spending my free time over the last few months reading Gator Tillman fics and constantly watching edits has finally led to this.
at some point, this stopped being a normal fictional character crush and turned into me crying overnight while reading, continuing to cry at work, going to sleep at 3:30 a.m. because "just one more chapter" somehow became five more chapters, to a whole binge reading and randomly thinking, "what if i married Gator Tillman?" or even worse, "what if i could actually change this man?" haha
i also need to mention all the times i put my phone down because i was frustrated, overwhelmed, emotionally wrecked, or completely done with whatever was happening in the fic... only to pick it back up five minutes later and keep reading.
and let's not forget all the moments when i wanted to punch him in the guts, shake him by the shoulders, or smash his face into a wall.
i have no defense. no explanation. no regrets.
he's been living rent-free in my head for months, and honestly, i'm not even trying to evict him anymore.
watching Fargo and then immediately continuing with fanfics afterward is also something i don't regret at all.
a huge portion of the blame goes to @frootybb [Under Your Skin] , @gatorgirlie [Leather & Lace] & @covered-in-you-now [I wanna be yours] who contributed to this situation. your writing has done irreversible damage to me and is probably the reason this post exists.
you all somehow took a character that constantly frustrates me, breaks my heart, makes me cry, makes me yell at my screen, and then convinced me to care about him anyway. Lol
thank you for the beautiful writing, the emotional damage, and for existing in this tumblr world. i've had an incredible amount of fun reading your work. 🫶🏻
summary: you've been talking to someone with the username smashingkeys69 on a private chat site for some weeks, oblivious to the fact that the guy behind the profile is your coworker, who you might not be too fond of.
warnings: SMUT +18 MDNI, sexting (including breast play, fingering, blowjob, riding), nipple play, masturbation (female and male), dirty talk ig, fingering, multiple orgasms, mention of spit, mention of cum, semi public? (i mean is it public if youre in your bathroom at work but no one is there with you?), description of nsfw audio, mostly text messages
w.c.: 2,5k
author's note: first of all this one is for my julsita who not only is keys #1 girlfriend but also heard my idea first <3 also, a big big big thanks to blaize for proof reading and being the sweetest angel ever. yeah i know that you'd have to be a bit stupid to not realize the connection between the "keys" in the username and the nickname but can't a girl have some fun, ok bye.
you were barely finishing your first cup of coffee of the morning when he got up from his chair across yours. until then, you’d barely been able to see him as the big computer screens that separated you both blocked the view.
good, you thought. that way you wouldn’t have to endure his insufferable, bitchy face each time you pointed out a flaw on his code.
your eyes followed him until he disappeared down the hallway, cursing him under your breath as tomorrow’s deadline stared back at you, why the fuck does he think this is a good time to take a break, you knew it wasn’t like him.
but the thought of him flew from your mind the moment you heard your phone ping, the notification on your screen pulled a smirk on your lips that you didn’t even try to fight back.
smashingkeys69: r u free right now?
without meaning to you were already pressing your thighs together. the idea of locking yourself in one of soonami’s bathrooms made you swallow hard as you felt heat rushing to your cheeks.
you scanned the room before answering, everyone was locked in in whatever it was they were doing.
you: no but i can make myself free
you: give me 2 mins
it didn’t take you long to get from your shared desk to the women’s bathroom. you felt your skin prickling in response to how cold the room was. thankfully, all the cubicles were open, meaning you were completely alone and free to lock yourself inside the one farthest from the door, too scared to be heard.
you: okay
you: now i’m free
his reply came instantly.
smashingkeys69: what r u wearing
you sighed when you realized your work outfit was probably the least sexy thing in the world and for a moment thought about lying to him, but what was the point. he knew you were probably at work just as you knew he also was.
if only you were aware of the one digit meters that separated you from him in that moment.
you: the most boring work clothes
smashingkeys69: work clothes can be sexy
you: ur not helping set the mood w that
smashingkeys69: and ur not helping w the attitude
smashingkeys69: cmon tell me
you: a band tshirt and jeans
smashingkeys69: what band
you: srsly is it important
smashingkeys69: tryin to get to know you
you: why
smashingkeys69: cause no ones ever gotten me as hard as you do
you loved how with just some words he had pulled you in and made the heat on your cheeks travel to your stomach, sitting down on it with anticipation at what you knew was about to go down.
you: blur.
on the other bathroom, right next to the one you had settled in, keys fumbled with the button of his jeans, trying to get it open onehanded, knowing that your short answer to his stupid question was a sign that you wanted to get off as much he did. when the fabric hit the floor along with his underwear he shivered from the cold, the crash of sensations between the air and his hot skin adding on to the pleasure he was feeling.
smashingkeys69: take it off
you: im in my works bathroom
smashingkeys69: can u work w me
you: fine
smashingkeys69: take your bra off too
you knew he would like your next message.
you: im not wearing any
smashingkeys69: fuck
you: its off
you: tell me what youd do with em
seeing him texting and stopping, texting and stopping, felt like torture every single time.
smashingkeys69: touch them
smashingkeys69: think bout my hands instead of urs
smashingkeys69: id grab them both and kiss and bite down ur neck
you felt your free hand sliding up your bare stomach and stopping over your breast, cupping it and sighing.
keys remembered the picture of them you had sent him once and imagined yourself squishing them slightly, both free and full against your hand. he moaned.
you: id let u mark me wherever u wanted
smashingkeys69: good
smashingkeys69: id start on ur neck and make my way down slowly
smashingkeys69: taking my time just to torture u
you: youd love that wouldnt u
smashingkeys69: id love to hear u moan my name when i play with ur nipple
you followed his orders, pinching one of your nipples between the pad of your thumb and index finger and rolling it. if you knew what his name was, you’d whisper it for yourself.
keys took the lack of answer from you as asking him to go on, he was sure you were playing with the hard bud just as he had said.
smashingkeys69: i suck on it and flick my tongue over it as if it were your pussy
your thumb brushed over your nipple slowly once, twice, before you flicked it and gasped at the sudden impact.
on the other room keys was fighting hard not to start jerking himself off, his dick already hard and hitting his stomach, begging for attention that it would get soon.
smashingkeys69: my hand goes down ur body and and sneaks under your pants feeling you warm and wet
smashingkeys69: do that for me now
smashingkeys69: touch yourself
smashingkeys69: r u wet
you don’t waste time and let your jeans fall to your ankles just to shimmy your panties down your legs, completely naked now, shoulders resting against the wall. your fingers slid down from your tits, circling slowly on your pussy as soon as they touched it.
you: m so wet
you: youd slide in so easily
smashingkeys69: dont get ahead of urself
smashingkeys69: fuck urself w ur fingers
smashingkeys69: 2 of them
smashingkeys69: pretend that their mine
smashingkeys69: that its me holding u open
smashingkeys69: pumping them into u until ur shaking under me telling me how good i make u feel
smashingkeys69: tell me how it feels
you: it feels so good
your movements got faster and your back arched as you approached your peak and a whine left your lips, trying to shut yourself up with the hand holding your phone. but it didn’t last long before it vibrated on your hand, the need to read what he was saying was stronger in your fuzzy head than the fear of being heard.
smashingkeys69: go faster and play with ur clit
smashingkeys69: tell me how close u r
you: m so close
you: im waitin for u to tell me
smashingkeys69: ur waiting for my permission to cum?
you: yes
it was all you managed to write through your blurry vision and knees about to buckle, forcing you to hold yourself upright by resting your free forearm against the wall in front of you as two of your fingers were still getting in and out of your cunt.
smashingkeys69: good girl
smashingkeys69: make urself cum thinkin of me
you: m
smashingkeys69: i know
you curled your fingers inside of yourself and your rhythm faltered when you felt your climax approaching. “fuck. fuck. fuck” you whispered. it only took three more seconds for your thighs to tremble and your arousal to coat your fingers as your curses were replaced with a cry you weren’t able to hide. the cold of the bathroom had turned hot long ago and it wasn’t helping you catch your breath and took your fingers out, shinny under the white lights.
