after being stood up at a party, you run into your old college fling.
warnings: 18+ MDNI — smut, semi-public sex, car sex, oral (f!receiving), rimming, unprotected sex (do not try at home please), creampie, (a little bit of) cockwarming.
wordcount: ~9.2k
hello! welcome to my first post! this fic is dedicated to my dear friend @keer-y, you make me insane and i love ya for it bud, this one’s for you. anyway, vv nervous to get back out into the writing scene— this is my first fic back after a really rough couple of months :) hope y’all enjoy!
The music thumped loudly against the floor as you stood with your back pressed against the wall, patient eyes trained on the door. House parties were never your scene— and living in such a small town, not to mention the one you grew up in, house parties were basically just a petri dish for regrets, rumors, and worst-case scenarios.
But tonight was different, you hoped. At least that's what you told yourself in your bathroom mirror as you doused glitter onto your eyelids.
The guy you were seeing, James, had invited you out tonight to his old college buddy’s house party. You agreed to meet him under the guise of finally being introduced to some of his friends. He told you he’d meet you right after he ran a few errands straight from work and yet, an hour into the party, two weak ass drinks later, James was nowhere to be found.
You sighed with your eyes still glued to the front door, hoping it would just swing open and reveal the face of the person you were waiting for. Someone you knew, at the very least.
Your dress clung to your back like it resented you, sweat beading at the base of your neck. Could have been nerves, could have been the clear lack of air conditioner running through the house. Either way, you weren’t a fan of sweating like this. Who told them it was wise to host a party in mid-August with no AC?
Your little silver clutch was slung over your shoulder, the chain pressing into your collarbone in the most irritating way; you hadn’t noticed it when you first arrived, nor when you put it on at home. And now, since you’d started waiting, you could feel every single sliver of fabric that stuck to your skin, every piece of jewelry that dawned your chest and wrists, every stroke of nail polish painted onto your fingers. It was wildly overstimulating. Your head was pounding in time with whatever shitty Top 100 song was playing over the speakers, and when you pulled your phone out to check the time, the pounding got worse.
9:47. An entire hour and a half of waiting. You ran your thumb down the side of your phone, tracing the volume buttons absentmindedly and squinting down at the time in disbelief. You were just about ready to let your fingers fly in the text bubble beneath James’s contact but he, unfortunately, had beaten you to the punch.
He had finally responded to the where are you text from an hour ago. And his reply was short– whether it was sweet can be left up for debate:
Look, you’re really sweet and this has been fun but, I don’t think this is gonna work out. Sorry.
As your eyes scrolled across the screen, a familiar prick of embarrassment, no, humiliation, stings at your tear ducts. Rejection almost never phased you, you were smart enough to know that the number one rule of playing the field required thick enough skin to get pushed into the dirt. But for some strange reason, you took quite a liking to James. He was sweet, and well mannered. He worked a quaint job as a bank-teller and wore ties that matched his pocket squares. He took you out on ice cream dates and drove the long way home to watch the sunset.
Sure, James lacked some of the more rugged attributes that you fancied in a guy, but in this moment, at your age now, stability was something you’d felt like you needed in your life. He wasn’t a tornado that ripped through you and left you beaten, battered, and heartbroken.
James was normal.
Now attempting to fight the burning sensation that rose up in your throat, you furiously shoved your phone back into your clutch, your back still stuck to the hallway almost hoping that the door would swing open, James would be standing there, and this entire thing was just a fluke in your imagination.
People were still funnelling into the party fashionably late, you felt nailed down to the floor as you helplessly watched yet another large group of girls funnel over the threshold. You expected there to be some stragglers, a piece of you still thinking this was all too fucked up to really believe.
However, you didn’t expect to look over that sea of party updos and messy beachwaves and lock eyes with your worst nightmare.
Gator fucking Tillman.
You froze at the sight of him; those familiar hazel eyes not once leaving yours as the pack of girls he was herding all squished their way down the hallway. You wanted to think he looked away because he didn’t recognize you; though the coil that snapped in your stomach as he licked his lips and fought a smile made you certain that that wasn’t true.
“A’right ladies, keep it movin’,” he shouted above the music at the girls, all of their high pitched, phony giggles reaching your ears and making them ring, “We’ll getcha’ all fulla’ liquor in no time.”
With wide eyes, you scanned his frame; he was in his civilian clothes. The typical cargo pants and a simple black tee that strained against his biceps, the fabric curling up a little as he ushered the bottle blonde that walked in front of him, his hands pressed wrists-up into her back. She squeaks when his fingers slip down to pinch her ass, your stomach immediately performing backflips at the sight.
The playful, cocky smirk that dawns his face makes you want to cave in on yourself even more. You took notice of the backwards trucker hat he wore, the one that he’d probably had for at least five years and hasn't washed since he was given it by the station. His combat boots commanded the floorboards as they thumped when he walked; if there was one person who knew how to make an entrance that made the room groan, it was Gator Tillman.
The history between you and Gator was complicated— if you could even consider it history at all.
The two of you met in your freshman year of community college, you being the smartest person in your 300 level English class and Gator being half a letter grade away from flunking out entirely, the two of you were paired up in a peer tutoring program.
It was chaos at first sight.
He would constantly tease you, crumpling up the notes you’d taken for him, telling you that you were ‘wound too tight’ and needed to ‘live a little’ when all you wanted to do was study while he had your back pressed against the autobiographies section in the library, trailing open mouthed kisses down your jaw. You weren’t sure how things had escalated so quickly. Gator was cute, sure. And you were more than willing, hungry for the rush that came with sneaking between library shelves for a hook up.
Your attraction was merely transactional. Every time you saw Gator on campus, he acted like you didn’t exist. Not in a way that was intended to hurt you, but simply because he was too much of an airhead to consider how that might make you feel. He was offputting, bleeding the Tillman family heirloom of cockiness, but was somehow still a gentleman about it. He walked with a potent arrogance that made you want to scream yet there were, undeniably, butterflies floating around your stomach every time your phone pinged with a message from him.
we studyin tonight little lady?
u should wear them gray shorts u got. drive me fuckin crazy.
As much as you tried to push back on Gators advances, attempting to recenter your studies once that dreaded peer tutoring program came to an end before the last bit of the fall semester, you simply couldn’t stay away. The more he persisted, the more he grew on you.
Sneaking out at odd hours and trying not to wake up your roommate to meet Gator in the parking lot, letting him drive the two of you in circles for hours in his truck before pulling off into a deserted overlook and fucking your lights out. How sometimes he would walk you back and forth between campus buildings when your art classes ended late, not dropping you off without stealing a sloppy kiss or pulling an orgasm or two from you with his fingers in the vacant dorm hallways.
It was all too enticing to give up; he was the vice between your virtues. The slice of your life that you let Gator into was sweet.
Until it wasn’t.
Once Gator had dropped out of his associates program to join the police academy, your casual (yet towing the line about it) relationship had seemed to just crumble beneath your feet. What was once an occasional hookup had turned into something off kilter, with Gator becoming less and less courteous of the fact that you were, indeed, a human too.
As you finished off your studies, building yourself a respectable resume and a bulletproof reference list, Gator lost himself in the power trip of law enforcement. He was less respectful, more demanding, expecting everything he wanted, when he wanted it. You were too busy to entertain a dumb ego death, and Gator couldn’t wrap his head around it. It had only taken seeing him once after he graduated the academy to realize just how much he’d really changed. The first time you actually built up the courage to stick up for yourself when it came to him bit you right in the ass, leaving three and a half years of your weirdly-tumultuous situationship to end with a screaming match in the general store parking lot.
That was the last, and final, time you spoke to Gator Tillman. From that night on, you had decided that you hated his guts.
Surely, he felt the same about you.
“Long time no see, little lady.”
The smell of strawberry kiwi fogged your senses, a puff of vapor fanning across your face as the figure stood before you made himself known. He was propped up like there was a hand up his rear, his thumbs slung into the pocket of his stupid cargo pants.
“Gator,” you address him, your expression lifeless, as if he were simply a familiar stranger.
Technically, he was.
“That ain’t no way to greet an ol’ friend. S’been a while, hasn’t it?”
You swallow at his words, dodging his eye contact like it were bullets shooting from his face.
“It has.”
Gator lets a dry chuckle slip past his plump lips as he puts his hand up to prop himself against the wall above you. You shiver at the closeness— wondering how he could be so forward after all this time. Especially after the way things ended.
“Has ta’ be years since I last seen’ ya. What were ya’, twenty? Y’ were real cute n’ sweet back then.”
You fold your lips in on themselves, still avoiding eye contact by any means necessary. The last thing you needed after being stood up by a man who felt like he could’ve been your calm before a storm was to be approached by the storm in question.
“What do you want, Gator?”
His eyes darted down at the way you were still clutching your purse, smirking down to himself at the way your fingers twitched. You were always slightly trembly when it came to him, and Gator remembered it well.
He always used it to his advantage, anyway. How could he forget?
“Don’t want nothin’ but yer’ time, little lady,” he says, “Y’don’t think I’ve been curious about what’cha been up to?”
“Nothing to be curious about.” Your arms are now crossed against your chest, acting almost as a shield. He hasn’t changed a bit since college, and the realization was hitting you now.
“Don’t be too sure, missy. This town ain’t that big, y’know. I‘ve got eyes ‘n ears everywhere.”
Gator’s hand had dropped from the wall, back into his pocket. You stiffened when he stepped a millimeter closer, hoping that the uncomfortability of your body language would be the hint he needed to back off.
Hint not taken.
“Shouldn’t you be following around that flock of birds you came in with?” you ask, the bitterness and sarcasm oozing from your tongue.
“Birds,” he scoffs, tongue clicking against his teeth, eyes finally disconnecting from yours for a moment, “Yer’ sense a’ humor ain’t changed a bit.”
There’s a pause in your interaction, but it isn’t awkward. There was just simply nothing that could fill the space of three years of history. Three years of dancing around the obvious and however many more of pretending it never happened. It was a silence that only you and Gator knew, and it somehow decided to come back to haunt you at the worst possible time.
Your body was more relaxed as you stood there, silently, watching Gator as he looked behind his shoulder at the crowd of girls he came in with while taking a long pull of his vape. You could tell by his body language, he didn’t care for any of them— they were simply just pieces of ass to distract from how fucked up of a life he has. Despite feeling satisfied in coming to that conclusion, you resented the fact that you could still read him like a book.
God, you fucking hated it.
“So, yer’ here alone tonight, eh,” he lets out a deep breath, chest falling, “where’s Jamsey boy?”
Gator breaking the silence, and mentioning James, made your entire body tense up. Stiff as a board, you raise an eyebrow, the words barely tripping off your tongue, “H– How do you— what?”
He laughs, yet the smile on his face quickly recedes into his signature snarl, “How do I know about James? Yer’ askin’ dumb questions, lil’ lady. Told ya’ I got eyes n’ ears everywhere. Hell, I got ‘em on the front and back of my fuckin’ head.”
You frown, your brows woven into a tight line.
“Who told you about James?” You felt your blood start to pump red hot, Gator’s knowledge of your personal life feeling like the utmost intrusion.
“Nobody told me shit.”
“Gator,” you warn, the anger you felt making headway to tinge your cheeks pink, “I’m not fucking around.”
“Neither ‘m I.” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, hand curling around his jaw before speaking again, “Friend’a mine’s hostin’ this party. May ‘er may not ‘ve gotten some insight. Y’d know that if ya’ socialized a bit. ‘Stead’a standin’ in the corner n’ starin’ at the door like a weirdo…”
He’s close enough now for his breath to fan across your face, his condescension permeating through the warmth of his chest as he ducked down to whisper in your ear.
“...Waitin’ for a loser that you know damn well ain’t comin’.”
Without much of a thought, you splay out your hands onto his chest and shove him backwards. He stumbles a few steps, not phased much by your force, and puts his hands out and up to feign innocence. The side of his mouth curves into a smirk, the gum he was chewing on poking out between his teeth.
“Fuck off Gator, I mean it,” you spit, your tone bratty. Bitchy.
“What did’ja see in that dummy anyway? Just an uptight prick, workin’ at the bank like some lame ass.”
“He was a good guy,” you murmur, your voice much weaker than you intended, “Had his head on straight, worked a decent job; he was good to me.”
“Yeh? That right?” Gator’s hand is back on the wall above your head. He is completely unphased by you pushing him, completely unmoved by the fact that you told him to leave you alone several times within a few minutes. He continued egging you on, something he always found joy in doing, even before the police academy fucked his personality sideways.
“Yeah, he was— nice.” You reiterate. You aren’t sure how else to say it.
“Hm. Nice. That’s what y’decided t’ settle for?”
You don’t reply.
Gator scoffs, the hand of his that wasn’t against the wall moving to sit against his hip. He’s closer to you now, as close as he was when you pushed him away, “Little lady settlin’ for nice after she used ta’ let me bend ‘er over th’ hood’a my truck n’ fuck her ‘till she couldn’t stand up. Ain’t so inta’ nice back then, huh?”
Your entire face was flushed red, your fists balled up at your sides. You wanted to walk away, the hurt from James standing you up still lingering like a fresh wound, Gator’s colorful tongue just digging the knife deeper, a knot of heat forming in the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t fuckin’ talk about me like I’m one of those bimbos you walked in here with Gator,” you finally snap, your head jerking towards his face, “you know damn well I meant a’ hell of a lot more to you than that.”
For once, Gator stammers, the loudest man in the room at a loss for something to say. He lets his tongue jut out to wet his bottom lip, leaving it pouty, glistening. You hone in on it for a moment, but shake your head upon remembering exactly where you were.
“Yer’ enterin’ dangerous territory here,” he says, voice subdued and hoarse as ignores the weight of what you said, “‘nd when’d’ja get so bitchy, huh? Jamsey boy couldn’t fuck the sense outta’ ya like I could?”
You gasp softly when his hand connects to your waist— a lightning bolt of electricity shocking you the same way it did all those years ago. His hands felt larger now; more weathered, more experienced. His index finger danced between one of the side cutouts of your dress.
You had no choice but to let him.
“This isn’t about that,” you mumble, your hip leaning into his touch involuntarily. Like you couldn’t dial it back and control it.
“Then what’s it about?”
For a moment, you see the glass in his eyes shimmer— the browns and greens that swirled together, deepened by a lack of sleep and the haze from a beer or two. Gator Tillman was the king of intensity, the champion of eye contact. The heat rising between your legs as he blinked slowly was proof of that.
“Be honest with yerself now, sweetheart. Did ya’ think that you were gonna’ come t’ this party tonight in this tight little thing, with ‘yer eyes all sparkly n’ yer tits practic’ly screamin’ t’ get outta that dress… t’ go home to Jamsey boy?”
“I didn’t know you were gonna’ be here, asshole.” You let the insult hang in the air for a minute. But Gator’s eyes just widened, a shit-eating smirk followed. You’d just given yourself away.
“C’mon little lady, I ain’t talkin’ t’ a wall here. If y’ say that sex ain’t what this is about, then what is it?”
Your jaw ticks as you begin to mutter, “Nothing. This– this is– nothing. This is stupid and dumb and I cannot believe you, of all people, have me fuckin’ cornered here right now. God I— I should’ve just fuckin’ stayed home.”
Gator laughs. He laughs at your internal struggling, the pain you once felt now twinging into something deeper. A little more existential. Truth was, you really just wanted this to be over.
Even though the both of you knew exactly how this night was going to end.
“James’s a fuckin’ jerkoff.” Gator’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to study you.
“So are you, Gator.”
“Y’know what, maybe we do have that ‘n common. You’ve got yerself’ a type,” he shrugs, that hand of his still ghosting around your waist, letting his pinky slip just below the fabric of your dress to press against your hip, “But you know damn well he ain’t makin’ you scream the way you know I can.”
Without even a second to collect yourself, your body is betraying your mind and any sense of reason you had left. You grabbed a hold of Gator’s wrist, wrapping your fingers around it tightly as you made a beeline for the door that you’d been staring at for the better half of two hours now.
Gator’s boots thump clumsily behind you, attempting to keep up with your angry strides as you guided him through a short sea of drunken partygoers. He mumbled and laughed from behind you, watching you swing the door open out to the cool summer breeze and wincing to himself when the knob practically made a dent in the wall inside.
“Slow th’ hell down lil’ lady,” he grunts, forcing you to skid to a stop at the lip of the patio stairs, “Gotcha’ all worked up f’no reason.”
“You drove here?” you pant, ignoring the pleasantries, still unsure of what demonic spirit was possessing you at the moment.
“Shit, yeh, I drove here. Always fuckin’ do. Why?”
You shake your head and wince, as if the angel and devil on your shoulder were fighting to the death right in front of your nose. Were you still recovering from the blundering awkwardness of being stood up by a guy you really liked, at a party that he invited you to? Sure. What’s not to be embarrassed about.
However, the desire to leave that suffocating party wasn’t because of the bile that rose up in your throat when you read a text that let you down so awfully gently, no. You knew you wanted to leave this party the instant you saw those honeyed, hazel eyes. The ones you’d sworn off the existence of. The ones that helped you through some of your toughest days, your most sleepless nights.
The ones that you didn’t realize still meant anything to you at all.
Gator rests his hand on your elbow, that cocky, devil-may-care attitude slightly faltering as he watches your eyebrow twitch whilst you contemplated existence.“The fuck’s gotten inta’ y’—”
But before you could even stop yourself, tell him to fuck off or shut up like you normally would, your lips were on his.
After all this goddamn time.
Gator’s shoulders tensed when you cupped his cheeks, the action much more tender than you’d hoped, your lips pressing against him roughly enough to push him back a few steps. Despite the initial shock, he molds against you, the concerned grip he had on your elbow loosening and dropping down to hold your waist. He sighs, almost melting, a faint dreamlike sound vibrating against his throat.
