched from behind the freezer glass, pretending to look busy as he strutted past the aisle of honey buns and beef jerky, jaw chewing absentmindedly on a toothpick like it had done something to offend him.
He didn’t look at you. Not then.
But you looked at him.
And you kept looking.
⸻
Jay wasn’t the kind of boy you brought home.
He was the kind you watched from across the parking lot while pretending to count scratch-offs. The kind of boy your mama warned you about when she told you to keep your legs closed and your eyes down.
But you couldn’t help it.
He was loud and messy and wild in a way this place wasn’t. The kind of boy who’d get in a fistfight for fun and then kiss you in the fallout. He wore his meanness like cologne and spat sunflower seeds at your feet without saying sorry.
You didn’t know him. Not really.
But you wanted to.
⸻
You made a habit of knowing when he’d show up.
His truck would growl into the lot just after 7PM, rattling like it had a death wish. You’d hear it before you saw him, bass turned up too high, the windows rolled down even though the AC worked fine.
He always parked sideways like rules didn’t apply, and strolled in with two of his friends trailing behind him like bad ideas. His voice was always the loudest. Sharp, cutting, dipped in something vulgar and funny.
You kept your eyes low. Played it safe.
But you felt it.
The pull.
The ache.
The heat that bloomed somewhere just below your ribs and spread like spilled syrup when he walked too close, smelled like smoke and gasoline.
And you started dressing different.
Just a little.
Gloss on your lips. Baby tee tucked tight. A daisy clipped behind your ear.
All soft, sweet things.
Things you hoped he’d want to ruin.
⸻
One day, he looked at you.
Really looked.
You were leaning on the counter, chin in hand, flipping through a trashy tabloid when the bell jingled and Jay swaggered in alone. No friends this time. Just him and the thick heat and the sound of cicadas screaming outside.
You didn’t glance up fast enough.
But when you did—
He was already looking.
Right at you.
His eyes dragged over you, slow and lazy like he had nowhere to be. His smirk curled, and he walked right up to the counter, chewing on nothing, eyes half-lidded and cruel.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said.
You blinked. Swallowed.
“I work nights.”
“Shame,” he muttered, tapping the counter with a ringed finger. “Guess I’ve been missin’ out.”
Your face burned, but your voice stayed steady. “You want anything?”
He grinned. “Yeah. What’s your name?”
You told him.
He said it once, trying it out. “Pretty.”
You should’ve laughed.
Instead, you stared at the way his lip curled around the word, the way he leaned forward like he was gonna say something awful, something filthy, and you would’ve let him. You would’ve listened to every word.
But he just winked.
Grabbed a cherry soda from the fridge and left a crumpled dollar on the counter.
No change.
No goodbye.
You watched him walk out into the heat, long and golden and made of sharp edges.
You didn’t breathe for a whole minute.
⸻
You started writing about him in your journal.
Nothing serious.
Just little things.
Like the way he scratched the back of his neck when he was bored. Or how he always seemed to know when someone was watching him and looked smug about it. You wrote down the songs he played when his truck idled in the lot. You imagined what his voice would sound like in your bedroom, saying things you weren’t supposed to want to hear.
You didn’t love him.
You just wanted to kiss him so hard your teeth ached.
You just wanted to be his, even if only for a night.
⸻
Two weeks later, he showed up again.
This time, he leaned on the counter and said, “You ever been out to the creek?”
You blinked. “What creek?”
“The one past Miller’s farm. Little spot with the rope swing.” He smiled like he knew you wouldn’t say no. “You should come.
You didn’t ask why.
You just nodded, heart jackhammering against your ribs
.
“Tonight,” he said. “Ten sharp. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, you were his.
⸻
You told your mama you were staying at a friend’s.
Put on your shortest skirt. Slicked on lip gloss that tasted like strawberries and sin. Walked barefoot down the gravel path until his headlights found you.
He didn’t say hi.
Just opened the passenger door and looked you over like he’d won something.
You climbed in, silent and sweating.
The cab smelled like sweat and spearmint and a boy who never cared what time it was.
He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting just a little too close to your thigh.
The radio played something low and slurred, and he tapped the beat on his knee like he didn’t even notice you were staring at his hands.
You were.
You couldn’t stop.
⸻
The creek was quiet.
Moonlight hit the water in soft ribbons, and the trees whispered secrets to the wind.
He cut the engine and leaned back in his seat, one arm slung lazily behind your headrest.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You shrugged.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You glanced at him.
His eyes glittered in the dark.
He grinned.
“You watch me a lot,” he said.
You froze.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You think I didn’t notice? Thought it was cute.”
You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.
He leaned in.
“Gotta admit,” he murmured, “I been watchin’ you too.”
You turned to him, lips parted, but he was already there—mouth on yours, hands rough on your hips, kiss sweet and sharp like peach candy and bad intentions.
It wasn’t gentle.
But it was good.
Too good.
And when he pulled back, eyes hooded, lips shiny, he whispered, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this.”
You didn’t say a word.
Just climbed into his lap and kissed him like you were starving.
⸻
You weren’t a good girl.
Not really.
You wore white dresses and said thank you and smiled at old ladies in church.
But under it all, you ached.
For him.
For something real.
And Jay?
He was real in all the worst, best ways.
He bit your bottom lip when you teased him. He pulled your hair when you got too mouthy. He kissed your neck like he was marking territory.
You let him.
You wanted him to.
⸻
You met like that every week.
Sometimes at the creek.
Sometimes behind the old laundromat where the lights flickered and the pavement smelled like bleach and burnt rubber.
He’d press you against brick walls and tell you how pretty you looked when you blushed. He’d call you baby and trouble and sweet thing like it meant something.
And God, it did.
To you, it meant everything.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Not really.
But he called you his.
And when he drove you home with one hand gripping your thigh and the other curled around the wheel, you felt like you could die right then and be happy.
⸻
You never told anyone.
Not your friends. Not your mama. Not even yourself, not really.
Because to say it out loud would make it real.
And you weren’t sure you could survive that.
He was your secret.
Your summer sin.
The thing you prayed about in the quiet, trembling on your knees with dirty thoughts and clean hands.
You were the girl who watched him from afar and wanted him anyway.
And now?
Now he wanted you back.
⸻
Some nights, you still lie awake and think about the way his hands felt on your waist, the way he laughed like the world was ending and he didn’t care.
You think about the way he said your name—low, rough, reverent.
save me older (sevika) lesbian (sevika) who smokes (sevika) and could throw me around (sevika) if you can hear me please save me older (sevika) lesbian (sevika) who smokes (sevika) and could throw me around (sevika)
The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.
IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!
There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.
I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.
SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?
Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.
And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...