you: holy fuck
smashingkeys69: how do u feel
you: amazing
you: but we arent done yet
smashingkeys69: wasnt expecting to
smashingkeys69: have u cleaned ur fingers yet
you: i was bout to
smashingkeys69: suck them
you: what
smashingkeys69: if they were mine id suck them clean as soon as id gotten them out of your pussy
smashingkeys69: so put them in your mouth and suck them clean
compliant, you let your two digits past your lips and rested them against your tongue, savoring your own cum before sliding them out and swallowing. you attempted to dry them off against the skin on your sides, ready to type again and give back the favor.
you: get ur dick out
smashingkeys69: its been out
you were thankful for past you that had sent him a picture of your boobs, it had gotten you one of his length back, even if you usually hated dick pics. ‘cause now you know what it looked like. you know about how it tilts slightly to the right when it’s hard, about the big undervein that runs along it, and of course you also know about his dick being big compared to his hand that you were sure was not small.
you: good cause idk how much longer i have
smashingkeys69: u in a hurry?
you: i should be doing the work my coworker isnt doing rn
smashingkeys69: sounds like an asshole
you: he is
you: whatever
you: where were we
smashingkeys69: my dicks out
you: yeah right
you: r u hard
smashingkeys69: if i dont start jerking off rn i might die
you: dramatic much??
smashingkeys69: youve no idea how u kill me
you: show me then
smashingkeys69: help me then
smashingkeys69: dyou think u could handle it
you: ur big dick?
you: u know id take it so well
you: but id have to prep u for that first
smashingkeys69: mhm how would u do that tell me
you: i would trail my tongue from ur belly all the way to ur base
you: over the pretty happy trail ik u have
keys dropped one of his hands from his phone and skimmed it over his chest, through the hair he had gotten to learn you loved and stopped right above his pubes, waiting to read what you’d tell him to do.
smashingkeys69: u like the happy trail
you: i love the happy trail
you: id leave sloppy kisses all over it
you: and youd beg me to put your dick in my mouth
smashingkeys69: id grab u by the hair and pull u up
smashingkeys69: id kiss u and bite down on ur lip before telling u to suck me off if u want to cum again later
you: thats hot
smashingkeys69: ik u like it rough
you: id let u guide me down on my knees
you: i wouldnt want u to let go of my hair
smashingkeys69: i wouldnt
smashingkeys69: id use it to guide u to my dick
you: i wouldnt start easy
you: id kiss ur tip first and then get all ur dick inside my mouth til my nose touches ur skin
they didn’t have much time and keys knew it. she had to get back to work just as much as he had to get back to his before he was murdered, funny enough, by you. so he set a quick and rough pace instantly, using the precum that had already been leaking from his tip from making you cum and his own spit as lube. his hand was pumping fast and the wet sound it made mixed with his low groan, jaw clenched and eyes locked on his phone screen, watching the typing bubble laugh at his eagerness.
you: r u jerking off
smashingkeys69: yeah
smashingkeys69: keep goin
you: id love to see ur face while u fuck my mouth
you: id never stop looking at u even when my eyes r watering
you: or when ur head hits the back of my throat over and over again and it gets too much
smashingkeys69: id make u gag on it
you: id love to edge you just to pin u down and climb on ur lap
you: sinking down on u slowly til ur so deep inside of me that we can’t think
keys found himself moaning yeah as if you were able to hear him, only to realize that you couldn’t. his hips slammed into his fist while he typed with practiced ease.
smashingkeys69: yeah
smashingkeys69: stretching u so good
you couldn’t help but taking your hand to your pussy and starting to play with yourself again, dragging your fingers over your folds and spreading them open to tease at your entrance while you whined.
you were still sensitive from your first orgasm so it wasn’t hard to get you high again.
you: im dripping
smashingkeys69: u playing w urself again
you: couldnt help myself
smashingkeys69: keep going
smashingkeys69: we’ll cum together
smashingkeys69: god id love to be tasting u
you: i want u to fuck me
smashingkeys69: i would baby
smashingkeys69: id open ur legs and bury myself inside ur cunt
smashingkeys69: youd be feeling me for days
you: i wish i could hear u rn
his messages stopped for a few seconds. at first you just thought he was too close to his orgasm to be able to text you. but when fifteen seconds went by and he didn’t reply you were about to ask him if he was okay when a bubble came through. but this time it wasn’t only a text.
it was a voice note, followed by a text.
smashingkeys69: cum to that
you pressed play on the 12 seconds audio and quickly took your phone to your ear.
the sound of skin against skin filled you, making you quicken the circles on your clit. you heard the wet sounds of what you thought to be precum or spit and ragged breathing. it was him, of course. and if hearing his panting was taking you to the edge, what sent you flying was the smallest whisper of fuck. one he had clearly tried to repress but gave up soon, letting his moans and whimpers out for you to hear.
your legs pressed together and trembled as you came to the sound of what had been his own orgasm just seconds before.
hand back on the wall to support yourself while you waited for your dizziness to leave you.
smashingkeys69: u okay
you: fantastic
you: u
smashingkeys69: never been better
you: i gotta get back to work
smashingkeys69: me too
smashingkeys69: ill text u tonight
you: deal
you looked at the time and realized you had been gone for almost twenty minutes, hurrying to get your clothes back on and arranging by looking at the bathroom mirror. once the front of your shirt was tucked a bit inside of your jeans you washed your hands but didn’t dry them with paper towels. instead, you pressed them to the back of your head, attempting to cool down.
over in the men’s bathroom keys had finished washing his hands and his face, ready to go back to his desk. only to open the door at the same time you walked out of the women’s bathroom. his eyes took in your flustered cheeks and dropped to your shirt.
blur.
“oh, fuck me” he said in disbelief.
you looked at him confused, but then your eyes followed his and you noticed the reason for his sudden distress. it was your shirt.
you looked back at him horrified as you connected the dots you now know you should’ve realized a long time ago.
smashingkeys69.
smashing keys, as in keys mckeys, aka the guy you shared a desk with.
Summary : Gator Tillman has your heart. You'd do anything for him, but he treats you like you're nothing. Will he ever change his mind and his beliefs ?
♪ oh honey, tramps like us / baby, we were born to run ♫
✧.┊ Series masterlist for the sequel to part time soulmate, full time problem ✧read on AO3 ✧ listen to the series playlist here ┊. ✧
Paring: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader
Chapter links, summary, CW/tags, and A/N are under the cut:
Summary: Gator falls silent shortly after you arrive back home in Brooklyn; you spiral, bracing for the worst. When he finally comes home to you, with life altering changes and injuries, the two of you quickly learn nothing in life comes easy.
… But that won’t stop either of you from fighting for the lives you both truly deserve all along. Side by side, you take each challenge as it comes, making the best of however the future unfolds.
THIS ENTIRE SERIES IS 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
OCs moodboards/info
✮⋆˙
prologue - escape route
ch. 1 - first thing to go
ch. 2 - the ocean grew hands to hold me
ch. 3 - slip the noose
ch. 4 - more
ch. 5 - home
ch. 6- killshot
ch. 7 - flowers on the grave
ch. 8 - cosmic
ch. 9 - sugar
ch. 10 - sick thoughts
ch. 11 - I don’t mind
ch. 12 - rainbow
ch. 13 - you’re the reason I don’t want the world to end
Epilogue - I believe in magic
✮⋆˙
Series finished 1/27/26 — thank you to everyone who has read and continues to read this series!! I appreciate you endlessly <3 blurbs to come in the future!
What this fic includes will be updated accordingly before each chapter, but these are blanket CWs/tags for the entire series: established relationship from enemies to lovers, found family, language, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, discussions of abuse, PTSD, a lot of healing/recovery, eventual smut, a fuck ton of eventual sappy moments. No use of Y/N, but Gator affectionately calls reader “Darlin’” instead.