The party continued on around you, though neither of you seemed to care.
The kiss deepens and in no time at all, your arms are tangled around his neck, your body pressed flush against his front, the strong, woodsy smell of his signature mahogany teakwood cologne flooding your nostrils.
His broad arms held you upright, palm splayed against your spine, your back curving slightly as he leaned in to meet the fervor you kissed him with. His tongue pleaded entrance, albeit much politer than you were used to, prodding against your lips and parting them as he slid his tongue across yours.
You couldn’t help but let your hands fall to the nape of his neck, down past his shoulders, pressing against his chest. Not necessarily to push him away, but to keep yourself grounded in the fact that what you were doing with Gator right now was, more than likely, a huge mistake.
“Y’— y’ain’t changed one bit,” Gator blurts, the words knocking against your teeth as he comes up for air, only to occupy it, “eager lil’ thing, ain’t’cha?”
You pull away from him, making sure your eyes sparkle with eagerness and a hint of something more— sinful.
“If I were you, Tillman, I’d stop talking and get me to your truck before I change my fuckin’ mind.”
Like a soldier at ease, Gator salutes you, motioning for you with his head to follow as he thumped down the porch steps and practically jogged down the front walkway.
“Parked a bit down th’ street. Hope ya’ don’t mind walkin’,” he comments, spitting out his gum a few steps ahead.
You follow behind and before you know it, you’re approaching a blue pickup. That same one he’d driven all those years ago, with that same dent in the front bumper and that same scratched up—now sun-bleached and weathered—heart shaped bumper sticker on the passenger side door. Your stomach lurches as you recall the day you slapped it on without Gator knowing, after buying it at a gas station that he brought you to to grab a Redbull before one of your study sessions.
Once he found out, he was, of course, pissed. But had gotten over it mere seconds after you’d tucked his dick into your cheek that same night.
“You still drive this hunk of shit?” you ask him as you jiggle the back door handle, hearing its familiar squeak and chuckling in disbelief.
“With style n’ grace, lil’ lady. They say Fords ‘er s’posed t’ run forever.”
You hold back an endearing chuckle as Gator steps beside you, “Yeah? Who’s they?”
“Dunno’. The people who put test dummies in their driver’s seats.”
“From test dummies to real dummies,” you tease, pressing your finger against his chest between his pecs, “they know their consumer market well.”
“Yer’ bullshit vocabulary don’t intimidate me no more, missy,” Gator’s eyes narrow, “I know y’ just wanted a reason t’ call me a dummy.”
“Insulting you is free therapy.”
You hum when Gator’s closeness forces your back against the side of the truck with a thud, his eyes low as he dips in close, lips ghosting over yours, “So is lettin’ me fuck ya’ ‘till ya can’t remember how t’ talk.”
Gator scoops his hands in yours, pressing them against your chest as he kisses you again. You groan, a delayed reaction to his comment, but are quickly shut up by him wedging his knee between your thighs.
“Gator—”
You immediately fold at the pressure, his name knocking off your lips onto his.
He hums, merely reactionary to hearing his name, giving you a moment before nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.
In a flurry of sloppy kisses, wandering hands and shifting body weight, Gator opens the backseat door without disconnecting once. He backs away from you when it flings open, his eyes wide, and hazy.
“Gonna’ feel like old times,” he comments lackadaisically, making your stomach hurt, “haven’t had a chick in th’ back seat since the night we called it off.”
“I find that hard to believe. You walked in with like, 10 different girls.” You suck in a deep breath. You hadn’t intended to be rude but— that was your gut reaction.
“I know,” Gator scoffs, stepping one foot up onto the platform of his truck, his hand gesturing for you to hop in, “Who said I ain’t have one or two of ‘em up in the front?”
You smack him on the shoulder before stepping up into the truck, the scent of old leather and cologne in the backseat hitting you like a train. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.
Gator slides in shortly after you, wasting no time in taking hold of your sides and pushing you into the opposite door with a rough kiss.
“Gator,” you can’t help but giggle, “the door’s still open.”
“So what? Let ‘em see. They were all in our business in college, askin’ questions n’ shit. How ‘bout we give ‘em somethin’ new t’ talk about?”
That first part was true. Living in such a small town caused rumors about you and Gator to spread like wildfire. The sheriff's cocky son, and the only journalism major in the entirety of the city. The amount of bullshit lies that had gotten told at your expense within the three years you were casually seeing Gator were enough to turn a small village upside down.
Most of them got back to Gator right away; though he never denied nor confirmed them. He was the more infamous half of the two of you, knowing more people through his last name, and through the countless girls who would attempt to throw themselves at him.
But he never picked any of them.
Not that you knew of, at least.
When his cool hands slid beneath the side cutouts in your dress, you shivered; the open door essentially creating a wind tunnel for the summer breeze. You groan, Gator’s mouth sloppily disconnecting from yours and trailing down to your jaw. Down to your neck. Down to your chest. The only thing he’d noticed is the way the cold air perked up your nipples through your dress.
“Gate– fuck, Gator. The door, please. It’s— ‘m chilly.”
“It’s August.” He deadpans, his face halfway buried in the crook of your shoulder.
With a huff, you pull his face up to meet yours, but rather than looking into his eyes and telling him off like you intended, he’s swooping back in for another kiss. It’s much rougher than the first few, his body somehow slotting between your legs perfectly, despite being propped awkwardly in the back seat.
“Y’ were always so fuckin’ stubborn. Never let shit jus’ happen. Always used ta’ get on ya’ fer bein’ too uptight. Thought I’d squeezed that last bitta’ stubbornness outta’ ya’ in school but, shit. I dunno’.”
“I– I’ve changed a lot, y’know,” you say, breathless from his lips knocking the air out of your lungs, “Learned to stand up for myself.”
“And who do ya’ have t’ thank fer that?”
When you intend to reply, the sound is swiped right out of your mouth. Gator is pawing at the straps of your dress, dropping one, then the other, off your shoulder. Wordlessly, you watch him as he attacks your chest with openmouthed kisses and scratchy love bites, assisting him in his travels by lifting your back off of the door so he could shimmy you out of the top half of your dress.
Gator always had a thing for marking you up; you figured it was just a machismo thing. But one night cozied up in your twin XL dorm bed, after an athletic post-study fuck session, he admitted how much he loved, not liked, loved, everyone on campus knowing exactly who you belonged to.
“Y’eard me?”
You shake your head out of its daze, completely enraptured by the way his tongue dragged across your collarbone just seconds ago, “Huh?”
“I asked who ya’ had t’ thank fer growin’ a damn spine.”
“You’re fucking annoying,” you scoff.
Gator eventually shimmies your top half out, leaving you in a lacy bralette— the only one that looked good enough to wear under this sad excuse of fabric that they called a dress.
“Say it,” he persists, eyes honed in on yours, the contact intense enough to make you dizzy.
“No.”
His hand slides down your side, all the way to the bottom hem of your dress. His fingertips curve around it, hesitating for a moment.
“You know I hate it when y’ don’t listen, little lady.”
“Gator.” Your warning packs absolutely no heat, face flushing when his hand finally slides over your thigh. You wanted to curl up into a ball of embarrassment at just how worked up you were from a few kisses and his fingertips running feathery lines up and down your legs. You were swimming in his eyes, a sea of gold and green.
If you drowned, you wouldn’t fucking complain.
“Wanna’ hear you say it. Wanna hear’ ya admit I made ya’ into this new little firecracker y’are now.”
Without saying anything, or egging you even more, Gator frees your breasts from the bralette. He massages them for a moment, mirroring your stammering, open mouth as he circles one of your peaked nipples with his thumb.
“C’mon, baby— shit, missed these fuckin’ tits.”
He interrupts his own train of thought by taking that same nipple he’d been teasing fully into his mouth, your stiff peak aching as he soothes it with the swirl of his tongue. You moan on impact, getting a glimpse of the outside when he ducked his head down. There was not a person, nor a car in sight. Nobody to walk by and hear the obscenities flying from your lips into Gator’s ears, the hushed rhapsodies egging him on enough to let him know just how eager you were for him.
Maybe he was right. You were still a bit uptight.
“You, Gator,” you finally moan when he gives one last rough suck to your nipple, disconnecting from it with a pop and glancing up at you, satisfied, through his lashes. “It was always you.”
“S’what I thought,” he smiles, the faint freckles splattered across his nose and beauty marks that dusted his cheeks more prominent than ever in the moonlight, “Love it when y’say my name.”
Your eyes flutter closed, the arousal that pooled in your panties getting harder and harder to ignore. You rolled your hips and let your dripping pussy grind slightly against the leather as Gator slid down your body. He inched lower, and lower, taking that same hand from before and using it to fully push up the lower half of your dress.
“Haven’t missed this,” he joked, now on his knees on the floor, crammed in the backseat, eye level with the— now soaked —underwear that you had misfortunately chosen to wear beneath this dress.
He pauses for a moment and admires you, reaching down, arms crossed, pulling off his shirt as he just stares at the wet spot that had formed against the heather grey.
“Jesus, lil lady. Really gotcha’ worked up,” Gator puffs, while you just can’t help but trace your index finger gently against the beauty marks smattered on his shoulders.
“Yeah.” Was all you could manage. You’d soon realized that he’d taken his shirt off because of how much you hated being the only one exposed. It was mindless. Inherent, even. The fact that he remembered made your head spin.
Gator immediately moves into action, he cups your thighs with his hands and yanks you forward, a quiet squeak falling from your lips as you shift down in your seat. He smiles up at you, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. The only thing separating his mouth from where it absolutely wanted, needed, to be was a thin layer of cotton. He eventually hooks his fingers around the waistband, sliding your panties down and off. Your legs are quickly tossed his shoulders, his face now caged between your thighs.
“‘Bet Jamesy boy ain’t getcha’ wet like this while countin’ pennies at th’ bank. I’ve barely fuckin’ touched ya’.” Gator’s astute observation makes your face hot.
You cup your face in your hands. “Shut the fuck up,” you murmur, before reaching down and knocking the trucker hat right off of his head. The brim thunks when it hits the floor, and Gator just smirks, his hair now tousled and pomade free.
Just the way you liked it.
Gator wastes no time diving into your throbbing heat, his tongue languid and loose as he licks a long stripe up your slit. He savors the taste of you, after being deprived of your essence for all these years.
“Fuckin’— shit.” He curses, more or less under his breath, but your body reacts viscerally upon hearing it; the sound of his voice so unadultured and saccharine. You grab a handful of his hair, your cunt clenching around nothing as he continues his torturous drawl.
Gator was always a giver; skilled with his tongue, even more of an ace when his fingers were involved. He never held back, including now, lapping up your juices like a man starved as they continuously dripped out of your needy slit and made a mess of his leather interior. The hums and quiet moans of delight that he let slip past the concentrated expression on his face made your stomach heave.
“Gator, fuck, feels so— ah.” You can barely form a coherent string of praise, his clipped brown locks spread between your fingers. You give them a tug at the root, earning yet another sweet mewl from deep within Gator’s throat.
You nod, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, biting down on it so roughly that it was sure to be tender later tonight and into tomorrow. The obscene sounds of your arousal being lapped up by Gator’s eager tongue makes your legs shake. He stiffens his tongue and dips it into your heat, fucking it in slowly and drawing it back out within a second. You whine, even the slightest feeling of him filling you being ripped away was making you needier than you ever wanted to admit.
He fucks his tongue into you a few more times, alternating between that and suckling at your clit; the sensitive bud shooting lightning bolts up your back, causing you to tug even tighter against his hair.
“Fuck.”
That was the only word uttered as Gator came up for air; he was panting, his face glistening with a mix of saliva and your secretions, dawning his chin and lower lip like a trophy. He smiles and his lips shine, not long before he’s gathering more saliva from his cheek, taking two fingers to spread you open, and spitting directly onto your already needy cunt.
“God,” Gator puffs, concentrating now on the way his two fingers sink into your pussy with ease, “she’s a fuckin’ greedy thing, ain’t she?”
“Gatorrr,” you whine, tossing your head back against the car door. He begins to pump his digits within you, scissoring them open every so often and curling them just enough to press against the sweet spot that made you see stars on the backs of your eyelids.
You’d wondered what he was doing to occupy his mouth, since he’d kept quiet for a few minutes. But your question was soon answered as you felt him press a few feathery kisses onto your inner thigh, still curling moans out of you like he was mining for gold.
“Fuckin’ soaked fer’ me, huh? Can’t believe how long it’s been since I got a good taste a’ ya’, sweet girl.”
Sweet girl. That fucking nickname. You could've come then and there. You remember so vividly the first night he’d pulled that one out; a similar scenario to the one you were in right now. Your legs were tossed over his shoulders as he coaxed a second orgasm out of you. “Come for me, sweet girl. Can’t believe this pussy’s all fuckin’ mine.”
Distracted by your own reminiscing, your body jolts when you feel a welcomely familiar sensation; down past your dripping heat, Gator took his time and lapped slow circles around your rim. You moaned in pure shock, in delight, in bliss, that handful you had of his hair becoming more of a lifeline than just a habitual thing.
His tongue worked in tandem with his fingers, their relentless paces syncing up to drive you nearly up the wall. His tongue prodded at your hole while his fingers fucked into you deeply— you couldn’t help but glance down and watch the concentrated notch in his brow turn into a face of pure ecstasy the moment he felt your walls tighten up around his digits.
“Gonna come fer’ me, sweet girl? Yeah, I know— feels good, don’t it? C’mon baby gimme’ a good one. Let it aaaaaall out.”
And just like that, you were coming undone. Adding to the list of hundreds of orgasms that Gator had coaxed you through with only his mouth. Your body falls limp, your back slick with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to the leather. You felt tangled in your dress; Gator could tell.
“Y’good?” Gator asks, his hands pressing against the tops of your thighs and massaging the last bit of pleasure through your veins.
“Fine,” you choke, shifting up in your seat and reaching up to shimmy yourself out of your clothes. Gator sits back on his knees, watching you undress.
He chuckles to himself, sounding appalled simply by the sight of you, “Ain’t seen ya’ naked in a long time.”
“No shit,” you quip back, kicking your dress off of your ankle and letting it stay where it landed; draped over the driver’s seat headrest. Gator hadn’t moved much at all, only shifting his weight back on his heels to watch you. You felt overexposed; his eyes alone sending shock waves down your spine as heavy silence hung in the air. You swallow hard, looking over his shoulder to the outside, then back to him.
“Gator—”
You bat your eyelashes, your knees now tucked to your chest, legs crossed at the ankle. He takes you addressing him as his permission to slide back up to the seat, crowding your space once more with his broad frame. His hand slides down to part your legs again, humming in delight as they relax when his lips attach to your neck. You writhe beneath him, your own hands crawling up and down his arms, settling against his shoulders.
“Could’ taste y’ fer hours. Every last bit’a’ ya’. Missed it. Missed ya’.”
His last words were more muffled than the others, giving you the impression that they were ones you weren’t meant to hear.
Your hand tangles in his hair when he sucks on your neck, finally getting around to leaving the bruises you know he just couldn’t get enough of. Gator took his time with you, he always did, worshipping your body like you were Venus herself. It didn’t take much to get Gator worked up when it came to you, though— you felt his cock straining against the dual layers of fabric that kept him confined, his hips rutting it only slightly against your thigh as he engulfed your lips in yet another kiss.
“Gate—” you say, easing him to sit with his back against the seat, you now on your knees. He unexpectedly reached up to grab your face, calloused palms gently scraping your cheekbones.
“Want y’ t’ ride me,” he admits; shameless, voice hoarse and wanton, “Like old times.”
You don’t reply, only cracking a seductive smile and nodding as you reach down and begin to undo his belt. He joins you in doing so, lifting his hips to let you slide it out of the belt loops. He chuckles, but it seems impatient, less condescending than usual.
“Takin’ yer’ sweet ass time,” he teases, though there’s a rawness to his voice that feels like a punch to the gut.
“You just fucking whipped me through space and time, Gate’. A minute to catch my breath would be appreciated.”
A cocky smile breaks through onto his cheeks, your face still being held now by only one of his palms as the other mingled with yours to undo his button and fly, “Ladies first.”
“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?”
You eventually get his pants down, but not fully; he stopped halfway to reach into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a clunky, neon green vape. You watched with a slack jaw as he leaned forward to toss the vape into the cupholder in the front seat, then flip open his wallet and pull out a familiar black and gold wrapper.
“‘Came prepared, I see,” you comment, gesturing towards the condom as he discards it at his side for a moment, “unless you’ve got a magic condom in there that regenerates every time you use it.”
“Y’know I ain’t like that.”
“Do I really?”
“I really oughta’ shut up that big mouth a’ yours.”
The rest of Gator’s undress continues through a sloppy, frantic kiss. Your hand that rested against his chest, tangled within the patch of thick chest hair, slowly slid down towards his stomach. You sighed, pawing at the bit of muscly pudge that sat right above the band of his boxers. Gator hissed when your fingertips breached just below the elastic, his teeth knocking against yours.
“Yer’ a fuckin’ tease,” he murmurs into your lips, his hands unable to keep still as the traced every curve of your body like it were muscle memory. He stopped in all of the right places, groping and giving attention to the ones that made you shiver.
“I got mine,” you shrug, voice languid and sultry, stretching your leg over his hips to straddle his waist, “I guess I better I help you get yours.”
“You want this as bad as I do, lil’ lady. ‘S written all over that gorgeous face.”
You blush, the compliment making this feel all the more real. Surely you weren’t dreaming when you locked eyes with Gator as he walked through the door tonight. And you definitely weren’t dreaming now.
You palmed Gator’s aching cock through his boxers, his mouth falling open and letting airy breaths tumble from within him. His head falls back, eyelashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open.