✮⋆˙
A/N: hi! I hope this is worth the wait for those who expressed excitement over a sequel. thanks for all of the support on the original series!! 🥹 I hope y’all enjoy it, and thanks again for the support and patience <3
also, while the first series was canon adjacent here and there, this one is pretty divergent from here on out.
without giving much away, if there is anything I got wrong re: Gator’s vision loss, please don’t hesitate to correct me. as a disabled person who is not blind or visually impaired, I want to get this right, and did my best to research what I could. I want to treat this as realistically and respectfully as possible when it comes to someone’s disability journey as a young adult— the good, bad, and everything in between— but again, please don’t hesitate to lmk if anything needs correcting!
Paring: Gator Tillman x Alt Fem!Reader (she/her pronouns) || MDNI!! Explicit content, please heed the tags/warnings before reading
Summary:
After leaving the Midwest years ago, you finally make the choice to visit home for the holidays. What’s meant to be a quiet, boring Christmas with your family turns into being snowed in with your ex-best friend, now enemy and absolute pain in the ass, Gator Tillman.
It’s only 3 days. How bad can 3 days be with an ex-friend?
———
read on AO3 here // series playlist
Links to chapters on tumblr, the tags, and author’s note are under the cut here:
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
bonus chapter: knife games
Series is finished, tysm for all of the support on this!! 🫶🏻 the sequel series tramps like us is out and in progress now ☺️
CW/tags: porn with plot, ex-friends, enemies to lovers, toxic banter, two idiots pining while being assholes to cope with feelings, alcohol, hurt/comfort, mentions of death and mourning, misogyny, “daddy issues”, discussing/discovering kinks, masturbation, rough sex, oral sex, PiV/unprotected sex, brat/dom dynamic, daddy kink, femdom, choking, dirty talk, edging/orgasm denial/forced orgasm, cockwarming, anal play, no use of Y/N (Gator uses name calling/pet names for reader), PTSD, familial abuse and domestic violence, generational trauma
A/N (edit 1/12/24 lol): I can’t believe I have to say this, but writing for a character that’s generally not a good person doesn’t mean I condone any garbage behavior said character might do. As for staying 100% canon, I never did to begin with, so I’m flowing with what I got wrong or what I wanted to change for the sake of this series. This is my first time writing for Gator so apologies if I don’t get characterization down!! If any of that bothers you, feel free to skip this one.
Also hope I got all the tags necessary, but I’ll add over time as needed. I had a lot of fun writing so far, and I’m still working on the last chapter, but I hope to have it out soon. Thanks for all the support so far!! enjoy reading!! <3
SO HIGH SCHOOL MASTERLIST
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: you’re jonathan byers’s best friend. you live in hawkins, indiana, and you know everyone in the small town. you work two jobs to help your mom with bills while also managing to be the top of your classes. everything is normal until the day will byers goes missing, and the world as you know it is flipped upside down. and because of that, you form an unlikely friendship with the ‘king’ of your high school, steve harrington.
tags/warnings: steve harrington x fem!reader, use of y/n, mostly canon-compliant reader insert (maybe a few minor changes here or there), swearing, fluff, angst, eventual smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to ??? to lovers, seasons 1-5, mentions of child abandonment/neglect, mentions of dead parents, minor eddie munson x fem!reader, reader lowkey has attachment/abandonment issues, minor miscommunication, i hate murray bauman, writing might be shit idk.
masterlist !
wattpad link , ao3 link
–
PART ONE – tell me ‘bout the first time you saw me
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
PART TWO – you know how to ball, i know aristotle
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
PART THREE – are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
PART FOUR – i want to find you in a crowd just to hide from you
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
PART FIVE – no one’s ever had me, not like you
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
EPILOGUE – you knew what you wanted and, boy, you got her
the epilogue
–
a/n: this series was originally posted on wattpad on christmas 2025, and i’m writing the last few chapters right now so i thought this was the best time to start posting it on here + ao3! idk i hope you guys like it. and don't worry, this series is basically completely written so i will still be focusing on writing other fics while posting this! more spidey steve is coming i promise you all.
Summary : Gator Tillman has your heart. You'd do anything for him, but he treats you like you're nothing. Will he ever change his mind and his beliefs ?
I don’t even know where you went, but i hope you’re always safe. I just want you to know that your writing meant more to me as a reader than you’ll ever realize. It gave me feelings I’ve never experienced before.
I still remember the first time i read your story, i think it was round end of season 1 or 2, where i cried so much it actually hurt. My heart just aches thinking about what happened between the Golden Girl & Steve. I still remember the way i just sitting there like after I finished reading and thinking, Why? Why would she do that? And somehow, it felt so real. And sometimes I’d randomly start crying because of how deeply it got me.
I stepped away around February because i had a lot of work to do, and i knew that time you’re still working on the next season, So i told myself I’d come back when i had more time.
But when i finally came back this April to continue the next season, I couldn’t find you anymore.
I don’t know what happened, but i truly hope you’re okay. And maybe, one day you’ll comeback to continue your writing.
I just really miss your writing. And i wish i could feel that way again.
Summary: You’re trapped in your new stepfamily’s house, hating your cocky stepbrother Gator Tillman with every fiber of your being until the night he bends you over the kitchen counter and fucks you raw like he owns you. Now he can’t stop. He’ll protect you from his dangerous father but only if you keep spreading your legs for him like the desperate little slut you’ve become.
Word count: 61.7K
Warnings: NSFW, dark, possessive, taboo step-sibling filth with breeding, cum-eating, risky family scenes, spanking, and zero pull-out game.
summary: go through an all consuming situationship between you & “king” steve harrington. you’ve always had a crush on steve, and finally get a piece of him, but steve wont commit to you. his pride and ego as “king steve” will always matter most to him.
c/w: porn with a plot 18+, possessiveness, king steve persona, jealousy, insecurity, dom!steve, shy!reader, dirty talk, degradation, miscommunication, toxic relationship, angst and fluff, arguing, manipulation, steve wont commit.
౨⋆ৎ inspired by august by taylor swift ౨⋆ৎ
prologue - one of the girls
chapter one - in case you’d call
chapter two - twisted in bedsheets
chapter three - beneath the sun
chapter four - so much for summer love
chapter five - i remember thinking i had you
chapter six - for the hope of it all
a/n: i am soo excited about this! ive gotten a few requests for a part two of my fic “one of the girls” and decided to make it into a series! ill be updating it here as i go, you’ll be able to find this post on my masterlist. if you’d like to be tagged as i post, comment here! you can expect the first chapter within the next two weeks. thank you sm <3
The next morning arrived cold and gray, the kind of dawn that felt like it was already judging everyone in the house.
Sunrise prayer.
Roy had left no room for negotiation. At 5:45 a.m. sharp, his heavy knock sounded on Gator’s bedroom door: three sharp raps that echoed like gunshots.
“Both of you. Downstairs. Now. Do not make me come up and get you.”
Gator was already awake. He hadn’t slept much. The welts on his back had stiffened overnight into tight, burning ridges. Every movement pulled at the broken skin, sending fresh sparks of pain down his spine. Still, he sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, letting you gently press antibiotic ointment over the worst of the stripes while you both whispered in the dark.
When the knock came, he caught your hand and squeezed it once, hard.
“Stay close to me,” he murmured, voice rough from pain and lack of sleep. “If he tries anything, you run back up here and lock the door. I’ll handle him.”
You helped him pull on a loose black t-shirt. The fabric stuck to the ointment and the drying blood in places, making him hiss through his teeth, but he didn’t complain. He simply stood, rolled his shoulders once with a grimace, and took your hand again as you walked downstairs together.
The living room had been rearranged.
Roy sat in his usual armchair like a king on a throne, Bible open on his lap. A single wooden chair had been placed directly in front of him, facing the room like a defendant’s seat. Two more chairs were set off to the side, one for Sandra, one presumably for you. Candles burned on the coffee table, throwing flickering shadows across the walls and making the cross above the fireplace look larger and more menacing.
Sandra was already seated, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes downcast. She didn’t look at either of you when you entered. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The perfect wife, silent and complicit as always.
Roy’s gaze lifted slowly. He took in Gator’s stiff posture, the way he moved like every step hurt, and allowed himself the faintest smile of satisfaction.
“Good. You’re both here. On time.” His eyes flicked to you. “Sit.”