“Fuckin’— can’t do this slow shit no ‘more. Need ‘ya on my dick. Now.”
You raise an eyebrow, still palming at him, now making it a point to squeeze his shaft through his briefs, watching with a satisfied, almost evil smile as his face contorts in pleasure.
“Listen, you may have taught me how to stand up for myself,” you begin to say, stroking him still, managing to find the head of his cock through the fabric by the stain of pre that graced them, “but who taught you the art of patience?”
“Fuck ‘re you sayin’?” Gator strains, the words sounding almost painful coming out of his mouth, “Buncha’ bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit, Gator. You’d be a fuckin’ bottle rocket if it weren’t for me. I taught you to be patient, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna be for me now. You hear me?”
Gator’s eyes shoot open. You think he’s about to bite back, raising that spiteful, malicious tongue that you worked so hard with him to manage. But rather than letting loose on you, using his words as armor, he simply settles in his seat.
“Loud n’ fuckin’ clear.”
He pulls you in by the back of your head for yet another deep and desperate kiss, fumbling around blindly to aid you in getting his briefs off. You waste no time in straddling his hips as his tongue licks into your mouth, the hand that cradled the back of your head moving down to lay flat against your spine.
You break away for a moment, glancing down between your eager, sweaty bodies. His cock was already fully perked up, tip red and angry, glistening with the bit of pre-cum that was already evident through his underwear. You take a hold of it, and Gator practically whines.
“Gonna’ kill me, little lady,” he pants, your hand jerking him slowly and watching his stomach contort with wide, hungry eyes, “I fuckin’ mean it. Y’keep lookin’ at me like that n’ I’m gone.”
You meet his eyes, already looking fucked out yet without even having a taste; his hair is mussed up with a few rogue strands framing his russet eyes like curtains. There was something different about Gator in this moment; he was pliant and timid, a stark contrast to how he usually behaved. You almost felt like reaching up to pinch his cheek, rewarding him for good behavior.
But you felt like that may ruin the moment.
“C’mon baby,” Gator cuts the silence, the moment you’d taken to admire him interrupted, “fuckin’— please.”
“Patience, Gator,” you accentuate your sentiment with a roll of your hips, letting his cock slide between your slick folds as you let out a deep breath of your own, “patience.”
Gator shudders, the bare minimum of contact seeming almost too much for him. He tilts his head back to rest against the leather, still slightly panting as you start a slow rhythm, rocking your hips. He grips your waist tightly, squeezing the soft flesh like it were the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth.
He just can't help but pull you in, attaching his lips to yours with fervor that packs a punch. His tongue glides across yours, exploring your mouth as if to memorize exactly how you taste, holding you close, chest to chest.
You let out a few wracked moans of your own at the feeling of his length sliding between your folds, the ridges of his cock nudging against your clit at just the right angle. You could tell that Gator’s patience was wearing thin; he had detached himself from your waist to blindly feel around for the condom. He grabs it, and you hear the crinkle. But you grab his wrist, stopping him before anything.
“What’dja do that fer?” Gator asks, eyes wide.
“A lot’s changed since we last saw each other,” you say crudely, plucking the condom from his fingertips and holding it between your faces, “Tonight’s your lucky night.”
Gator can’t do anything but laugh, jaw slack in astonishment as you toss the condom aside, “Holy shit. You’ serious? Yer’ messin’ around, ain’t you? That’s fucked up if y’ are—”
You really didn’t feel like explaining that you’d started taking birth control a few months after you’d stopped seeing him. So instead, you took his face in your hands, his eyelashes fluttering when your nose brushed slightly against the tip of his.
“Just— shut up and fuck me, Gator.”
Soon enough, Gator is lifting your hips, and reaching down to angle his cock against your entrance. The both of you sigh; Gator at the newfound feeling of fucking you raw, yourself because it’s been a few weeks since you’d gotten any action.
James was far less generous than Gator was.
“Oh my God,” Gator breathed, watching his cock disappear as you sank down onto his lap. The initial pressure of his girth stretching you made your face pinch, attempting to savor that first stroke with everything inside of you. But Gator was just too eager; too willing and ready to find out just how much he actually missed you.
“Gator, oh my—” you moan, bracing your hands on his shoulders, beginning off slowly by rolling your hips, rather than bouncing. You were afraid Gator might explode if you moved any faster.
“Holy shit. Holy fuckin’— yer’ so tight ‘round me, sweet girl. Missed fuckin’ this pussy.”
You kiss him, seemingly for the millionth time tonight— eager, amorous, starved. You craved this feeling again more than you ever considered. Gator pants into your mouth, his lips disconnecting momentarily only to latch right back onto your neck. He suckles at the taut flesh, leaving more bruises in his wake. Your head falls back as though it weighed a ton, while Gator takes it upon himself to start to bounce you onto his cock.
“Gator,” you sigh, it’s almost a plea, “you feel so fucking good. F–feel you everywhere, baby.”
Your walls tighten around him when he kisses the tops of your tits, the lewd sounds of your arousal combining with that of his mouth as he sucks at your nipple. If there was one thing Gator was good for, it was paying attention to you, to the signs that you wanted— needed —more.
“That’s it,” Gator praises, watching you unravel and fall apart, piece by piece, “ride my fuckin’ cock, sweet girl. Ain’t so sweet now, are y’?”
You could tell that now, after getting acclimated to the feeling of you with no restraint, with no small layer of latex holding him back, he was gaining his confidence right back. You never doubted it, not for a second, that vulgar mouth of his was still very much alive.
“Ridin’ me like a damn’ cowgirl, shit. Milkin’ me fuckin’ dry, lettin’ me fuck you raw? Jesus Christ, lil’ lady. Jamesy boy don’t know what he’s fuckin’ missin’.”
“Don’t—” you stutter, the feeling of him filling you whole a bit too distracting, “don’t bring him up. N-not now.”
He groans, and it's borderline pornographic. “Y’don’t like when I talk bad ‘bout yer’ little boyfriend, huh?”
“Gator, fuckin’ stop it,” you bark, though you didn’t sound tough at all.
You pinch your eyes shut, Gator’s bouncing you fast, and hard, his hips bucking up to meet yours as yours come down.
“Bet he don’t know ‘ve got his girl in my truck… Fuckin’ her senseless. He ain’t know how good he had it.”
You whine, the words he spoke into the crook of your neck making you dig your fingernails into his back. That only egged him on to fuck into you harder, his tip plunging against your g-spot with each and every stroke. You were so, so close to your second orgasm of the night; Gator attaching his thumb to your clit and rubbing it in quick circles was exactly what you needed to get you there.
“Cum inside me Gate— need t’ feel you.” You blurt it out before you could stop yourself, him filling you to the brim and fucking you within an inch of your life had driven any and all logic and reason to leave your body.
“M’so close. So so close.”
Gator’s blubbering, you’re whining, the sound of his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs was echoing around the inside of his truck and making your ears ring. Everything about this was so overwhelming— you had gone from not seeing Gator in almost five years straight to this. You’d sworn to yourself all that time ago, you hated his guts from then on out.
But with the way his eyes sparkled, drunk on your essence and completely enamored with the way your face melted, not once breaking eye contact as the two of you chased your orgasms and let loose in perfect synchronicity—
Maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.
Your body finally relaxes, your rhythm coming to a slower, more managable pace. Gator’s release shooting out in hot spurts, filling you up and dribbling out as he stays tucked inside of you. Your own orgasm had left you seeing stars, Gator milking the last bit of those aftershocks out of you by gently circling your clit, amused as he watched you twitch.
“As good as y’ remember?” he asks quietly, as if not to disrupt the peace of the afterthought.
“Better, somehow,” you admit, smiling at him through the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes. He reaches up and pushes it away, letting his thumb linger on your cheek.
“Yeah? That right?”
“We’re older now,” you shrug. It was obvious he’d kept things pent up since you called it off, but you humored him, “maybe it’s that.”
Gator nods, completely unphased by still being inside of you, unperturbed by the open truck door. “You’re prob’ly right.”
You chew at your bottom lip, your hands still slung lazily over his shoulders.
“I always am,” you smile, before swiping one last kiss from his pouty lips.
—
A few hours passed and you were still in Gator’s truck. Only now, you were perched in the passenger seat, dawned in the emergency clothes that Gator kept in his gym bag— a loose and worn Stark County Sheriff t-shirt and a pair of sweats with a couple of holes in the thighs.
The two of you did nothing more than just talk, catching up on the years of news you’d missed in your time apart. Gator was leaned back in the driver’s seat, cargo pants back on, his legs spread comfortably as he took a pull from that strawberry kiwi vape you’d seen earlier.
“I know I kept sayin’ y’ain’t changed but, I think y’did. ‘Think we both did.”
You pause for a moment, but nod nonetheless, “As I said, we’re older now. Both having lived more life did us in, I’m sure.”
Gator’s hands fidget mindlessly down in his lap, the black tee from earlier replaced with a grey one that almost matched yours identically. “Y’know, maybe livin’ more life did a good thing.”
He seemed apprehensive, the thought coming out not as complete as you expected. Gator was always sure of himself but right now, that wasn’t the case.
“What are you trying to say, Gator?”
His hand reaches up behind his neck, scratching it gently, before adjusting the brim of his hat that he had annoyingly put back on after you told him you’d preferred him without it. The sound of crickets and summer night’s ambiance took the reins for a moment as Gator collected his thoughts.
“Y’think y’ might be willin’ to give this another try? Y’know,” he points vaguely at the space between you, “us?”
Your eyes widened; that was the last thing you were expecting to hear from Gator Tillman tonight. Hell, it was the last thing you’d ever expect to hear from him at all.
You hadn’t considered what you had with Gator a relationship in the slightest, and that was back when the two of you thought your on again, off again hookup phase was more important than Gator’s failing English grade. You weren’t willing to have a boyfriend who wasn’t dependable, who would vanish like a ghost and leave you guessing. But you kept him around because you knew he was capable of being that sweet and caring guy you’d dreamed about.
You had to just peel back the surface and you, unfortunately, realized that a little too late.
“I don’t mean t’freak y’out but, I dunno’. I’m real different now. I was a piece a’ shit back then. Y’ain’t deserve a man like that. Y’don’t have to answer me now, give yerself some time t’think on it. Maybe sleep on it. Y’still have my number, r—?”
“Yes.”
“Huh?”
You swallow, taking a second to process your own affirmative before doubling down, “We can try again, if you really want.”
You locked eyes with Gator, his face had lit up ten fold, the boyish charm he exuded when you first met him flooding in hues of brown and green as the moonlight lit up his irises. You smile in return, blindly reaching for his hand. He takes it without a question.
“Serious?”
“Serious, but— don’t fuck it up. I’ll kill you. For real, this time.”
Your small hand is engulfed by his larger one as he pulls it to his lips, tenderly kissing your knuckles. He shakes his head, pure disbelief written all over his face.
“Won’t fuck it up, promise. I’ll be real, real good…. If ‘yer willin’ t’ be patient.”
pairing: steve harrington/f!reader
wc: 9.1k
tags: sex pollen, dubious consent, multiple orgasms, [unsafe] vaginal sex, a lot of come. too much
a/n: thank you thank you thank you to @tinfoileddd, nice to write smth silly and fun. and disgustingly filthy yay
&&
“Someone has to go,” Nancy says, looking around the room at the five of you, congregated outside of the Byers’ home. Each of you eye one another, no one wanting to volunteer for such a task.
You can tell Steve wants to, though. You can tell he wants to even though he’s still reeling from what happened the last time the group made the trek to the Upside Down, because that’s who Steve is and that’s what Steve does, and when he can step in to avoid anyone else having to, he will.
Steve opens his mouth, but you speak over him.
“Whoever it is shouldn’t go alone.” You cut him off, because if Steve is going to volunteer himself as the sacrificial lamb to see if something down below is causing the thick dust raining down onto Hawkins, you want him to at least have someone there with him.
“Well,” Robin says. “I don’t think it should be me.”
“That’s fine,” Jonathan quips, rolling his eyes a little, but you speak up again before Steve can, almost stumbling over your words as he opens his mouth because you want to get your idea out first.
“We should draw straws,” you suggest. “That way it’s random and fair.”
Steve clamps his jaw shut, looking over at you from the corner of his eyes.
“I agree.” Nancy nods. “I’ll go check with Mrs. Byers.”
“I’ll go,” Jonathan says. “I know where they are—she’s busy with Will.” He pauses, then sighs out the word, “Probably.”
He turns on his heel and leaves the four of you standing in a square, Robin’s shoulder pressed against Steve’s, while you look from them to Nancy, concern etched over your face.
“This just feels,” you say, “I dunno. Bad.”
“Yeah, because it is,” Robin says. “This is like, the worst bad it could possibly be. Like, Defcon level 5 bad.”
“That’s the least bad one,” Steve says.
“What?” Robin asks, absently, almost like she forgot what she’d just said.
“Defcon 5,” Steve repeats. “That’s the lowest one. Defcon 1 is the really bad one.”
“Ok, then it’s Defcon 1,” Robin echoes him. “Whatever. Any Defcon sucks!”
The group lulls into an introspective silence until the front door to Jonathan’s house opens and he returns, clutching a handful of straws. He returns to the circle, fidgeting with the straws until he’s back between Nancy and Robin, and then just holds out his fist so you can all pull a straw from his hand.
“Three long,” he specifies, “two short.”
He offers them to Nancy first, who takes a breath, chooses a straw, and—admittedly—looks a little bit miffed that it’s not a short one.
Robin reaches out next, plucking a straw from Jonathan’s hand before you can. She tugs it free.
Long.
Jonathan moves his hand over to you and Steve, and Steve gestures to you to pick first—there’s only one safe straw left, and he’ll suffer Jonathan if he has to, to make sure that none of the women in the little quintet you’ve cobbled together are in danger.
Taking a breath, you pinch the straw on your right between your thumb and index finger, before changing to the one on your left. You ease it out of Jonathan’s hand, and just swallow thickly when you see you’ve pulled a short straw.
A slight tension settles over the group as you huff a short laugh through your nose, because of course that’s your luck.
“Great,” you say, wanting to flick the plastic away but instead you hang onto it, watching as Steve and Jonathan stare each other down.
“You’ll be fine,” Nancy says. “Steve or Jonathan will be with you.” She steps closer. “Do you want to trade?” she adds surreptitiously. She’s more capable than you, she’d be the obvious choice—but you were screwed over by your own idea, so your integrity feels like it’s forcing your hand.
“No, it’s—you need to stay here with Mike. And…Will. If Jonathan ends up going with me. I’ll be ok,” you reply, glancing over at her. “Thanks, though.”
“Just pick one,” Jonathan is saying to Steve, and you watch as Steve reaches for the straw you almost chose first, taking it with no hesitation from Jonathan’s closed fist.
It almost pains you to see that it’s also short, so you’d have been going no matter which you chose. Typical.
Jonathan opens his hand to show his straw is long, just for the fairness of the game, and you turn to Steve, ignoring the way Robin is bouncing a little in place, hands curled into the hem of her sweater before she releases it and just crosses to you, putting her hands on your shoulders.
“You’ll be so fine,” she says. “Steve won a fight against a, like, Russian soldier.”
“He what?” you ask, but before you can get an answer, Steve just steps between you and Robin and meets your eyes.
“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re gonna need to gear up before we head down there again.”
&&
You end up with an old canvas jacket over a tank top, one that Mrs. Byers found for you in the back of the hall closet, the sleeves a little too long. Nancy approached you, shoving her own boots into your hands, and said you’d be better in those, as opposed to the tennis shoes you had on. Steve is still in his jeans too, now wearing an old t-shirt that Jonathan provided. It looks a little too small for Steve, his shoulders a little broader, but it’s hidden beneath his bomber jacket. He only shrugs his shoulders, stretching the fabric out over them before he leads you outside, Jonathan trailing behind, the designated driver to get you to the crossover point.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, mostly to you, because Steve looks a hell of a lot more composed than you do, your breath a little thin, your eyes unblinking as you fixate on nighttime scenery as it passes by. “It一shouldn’t be like, you know, before.”
“No bats?” you ask, almost laughing, because even though you saw the evidence of their story firsthand, even though you’ve been around long enough to know every detail they provided is true, it still sounds crazy to speak it aloud.
“No bats,” Jonathan promises, even though there’s no way he could realistically know.
“Ok,” you say, looking at Steve in the backseat. His jaw is set, and when he feels your eyes on him, he looks over at you.
“You can still sit this one out,” Steve says, and to his credit, Jonathan doesn’t speak for you.
“What do you mean?” you ask, frowning. “I一got a short straw.”
“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, “but you shouldn’t一have to. You’ve never gone down there, and you should keep it that way.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jonathan glance up to look at Steve in the rearview, undoubtedly wondering if the fucking Hair is gonna try to pull him along and leave you with the car.
“It was my idea,” you say. “I pulled a short straw fair and square.”
“Having to go down there isn’t fair,” Steve says.
“Well, you went last time, so having to go again is what’s not fair, isn’t it?” you counter.
“That’s not what I said一” Steve tries to protest, but again, you speak over him.
“I’m going,” you say. “End of story. The quicker you accept that, the easier this will be. Stop一thinking about me and focus.”
Steve huffs a little noise of disbelief, but quietens down and the rest of the drive passes with just the sound of the engine and the tires speeding over the asphalt, potholes and cracks in the road making him slow the car to a stop.
“This is as far as we can drive,” Jonathan says, holding his foot on the brakes as you and Steve both hesitate, looking at the red glow of the rift a bit further up the street, the entire area abandoned and desolate, destroyed by the X-shaped fissure quadrisecting Hawkins’ downtown.
What look like ashes or fiery motes dance above the broken earth, and you force yourself to move so Steve has no choice but to follow.
You feel for the door handle, not taking your eyes off of the red glow ahead of you, and push open the squeaky door, stepping out of the car. The gravel crunches underfoot as you stand and move back a step, slamming the door. Behind you, you hear the rear driver side door creak and slam too, and you look back to meet Steve’s eyes over the roof of the car. Neither of you speaks, but neither of you has to.
“I’ll be here waiting,” Jonathan says, to Steve一he’s rolled down the window on his side. “As long as it takes. But don’t take too long.”
“No sweat,” Steve says, clapping his hand onto the roof, displacing some of the dust that’s already settled onto the car, just by virtue of idling in one place. “We got this.”
You wait for Steve to start walking forward, joining him as you traverse the rocky, destroyed street, the headlights from the Byers’ car illuminating you from behind as you go.
“What’s it like down there?” you ask, carefully stepping over a large chunk of blacktop.
“It’s…” Steve says, his voice trailing off. “Not great.”
“That helps,” you snip, because you’d like maybe a little preparation before you dive in.
“I’ll go first,” Steve says. “it’s一a little trippy. Just… give me a sec after I go through, and then I’ll catch you.”
“Catch me?” you ask, but Steve’s already adjusting his jacket, fiddling with the flashlight he’s holding, running a hand back through his hair, dusted with whatever the fine granules are that have been falling over Hawkins constantly for the last day.
“It’s一I mean, it’s called the Upside Down for a reas一you’ll see. Just. The dizziness will pass quick, promise.”
You open your mouth to say something else, but even as you do, you realize you have no idea what to say or to ask. So instead, you just watch as he crouches down beside the rift, fingers curling over the edge, and as he leans forward, you look back to Jonathan, who’s standing outside the car now, leaning against the hood, watching you both.
When you turn back to look at Steve, he’s gone.
You startle, because yes, you expected it, and yes, you knew this was all real, but for some reason his there-one-second-gone-the-next disappearing act throws you.
“You can go,” Jonathan says, encouraging. “He’ll一be ready by now.”
“Have you gone down there?” you ask.
He pauses, then shakes his head. “Not yet.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, then snicker. “I’ll send you a postcard.”
He hesitates, then smirks. “Bon voyage.”
You hold his gaze for another moment, like he’ll stop you一of course he won’t, you wouldn’t if you were him一and then replicate Steve’s movements as closely as you can remember. Crouching down. Gripping the edge. That was all you’d seen, but you close your eyes and tip yourself forward, expecting一actually, you have no fucking idea what to expect, and as your own body weight propels you forward through the rift, you feel strong hands grip your upper arms, pulling you through the rest of the way until you’re in an environment that feels colder, inherently. Like there’s no warmth here, no sun, nothing living, only death and decay and rot.
You stumble, because like Steve told you, there is a moment when your equilibrium is so completely off it’s almost like you have vertigo. He does catch you, as promised and your hands grip his arms back for a moment until your body reorients itself and you can stand without holding onto him.
“Thanks,” you say, looking around. It’s uncanny一you’re in Hawkins, downtown. It looks the same but still so drastically different that you feel as though you’ve just stepped into a nightmare.
“Come on,” Steve says, gently, and you can tell he doesn’t want to linger in one place too long. His hand is still on your arm, even though you’ve turned enough that you can walk beside him.
All of the air is stale down here, and as you walk through the inverse version of your hometown, you start to become attuned to the strange sounds of this place, the一odd clicks off to the side, a rushing roar occasionally from behind or above you, but you never see anything, never feel anything other than Steve’s fingers pressing into your arm through the jacket.
You don’t know how long you walk for, and you lose your bearings in the dimness of the Upside Down, but Steve is confidently striding forward like he knows exactly where you are and where you’re going. Between you, it’s silent, which you don’t mind一just the sound of your breathing and a few short exclamations when your foot twists on a rock, or Steve drops the flashlight, his quiet little “Oops” actually making you smile a little as he ducks down to pick it up, wiping the dirt from the lens.
You walk further, Nancy’s boots clomping alongside Steve’s quieter hiking shoes, and when you reach the base of a hill, you both stop.
“Up?” you ask, and Steve finally releases your arm. You feel the absence like a presence, because you hadn’t realized how much it was comforting you until it was gone, but he glances over at you, nods, and then gestures for you to head up first.
“I’ll follow you,” he says, “make sure you don’t slip.”
Making sure you don’t fall一It’s thoughtful in the way you expect from Steve, even though you don’t know him that well. You’re only wrapped up in this insanity because you know一no. Knew…Eddie. You knew Eddie. He was your neighbor, a couple doors over, and you were friends in that way where you waved to each other when you were grabbing the mail, or said hi if you happened to pass at the store, or noticed when a girl died in his trailer while he was screaming bloody murder and had to go on the lam. It was hard not to get involved when you’d rushed outside to see what the fuck was going on with all the noise only to watch him split seconds later, peeling out of the lot.
Your first mistake had been even stepping out your front door that evening. Your second mistake had been peeking inside his trailer, your third had been finding that Henderson kid he had mentioned to you a few times in passing…and probably your fiftieth fucking mistake had been suggesting drawing fucking straws to see who got to pay a fucking visit to this scenic fucking shithole.
“Over there,” Steve says, as you crest the hill, pointing vaguely in the direction of a thick copse of trees. “Pretty, uh, dusty.”
He’s right: The trees are surrounded by what looks like a hazy cloud of dust, dense enough to look like fog from afar. It’s practically shimmering even in the darkness, and as Steve shines the flashlight toward it, even though you’re a good distance away, it looks like you’ve agitated it, almost like being illuminated caused the fine particles to move faster. Like observing them made them, somehow, aware of your presence.
You dig the toe of your boot into the ground below you. “So that’s where it’s coming from then,” you say, eager to leave. “Let’s go tell Hopper and Dustin and everyone.”
You start to turn, ready to head back the way you came, but Steve’s arm hooks around your elbow again. You try to suppress how having him back in contact with you does make you feel a little bit better once again.
“No, come on. We need to see if something’s…doing that.”
“It’s just us, Steve,” you argue. “We don’t know enough about anything down here to just go walking into…whatever that is. It looks like…someone cast cloudkill or something.”
Steve quirks an eyebrow at you. “Please tell me you didn’t just bring D&D into this.”
“That’s what it looks like!”
“Dustin would be so proud.” He smirks a little to himself. “Ok,” he says. “I’m gonna go take a closer look. They’ll want to know more and I’d like to be able to answer whatever questions we can when we’re back topside. Just wait here.” He takes off down the hill, minding his steps as he goes.
“Wait,” you try to call after him, not wanting to be too loud. You watch as his flashlight beam moves over the dust again, the swirling almost appearing to move faster as he approaches it, like it wants him to reach it. “Steve!”
You hiss the word as loud as you dare, and he pauses, stopping at the bottom of the slanted ground.
“It’s ok,” he calls back up to you. “I’ll be right back.”
“Let’s just go back!” you say, glancing around behind you as something一somewhere back the way you came from一makes a noise that disrupts the otherwise quiet landscape. That clicking sound again.
“I promise it’s fine,” he says. “I won’t be long.”
“No, Steve—” you say, and he pauses, watching with pursed lips as you start forward.
“Come on, then,” he says, resigned, waiting for you as you also make your way down, the ground uneven and the dirt sliding beneath your feet as you descend.
He’s still in the same spot when you reach him, and he holds out a hand for you to take if you need it. Your gut wants you to reach for it, for him, but you ignore the impulse; you’re back on (mostly) flat ground now, you can walk without assistance. Besides… you both might need both hands readily available if shit goes sideways. Or, uh. Upside down.
You flinch at yourself for even thinking it, because that was stupid. So stupid.
“Hold on,” Steve says, holding his arm out horizontally so you stop walking, because while you were in your own little world lamenting your dumb joke, you’d gotten even closer to the treeline and the dust is very, very much thicker here.
“Oh,” you say, because the way it’s clouded there, it reminds you of when freshwater and saltwater meet but can’t mix, different viscosities preventing them from commingling. “That’s…”
“Weird,” Steve says, and before you can suggest that this is definitely enough information to bring back to the group, he steps forward, approaching the trees.
“Steve!” you hiss. “What the hell, why are you like this?”
He looks back at you, a faint smile quirking up one side of his mouth. “I wish I knew.”
You stand outside of the range of the… dust, or whatever the hell it is, until he reaches the trees. Even from where you’re standing, you can see when he shines the flashlight over them, they look diseased, dead, the bark crumbling, the trunks covered in thick vines. They shine a little in the light, covered in sap or… something far more vile.
“Come back,” you implore him, but he doesn’t listen, and you’re not sure if he can’t hear you or if he just ignored your request. “Steve!”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Come here, it looks like… just come here.”
You don’t want to, but you do, because the entire reason you’re even here is so Steve didn’t come down into this place alone. The air doesn’t smell or taste different when you take a step forward, but it feels softer almost, brushing against your skin like baby powder, and by the time you reach Steve, you feel like you’ve been wrapped in silk, or velvet maybe, like the very air itself is cradling you.
“Look at this,” he says, moving the flashlight closer to the vines. “Do you see that?”
You look closer, not sure what he means at first, until you do see it. It looks like a stem broken off of the vine, like a flower had been there and was now gone. You can see a scattering of them all up and down the vine, and the vines beside it; the entire tree is covered in the same stems. Like it had sprouted blooms once, but they’d shriveled, losing their petals but the central disc where the pollen collected remained.
“Flowers?” you asked.
“I don’t know…” Steve said, reaching out toward one of the stems.
“Hey!” you said, grabbing his wrist with both hands, stopping him before he can touch it. “We’re not touching them. No way.”
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “Just… back up a little.”
“Please don’t,” you say, not moving. Steve extends his arm again, using it to guide you back, and then presses one of the un-petaled flower stems down. You hold your breath, but nothing happens, and when Steve moves his hand back, the stem just rises back to its previous position, unremarkably.
“See?” Steve says, looking back at you. “It’s fine.”
You exhale heavily, nervous still, even though you now have the empirical evidence that yes一it was fine.
“I guess,” you admit, and before you can react, Steve is walking past the treeline, between the old, creaking trunks, twigs snapping beneath his feet. “I swear to god, Harrington…” You mumble it mostly to yourself, and then follow him, because you don’t want to have to explain to anyone that you lost Steve because you were too scared to follow him into some trees.
Even though you’re fairly certain, like, anyone would understand.
He’s stopping at random trees, shining the flashlight on them, but every flowered vine you find looks the same as the first one一flowers, no petals, the center bare of any pollen or residue.
“Maybe we can just一take one of the stems and bring it back. And leave. Now.”
“We don’t know that’s what’s causing the dust,” Steve says, and you actually grab him, spin him around, and stare him down with your hands on your hips.
“I think,” you say, lifting your hands exasperatedly into the air, “we can extrapolate that they are what’s causing it.”
But he’s not listening. You can tell because he’s looking behind you, the flashlight just a little bit off to your left. You turn to see what’s caught his interest, and find it immediately. It’s one of the flowers, but not barren. The petals are a sickly green-blue, the same as the rest of the vines, and the disc is very clearly covered in a thin layer of pollen. Steve shuts the flashlight off and you see how he noticed it一it’s bioluminescent.
“Oh,” you say again, looking back at him. “That’s…even weirder.”
“We should bring that one back,” he says.
“I still don’t think we should touch it,” you say.
“Yeah,” he agrees, surprising you. “Probably not, but一I mean…if we can learn anything about anything it’ll be from that one, right?”
“I…” you start to say, then sigh. “I guess.”
“All right, just,” he says, handing you the flashlight. “Hold this.”
“Do you need the light?” you ask, running your thumb over the button to turn it back on.
“No,” he says, stepping past you and reaching up toward the flower. “I got it一”
As soon as his fingers touch the stem, the flower reacts一actually reacts. It appears to contract, the way you’d expect a Venus fly trap to close when its prey triggers it, and then the petals fall away, down over Steve’s hands, his face, and the pollen follows, the glimmering particles landing on him, on you, wisping away through the trees to settle, no longer glowing, wherever they fell through the stagnant air.
“Steve!” you scold him, but even as you do, you start to feel… off.
“You ok?” Steve asks, turning to you. His eyes meet yours and you feel a pull, you feel the same vertigo you felt when you first arrived here.
“Yeah,” you say, before the world slides sideways. “Wait. No.” You move to brace yourself against the tree, pressing the side of your forearm against it, letting your forehead rest there for a moment as you try to compose yourself.
“No,” Steve echoes you. “Yeah, me… me neither.”
“What the hell was that?” you ask, turning the flashlight on. With the beam lit up again, you can see how shaky your hands are, because you angle it up and despite your best effort, you simply cannot keep the stem of the flower that exploded centered in the light. “Jesus Christ,” you mumble to yourself, dropping the lit flashlight because seeing yourself so obviously affected by whatever you just inhaled is making you feel even more scared than you already are.
You register Steve moving away from you, walking around in the tight space, shaking his hands out like he’s trying to rid them of something.
You suck in a breath.
“Are you like. Hot?” you ask, pulling off the heavy jacket and draping it over your shoulder, just to have something to do with your shaking hands.
“What?” Steve asks in return, but you can hear the tightness in his voice.
You swallow, stepping away from the tree, and because whatever the fuck is happening to the two of you is happening, you bump into him just as he nears you with his pacing, neither paying any mind to the other. Where his hand brushes your arm, your skin tingles, tightens—feels like it’s going to blister. And then it happens to the rest of your body.
But just as quickly as it does, it dissolves away, leaving you feeling cold, wanting.
“Are you ok?” Steve asks again, in a way that you can tell he felt whatever that was too. But also in the way that you can tell he’s, maybe, handling it a little better.
“Still no,” you say.
“Right,” Steve says. “Yeah. ‘Cause you just…” he trails off, and as soon as he mentions it you realize, belatedly, that the searing feeling of his bare skin against yours—your arms mind you—made you loose a moan from deep in your chest, low and unbidden, soft but heavy.
The moment hangs between you for a second, your heart hammering in your chest, an uncomfortable pressure starting to build between your legs.
“Hey,” Steve says, and you look up at him, and when you do you realize he’s much closer than he was moments ago, and he was already right beside you. “Hey, do you, um…” he trails off, and in the ambient light emanating from the flashlight on the ground beside you, you can see his gaze drop down to your lips.
Instinctually一because all of a sudden you feel like every single impulse and sense you have has been reduced to its basest level一you let your eyes lower to his mouth too, and when you see them, when you watch as his teeth worry his lower lip between them, when you see his cheeks hollow for a moment, when you catch a brief glimpse of his tongue, the same question that you’re certain he was about to ask you pops into your mind, and you answer what he didn’t even ask.
“Yes,” you say, and without further hesitation, without any thought at all, you take his face in your hands and press your lips to his.
Simultaneously you feel both immense relief and immeasurable desire, your stomach churning, your lips parting as Steve groans into your mouth. You can’t help but press your hips to his, parting your lips to let his tongue lick against yours, and your hands curl into his hair as you kiss him wildly, tongues and teeth and absolutely no reticence, the desperation clear on your part and his.
“Fuck,” you mutter as his hands tug your tank top up, pushing it over your tits, not bothering to unclasp your bra but just shoving that up and over your chest too, and you don’t even care that he’s undressing you in the middle of the weird ass woods in some alternate dimension. You don’t care that you’ve been stricken with the urge to fuck some guy you barely know, and only know because of some of the direst circumstances in history. You don’t care that he’s caging you in against the tree, the vines and bark scraping against your back as he leans down to bypass your neck completely and latch onto one of your tits, his mouth working at you in a way that you could tell on an ordinary night in an ordinary bed in ordinary Hawkins would feel wonderful, but now is only making the ache between your legs worsen, because you need part of him in contact with part of you and it’s not his mouth on your nipple.
“Steve,” you gasp, tone high, thready. “I need一oh my god, I can’t一” you stop yourself, because you know what it is that you want but you can’t very well tell him that you need his cock. You do not know each other like that, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, he pulls back from you, shrugging off his jacket as well, letting it fall to the ground behind him as he undoes his jeans and shoves them down.
You’re on him before he even pulls his hands away from the waistband一both hands wrapping around his shaft, coaxing him to hardness even though he’s already most of the way there. Your entire being shudders with relief as soon as you feel his hot, girthy cock in your hands, and he rushes you back against the tree, mouth taking yours again as you stroke him with both hands, smearing the copious amount of precome he’s leaking all down his length. He’s so wet it coats your hands, your wrists even, as you accidentally let them brush against him as you jerk him off.
“This is”一you gasp out as he breaks away to move his lips down to your neck一“weird, right?”
“Yes,” Steve answers, but even as he says it, he’s moving his hands from your waist to your front, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans and slipping the button. He undoes the zipper and doesn’t even bother trying to lower your pants down to your thighs like his are一he just shoves his hand into your underwear, palm skimming below your belly button until he reaches your mound, his middle finger sliding between your lips to touch your clit, the pad of his finger rubbing over it, not gently, but hard, harsh, immediate pressure that should feel good, but does absolutely nothing for you.
Strangely, you realize一you’re getting more enjoyment out of touching him, than you are from him touching you.
“God, that’s good,” Steve breathes against your mouth, and you realize he must be feeling the same一only getting any relief when he got his hands on you.
“What’s happening?” you ask, lips on the corner of his, breath warm on his cheek.
“I don’t know, I一” Steve says, licking into your mouth before pressing his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes as he thrusts his hand down further into your jeans, the force of it moving them down your hips without any help, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds. “You’re一so wet一I, I never felt anyone like, like this一”
“This is fucking,” you stammer, but the thought of exactly what it is leaves you as he curls two fingers inside of you, and he shudders in relief. You pull him closer by his cock, letting one hand move over it as you reach lower, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, massaging them and tipping your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you do.