You started to move toward the empty chair beside Sandra, but Gator gently tugged you back, guiding you to sit beside him on the small loveseat instead close enough that your thighs pressed together. A small, quiet act of defiance.
Roy’s jaw tightened, but he let it pass for now.
“We begin with confession,” he said, voice calm and heavy with authority. “Gator, since you so nobly took the physical correction for both of you last night, you will speak first. Tell the Lord and this family every sinful act you have committed with your stepsister. Every touch. Every time you have lain with her. Leave nothing out.”
Gator’s hand found yours again under the edge of the loveseat, hidden from view. His thumb stroked once across your knuckles, steadying.
He looked Roy dead in the eye.
“I’m not confessing shit to you, Dad. Not like this.”
Roy’s fingers tightened on the Bible.
Gator continued anyway, voice low but clear, each word deliberate despite the pain in his back.
“I love her. That’s not sin. That’s the only honest thing that’s happened in this house in years. I’ve touched her because she wanted me to. I’ve been with her because she chose me. And yeah I used to be rough with her. Used to degrade her. Used to treat her like something I owned because it made me feel powerful. But I’m not that man anymore. Not completely. She’s changing me. And I’ll take every stripe you want to give me if it means keeping her safe from you.”
He glanced at you, eyes softening with that new, fierce tenderness.
“I love you, Y/n. Right here. In front of him. In front of all of them. I’m not ashamed of it.”
Your throat tightened. Tears burned behind your eyes, but you didn’t look away from him.
Roy’s face had gone stony. The candlelight made the veins in his neck stand out.
“Blasphemy,” he hissed. “You stand there bleeding from the rod and still refuse to repent? Then the girl will speak. Y/n. Tell us how your stepbrother corrupted you. How many times he has taken you. How you allowed it. Confess, so the Lord may have mercy on your soul.”
You felt every eye in the room on you, Roy’s cold and demanding, Sandra’s wide and terrified, Gator’s warm and protective.
You lifted your chin, voice shaking but loud enough to carry.
“I won’t confess anything to you, Roy. Because what Gator and I have isn’t something dirty for you to twist into sin. He loves me. I love him. And if that makes us sinners in your eyes, then fine. But you’re the one who’s sick. You beat your own son bloody last night because you can’t stand that he has something real something you’ll never have. So go ahead and pray. Pray all you want. But I’m not getting on my knees for you. Not today. Not ever.”
Sandra made a soft, broken sound and looked away, unable to watch the collision she had helped enable through her silence.
Roy rose slowly from his chair, Bible clutched in one hand, the other flexing as if he itched to reach for the belt again.
“Then neither of you are repentant,” he said, voice dangerously quiet. “The cleansing will continue. Every morning. Every evening. Until the Lord breaks your stubborn hearts. And if the rod must speak again…”
He let the threat hang in the air like smoke.
Gator stood up despite the fresh pull of pain across his back. He pulled you up with him, keeping you tucked against his side.
“We’re done here,” he said flatly. “Pray by yourself, old man. We’re going back upstairs.”
Roy took one step forward, but Gator didn’t flinch.
For a long, tense moment, father and son stared each other down bloodied back versus unyielding will.
Then Gator turned, guiding you toward the stairs with a protective arm around your shoulders, leaving Roy standing alone in the candlelit living room with his Bible and his twisted sense of righteousness.
Sandra remained seated, silent as ever, staring at the floor while the weight of her complicity pressed down harder than any belt ever could.
Upstairs, the moment Gator’s door locked behind you, he pulled you into his arms careful of his injuries and buried his face in your neck.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “No matter what he does next. I’ve got you.”
The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next crack of thunder.
But in that locked room, wrapped in Gator’s careful, pained embrace, you felt something stronger than fear:
Love that had been tested by blood and still refused to break.
The next morning’s “prayer” had only been the beginning.
Roy moved faster and more ruthlessly than anyone expected.
By the following afternoon, he had used every ounce of his authority as sheriff. A quiet word to a judge friend, a few signatures, and suddenly there was a temporary conservatorship order framed as “protecting a vulnerable young woman from predatory influence within the home.” Sandra signed the papers without protest, her hand shaking but her silence absolute. Gator was at work when it happened; Roy made sure of that.
When Gator came home that evening, the house was different.
Your bedroom door had been fitted with a new deadbolt on the outside. The window was nailed shut from the frame. Your phone, laptop, and car keys were gone. Roy stood in the hallway like a warden, belt looped through his fingers again, eyes cold with triumph.
“Y/n is in spiritual crisis,” he announced flatly. “She will remain in her room for reflection and cleansing until she confesses fully and repents. No visitors. No exceptions. Not even you, boy.”
Gator had lost it slamming Roy against the wall, shouting threats, promising to burn the house down but two deputies Roy had pre-arranged were already waiting. They dragged Gator out in handcuffs for “interfering with a lawful conservatorship.” He was released hours later with a warning, but the damage was done. He could no longer get to you.
Now it was the third night.
You were alone in your room, curled on the bed in the same clothes you’d been wearing when they locked you in. The only things Roy allowed were a Bible, a notebook, a pen, and a pitcher of water. Meals were slid through a small slot in the door twice a day, bread, water, sometimes thin soup. No phone. No contact with the outside. No Gator.
Roy came every evening after dinner.
Tonight was the worst so far.
He sat on the single wooden chair he’d brought in, Bible open on his lap, belt resting across his thighs like a sleeping threat. The lamp cast harsh shadows across your face. You were huddled against the headboard, knees drawn to your chest, eyes red and swollen from hours of crying.
“Speak, child,” Roy said quietly, almost gently. “Tell me everything. Every time Gator touched you. Every place he put his hands. Every time he entered your body. Leave nothing out. The Lord is listening. I am listening. Confession is the only path to freedom.”
You had held out for two nights.
Tonight, something inside you finally shattered.
The isolation, the hunger, the constant fear, the knowledge that Gator was somewhere in the house hurting, raging, unable to reach you, broke you completely.
Tears poured down your face as the words started spilling out in a broken, hysterical flood.
“He… he started in the kitchen,” you sobbed, voice cracking. “He bent me over the counter and… and fucked me raw the first time. Called me his little stepsister slut. Spanked me. Came inside me and then… then made me swallow it after he licked it out of me.”
Roy’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened on the Bible.
You kept going, words tumbling faster, shame and distress twisting your voice into something unrecognizable.
“He did it everywhere. In my bed. On the couch while you and Mom were downstairs. He’d sneak in at night and… and fuck me so hard I couldn’t walk straight the next day. He degraded me. Called me his whore, his greedy cunt. Made me beg for it even when I said I hated him. He ate his own cum out of me every single time like it was communion. I let him. I wanted it. I took the IUD out because I wanted him to fill me with nothing between us. I told him I loved him. We went out of town and danced and fucked in a motel and… and I gave him head for the first time because I wanted to make him feel good…”
Your shoulders shook with violent sobs. You were rocking back and forth now, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, voice rising into near-hysteria.
“I’m disgusting. I’m sick. I let my own stepbrother ruin me and I liked it. Please… please just let me out. I can’t do this anymore. I’m scared. I miss him. I love him and I hate myself for it. Just make it stop. Make it stop!”
Roy watched you unravel with quiet satisfaction, the twisted hunger in his eyes carefully masked behind paternal concern. He finally closed the Bible and stood, stepping closer until he loomed over the bed.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sickeningly gentle. “The Lord is pleased with your honesty tonight. This is the beginning of true repentance.”
He reached out and rested a heavy hand on the top of your head, fingers threading into your hair in what might have looked like comfort to anyone else. To you, it felt like ownership.
“You will stay in this room a little longer,” he continued softly. “Until the confession is complete and your soul is cleansed. Until every last impure thought about your stepbrother is burned away. Then… perhaps… we can discuss your future in this family. Under proper guidance.”
You broke down completely, curling into a tight ball and sobbing so hard your entire body shook. The extreme distress had swallowed you whole, shame, terror, grief, and the crushing realization that Roy had won this round. Gator couldn’t reach you. Sandra wouldn’t help you. You were caged, forced to lay bare every intimate, filthy detail of your relationship while the man who secretly coveted you listened with feigned holiness.