“We should一stop,” Steve says, but you shake your head, then nod, then shake your head again.
“No, we can’t… Don’t want to,” you admit.
Steve’s voice is thick like honey, dripping with arousal as he speaks to you, tucking his cheek against yours so he can whisper directly into your ear. “Take一take everything off. Turn around.” It’s dark and deep and you reluctantly release his cock, let him slide his fingers out of you, and then the two of you strip the rest of your clothes off, denim landing on the dirt and leaves, his shirt landing in a heap as he helps you with your bra, and then you’re both naked in the cursed forest, and he’s pressing himself against your back, hands roaming your front. It feels nice but does nothing to assuage the arousal still coiling in your belly, and you push yourself into him, the heated skin of his cock smearing precome over your ass as his hips slide against you.
“Steve,” you whine, and your tone spurs him into action, his hands landing on your hips, pushing you down, down to your knees and then all fours, and then one of his hands is sliding down your spine to stop between your shoulder blades, and then the next thing you know, your shoulders and tits are being pressed into the dirt, your ass up in the air, presenting yourself to him. You turn your head as much as you can to look back at him, straining as he holds you down.
He’s kneeling behind you, and you watch as his eyes meet yours, hazy with lust, with desperation, and he only nods once at you before you see him reach for his cock with his free hand and press the head against your weeping slit.
Your whole body quivers, and you would have pushed back if he wasn’t keeping you firmly in place, your arms trapped beneath you, hands scrabbling for purchase on your own thighs, holding onto yourself as you feel the pressure on your pussy increase when Steve leans into you with purpose.
He enters you in one deep, thick stroke, and as soon as you engulf him, as soon as you feel him splitting your walls open on his cock, you shudder and come instantly with a loud cry, sobbing from momentary relief, pleasure raining down over you as the sheen of sweat on your skin worsens. Your entire body is aflame like you’ve got a fever, and you clench around Steve's cock when you feel his hips grinding against your ass as you realize that he came too, suddenly, with a harsh gasp.
But then he’s moving again, back out of you and then pushing in, pushing desperately, chasing the feeling again. Because your first orgasm wasn’t satisfying, barely any of the edge siphoning off despite how much it affected you, and the way he’s digging his fingertips into your hips as he pounds at you tells you his wasn’t either. He’s fucking his come back into your pussy, easing the slide, your thighs dripping with it already as flecks of his release land on your skin.
“Steve,” you say, voice watery, because you haven’t even come down from your first orgasm and you can already feel another one cresting on the horizon.
“Do you一does this一feel good for you, t-too?” he asks, and you know he’s asking because he must feel the same as you一unsatisfied, wanting more, chasing another and another and another.
“Yeah, it一” you say, gasping as he leans over you, drilling his cock into you even deeper, reaching places inside of you you’ve never felt on your own. “You feel so一so good, Steve, please just一” You falter again, but unless you say it how will he know? How will he know how badly you want this, want him, unless you tell him? “Just keep一going, keep, keep coming in一in me, oh, god, I…”
You’d feel embarrassed to sound so wanton and lewd if not for the way he answers you, pressing his hand more firmly against your back, sliding it up to your neck, and then finally, relenting for a brief moment so he can tangle his fist into your hair and use it to press your face down into the dirt.
“You have no一idea,” he replies, his hips snapping against your ass, his cock coated with his own spunk, your fluids, dripping down onto his balls, onto the forest floor. “How good you一you feel, around一fuck, you’re so一so一” He fucks into you again, and you feel his cock twitch deep within you, coming again, his release flooding you, his rigid cock not softening and not leaving your cunt, not fully anyway.
His voice sounds slightly more even when he speaks, but still frenzied.
“You feel that?” he asks, and you nod, sliding one of your hands up your stained thigh, sticky with your arousal. “Feel me inside you, right? Feel how一what you’re doing to me?”
“Steve,” you whimper, as he starts moving again, the wet sounds coming from between your bodies obscene, the sound of him fucking his own come loud, filthy, and it ensnares you, your lips parting of their own accord as you feel the saliva dribbling out of your mouth, but you can’t do much to stop it, not with him holding you down, with your arms tucked beneath you, with the way you’re now rubbing at your own clit because you feel so full with two loads in you that you need to come, need to feel it leak out of your hole around his cock, need the force of your orgasm to empty you so he can do it all over again on a clean slate.
“I can feel you,” Steve says, voice choked as he slams into you and stops, straightening up, releasing your head and your hair and clamping his hands down on your hips, rolling his front shallowly against yours, letting his cock just barely move out before it dips right back in, and the stretch of your slit around him, the feeling of your own hand working at your clit, finally sends you over the edge and you turn your face into the ground, hiding your shame as you realize he just came a third time, your pussy milking the orgasm from him as it spasmed and clenched down, begging it from him. The dirt sticks to your face, your lips and chin and you squeeze your eyes closed as you feel him pull out一again, not fully, only partly because you chase him, leaning back into him, wanting him to stay rooted deep within you一but even as you do, you still feel the thick drops of his come ooze out of you around him, rolling down your thighs, collecting in the crease of your knees.
“Do you feel any一better?” Steve asks, and in spite of the question, he pushes back into you, displacing more of his semen, forcing more of it out around him, staining your front along with his this time.
“Yes,” you answer, “no一can you fuck me a-again?”
Steve’s hands smooth over your back一you feel a little less heady, a little less one-track minded, but the burn is still there, the one that needs him moving into you again, pounding his front against your back, giving it to you over and over.
“I still need it too,” he says, and that makes you feel marginally better until he leans over you, letting his back rest against your front, letting your legs support his weight on top of you as he circles both arms beneath you, one hand pressing against up against your stomach, the other moving between your come-covered thighs to nudge your hand away and let his fingers work at your clit this time.
“Fuck一Steve,” you sob, because he’s not moving this time, just letting his cock sit inside you, heavy, slick with his own spunk, and his breath is heavy in your ear as he just rubs your clit, letting you squeeze down on him, unmoving inside you. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and Steve’s hand on your clit feels worlds different than your own did一your orgasm takes you over by surprise, hitting you out of nowhere so strongly that you buck back against him, wanting to feel him deeper even though he’s fully seated in you, riding out your orgasm with you until you sigh, eyes closed, cheek pressing to the dirty ground, smearing your own drool against the detritus below you.
His fingers slip away from your clit and he starts moving again, and even though you want it, you whine, the noise in your throat crackly and petulant, and without pulling out of you, needing to stay joined the exact same way you do, he holds you tight against him and rolls the both of you onto your side. He’s still inside you, and with the same arm that he’d just had looped around your stomach, he hooks your leg on his wrist, pulling your leg up to the side and holds it there, out of his way, exposing your cunt as he fucks you from behind this time, the new position just as intense but so, so much better, your back resting against his front, his skin slick with sweat as he clings to you, almost as desperate as you feel.
“Almost一almost there,” he says, and you’re not sure what he means, because you’re still bleary with arousal, still want to come on his cock countless more times, still want to feel him lingering inside you for days.
“Please touch me,” you beg, “need you一need it to be you, it doesn’t一work when it’s me, Steve, please一”
“Sh,” he hushes you, his voice soft as he leans a little further into you, rising to prop himself up on his elbow. He doesn’t release your leg一to the contrary, he leans forward, pushing your leg further up to the crook of his elbow, holding your legs open at an even wider angle, and lets his now free hand slip between your folds to find your clit.
You sob when he does, because you come again the moment he touches it, the swollen bead throbbing beneath the pads of his fingers, kicking under his ministrations as he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, and you rise to your peak again, barely even coming down from the first一or maybe you just didn’t stop coming. You don’t know, you don’t care, because after this many, you’re starting to feel like yourself again, but the feeling is still there, you still need more.
“It’s一so much,” you mumble, and Steve presses a short kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear.
“You feel so good, though,” he says, his hips still curling into yours, his cock not as deep now, both of you contorted around each other, back to front, limbs entangled, his fingers on your clit, the head of his cock in the perfect position to rub repeatedly against your g-spot, and you shudder a sigh as you feel yourself come again, weaker this time, your cunt sopping and sore.
“Come in me again,” you ask weakly, because each time he did, each time he filled you to the brim and it spilled out of you, a little bit of the haze lifted, the feverish impulse lessening.
“Almost,” he replies, thrusting into you, the head of his cock nudging your g-spot and you feel another orgasm beginning to rise, but not strong enough to overtake you yet.
“Please,” you beg, desperate now that you can feel the end might be in sight. You taste dirt in your mouth and feel itchy, skin irritated from twigs and leaves on the ground below you, but they’re the first sensations you’ve felt other than all-consuming arousal since the flower disintegrated onto you both, and you welcome them.
“Just一hold on another一another一” Steve says, and you feel him circle your clit quicker as he fucks into you, his cock dragging against your walls as you tighten up around him, and when he snaps them forward, up into you, shot after shot of his come spurting from the tip of his dick, your whole body tightens, loosens, releases after another orgasm一weak, feeble, and final, you hope一and then you still. Both of you, still, filthy, sweaty messes on the ground, dirty and sticky, skin slick between your thighs, his chest sticking to your back as you pull away from him. You stay on your side, wiping your face with the cleaner of your two hands, scraping away the dirt and spit stuck to your chin. You hear Steve behind you shuffle to his feet, and then his bomber jacket is draped over your shoulders, just to give you some modicum of modesty until you can stand and dress yourself.
“What the fuck happened?” you ask, wiping at the rest of your face now, adjusting the jacket to cover yourself as you feel his spend slowly trickle out of you. You twist, looking up at Steve where he’s standing, pulling his jeans back on. He uses his shirt to wipe his dick clean, his thighs, and then looks over to you.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and zips his fly before kneeling beside you, making to lift the jacket to wipe you clean with his shirt too, but you bat his hand away. You wanted him so desperately, had him, even, the two of you unable to control yourselves, and now you don’t even want him to look at you.
“Can you get me my一shirt,” you ask, pointing to where your tank top landed.
Wordlessly, Steve gets you your clothes, handing them to you and looking away as you shift yourself to your knees. You suppress the whimper as you feel yourself gaping, the sticky mess of his come falling from your pussy lips, and you try to clean yourself up as best you can, dressing yourself in your jeans and snapping the jacket closed to hide the fact that you’re now shirtless. You both leave the other soiled garments in the woods.
The first half of the walk back is silent, your stoic expression unchanging even as Steve continues acting exactly as he had before: Letting you walk ahead of him, keeping an eye on you to make sure you don’t trip, illuminating your path with the flashlight rather than his own.
“Um,” he says, once you start to see the reddish glow indicating that you’re nearing the rift. “Can we talk?”
You sigh. Heavily. “About what.”
“About一what just happened.”
“What happened?” you ask.
His eyes widen, like he’s not sure whether you’re really asking. “We…had一”
“I know what happened, Steve,” you snap. “I mean, why? What was that stuff?”
He closes his mouth, then his eyes, lifting his hand to cover his face for a moment before letting it fall to his side again.
“I don’t know. But I just一I wanted to check whether you’re ok now.”
“I’m fine,” you say, a little sarcastic, but biting it back because he got the same faceful of fuck pollen as you did. “Don’t worry, you won’t catch me begging for your dick again any time soon.”
He blanches, then takes a step toward you. “Hey, that’s not what I meant.”
“Can we not一talk about it?” you ask.
Steve hesitates, frowns. Then nods. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”
&&
The drive back to the Byers house is awkward. You let Steve sit in front next to Jonathan, let Steve answer the questions, let Steve tell Jonathan no一don’t drop you at home. You end up in the driveway of Jonathan’s house, waiting inside Steve’s BMW as he goes in and gives all the details to Nancy this time. He returns the jacket to Mrs. Byers.
He’d been careful with what he said to Jonathan. Some trees, weird flowers, some kind of pollen. It knocked you out for a little while, he explains, some kind of fever or something, that’s why you’re both filthy and sweaty. But you both feel fine now.
Sure.
Steve emerges from the house in another shirt, a polo he’d changed out of before this whole mess, and rounds the hood of the Bimmer. You watch him, wondering why you didn’t interrupt when Jonathan offered to drop you at your place. It would have been easier. You could have shut yourself up inside and never looked twice at Steve again. You only just got involved in this bullshit. You could extricate yourself just as easily.
But you didn’t.
You’d stayed with Steve even when you had the chance for an out.
You’d allowed him to insist that he drive you home, because he wanted more time to talk to you. Which you didn’t want to do but, admittedly, was probably a good idea.
The driver’s side door slams shut as Steve climbs in. You don’t move, legs pressed together, arms crossed over your chest, and Steve fiddles with the keys, not putting them in the ignition.
“So一” he starts, but you cut him off.
“I don’t want to talk outside Jonathan’s house,” you say.
“Right,” he says, starting the car and shifting into gear, heading out back onto the road. He clears his throat. “So.”
“Yeah?” you ask, and he just clears his throat again.
“Are you ok?”
It’s the question you expected but weren’t sure if he would actually ask. Because you’re not, and he’s probably not either.
“I mean, physically,” you say. “Sure.”
“I’m sorry. Obviously I didn’t一know,” he says, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel.
“I’m not blaming you, Steve.”
“It’s my fault.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” you say. “But I said I’m not blaming you. How could you have known, really.”
He glances over at you to find you already looking at him. You shrug as if to impart the age-old adage, c’est la vie. Even though it’s really, really not.
There’s another few minutes of silence, the car humming quietly in the night, and it’s almost peaceful except for the mess still between your legs, your body reminding you of it every time he hits a bump in the road and you feel sore all over again.
“That place… I shouldn’t have let you go down there. It changes you.”
“I’ll say,” you snarked, and Steve looked over at you, a little shocked at how blasé you were in that moment, then huffed an unamused laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. It’s一”
“No, for一bringing you. Jonathan should have一”
“I’d love to hear what would have happened if it had been you and Jonathan down there,” you say, keeping your face turned toward the window.
“Ok, well一that’s一” Steve stammers, and you can’t help but laugh a little.
It feels nice, actually, laughing after needing to use Steve’s body in the most perverse, insane way ever, and letting him do the same to yours.
“You didn’t have to drive me,” you say, as Steve turns into the lot where you still live, both of you averting your eyes from Eddie’s residence. Or… what used to be.
“I wanted to,” he says, simply, and when he pulls up outside of your door, he puts the car into park and turns it off, pulling the key from the ignition.
“What are you doing?” you ask, eyeing him as he reaches for the door handle and pockets his keys.
“Walking you to your door,” he says, like it’s obvious.
You want to question him, but you don’t. You just get out of the car, slam the door behind you, and wait for him to move next to you. You lead him, and when he follows you up the steps, holds the door for you when you open it, and enters behind you, you don’t question that either.
Nor does he wait for you to. “I don’t… sleep that great anymore, after… you know, going down there. Figured you might want. I dunno. A friendly face nearby. Just in case.”
You undo the jacket’s fastenings, but hold it closed, your bra shoved into the pocket, your upper half bare beneath the canvas.
“Ok,” you say, not fighting him on it, and just point at the couch behind him. “You can stay there. My mom works an overnight shift so if you can be out by 7:00, I’d appreciate it.”
Steve looks behind himself, then nods. “Sounds good.”
You wait for him to turn and settle down onto it before padding down the hall to the bathroom. The door sticks when you close it, so you never do, just leaving it barely ajar as you strip off the jacket and your jeans, the crotch still wet with Steve’s come. You leave the clothes in a pile on the floor and start the shower, waiting for the water to warm before stepping in; in the meantime, you examine yourself in the mirror. There’s still some dirt scuffed on your cheek; you try to wipe it away with the heel of your hand but it isn’t budging, so you just check yourself out otherwise instead. Your lips are still swollen from where you’d bitten them. You’ve got some bruises and scrapes on your shoulders and chest, your arms and elbows, but there’s no pallor to your skin so you figure you’re fucking fine. Just peachy.
You pull the shower curtain and step in, scrubbing your body hard, your arms and legs, focusing on the marred areas of skin, the places you know need some extra care. You wash thoroughly, your face, your thighs, everything in between them, and when you emerge wrapped in a towel, you see Steve dozing off on your couch.
You pull the towel tighter around you, watch him for a moment longer, then call out to him.
“Hey.”
His eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of you in the hall, squinting a little like he might have missed something in the interim of sitting down and waking up.
“You ok?” he asks.
You don’t answer一at least, not what he asked you. “My bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”
He studies you一you can feel the force of his look even with how far away he is. He hesitates.
“I’m only offering once,” you say, and that, at least, gets him to move, shifting his weight to the edge of the sofa cushion.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you say, unwavering, and he makes his way from the couch to the hall, looking down at you as he steps past you into your room. You follow him inside and close the door behind you with a low click.
pairing: travis ‘teacake’ meacham x single mom!reader
summary: you hadn’t slept with your boyfriend yet, yes you had been dating for a few months but you were honestly too scared. you hadn’t had sex since before your daughter was born, things were different and travis was gorgeous. but he’s also determined to show you just how beautiful you are to him
warnings/tags: smut, fluff, comfort, little bit of angst??, couple’s first time together, reader hasn’t had sex in a long time so she’s nervous af, oral (f receiving), body worship??, nipple play (like a smidge), creampie, p + v, unsafe sex, mention of having kids some day, travis has a big dick, squirting, beginning of the fic has some fluff with the kid, mention of breasts, vagina, etc, reader is insecure about her mom body and travis fucking loves it, description of said mom body, reader hates her body bad
wc: 6.9k
divider: x
a/n: this is my first time posting smut, i’m honestly so scared and spent so much time working on it. i hope it’s not horrible!! i’ve read this so many times i don’t think there’s any typos or mistakes but if there are yolo at this point. this is technically part 2 of this fic but can also be read as a stand alone. once again a huge thank you to my dear @bairdbesson for her help always always always.
likes, rb, replies etc are always encouraged🩷
It had been about three months since you started dating Travis, three months of giggles and butterflies in your stomach. You felt like a kid again, which was quite an achievement, considering most of your time together was spent with Lucy. Travis never complained; it never bothered him. He did things on your terms, and he understood that a mom would be busy a lot. So instead of trying to force you to just dump Lucy off at the nearest babysitter, he wanted her involved, he wanted to make your days easier in any way that he could. It meant more to you than he could ever imagine.
There was one thing you hadn't done with Travis yet, something that you were both terrified about and also dying to do. You hadn't slept with him.
Sex was a touchy subject, it had been over two years since you slept with anyone, the last person being Lucy's dad. You knew your body could look worse, but you weren't exactly happy with it, you were extra self conscious about showing it to Travis for the first time. Not to mention it was hard to have the alone time, you wanted to do it right, wanted both of you to be as loud and take as long as you want. Obviously, with a toddler in the apartment, things were a little tricky.
After putting Lucy to bed one night, you and Travis quickly move from cuddling and lazy kisses to full blown making out. Messy open mouthed kisses, as his tongue dominates yours, exploring your mouth. Your fingers tangle in his soft hair, tugging him towards you as if he can get any closer while you sit in his lap. His hand just began moving up your thigh when a loud wail comes from down the hall.
You pull away quickly, shifting off of Travis's lap so you can get off the couch.
He's up before you are, already turning on the light in the hallway as you stand behind him.
"I can get her—" you start to protest but your boyfriend gives you a quick kiss, smiling as he pulls away.
"You do enough honey pie…just give me five minutes and I'll be back." The warm light from the hallway casts a golden glow on his hair, "Then we can continue where we were." He says with a final wink before making his way to Lucy's room.
With a hesitant sigh, you sit back down on the couch. "Okay, okay." mumbling to yourself as you grab your phone off the arm of the couch. You weren't used to this kind of help, it made you a little antsy to not go and tend to every cry Lucy made.
You didn't want to get too comfortable just yet, not that you didn't trust Travis but you knew your daughter, and as helpful as he is he'd have to be a miracle worker to soothe her back to sleep in under five minutes on the first try.
"Hey Monkey Lu, what's the matter?" He coos. a soft smile curling up the ends of your lips as you hear him echo on the monitor.
"You look awfully scared, did you have a bad dream?" Travis keeps his voice soothing and light, you can hear the mattress creek as he picks her up.
Apparently your boyfriend is a miracle worker, in less than five minutes Lucy's cries stop, and the only thing you can hear are Travis's sweet whispers.
You quickly get lost on your phone, scrolling through post after post until a whispered "hey" catches your attention.
What you see when you look up should've made you roll your eyes and scold him, but instead you couldn't help but smile.
Travis stands in the entry way, the hall light casting a warm orange shine off his earring, his cheek gently resting on top of your daughter's messy bedhead as she snoozes on his chest.
"Sorry doll, we'll have to continue later." a sheepish grin resting on his face as he slowly makes his way to the couch.
You groan, playfully rolling your eyes. "If I had known my kid would've interrupted our makeouts this much, I never would’ve introduced you two."
A quick dramatic gasp leaves Travis's lips, looking at you with feign horror, "But look at her!"
"Look at me!" you pout, batting your eyelashes. His eyes move back and forth between you and your sleeping angel on his chest, this man was going to make your heart explode you just knew it.
Travis smiles down at you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "How can I say no to a mini you?"
You lay your head on his shoulder, brushing your fingers gently through Lucy's curls. You were always told she was your mini me, it made you feel proud, it actually made you appreciate your own features because you saw them differently now. It was also a bit of a relief that she didn't resemble her father, that was one face that you were happy to never have to see again.
The warmth from Travis engulfs your body as you sat there curled into him as best as you could, you take in every detail of his face as he watches whatever old sitcom played on the tv. His honey brown eyes you love so much, one of the first things you noticed about him, aside from his hair and the 'howdy' tattoo on his neck that always makes you giggle. His nose is prominent, easy to kiss, or boop with your finger as you love to do. He laughs softly over something on the tv, his face lighting up into a smile…that damn smile, the same one that makes your heart flutter every time you saw it. You couldn't believe he was yours, regardless of everything that you thought would've made him give up…he stays.
Slowly you lift your head, gently kissing his cheek, jaw, and then neck feeling the goosebumps form under your lips.
"What are you—?" He began, careful of moving too quickly and waking up Lucy.
"Shh…" you hush, continuing to kiss his jaw, each kiss lasting a little longer, a little more tongue playfully swiping at the stubble.
Travis sighs, "Okay okay…" pulling his arm away and getting up from the couch as you grin, "I'll put her back."
About a week later, you decide it was finally time. Despite feeling terrified, there was an opportunity for your friend to take Lucy overnight and you knew you to take advantage of a rare free night. So, you and Travis planned a proper date, which had become a rarity since he met Lucy. You didn't mention the sex part to him; you were honestly too nervous. In your mind, it was a given when you asked if he wanted to spend the night.
Travis had carefully picked the perfect restaurant, a nice neighborhood bistro that was the right balance of upscale enough to feel special, yet relaxed enough that it felt comfortable for both of you. All you had to do was be ready and dolled up for when he arrived at your door, and boy were you ever.
His jaw actually drops when you open the door, revealing the flowing sundress that perfectly hugs your body in all the right places, made of soft chiffon that fluttered with every movement. Perfect for a breezy spring evening like this.
“Wow…" he mutters, swallowing hard as he struggles to keep his gazing from lingering too long on your legs, which were accentuated by the dress and lit by the cotton candy sunset behind him. You could feel the heat rise to your chest as his eyes explore every nook and cranny of your figure.
"A good wow I hope?" you tease, giggling at how quickly he nodded.
"God, yes!" he blurts out, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Everything about the night was incredible, Travis couldn't keep his eyes or hands off you, and it really made you feel good about. His lips found the crook of your neck, sending a shiver through your body as you fumble with the key to unlock your door. You stumble inside, his strong hands gripping your waist and flipping you around so that his lips meet yours in a passionate kiss.
With a swift motion, he kicks the door shut with his foot, then gently guiding you backwards to the couch. As your calves brush against the soft cushions, you sink down with a gasp, overwhelmed by the sensation. Travis had pulled back, then kneels down between your legs, which you spread open eagerly. One of his large hands rests firmly on your thigh as his tongue explores your mouth hungrily, deepening the connection and causing a warmth between your thighs.
You instinctely knew where this was heading and for once, you desperately wanted the voice in your head to shut up. Your desire to be with him was overwhelming, you longed to sleep with him, to feel him close. God, how much you wanted that. Gently your hand lays flat on his chest, pushing just a little, as the two of you pull apart for air. Travis looks up at you, his pupils so blown his eyes almost look black. Your eyes drifting downward, they settle on his swollen lips, your lipstick leaving a smudge of color lingering at the corner of his mouth.
"C-can we go to the bedroom, please? If that's okay with you?" His voice sounds so small it makes your heart ache, like he's scared for some reason you'd say no.
You swallow hard, nodding. "Please…" you whisper faintly, feeling your stomach plummet to the floor. Travis cups your face with one hand, his thumb gently brushing a lock of your hair behind your ear before pressing his lips to yours again. This time, the kiss is so soft, so…chaste, like a fragile promise.
Gently, you take his hand, feeling the roughness of his palm as he responds with a tight squeeze before he gets up off the floor. You lead him into your room, where the bed seems to mock you, when was the last time this mattress was used for anything besides sleeping? Nervously, you begin to chew on your lip as Travis presses his lips into your neck, his fingers tugging cautiously at the silver zipper on your dress.
You think of all the women he's been with—whether they're around your age, younger, or even older. Most probably had little responsibility to anything besides themselves, working their various jobs. Their bodies remain otherwise flawless because they didn't grow a baby. No man had seen your naked body except doctors, which is a completely different situation.
Quickly, you turn to face Travis, your movement causing his hand to slip away from the zipper. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you look into his eyes, dark with hunger and desire. "Why don't you go into the bathroom…I, uh, need to get ready, okay?" you ask, aiming for a calm, seductive tone, disguising your nervousness and the urge to throw up all over your pretty dress.
His eyebrow arches slightly, eyes reflecting a glint of mischief. "Of course, baby. Whatever you need," he replies, his voice smooth and reassuring.
As soon as you heard the bathroom door click shut, you begin to scurry around your room, your heart beat pounding faster with each step. You quickly turn off the overhead light, and instead switching on a small bedside lamp that cast a dim glow that you were more comfortable with.
Your hands tremble as you wrestle with the zipper that ran vertically between your shoulder blades. The last thing you wanted was to call Travis back in just to unzip your dress, only to come up with some weak excuse for why he couldn't simply just take the dress off for you.
Your mind wandering to the thought of his warm, gentle hands sliding over your bare skin, lips pressing softly against the crook of your neck as he carefully eased the dress down your frame. You couldn't remember the last time a man's touch had made you feel so alive, the thought of Travis touching you like that, of him exploring your body with such reverence, made your desire flare and pool between your thighs.
God, you wanted him.
A deep breath you hadn't even realized you were holding, pushes out of your lungs. Your fingers successfully find the zipper, gripping it firmly. You sigh with relief as you feel it glide down, the metal teeth pulling apart.
Quickly, you push the dress down to the floor and step out of it, grabbing it like a wad of material and flinging it over the back of a nearby chair. Earlier, you had purposefully picked this matching lingerie set, it's simple but one of your favorites, almost always making you feel good about yourself. Your eyes catch sight of your reflection in the nearby mirror, it feels like someone knocked the air right out of you.
You look at yourself carefully, the stretch marks on your soft belly, the faint silver lines on your breasts, the way your thighs still lack the toned definition they once had, your belly still bears a slight roundness, which at this point you've unfortunately just accepted as your new normal. You hate it. You despise everything about it. The anger it sparks inside you makes your chest tighten, you hate yourself for feeling this way.
So instead of leaving the lingerie on for Travis, you peel it off, squeezing your eyes shut as you caught sight of your reflection in the full length mirror again, You grimace, God. you needed to get rid of this fucking thing. You felt disoriented, unsure of how to sit or lie down, how to pose casually enough for when you call your boyfriend to come back. The mirror seems to mock you, the distorted image of yourself making tears well in your eyes. This was not how you wanted the night to go, you just want to enjoy yourself without these intrusive thoughts loudly echoing in your mind.
As a last resort, you slide under the soft sheet of your bed, pulling it up over your chest, and flick off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You could feel the cold sweat glistening on your skin, your could hear the pound of your heart. "O-oh okay, I'm ready!" you call out faintly, wincing at the crack in your voice.
When the door swings open, a sudden rush of nerves makes your stomach tighten. The nightlight in the bathroom casting light on his strong frame. You could see he was only in boxers, the fabric clinging to his hips, highlighting the muscles in his thighs. Your eyes trace slowly upward, taking in his toned arms, his chest dusted with dark hair that was still visible. His presence was captivating, so much so that your gut twisted into a knot, a mixture of desire and anxiety.
Travis pauses and squints his eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness of the room. "Honey pie?" he calls out softly, tilting his head as he looked around. "I can't even see the bed, where are you? Why ya hidin'?"
His voice sounds so sweet and caring, and you could just imagine the furrow of confusion creasing his brow. You open your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, a small, pathetic whimper slips out as you cover your face with your hands.
A soft click of a switch sounds nearby, and you know that Travis has found the switch for the lamp. A gentle light begins to spread across the room. His eyes immediately flicker toward you, noticing how you're tucked under the thin sheet, trying to hide. For a moment, he assumes you're doing this to tease him about what he's about to see. His gaze lingers on the shadowy outline of your naked body, and he can't help but salivate at the sight of your curves
"There's my baby…" he mutters softly, his voice husky and low, causing your thighs to squeeze together despite the slamming of your heart in your chest.
He stands over you, his hand gentle but steady as it reaches out to grab the edge of the sheet, slowly beginning to pull it down. You tighten your grip on the fabric, a rush of nerves flooding through you. "G-get the lamp," you stammer, your voice trembling as you kick yourself for the hesitation, noticing how his eyebrows knit together in confusion and concern.
"I wanna see you, sweetheart. You're teasin' me like crazy, hidin' under there," he murmurs softly, a playful smile lingering on his lips. Yet, his eyes, fill with tenderness, softening as he looks at your face, searching for some indication for how you're feeling.
Tears well in your eyes, shame tinting your cheeks and shadowing your features. "I-I thought I c-could do this…" your voice soft and cracking with each word.
You watch as Travis presses his lips into a deep frown, concern flickering in his eyes. "Do what, muffin?" he whispers, leaning over you, his hand lightly tracing the curve of your side.
Taking a deep breath, you try to blink the tears away before you speak again. "I got undressed…h-hid under the blanket…and now I-I'm too ashamed to show you.." you whisper, tears stream down your face as you clutch the frayed end of the sheet, unable to bear looking him in the eye.
"Ashamed of what?" Travis asks softly, tilting his head with a concerned frown. His brow furrows as he studies your trembling form, genuinely confused and scared he might have pushed you into something you didn't want.
Bringing your hands to your face, you take a shaky breath. "M-me…" you whimper, voice cracking as sobs wrack through your body. This was not how you wanted tonight to go, not at all. You thought you could handle this.
Travis's heart aches visibly as he looks at you, verging on the edge of tears just from hearing how harshly you feel about yourself. You were truly beautiful, he hadn't even seen you completely naked, yet he knew you were the only girl he could ever want.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress softly dips under his weight. His hand gently slides over the cool sheet and rests on your belly, warm and reassuring in his touch. To him, it feels like a simple, tender gesture until he notices the way your muscles tense beneath his fingertips.
"Oh sweetheart…" he coos, moving his hand from your stomach to gently hold your wrists. He lowers your hands so he can cup your cheek, his thumb carefully catching the tears that slide down your face.
A loud sob rattles out of you, wrenching through your body as you squeeze your eyes shut to block out the world. "I don't look like other girls. My body is disproportionate, my stomach isn't flat like it used to be…there's stretch marks, dips a-and-" struggling to speak through your crying. Your breath hitching, you gasp, unable to control your tears.
When you meet his gaze, you're taken aback by how large and glassy his eyes are, as if what you're saying is piercing his very soul, breaking his heart.
You take a deep, quivering breath and try to continue. "No one has seen me, like this since I got pregnant," you whisper, your voice hoarse. "And I know I don't look like all the other girls you've slept with." You pause to draw another shaky breath, locking eyes with him, "It's not pretty…like it used to be. My boobs are shot, my stomach is—" little whimpers and hiccups slip out as Travis briefly interrupts you with a delicate, lingering kiss against your lips. He pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"Don't say those things about yourself, sweetheart. You're beautiful, absolutely, mind blowingly beautiful." He looks at you earnestly, each word leaving his mouth in a firm but careful tone, his eyes locking onto yours. He means every single word he says, not just saying it to make you happy but because he truly believes it. "You amaze me every day, you're the strongest person I know. You're stunning, the prettiest thing I've ever seen." His hand cups your cheek again, thumb brushing your skin, ensuring your eyes stay fixed on him. "I don't give a fuck what other girls look like. You're here right now, with me, and I am dying to show you just how beautiful you are, inside and out."
His words sit heavy on your chest, as you let out another sob, staring up at him while you try to blink away the tears.
Travis frowns, leaning over to softly kiss the tears away. "Sweet baby, your body has made and pushed out another human; that's nothing to be insecure about.". He presses kisses on each of your cheeks, then on your nose, and finally against your lips. "Lemme see, honey girl. I wanna remind you…"
His voice is calm and soothing, not pressuring or seductive, but soft and understanding. It makes you feel vulnerable, with an overwhelming warmth spreading in your core. Your hands instinctively find his soft, blonde hair, fingers tangling in the curls as you press your lips to his again. This one is different, its hungry, filled with want and need.
Travis gently breaks the kiss just as his hand reaches out to touch the smooth sheet. ""Is it okay?" he asks, voice still soft, waiting for your permission. Taking a deep, steadying, breath you nod, closing your eyes as you feel him delicately peel back the fabric.
"Oh baby," he mutters, in shock. For a second, a wave of panic rises within you and you momentarily panic. "Oh my God…oh my God…oh my God…" he moans…actually moans as his large hands touch your hips, then slide up your waist, over your belly, and settling on your breasts. He presses several kisses onto the valley of your chest before his eyes flash up to your face, "Open your eyes sweetheart."
When you do, his warm loving eyes lift, brimming with tender adoration, as if you're a cherished piece of art.
"Absolutely breathtaking." Travis whispers, a sweet smile spreading across his lips.
His knee nudges your legs apart as he lowers himself down. He groans when he sees how wet you are, pussy glistening in the dim light.
"Baby, when did you get this wet? Was it my words?" He asks, as his fingers massage into your plush thighs.
You smile shyly, slowly nodding as your hands go up to your face again, "That and when I was waiting for you…thinking about what you were gonna do to me when you saw me, and then I panicked."
Travis moves up again, his eyes are a mix of love, longing, and deep sadness. "Baby, I'm obsessed with you. I cant even begin to—fuck baby…"
His gaze wanders down your body, taking in every curve, every inch. You blush so hard that heat blossoms on your cheeks.
Travis chuckles, eyes twinkling with amusement as he leans down to kiss your cheek once more. "Turnin' all pretty and pink on me." he teases warmly, his voice a smooth whisper against your soft skin. The unexpected comment making you giggle, and he follows with a kiss on your nose, then your lips before effortlessly moving back down again.
"You were worried about your boobs? Babydoll, these are…" Pressing a slow, lingering kiss against each one, tongue swiping at your nipples, making you sigh. "Incredible, I'm comin' back here later."