Down the hall, Gator paced his own room like a caged animal, back still raw and bleeding in places, fists bloody from punching the wall. He could hear your distant, broken sobs through the vents and it was tearing him apart.
He had promised to protect you.
And right now, he couldn’t even get to your door.
Roy stepped back, satisfied for the night.
“Sleep, child. Tomorrow we continue. The Lord is not finished with you yet.”
The door locked behind him with a heavy, final click.
You were left alone in the dark, curled up in extreme distress, whispering Gator’s name like a prayer between broken sobs, terrified that this time… there might be no escape.
The lock on your bedroom door had barely clicked shut behind Roy when the dam inside you completely shattered.
You had held it together just barely while he sat there listening to every filthy, intimate detail you forced yourself to confess. But the second his footsteps faded down the hallway, the extreme distress crashed over you like a wave.
You curled into a tight ball on the bed, face buried in the pillow, and began to cry violently.
The sobs tore out of your throat raw, guttural, uncontrollable. Your entire body shook with them. Your chest heaved so hard it hurt. Tears soaked the pillowcase within seconds. The isolation, the shame of having to recount every time Gator had fucked you, spanked you, degraded you, filled you combined with the terror that Roy might never let you out ripped you apart.
“Gator…” you whimpered at first, voice muffled and broken.
Then louder.
“Gator!”
The cry cracked through the quiet house like shattered glass.
You sat up on your knees, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around your middle as if you could hold yourself together. Your voice rose into a desperate, wailing sob that echoed off the walls.
“GATOR! Please… please come get me!”
The tears streamed down your face in hot, endless rivers. Your nose ran. Your throat burned. You were hyperventilating between sobs, gasping for air.
“I can’t do this anymore! I’m scared I’m so scared! Gator, please! I need you!”
You crawled to the edge of the bed closest to the door and banged weakly on the wood with your fist, voice breaking into a loud, hysterical scream.
“GATOR! Where are you?! They locked me in, he made me tell him everything! Everything we did! I told him how you fucked me, how you came inside me, how I let you I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Please come! I can’t breathe I need you!”
Your screams grew louder, more frantic, echoing down the hallway.
“GATOR! HELP ME! I love you I love you so much and I’m breaking please don’t let him keep me here! GATOR!!”
Down the hall, Gator heard every single word.
He was already on his feet the moment your first loud sob reached him through the vents and thin walls. By the time you started screaming his name, he was slamming his shoulder against his own locked door, ignoring the fresh agony it sent ripping across the welts on his back.
“Y/n!” he roared back, voice raw with fury and helplessness. “I’m here, baby! I’m right here! Hold on!”
He kicked the door hard, once, twice, the wood splintering but not giving way. Roy had reinforced it well.
“Roy!” Gator bellowed, voice cracking with rage. “Open this fucking door! Let her out! You’re killing her can’t you hear her?!”
Your cries only grew more violent, dissolving into hysterical, gasping wails.
“Gator— I can’t— I can’t stop crying he made me say all the dirty things how you spanked me, how you made me swallow your cum I’m disgusting please come hold me I need you inside me I need you to make it stop hurting— GATOR!!”
You collapsed onto the floor beside the door, forehead pressed to the wood, sobbing so hard your whole body convulsed.
“I love you… I love you… please don’t leave me here alone… I’m so scared… Gator… Gator please…”
Gator was losing his mind on the other side of his own locked door. He punched the wall hard enough to split his knuckles, blood smearing the paint, while he shouted back through the walls.
“I’m coming, princess! I swear to God I’m coming for you! Just hold on breathe for me, baby, please breathe! I love you I love you so fucking much Roy can’t keep you from me!”
In the master bedroom, Sandra lay beside Roy, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to your violent, heartbroken screams echoing through the house. She clutched the sheets tightly but said nothing. Her silence was heavier than ever complicit, terrified, and selfish.
Roy remained perfectly still in bed, hands folded over his chest, listening to your breakdown with a cold, satisfied expression.
He let you cry.
He let you scream Gator’s name until your voice grew hoarse.
Because every broken sob, every desperate plea, was proof that the cleansing was working.
In his twisted mind, your extreme distress was the sound of sin being burned out of you.
And he had no intention of unlocking that door until you were truly broken… or until Gator finally did something that would give Roy the excuse to destroy him completely.
Your voice cracked one last time, barely a whisper now, raw and exhausted:
“Gator… please… I need you…”
Then you curled up on the floor against the door, sobbing violently into the silence, shaking uncontrollably in the dark, waiting for the only person who had ever made you feel safe while the man who claimed to be saving your soul listened with quiet, righteous satisfaction from down the hall.
The house had finally gone quiet, but Roy Tillman lay awake in the dark of the master bedroom, staring at the ceiling where faint water stains formed shapes like accusing fingers.
Y/n’s violent sobs and desperate screams for Gator had echoed through the vents for nearly an hour before exhaustion finally dragged her under. The sound of her breaking raw, guttural, begging for the very man Roy had tried to beat out of her life should have brought him satisfaction. Instead, it stirred something deeper, older, and far more dangerous than simple righteous anger.
He turned his head slightly. Sandra lay beside him, pretending to sleep, her breathing too measured, too controlled. She had always been good at silence. Just like his own mother had been.
Roy’s mind drifted back to the small, clapboard house on the edge of the county line where he had grown up.
His father had been a lay preacher and a hard man belt in one hand, Bible in the other. “Spare the rod, hate the child,” he used to say before every whipping. Roy had learned early that pain was love, that control was salvation. When his older sister had been caught kissing a boy behind the barn at sixteen, their father had locked her in the root cellar for three days with nothing but scripture and a bucket. She came out quieter. Obedient. Broken in all the right ways.
Roy had watched and learned.
When he was nineteen, he met Gator’s mother pretty, soft-spoken, already pregnant with the boy. He married her to “make it right,” to give the child a name. But she had been weak. She smiled too easily at other men. Laughed too loud. One night he came home early from patrol and found her with a neighbor’s hand up her skirt. Roy had beaten the man bloody in the front yard while she screamed. Then he had taken her inside and “corrected” her the way his father had taught him belt first, then prayer on her knees until she confessed every impure thought she’d ever had.
She never looked at another man again.
But the shame of it never left him. The way her tears had mixed with something darker in his own blood something hot and hungry that he had buried under layers of scripture and badge and duty. When she died in a car accident two years later (driving too fast, trying to run, the coroner said), Roy told himself it was God’s mercy. He had raised Gator alone, determined to make the boy stronger than his mother’s weakness, harder than his own secret failings.
Then Sandra came along polished, ambitious, desperate for the respectability Roy could give her. She was safe. Controllable. She knew when to keep her eyes down and her mouth shut.
And then Y/n arrived.
Twenty-two. Fresh. Untouched by the world in all the ways Roy’s own wife had never been. The girl looked at him sometimes with those wide, frightened eyes, and something inside Roy, something he had beaten down since he was a teenager roared back to life. He wanted her. Not just her body, though the thought of bending her over his desk and hearing her call him “sir” while he “saved” her made his blood run hot. He wanted her obedience. Her brokenness. Her complete and total surrender to his authority.
Because if he could break Y/n the way his father had broken his sister, the way he had broken Gator’s mother, then maybe the hunger inside him would finally die. Maybe he could prove to God and to himself that he was not weak like the sinners he punished. He was the instrument of correction. The shepherd with the rod.
That was why he had caged her.
Not just to punish her for Gator.
But because every scream of “Gator!” that tore from her throat tonight felt like a personal betrayal. She was choosing the wrong man. The weak one. The one who had already tasted what Roy had only ever allowed himself to imagine in the darkest hours.
Roy closed his eyes, listening to the faint, broken hiccups still coming from Y/n’s room down the hall. His hand flexed involuntarily, remembering the weight of the belt, the way her voice had cracked when she confessed every filthy detail.
Tomorrow he would go in again.
He would make her repeat it all.
He would sit closer.
He would lay his hand on her head while she cried and remind her who the real head of this house was.
Because in Roy Tillman’s twisted theology, love and ownership had always been the same thing.
And Y/n was going to learn that lesson the way every woman in his life eventually had, on her knees, in tears, and completely his to save… or destroy.
Sandra shifted beside him in the dark, still pretending to sleep.
Roy smiled thinly into the blackness.
The cleansing was only just beginning.
The next morning arrived with a pale, unforgiving light that filtered through the nailed-shut window of your room.
You had barely slept. Your eyes were swollen and raw from hours of violent crying. Your throat felt scraped and burning from screaming Gator’s name until your voice gave out. You were still curled on the floor beside the door where you had collapsed the night before, knees drawn to your chest, body aching from the hard wood and the emotional exhaustion that had hollowed you out.
The deadbolt on the outside of your door clicked open with a heavy, metallic sound.
Roy entered without knocking, carrying a small tray with a slice of dry toast, a glass of water, and the ever-present Bible. He closed the door behind him and locked it again from the inside, the sound final and chilling.
He set the tray on the small desk, then turned to look at you. His expression was calm, almost paternal, but his eyes held that cold, hungry intensity you had come to fear.
“Good morning, Y/n,” he said quietly, as if this were any normal day. “I trust you had time to reflect on your confession last night. The Lord heard every word. Now it is time to continue the cleansing.”
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your body felt heavy, drained. Fresh tears welled up immediately at the sight of him.
Roy walked over and crouched in front of you, close enough that you could smell his aftershave and the faint starch of his uniform shirt. He reached out and gently but firmly tilted your chin up with two fingers so you had to look at him.
“Speak,” he commanded softly. “Tell me again. Everything. How Gator first took you. How he degraded you. How many times he spilled his seed inside your body. How you begged for it even while claiming you hated him. Leave nothing out this time. The more honest you are, the closer you come to true repentance.”
Your lower lip trembled. The distress from last night surged back tenfold, but this time it mixed with a numb resignation. You were too exhausted to fight.
Between broken, hiccuping sobs, the words started pouring out again, louder and more desperate than before.
“He… he came into the kitchen one night,” you whispered hoarsely, voice cracking. “Pushed me over the counter and… and fucked me raw. Called me his little stepsister whore. Spanked me until I cried. Came so deep inside me I could feel it for hours…”
Roy listened without interrupting, his fingers still holding your chin, thumb brushing your jaw in what might have looked like comfort but felt like possession.
You kept going, tears streaming faster, voice rising into shaky, hysterical sobs.
“He did it again the next morning… bent me over the table while you were still in the house. Fingered me under the dinner table while you talked about duty and discipline. He’d sneak into my room almost every night and… and make me take him so hard I couldn’t walk right. He made me swallow his cum after he licked it out of me every single time. I took the IUD out because I wanted him to breed me. I told him I loved him. We went out of town and I sucked his cock for the first time in a motel room because I wanted to make him feel good…”
Your voice broke completely. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
“I screamed his name last night because I needed him I still need him. I’m disgusting. I’m broken. Please… please just let me see him. I can’t do this anymore. I’m so scared. Gator… I need Gator…”
You collapsed forward, forehead pressing against Roy’s knee as violent sobs wracked your body again. Your hands clutched at his pant leg without thinking, desperate for any human contact after the long, terrifying isolation.
Roy let you cry against him for a long moment, his hand moving to rest heavily on the back of your head, fingers threading through your tangled hair. The touch was firm, controlling, and disturbingly intimate.
“Shhh,” he murmured, voice low and deceptively soothing. “That’s it. Let it all out. The Lord is purging the sin from you. Every confession brings you closer to purity.”
He stroked your hair slowly, almost tenderly, while you continued to sob against his leg.
“You’re doing well, child. Very well. We will continue this every morning until there is nothing left to confess. Until the thought of Gator no longer makes your body betray you. Until you understand that true love and protection can only come from the head of this house.”
He finally pulled you upright by your shoulders, forcing you to meet his eyes again. His gaze was dark, possessive, and satisfied.
“Eat your breakfast. Then we pray together. And tonight… we will go even deeper.”
Roy stood, leaving you on the floor in a puddle of your own tears and distress, the weight of his hand still lingering on your head like a brand.
As he unlocked the door to leave, he paused and looked back at you with that thin, cold smile.
“Gator cannot save you from this, Y/n. Only I can.”
The door locked behind him with a heavy click.
You remained on the floor, crying violently once more, whispering Gator’s name like a broken prayer between gasping sobs, completely trapped in Roy’s twisted vision of salvation.
Down the hall, Gator paced his room like a caged wolf, back still raw and bleeding, listening to your distant, heartbreaking cries and feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.
The house had never felt so suffocating.
You were on your knees in the middle of the locked bedroom floor, hands fisted in your hair, body rocking violently back and forth as another wave of hysteria crashed over you. The confession Roy had forced out of you this morning still burned in your throat. Every filthy detail you had sobbed out loud how Gator had first taken you over the kitchen counter, how he had filled you night after night, how you had begged for it even while crying echoed in your head like a curse.
The isolation, the hunger, the terror that Roy would never let you out, that he would keep breaking you until nothing was left… it all exploded.
“GATOR!” you screamed, voice already hoarse and cracking. “GATOR!!”
The cry tore out of you louder than before, raw and desperate, bouncing off the walls.
“GATOR, PLEASE! I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!”
You crawled to the door on your hands and knees, slamming your palms against the wood hard enough to sting.
“GATOR! HELP ME! HE MADE ME TELL HIM EVERYTHING HOW YOU FUCKED ME, HOW YOU CAME INSIDE ME, HOW I LET YOU DEGRADE ME I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY! PLEASE COME GET ME!”
Your screams turned hysterical, shrill and broken, tears and snot streaming down your face.
“GATOR! I NEED YOU! I’M SCARED I’M BREAKING PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH HIM! GATOR!!”
You collapsed against the door, forehead banging weakly against the wood as violent sobs wracked your entire body.
“GATOR… Gator please… I love you… come save me… I can’t breathe without you…”
Down the hall, Gator heard every single scream.
He had been pacing like a trapped animal for hours, back still raw and burning from the belt, knuckles split from punching the walls in helpless rage. The moment your voice cracked on his name again, something primal snapped inside him.
“Y/n!” he roared back through the walls. “I’m coming, baby! Hold on!”
He backed up, ignoring the screaming pain in his back, and charged the door with his shoulder. Once. Twice. On the third try the wood around the lock splintered with a loud crack. He kicked the weakened spot hard, and the door burst open, hinges groaning in protest.
Gator didn’t hesitate. He sprinted down the hallway in nothing but sweatpants, blood from the reopened welts streaking down his back.
Your door was locked from the outside with a heavy deadbolt.
“Y/n! I’m here!” he shouted, voice hoarse with fury and love. He slammed his shoulder into your door once, twice then reared back and kicked it with everything he had. The wood around the deadbolt gave way with a violent crack. He shoved the door open, nearly ripping it off its hinges.
You were on the floor, a sobbing, shaking mess.
The second you saw him, a fresh wail tore from your throat.
“Gator—!”
He dropped to his knees and scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest despite the agony it caused his injured back. You clung to him desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders, face buried in his neck as violent sobs continued to rip through you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely, voice cracking. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
He stood up with you in his arms, ignoring the fresh blood trickling down his back, and carried you out of the room.
Roy appeared at the top of the stairs just as Gator reached them, Sandra hovering pale and silent behind him.
“Stop right there,” Roy ordered, voice cold and commanding. “She is under my authority. You will not—”
“Fuck your authority,” Gator snarled, eyes blazing with pure rage. “She’s mine. And we’re leaving. Right now.”
Roy took a step forward, but Gator didn’t slow down. He barreled past his father, shoulder-checking him hard enough to send Roy stumbling into the wall. Sandra gasped but made no move to stop them.
Gator carried you straight down the stairs and out the front door, not stopping for shoes, clothes, or anything else. Your arms stayed locked around his neck, face pressed to his skin, still crying hysterically but softer now relief mixing with the lingering terror.