Next, his hands gently touch your belly, fingertips softly caressing the supple skin as he traces the faint stretch marks that map your abdomen. He leaves sloppy open mouthed kisses across your plush flesh, warm and lingering. “This belly grew that beautiful baby," his words softly tremble, bringing tears to your eyes again. "This was her home." he whispers reverently, leaving one last tender kiss, before moving down between your legs.
Your breath hitches as you feel the heat of his breath hitting your core, sending shivers up your body. He bites his lip, jaw clenching tight, groaning softly as his eyes darken with lust.
"And this…this pretty pussy, fuck baby." He leans in, kissing the top of your mound right above your swollen clit. "This is not only the prettiest I've ever seen, but also the strongest." He coos, his thumbs gently caressing your inner thighs.
You feel yourself clench around nothing as you whine softly, he's right he’s truly making you feel beautiful…and undeniably horny.
"I get why someone got you pregnant, this addicting body." He smirks, eyes still locked on your dripping pussy.
You roll your eyes but can't hide a smile as you squint down at him, "Hey, don't get too crazy…not doing that for a while."
Travis lifts his head up quickly, eyes wide. "So you're saying it's in the cards?"
Giggling, you nudge him playfully with your knee. "We'll see how good you make me feel…"
He lowers his head back down, a devilish grin across his face. You can feel his nose lightly nudge against your clit, a soft whimper leaving your lips as you struggle to hold back, resisting the urge to buck your hips against his face.
His tongue drags slowly down your slick folds, exploring every crease with deliberate strokes before darting in and out of your opening. Your whines grow louder, a trembling emotion in the back of your throat as your hands tangle in his hair. He laps up the arousal that's seeping out of you and directly entering his mouth. He moans, lips vibrating against you as you feel him pull you closer.
"T-Trav..need more…" You whimper, and that seems to trigger a reaction inside him. His tongue moves faster, tasting and exploring as he works diligently. His spit and your fluids mingle, spreading all over his face before he takes your clit between his lips.
A passionate cry leaves your lungs, as your hips buck against his face. "S-so good…oh fuck…so good." You moan, your back arching off the mattress as his hands explore every inch of your body, warm and firm against your supple tits and belly. A reminder of his presence and intense obsession with you courses through the moment. Tears prickle at your lash line as the pressure rises in you, you swear you start to see stars.
Travis groans, his voice muffled as he whispers, "So sweet…so beautiful." He slides a finger inside, curling it just right to hit your most sensitive spot, causing you to moan so loud you're convinced the neighbors must have heard.
"Want another, baby?" He asks, tongue swirling around your clit fast enough to make you stop abruptly and gasp for breath.
"Please!" you cry out, nodding frantically as you feel a second thick finger stretch and fill you, the sensation intense and precise in all the right ways.
It doesn’t take long before you lose control, succumbing to his tongue, your body trembling and thighs quivering around his head. You cry out his name, feeling yourself clench around his fingers as you soak his chin and hand. Travis laps up every drop, drinking you down with loud greedy slurps as you writhe under him. He moans against your sensitive clit, the sound vibrating through you as he lick you clean, making you whimper and jolt through the aftershocks. You hadn't even noticed Travis had been rutting against the mattress this whole time.
Your body shivers as you pant breathlessly, coming down from your high, the rush gradually fading as your muscles relax. Travis moves back, but not before pressing a soft kiss against your clit before moving up. Your head rolls back against the pillow as he kisses up your body, burying his slick covered face against your belly and then chest.
He's painfully hard, feeling the way his cock strains against his boxers on your thigh but what he says next astonishes you.
"That was just day one baby, I don't wanna overwhelm you." he hums, "Wanna take it slow."
Your eyes fly open, looking at him in disbelief. "You're not gonna fuck me?"
He smirks, giving you a little wink, and then slots his lips firmly against yours, the warmth of his mouth making your belly flutter. You moan in to it, letting his tongue slip past your lips, tasting yourself on him. He pulls away suddenly, just as your fingers hook under the waistband of his boxers.
"We need to take it slow, its been so long, you're sensitive." Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips grazing your forehead.
You whine, crossing your arms tightly over your chest in a huff. You're touched by how sweet he is, considering the pain caused by the tent in his boxers, but you're also pissed off. The sexual frustration makes you want to scream. You need him desperately, craving the feeling of him deep inside you, stretching and filling your pussy completely.
The mattress shifts as Travis stands up, his feet shuffle across the carpet as he begins to walk toward the bathroom. Your hand quickly shoots out to catch his forearm, stopping him before he got out of your reach.
"No way, mister!" you call out, causing him to spin around, eyes wide in shock.
"Honey, it's been so long I don't want to—" he starts, but soon you cut him off.
You lean up on your elbows, breath shallow as the heat between your thighs screams for attention. "Travis," you say, trying to sound as calm as possible, but your voice wobbles. "I need you…I need you really, really bad." The words escape in a whimper, and tears start to gather in your eyes. You need him.
He freezes, expression softening into an empathetic look. Slowly, he reaches out to put a hand on your cheek. "I don't wanna hurt you, angel."
You wish you had a reply; you really wish you did, but you're desperate. "Travis…I. Need. You." pausing after each word, your eyes fixed on his. "And if you turn me down, you have one miserable night coming because if I wait one more second, I might explode."
With determination you shift on the bed, tucking your legs under yourself so you can kneel in front of him. You eyes grow wide and watery as you focus on him. They linger momentarily on the unmistakable outline of his cock against the stretched material of his boxers, then flick upward to meet his gaze.
"Travis…mama needs your cock, real bad." Sticking your lower lip out as you whisper a final plea. His wrist remains in your grasp as you gently guide it downward between your thighs, the air thickening with tension. A faint whine fills the room as you slide his finger through your soaked lips, "Need your thick cock.."
He shudders, eyelashes fluttering as he rubs the pad of his finger against your clit, you moan in a long exhale.
"Don't wanna hurt you." Travis mutters, you can see how conflicted he feels, your heart skips a beat.
You lazily ghost your lips over his neck, another whine leaving your lips, "You won't, you'll make me so happy…so full of you." you whisper seductively, as you nibble at the shell of his ear. "Unless you don't want that?" Pulling back just enough to look in his eyes, tilting your head to the side, pouting.
Travis shakes his head, swallowing hard. "No, no…I want that," he protests, desire flickering in his eyes. You lean closer to his neck, feeling the warmth of his sticky skin, and lightly drag your tongue over his pulse point, feeling it quicken.
Then laying back down, with a slow deliberate motion, your eyes never looking anywhere but at him. You spread your legs, looking at him with a playful smile. "Then take me…"
You weren't sure if you had ever seen a man pull his underwear off so quick, almost causing himself to stumble as he kicked them to the floor. You try not to giggle, biting your lip as you watch him crawl up the bed, toward you, his bare knee padding against the sheets.
His large cock rests against his stomach, you moan at the sight of his red tip dotted with precum that smears onto his happy trail with each movement. You bite your lip, hips bucking against air. "Oh fuck…I need you."
Grinning, Travis wraps his strong arm around you, his palm pressing steadily against your back as he pulls you closer. He takes his cock, sliding the tip through your slick folds, your juices smearing together on both of you. "Please…please…" you shudder, trembling under him as you grip onto his shoulders.
"Easy sweet thing, I got you." Travis coos, lips grazing over your skin as he leans down to drop a tender kiss to your forehead. His warm breath brushing softly against your skin as he slowly sinks into you.
You mewl, back arching as his thick cock stretches you. Each inch of him gliding against your walls just right as you gasp beneath him, gripping his shoulders. You moan sinfully as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust to the delicious stretch. "S-so big…need more." you sigh, nails scratching his back as you dig your heels into his waist, pulling him closer,
Travis chokes out a strangled groan, filling you to the hilt. He tightly grips onto the sheet, trying to keep the steady pace as he slow as possible he fucks into you. But you want more, you need more. "P-please…p-please hmmph Trav…need more." You cry pitifully, bucking your hips up against his.
He lets go of the sheet, finding your hand that had flopped next to your head. His fingers lace together with yours as he quickens the pace, grunting as his hips slam into yours. The wet sound of skin slapping fills the room, as Travis lets out a pleased hum. "Taking my cock so good baby…such a good girl…" he pants, squeezing your hand.
"S-so full," needy little whines leaving your parted lips with each thrust.
Travis nips at your neck, moving down to the skin by your collarbone, sucking on the sweet spot, and then running his tongue over it. "You're so tight…fuck." Pressing his forehead against yours, mouth hanging open, his breath ghosts over your lips.
You're stretching with each thrust, crying out while every grind of his hips catches his hair on your puffy clit. Pleasure pulsing quickly inside you, faster than it ever had before. "Travis, I-'gonna…fuck!"
The coil in your belly snaps, dissolving into toe curling pleasure. Eyes rolling back as your climax tears through your body. You tremble in his arms as your muscles tense, clinging to his back as your nails leave dents in his skin. His name rolls off your tongue in loud moans followed by a sharp gasp when you feel your release squirt out of you.
Travis digs his fingers into your hips, "Oh..my God..fuck." His babbles low and raspy, sending shivers down your spine. His eyes shut tightly, groaning in your ear, as your pussy clenches around him.
Once your haze fades a little, it dawns on you how quickly you came and a blush shrouds your face, "I'm…I-m sorry I came so f-fast, I just haven't done that in a while." you stutter, hiding your face in his neck.
Travis stops mid thrust, still deep inside you, holding off with a shaky breath. Eyes opening as he lifts his head up, gently rubbing his thumb against the spot he had been gripping.
"No, no, that's good baby, that's so good. I wanna make you feel good and that felt like you felt damn good." He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder.
You pull away from his neck, still out of breath, face flushed. "You can finish in me." You whisper shyly and his eyes go wide.
"Ya sure?"
You nod, "I've been on the pill since Lucy, might as well make use of it."
Travis smashes his mouth into yours in a hungry, messy kiss, teeth clicking as his tongue swirls around yours. His thrusts begin again, rough, and sloppier than before, you can tell he's getting close.
Your fingers tangle in his hair tugging hard, feeling him snap his hips against yours. Panting out little whines every time his cock pulses against your sensitive g-spot, it feels intoxicating.
"You look so pretty…all fucked out…creaming all over me." Travis coos, looking down at where you're connected. Streaks of your cream coating his cock every time he draws back, you feel him twitching inside you.
"Wanna feel you cum in me," You whine softly, "Want you to fill me up…it's been so long Trav. Want you t'claim me."
The little pleads just egg him on, bringing him closer as he shudders out a broken moan, babbling your name as his hips lurch forwards, spilling inside of you with a low breathy growl. Some of his cum drips down his shaft, there's so much of it as he periodically jerks his hips, pushing more inside you just for it to spill back out.
You whimper, body trembling from the warmth as your mouth hangs open, "Fuck, Travis." feeling him smirk against your neck, a low groan rasping from his throat.
"So good, you took me so well, you were so good for me." his babble comes out a little hoarse as he comes down from his high. Breath uneven, his body limp, and boneless against you; making you feel safe.
"Evidently you needed some release too." You tease, twirling his hair around your fingers.
Travis's breath tickles your damp skin as he chuckles, a sigh leaving his lips. He pulls back just enough so he can look you in the eye, nose rubbing against yours. "You did so good for me honey pie." the gentle sound of his voice almost making you want to cry…again.
His lips slot against yours once more, weaving together slow tentative adoration as his hands explore your body. "Feel so good against me, feels so good to be inside you…feels so good to hold you."
Blinking away tears, you cup his face in your hand, "Thank you." you whisper, watching Travis smile wide. His thumbs rubbing up and down your ribs, holding you close to him like if he let go you'd disappear, and he can't have that happen.
The two of you stay in that deep embrace, Travis laying on top of you, head tucked under your chin in sweet contentment. Every few minutes he sprinkles kisses all over your jaw and collarbone, making you giggle.
Your eyelids gradually start to feel heavy under the warmth of his body, but you feel him start to stir. Whining as he pulls out, the emptiness aching more than the fullness did. Keeping your eyes shut you hear him pick his boxers up off the floor, followed by his feet padding against the carpet to head to the bathroom.
The next thing you know he's gently tapping your knee, making your eyes flutter open. He's standing over you with a lovesick smile on his face, a damp cool cloth held in his hand. Shining a sleepy smile, you spread your legs to let him clean you up. A whimper falls from your lips, making him freeze.
"I didn't hurt you did I?" He asks hesitantly, carefully searching your face for any sign of discomfort.
You smile, slowly blinking the sleepier you got. "No, no, its just been a long time and we…enjoyed ourselves a lot." Breaking out in a giggle, feeling so giddy it hammers in your chest and you love every bit of it.
Travis takes your hands and carefully pulls you up to a sitting position on the bed, picking up his t-shirt that was thrown on the floor earlier and slipping it over your head. The shirt was big and soft, wrapping your tired muscles in a sense of security.
You began to stand up, feeling your legs start to wobble once you put weight on them.
"Need my help?" He asks, arm instantly wrapping around your waist.
"I think I got it." Taking a small step as you slip out of his grasp, your legs feeling a little more like part of your body and a little less like jelly.
"But if you do need me-"
"You'll be the first to know." Turning to look over your shoulder before entering the bathroom, a smirk toying at your lips.
A soft sigh escapes your lips as you settle back into bed, pulling the cool sheets over your tired legs. Travis presses a tender kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering, as his arm instinctively pulls you closer.
You curl up comfortably against him, resting your head on his broad chest, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.
"Thank you for being so good to me." you mumble, eyelids beginning to flutter, as the exhaustion begins to take over.
"Always." He whispers in return, his calloused fingers tracing soothing circles along your arm. The room is quiet and calm, the only sound is your shallow breath as Travis's warmth lulls you sleep.
you already know the typa shit i’m on. running rampant in your messages about age gap!steve has lead me here.
a prompt for steve-morial day weekend; reader’s a bartender, perhaps a meet cute with ~coach steve~ at the bar she works at. i’ll let you handle the dirty shit cos it’s what you do best. thanks in advance for making all of my dreams come true
love ya buddy :* <3 !!!!!!
- djob00bies, on main 🫶
your wish, my command 🩵
MDNI//SMUT/tags/tw- age gap (steve is 30, reader is 23), coach steve, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex
&&
It’s half past 7 on a Friday when he walks in. The bar’s busy, busy enough that you don’t have the time to really pay attention to the patrons you’re serving, but you do clock that you recognize him. Your nephew is on his baseball team—you’re pretty sure. That’s Coach Steve.
He orders a bottle of Bud and when you uncap it for him, sliding it over the burnished wood, he picks it up and tips it toward you before taking a sip.
But you’re already on to the next customer, pulling liquor bottles and salting rims and dropping garnishes into glasses without even a second to register that Coach Steve? He looks both expectant and lonely where he’s sat at the end of the bar. He hasn’t even taken his jacket off.
It’s just about 8 by the time you stride back over, checking on him, ignoring the other customers clamoring for your attention for a second. In the dim orange-yellow light of the bar, Steve’s eyes look like black circles, the 5’o’clock shadow more like an 8’o’clock nightfall by now, and he rubs at his jaw as you approach.
“‘Nother Bud?” you ask, already reaching for a bottle.
“No, I’m… good for now,” he says, drumming his fingers along the mostly-empty bottle.
“All right,” you chirp, “give a holler if you change your mind!” And then you return to the fray, back to pouring shots and muddling fruit and wiping down spills. You close tabs, open tabs, and pocket tips, all while Steve is still at the end of the bar, alone, nursing his beer and glancing at the door every time someone walks in, and every time when you see his shoulders slump, you start to feel a little bad.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone get stood up, but from what you know of Steve—which isn’t much, other than how your brother’s kid Nicky is constantly talking about how cool his baseball coach is—it seems kinda shitty that it happened to him.
Nicolette—the bar manager—pops out around 8:30 to give you your mandated 15 minute break, and instead of heading into the back, you head over to Steve.
“Hey, Coach,” you say, leaning on the bar near him, and he glances up at you, clearly thrown by what you’ve called him.
“I—do I know you?” he asks, trying to place you.
You reach below the bar to grab another Bud for him, plunking it down and uncapping it. He takes it without question as you answer, giving him your name. “I’m Nicky’s aunt. He’s on your baseball team.”
“Oh! Nicky, yeah,” Steve says, smiling. “He’s a good kid.”
“He loves you,” you say, and Steve gives you a smile.
“He might be the only one,” he jokes, and swigs the beer.
You bite your lip, because that just about confirms what you already know, but you can’t help yourself.
“Stood up?”
He huffs a laugh. “Looks like it.”
“What time was the date?”
“8,” he replies, holding out his arm to let his sleeve pull up over his wrist, then crooking his elbow to read the face of his watch. “She’s a little late.”
“Maybe she forgot about daylight saving time,” you say, and to your credit, he does crack a smile.
“So you think maybe she’ll walk in at 9?”
You shrug, taking him in. He’s handsome, for sure; you can’t imagine why anyone would not show up for a date with him. He seems nice, normal—and he was even early for the date. Pretty good first impression, as far as you were concerned.
“Well, if she doesn’t show, that second beer’s on me, ok?” you say, and Steve shakes his head.
“No, I couldn’t—”
“I gave it to you without asking,” you insist. “Don’t worry about it, those frat guys tipped me enough that I won’t even miss the couple bucks. Promise.” You hold out your pinky on a whim, and Steve looks from your face down to your hand.
“You want to pinky promise?”
“Why not?” you ask, grinning, but you are starting to feel a little stupid. “Come on, don’t stand me up too.”
And maybe it’s too soon to joke with him like that, maybe you overstepped, but he links his pinky with yours and gives your hand a shake.
“Thanks,” he says. “For the beer.”