He put you gently in the passenger seat of his truck, then climbed in and started the engine with shaking hands. The tires screeched as he reversed out of the driveway, leaving the house and Roy’s twisted control behind in a cloud of dust.
Once you were on the main road, Gator reached over and pulled you as close as the seatbelt would allow, one hand on the wheel, the other stroking your hair.
“Shh, princess. Breathe for me. I’ve got you now. You’re safe. I’m never letting him near you again.”
You kept crying against his chest, but the sobs were quieter, exhausted. Your fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline.
“I love you,” you whispered hoarsely between hiccups. “I love you so much…”
“I love you too,” Gator murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his own voice thick with emotion and pain. “We’re getting out of here. Far away. Just you and me. No more cages. No more belts. No more of his sick fucking games.”
Behind you, the Tillman house grew smaller in the rearview mirror.
Roy stood on the porch, watching the truck disappear down the road, belt still in his hand and cold fury burning in his eyes.
Sandra remained inside, silent as ever, the weight of her complicity settling heavier than ever.
But in the truck, speeding away from everything that had tried to break you both, Gator held you tight and drove.
a secret relationship with your high school coach, Coach Steve (age gap, corruption, dominance/submission)
After Hours
Coach Steve Harrington x College Student!Reader
Summary: You’re the team’s quiet, reliable student trainer. Steve Harrington is the hot 31-year-old head coach who’s been slowly losing his mind watching you every night. Months of unbearable tension, stolen touches, and whispered filth finally snap one night.
Word count: 3.3K
Warnings: NSFW, age gap (31/21), authority kink, d/s dynamics, semi-public sex, size kink, breeding kink, possessive Steve, lots of praise + degradation, creampie
A/N: I changed the reader to a college student because I don’t write smut involving minors.
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You’d been the student athletic trainer for the men’s basketball team at Indiana State for almost two full seasons before Coach Steve Harrington ever looked at you like you were anything more than equipment. Just another clipboard-carrying junior in a navy polo two sizes too big, hair always pulled back because the gym was humid and the players sweated like pigs. You knew the stats, taped more ankles than you could count, and kept your mouth shut when the alumni boosters got handsy at fundraisers. You were reliable. Invisible.
Steve was not invisible.
He was thirty-one, everybody knew because the athletic department printed it in the media guide like it was a selling point and he still looked like the guy who used to own every hallway in Hawkins High. Same thick brown hair that fell into his eyes when he got frustrated, same crooked grin that made freshmen girls in the stands forget how to cheer. He’d played D1 ball for two years before a knee injury ended it, then coached high-school for a bit, and now here he was: youngest head coach in the conference, already turning a perennial bottom-feeder into a tournament threat. The players worshipped him. The boosters wanted to be him. You tried, for a long time, not to notice the way his polo stretched across his shoulders when he demonstrated a defensive slide or how his voice dropped half an octave when he got serious in the huddle.
It started with the knee.
Not yours. His.
Late February, last season. The team had just lost in overtime to Evansville and Steve was limping around the training room after everyone else had cleared out, jaw tight, trying to hide the fact that the old injury was screaming at him. You were restocking the fridge, pretending not to watch him in the reflection of the glass door.
“Need ice, Coach?” you asked without turning around.
He huffed a laugh that sounded more like a groan. “I need a new fucking knee, kid.”
You finally looked at him. He was leaning against the table, arms crossed, hair damp from the shower. The fluorescent lights did unfair things to the cut of his jaw.
“I can tape it,” you said. “Better than whatever half-ass job you did on yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You offering to put your hands on me, sweetheart?”
The word slipped out of him like it was nothing just locker-room banter. But his eyes stayed on your face a second too long, and something electric crackled between you. You felt it in your stomach like a missed step on the bleachers.
You swallowed. “Only if you sit down and stop pretending you’re not in pain.”
He did sit. Let you roll his sweats up to mid-thigh, let you wrap the tape with clinical precision while your pulse hammered in your ears. His skin was warm, the muscle underneath hard as oak. When your fingers brushed the inside of his thigh he inhaled sharp through his nose, but he didn’t move.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
“Practice,” you answered.
He watched your hands the whole time.
After that night he started staying late. Said he needed to review film, but he always ended up in the training room while you finished inventory. He’d lean in the doorway, arms braced overhead, and talk about the team, about the next recruit, about how the athletic director was breathing down his neck. Sometimes he’d ask about your classes. You were pre-physical therapy, carrying eighteen credits, and he listened like it mattered. Like you mattered.
By mid-season this year the tension was a living thing.
He started calling you into his office for “strategy sessions.” You’d sit across from his desk while he drew plays on the whiteboard, but his eyes kept drifting to the way your lips moved when you suggested a different defensive rotation. He’d drag a hand through his hair and mutter, “Jesus Christ, you’re smart,” like it pissed him off.
One night in November the power went out during a thunderstorm. The whole athletic complex went dark except for the emergency lights. You were alone in the training room, counting bandages by flashlight. Steve appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, rain still dripping from his jacket.
“Power’s out campus-wide,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I’m fine.”
He stepped inside anyway. The door clicked shut behind him. The small room felt even smaller.
“You’re always here,” he said, voice low. “Last one out. First one in. You ever sleep?”
You shrugged, trying to ignore how the emergency light painted shadows under his cheekbones. “Someone has to make sure the tape doesn’t run out before you bench the whole team for stupid reasons.”
He laughed, soft. Took one step closer. Then another. Until he was close enough that you could smell rain and the faint cedar of his cologne.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and I’m gonna do something we both regret.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Like what?”
Steve’s hand lifted. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow, deliberate. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Like bend you over this table and finally find out if you taste as good as you smell.”
You didn’t breathe.
He dropped his hand like it burned him. Stepped back until he hit the door.
“Lock up when you leave,” he said hoarsely. “And for fuck’s sake, go home before midnight.”
He was gone before you could answer.
That was the first almost.
There were more.
December. After a blowout win. The team went out to celebrate, Steve stayed behind to watch film. You brought him coffee at 10:47 p.m. He was slouched in his office chair, tie loosened, top two buttons of his shirt undone. When you set the cup down he caught your wrist.
“Stay,” he said.
You stayed.
He pulled you into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. You straddled him, heart hammering, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.
“Been thinking about this for months,” he muttered against your skin. “Every fucking practice. You in those little shorts, bending over the cooler. You have any idea what you do to me?”
His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of your polo, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip. You whimpered. He groaned like the sound hurt him.
Then his phone buzzed, assistant coach asking where the hell the game film was. Steve’s entire body went rigid. He lifted you off him like you weighed nothing, set you on the desk, and stood up so fast the chair rolled backward.
“Go,” he rasped. “Before I lock that door and ruin both our careers.”
You left on shaky legs, thighs slick, panties ruined.
January brought the real corruption.
You’d never been with anyone who made you feel small in the best way. Guys your age fumbled and asked permission for everything. Steve didn’t ask. He took. But he did it so carefully, so deliberately, that you felt cherished and owned at the same time.
It started with text messages.
Late nights. After curfew.
Steve: You still in the training room?
You: Finishing shoulder tape for Walker.
Steve: Leave the door unlocked.
He’d show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair messy from practice, and he’d lock the door behind him. Then he’d back you against the counter and kiss you like he was starving. Deep, filthy kisses that left your lips swollen and your brain fuzzy. He never let it go further than that, hands under your shirt palming your breasts through your bra, thumb circling your nipple until you moaned into his mouth. He’d grind against you, hard and thick through his sweats, letting you feel exactly what you did to him, but he always stopped.
“Not here,” he’d growl against your ear. “Not like this. You deserve better than a fucking training table.”
You started touching yourself at night thinking about his voice saying those words.
He knew. He could tell by the way you looked at him during practice, eyes glassy, thighs pressed together. Once, during a defensive drill, he blew the whistle and called you over to “check the ankle tape on number twelve.” While you were crouched in front of the player, Steve stood behind you, voice low enough only you could hear.
“Keep squirming like that and I’m gonna drag you into the equipment closet and make you come on my fingers before the next possession.”
You almost dropped the tape.
He was corrupting you slowly, methodically. Teaching you what it meant to want so badly it hurt. Teaching you to wait. To obey.
By March the tension was unbearable.
The team was 22-6. March Madness was two weeks away. Steve was in every headline, every podcast. And every night he was texting you things like:
Steve: My office. Now.
Steve: Wear the black leggings.
Steve: Don’t you dare touch yourself before you get here.
You obeyed every time.
That night, the night everything finally snapped, you showed up at 11:15 p.m. The arena was empty except for the security lights. His office door was cracked. You slipped inside.
Steve was sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle. The second the door clicked shut he stood up, crossed the room in three strides, and locked it.
Then he looked at you.
“Lock was open,” he said, voice rough. “Anyone could’ve walked in. You that desperate for me, baby?”
You nodded, throat dry.
He stepped close. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Then his hand slid into your hair and tightened, tilting your head back so you had to look up at him.
“Words,” he said. “Use them.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m desperate.”
His eyes darkened. “On your knees.”
You dropped instantly. The carpet was rough against your leggings. Steve’s hand stayed in your hair, guiding but not forcing. He unzipped his slacks with the other hand and pulled himself out, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You’d felt him through clothes a hundred times, but seeing it bare made your mouth water.
“Been dreaming about this mouth for months,” he murmured. “Open.”
You did. He fed you his cock slowly, inch by inch, until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. You gagged once; he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, then pushed in again, deeper.
“Fuck, that’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”
You gagged instantly, eyes watering, but he held you there hand fisted tight in your hair, hips rocking just enough to keep you full.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, low and filthy. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. That’s my good girl. Relax your throat. Yeah, just like that. Let Coach fuck it.”
He started to move. Not gentle. Deep, measured thrusts that made your nose brush the dark, trimmed hair at his base on every downstroke. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto the front of your shirt. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat working around him filled the office mixed with his low curses and the creak of the floorboards under his shoes.
“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” he rasped, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek only to smear it across your stretched lips. “Touching that needy little cunt every night thinking about choking on me. Bet you come with your fingers in your mouth pretending it’s my cock. Such a filthy secret, baby. My perfect little trainer on her knees for the man who signs her paychecks.”
You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips stutter. He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped for air, but he slapped the wet length against your cheek once, twice then shoved back in, fucking your face harder now, balls tapping your chin.
“Gonna come down this throat one day,” he promised, voice wrecked. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m burying every drop in that tight little pussy you’ve been teasing me with for months.”
He yanked you off him with a wet pop. Before you could catch your breath he hauled you up, spun you around, and bent you over the desk. Papers and a clipboard clattered to the floor. Your palms slapped the wood as he shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough yank, leaving them tangled around your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered.
Steve’s hand cracked across your ass sharp, stinging, perfect. “Arch your back. Show me what’s mine.”
You did, spreading your legs as much as the fabric allowed. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, spreading your slick from clit to entrance.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Dripping down your thighs already. All this for Coach?” He pushed both fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that made your vision white out. “So fucking tight. Been clenching around nothing for weeks waiting for this, haven’t you?”
“I have,” you gasped. “Please, Steve—”
He slapped your ass, sharp and perfect. “Coach. When my dick’s about to be inside you, you call me Coach.”
The word left your mouth on a broken moan. “Coach, please.”
He pumped his fingers fast, thumb circling your swollen clit in tight, merciless strokes. The wet squelch of your pussy filled the room. Your hips bucked back against his hand, chasing the orgasm that was already barreling toward you.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” he growled, smacking your ass again. “You come when I say. When my cock is splitting you open.”
You sobbed, trying to hold it back, but he added a third finger and crooked them just right. Your walls fluttered hard.
“Now,” he ordered, voice dark. “Come on my fingers like the desperate little whore you are for me.”
The orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled. You cried out, muffling it against your forearm as your cunt clenched and gushed around his fingers. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull his hand free. You heard the wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.
“Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. Then the blunt, fat head of his cock was nudging your entrance, sliding through your slick. “Breathe, baby.”
He pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open. You were still pulsing from your first orgasm, and the burn was exquisite. He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.
“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So goddamn tight. Like you were made to take Coach’s cock. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
You nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes. He was so big stretching you to the limit, pressing against places you didn’t know existed. When he pulled back and slammed in again, the desk scraped forward an inch.
He set a brutal pace. Hard, deep strokes that made your tits bounce against the wood and your hips bruise against the edge of the desk. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the cinderblock walls, wet, filthy, loud. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs.
“Take it,” he growled, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Take every fucking inch. This pussy is mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No college boy’s ever gonna fill you up like this.”
He reached around and rubbed your clit again fast rough circles that had you spiraling toward another peak.
“Come again,” he demanded. “Milk my cock while I’m still balls deep. Let me feel how much you need me.”
You shattered. The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first, walls clamping down around his pistoning cock like a vice. You screamed his name Coach muffled against the desk, body shaking as pleasure bordered on pain.
Steve fucked you through it, hips snapping harder, chasing his own release. But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Papers flew everywhere. He shoved your thighs wide, hooked your knees over his elbows, and drove back inside in one brutal thrust. The new angle had you seeing stars, deeper, somehow, the head of his cock dragging right over your g-spot with every snap of his hips.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, hair wild, sweat beading on his forehead, jaw clenched. Those big brown eyes were blown black, but there was still that soft, possessive tenderness underneath the dominance.
“That’s it, baby,” he panted, rolling his hips in devastating circles. “Eyes on Coach while I fuck this cunt full. You feel how deep I am? Gonna come so hard inside you you’ll be leaking me for days.”
He kissed you then messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth while he pounded into you. One hand shoved your shirt up, yanking your bra down so he could pinch and roll your nipple. The sting went straight to your clit.
“Again,” he growled against your mouth. “One more. Come on my cock while I fill you up.”
You were helpless to stop it. The third orgasm tore through you like lightning, long, shattering waves that made your vision tunnel and your toes curl. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him impossibly deeper.
Steve’s rhythm stuttered. “Fuck—baby—gonna come. Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my load. Take it—take every drop—”
He slammed in to the hilt and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through his chest. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding you pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your ass onto the desk. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop, until you were both trembling.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the arena’s emergency lights.
Steve stayed buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His hands gentled stroking your sides, your hair, your flushed cheeks. The dominance melted into something softer, almost reverent.
“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked but tender. He kissed the corner of your eye where a tear had slipped free. “Did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, boneless and glowing. “No. God, no. It was… perfect.”
He smiled, that crooked, boyish Steve Harrington smile that still made your stomach flip even after he’d just fucked you raw on his desk. He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. A thick trickle of his cum followed, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes.
“Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet behind his desk (the one you kept stocked for the team) and cleaned you up with careful, gentle strokes. Then he fixed your bra, tugged your shirt down, and pulled your leggings back up your legs like he was dressing something precious.
He dropped back into his chair and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you tight. You curled against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart slowing down.
“We’re careful,” he murmured into your hair, echoing the words he’d said after the first time. “No one can know. Not yet. But this—” He squeezed your hip, thumb brushing the fresh bruise he’d left there. “This is real. You’re mine now, baby. All mine.”
You nodded against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the sweat-damp skin there. “Yours, Coach.”
He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed the top of your head. “Good girl.”
I don’t even know where you went, but i hope you’re always safe. I just want you to know that your writing meant more to me as a reader than you’ll ever realize. It gave me feelings I’ve never experienced before.
I still remember the first time i read your story, i think it was round end of season 1 or 2, where i cried so much it actually hurt. My heart just aches thinking about what happened between the Golden Girl & Steve. I still remember the way i just sitting there like after I finished reading and thinking, Why? Why would she do that? And somehow, it felt so real. And sometimes I’d randomly start crying because of how deeply it got me.
I stepped away around February because i had a lot of work to do, and i knew that time you’re still working on the next season, So i told myself I’d come back when i had more time.
But when i finally came back this April to continue the next season, I couldn’t find you anymore.
I don’t know what happened, but i truly hope you’re okay. And maybe, one day you’ll comeback to continue your writing.
I just really miss your writing. And i wish i could feel that way again.