“Any time,” you say, drawing your hand back, and then slipping away, behind Nicolette to head into the back room, taking the last 10 minutes of your break to actually sit down.
&&
When you emerge from the staffroom, Steve is gone from the bar. His second beer bottle is still there, mostly full, and when you tap back in with Nicolette, the first thing you do is go to clean up his spot. There’s a lull at the bar—the frat guys are by the pool table, the group of business men getting way too drunk with no consequences since tomorrow is the weekend are at their table with full pints, and the women over by the jukebox who are dressed way younger than they actually are (and killing it, you think), are mostly all leaving you alone. Nicolette really took care of business while you were resting your feet, though she’s still covering the bar, since your shift is over in less than an hour.
You pick up Steve’s half-empty beer and toss it, picking up the cardboard beer mat wiping his spot down, cleaning it for the next patron who wants to occupy the corner seat at the bar. And just as you toss the rag over your shoulder, you see Steve stepping out of the men’s room. You freeze—you technically just threw a patron’s drink away, but also, he didn’t pay for it, so it was sort of your drink. Kinda.
You catch him as he starts to walk back over to the bar.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he says. “Yes, I’m still very much stood up.” He laughs.
You laugh too, but shake your head a little. “I thought you left. Sorry. I tossed your beer.”
“What?” Steve says, putting on a little too much distress for it to be entirely genuine. “Not my free drink that I didn’t really even want. How could you?”
“Ok, shut up,” you say, glancing back at the bar, but Nicolette is shaking a martini, about to pour it, and there’s only one of the frat guys waiting, so you figure you can just let her handle it while you chat with Steve for a minute. It’s not that you pity him—it’s just that you had to see such a fine specimen go home alone on such a nice evening.
“I was about to head out anyway, actually,” Steve says, though when you shift a little to the side to block him, he hesitates. He doesn’t speak, he just waits for you to say something.
“Well, I get off around 9:30,” you say, glancing up at him. His eyebrows lift just a little, almost disappearing beneath his fringe. “If you wanted to maybe… actually get to have a drink with someone.”
“With you?” he asks, very clearly shocked, and you let yourself smirk, just a little.
“No, with the other blind date I have for you in the back. Yes, with me,” you say, laughing a little, and he looks around the room like maybe someone is pranking him, like he can’t believe a cute, obviously younger woman is hitting on him. Which maybe, in this moment, is a little unbelievable to him, since he did just get blown off by someone.
“Are you—is this like a pity thing? Because I’ve been in this position before,” he says, and then cringes like maybe he shouldn’t have divulged that. “I just mean, I’ll get over it.”
“But you look so put together right now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at Nicolette, who’s got a line of shot glasses set out, ready for the frat guys, which means she isn’t paying attention to you and can’t get on you for flirting with a customer. You reach out for the sides of his jacket, tugging them down and flattening them over his chest. “Would just hate to see all your effort go to waste.”
Steve gives you a faint smile and opens his mouth, but you cut him off.
“It’s not a pity thing,” you say, stepping a little closer, so you can talk a little quieter but he can still hear you, and when you speak your voice is a little husky, laced with obvious interest in him. “It’s me reaping the benefits of someone else’s fuck up.”
Steve barks a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe his luck, and then covers your hands with his and gently prises them off his jacket. “Well, I guess when you put it like that…”
“Stick around,” you say, pointing to a table off in the corner, by the jukebox and the payphone. “I’ll come find you once I clock out.”
“Done deal,” Steve says, and you grin at him, give him a wink, and then take your place back behind the bar with Nicolette, who definitely side eyes you but says nothing. And when 9:35 rolls around and you finish wiping the bar, stacking used glasses, and carrying the tub of empties down to the basement, you re-emerge no longer on the clock and free to engage with Coach Steve as you see fit.
You slip behind the bar again, grab a bottle of Bud for Steve (in case he wants this one), mix up a lemon drop for yourself, pouring it into a martini glass while Nicolette rolls her eyes at you, and then thread through the throngs of people to find Steve flipping through the records in the jukebox, the table you’d specified for him abandoned.
“Hey, Coach,” you call to him, and he turns toward you, clearly amused that you keep calling him by his job title.
“What if I called you bar girl?” he replies, as he slides into the seat opposite you, picking up the beer that you place in front of him.
“Better than beer wench,” you quip, and he laughs, lowering the bottle from his lips because if he’d drunk any sooner, he’d have absolutely done a spit take on you.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Beer wench has such a nice ring to it.”
“Coach Steve and beer wench,” you say, sipping your cocktail, then sighing at the bright pop of citrus, the cool drink and the zing from the lemon cutting through the thick air of the bar, the tension of working a weekend shift melting away. “Sounds like the world’s shittiest superhero duo.”
“Yeah,” he says, “they sort of contradict, don’t they?”
“Well, they say opposites attract,” you reply, meeting his eyes over the rim of your glass, and he holds your gaze.
“They do say that,” Steve says.
The conversation ends for a few moments, both of you sipping your drinks in silence while Steve picks up one of the cardboard coasters and reads the names of the beer brands off of it in silence. Then, he looks up at you, and the conversation actually picks up again.
He asks you about working here, if you went to school. If you’re older or younger than Nicky’s mom—oh, his dad, you’re his dad’s sister. You ask how he got the job coaching baseball, since you remember seeing his name on swim trophies in Hawkins High and saw him in the basketball team photo in your brother’s yearbook. You laugh when he tells you horror stories of teaching sex ed, and then almost spill your drink when he repeats some of the questions he gets from the kids.
“I mean, my brother told me stories about King Steve,” you say, not noticing that his demeanor dampens slightly when you say that, because you’re still laughing a little too much, “but I didn’t know that qualified you to teach sex education.”
Steve huffs an unamused laugh, like he was having a good time and now, maybe, less so. “It’s—kind of just part of the gig. And really—there’s a whole book to follow, you know, for the curriculum. I’m just kind of there to answer questions. Help them make informed decisions.” He clears his throat. “Explain the menstrual cycle.”
“Oh,” you say, leaning over the table toward him, pulling out that same sultry voice you’d hit him with before but very obviously joking with him. “Please, talk to me about ovulation.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s amused, you can tell. “Well, that’s when an egg—” he starts to say, but you shriek with laughter and cut him off, and he laughs too, mostly at your reaction.
“To be honest,” you admit, elbows on the table, your fingers toying with the stem of your martini glass, “that’s kind of hot.”
Steve blinks. “Ov…ulation?”
“No!” you half-shout, laughing again, amused. “No. I mean—you knowing about that stuff. Like, generally. Most guys hear the word ‘period’ and have to leave the room.”
Steve shrugs. “I, you know. Kids have questions. If they like Coach Steve enough to ask questions, I need to know what to tell them.”
“So Coach Steve has dethroned King Steve,” you say, reaching across the table to play with his jacket again, and that’s the moment Steve decides: Fuck it.
“King Steve’s still around sometimes,” he says.
“Oh, is he?” you ask, leaving your hand on his chest, lifting your eyes up to his again. You’re not quite out of your seat to get nearer to him, but you’re close to it. “Like when?”
“Like now,” he says, a cocky smile curving his mouth up at one corner. “But I think—” He leans back from you, dislodging your hand from his front. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for you?”
Your eyes narrow. “No,” you say, indignantly. “I’m just as much an adult as you are.”
“I know,” Steve says, “but—”
“I work in a bar. I went to college—I don’t appreciate being condescended to.”
“I’m not—”
“Aren’t you?”
Steve pauses, actually considering it. “I didn’t think so, no.”
You study him; he looks apologetic, sheepish. “Bring back Coach Steve,” you say. “I liked him better.”
He laughs, almost like he’s relieved you didn’t throw the remaining lemon drop cocktail into his face and stomp away. “Ok. Done.”
“Do you want another beer?” you ask, draining the rest of your drink and putting the glass to the side.
“No,” Steve says. “I have to drive home.”
“Right,” you say. “Now?”
Another smile twitches at his lips, but he suppresses it. “No. I’d rather keep talking.”
“We can talk in your car,” you say, and maybe it’s a little forward, but Steve doesn’t even flinch.
“Talking in my car,” he says, nodding like he’s thinking about it. “Novel concept. Can’t say I’ve ever done much of that when I have a woman with me.”
“King Steve not a conversationalist?”
“Not so much,” he says, then bites the inside of his cheek. You watch him, wondering what he wants to say, because it has to be something good if he’s waffling about saying it. “He’s—no, nevermind.” He laughs to himself.
“No, what?” you press him. “You have to say it now, come on.”
“No, no,” he says, waving it away and lifting the beer bottle to his mouth to take a short sip. “It’s a bad joke.”
“I love bad jokes.”
Steve levels you with a look, but you stare straight back. You hold his eyes, not blinking, and finally, you win out. “Jesus Chr—fine. I was going to say—” He heaves a small sigh. “I’m not really a conversationalist, but I’m something of a cunning linguist.”
You laugh again, loud, drawing even Nicolette’s attention, and she’s long since learned to drown out raucous laughter from bar patrons. “That’s filthy,” you comment, but you’re laughing. “I almost want to make you prove it.”
“No you don’t,” Steve says, looking down, away from you.
“I do,” you say, leaning over the table again, and this time, you are out of your seat. “I want Coach Steve to treat me the way King Steve would.” Your face is awfully close to his now, the lemon lingering on your tongue mixing with the cloying scent of the beer left in his bottle.
“I don’t know if either of us are ready for that,” Steve says. “Mostly me.”
You don’t pull back. “I think you can handle it.” A smirk plays at your lips.
He tips back a little in his chair, looking up at you, and finally—his smirk matches yours.
&&
He wants to go back to your apartment—so you’ll feel more comfortable, he says, in your own space—and the only reason you allow it is that your roommate is away for the weekend, her cousin’s wedding in Indianapolis with her parents. The second the door closes behind you both, you’re on him, your hands on his arms, holding him close, and he just laughs a little at how eager you are, at how a potentially shitty evening turned into one that’s not half bad.
You don’t lean up to kiss him, not until he wraps his arms around you, hands settling on your lower back, and then you’re rising up onto your tiptoes to close the distance between your mouths, and his lips are soft while the stubble around them is just a little scratchy, in the best possible way. You let him lick into your mouth, his hands remaining respectfully on your lower back, until you tug at his jacket, pushing it down and off of him, letting it fall to the floor as you tug him forward by his button-down shirt, back against you, back into you.
“Where do you want me?” you ask, and Steve has half a mind to tell you to slow down, take a breath, go easy—but then he startles a little as your hand moves to cup him through his jeans and he remembers the way his hook ups used to go, back when he was your age, when everyone was uninhibited and unrestrained and wanton and needy. And so he rolls his hips into your hand, presses his lips against yours and lets himself go.
“Bed too old fashioned for you, bar girl?” he asks, breaking the kiss to do so.
Giggling against his lips, you kiss him back before replying. “Not really.”
He takes a step forward, not moving you but so he can brace himself as he lifts you up with strong arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist as he moves toward the hall where he hopes—god, imagine if he walked the wrong way through your apartment?—your bedroom is.
You reach out about halfway down the hall, gesturing to one of the doors, and Steve enters your room, crossing to the bed and laying you down gently on it. He’s about to push you back, cover your body with his, when you just sit up and start stripping, tugging off your sleeveless blouse and unbuttoning your jeans, undressing to your underwear before he can even suggest he wanted to be the one to take your clothes off. But—his eyes are roving over you, your impatience a little bit of a compliment, a boost to his ego, that you want him so badly you can’t wait any longer.
Steve unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off and then reaches out to you, taking hold of your elbow as you stretch your arms back behind you to unclasp your bra.
“Let me,” he says, and you stop, leaning back on your hands instead, watching him as he undresses to his underwear too—and then just goes all the way, pushing down his briefs and baring himself to you. He’s not as slender as he was in high school on his athletic teams—he’s got little love handles now, thick thighs, a little pudge at the navel, and, god, ok—he’s long even soft. You stare, unable to help yourself, and as you do, you watch as his cock twitches once, then twice, under your scrutinization.
“Yeah?” he asks, and the way it comes back to him is like muscle memory, the showboating for a girl, the cocky attitude, the way he’d act all proud and smug because he knew exactly what he was offering—and he knew that he could back it up, too. One of his hands lowers to his cock, stroking it a little, watching you watch as he does, thumb curling over the head.
“Yeah,” you echo, absently, and then Steve’s closing the distance between the two of you, reaching for your hands, taking them and pulling you to stand, front flush with his, cock poking the front of your thigh as he kisses you again, hungry, desperate, sated, hands skimming over your back as he undoes your bra and slides it down over your arms. He drops it to the carpet and cups your tits in his hands, rubbing over your nipples with his thumbs, feeling them perk up beneath his touch as he kisses you. Your arms come to rest around his neck, tongues sliding together as you deepen the kiss and press yourself tight against him.
Steve lets his hands move down to your waist, feeling your body as he lowers them over your sides, tracing your hips, the waistband of your panties where it rests, and then he pushes those down too, sliding them over your hips and thighs, letting them drop to the floor too.
He breaks the kiss—pulls back—and you feel yourself clench up as he looks first at your face, then lets his gaze roam down, over your body, your tits and your bellybutton and your hips, settling on the sweet spot between your legs, before rising right back to your face.
“You’re really,” Steve says. “You’re so—beautiful.” It’s not a line, it’s not just flattery—he means it. You can tell.
“Not so bad yourself, Coach,” you say, and he chuckles quietly, stepping close to you again, taking your waist with one hand and your face in the other, licking at the seam of your lips before he moves you backward, easing the backs of your legs against the side of your mattress, and then without any further words, he guides you back down to sit on the bed, and lowers himself to his knees in between your legs.
You spread your thighs for him, as wide as you can, letting him fit his broad shoulders between them as he hooks his hands beneath your legs, tugging you closer to the edge of the mattress, letting you hang off, just a little, just enough that he can rest your thighs on his shoulders and nose in between them.
Pushing yourself up so you can watch, you card your fingers through his hair as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just so you know to expect him.
And then, his mouth is on your folds and your head falls back, because—yeah. He’s good.
His tongue moves against you, impish almost, teasing, finding your clit with ease and just as quickly abandoning it, leaving you whining for more even though he’s just barely started and you can’t possibly be that worked up yet. Except you are, and you tell him so; not with words, but with your body, flexing your thighs on his shoulders to push cunt up into his face. And Steve doesn’t pull back, doesn’t shy away—he just doubles down, pressing his face more firmly into you, letting his tongue delve into your wet slit as he laps at you from the inside, sucking at your folds as he pulls away and licks your arousal from his face.
“More?” he asks, and you whimper, because this feels so fucking incredibly good, but you saw him—all of him—and part of you wants that more than you want to come twice. You want to feel him filling you, want to feel him fucking into you deep and stretching you around him.
“No,” you say, then, “yes, just—”
He pulls away, looking up at you, waiting for you to instruct him.
“Fuck me,” you finally decide, and he leans in for one more taste—he sucks your clit into his mouth, rubbing it with the tip of his tongue—before extricating himself from your legs and pushing himself up, hands on either side of your hips, leaning over you. His cock is half-hard, bobbing a little as he moves, and you look down your body at him.
Your breath catches and, without thinking, you reach down a shaky hand, sliding it between your legs, and spread your folds apart for him. “Fuck me,” you say again, and Steve does look down at you for a moment, the way you’re wet and waiting for him, the way your fingers are framing your slit, an open invitation.
“Not without a condom, bar girl,” he says, and you whine but use your free hand to gesture at your nightstand, rubbing your palm flat over your pussy as Steve leaves you to go look where you indicated.
He finds one—rolls it on—and is back between your legs before you can even start wanting friction back on your clit. You pull your legs up as you shimmy back a little on the bed, giving him room to situate one knee on the edge, propping your thigh up over his hip, as he holds his cock steady, palm landing onto the mattress beside you. You still your hand, using your index and ring fingers to pull your lips apart again, letting your middle finger tease your slit before he angles the head of his cock against it, and you sigh at the feeling of it, the weight of him against your cunt before he’s even moved inside.
And when he does—you inhale sharply. The stretch is good—you feel it so acutely—and then he’s pushing in further, past the head, his fingers against yours as he feeds it into you, slow and steady, feeling your walls flutter all around him as he takes you, one long, gradual movement.
You loose the breath you were holding as he enters you fully, and then he meets your eyes, waiting for the go-ahead before he starts to move. Before he starts to fuck you.
“Fuck me,” you implore him for the third time, and so he does, obeying you as he pulls back and then fucks back in—you moan, loudly, uncontrollably loudly as he starts to move in earnest, feeling you wrapped tight and hot around him, his cock pistoning in and out of you, your pussy sucking him back in, the sound of him entering you again and again making you shiver. Your hand is still down between your legs, so you move it up to rub at your clit, already swollen and throbbing, pressing hard up against your fingers as Steve moves into you below it.
“Feel good?” Steve asks, and you get the impression that it’s for you as much as for him, that he needs to know if you think so, that he needs the validation, and you wonder if that’s how he always was or if it’s a new development. If it’s because he cares, or because he got stood up, or some combination of all of those options.
“Feels so good,’ you mewl, and that makes him pick up the pace, his hips slapping into yours, hard and harsh and you need him to know you weren’t just saying that. It feels—he feels—fucking incredible.
“Steve,” you groan out, and that only seems to spur him on faster.
“That’s—right,” he stammers, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there, licking over your pulse point and down to your collarbone. “Say—my name, come on—”
“Steve,” you moan, your free hand moving to his shoulder, his neck, rubbing over his chest and the thick patch of hair there. “Oh, god, Steve…”
Steve moves his mouth to yours, slowing his thrusts for a moment to pull his other leg up onto the bed, both knees on either side of your hips, your legs wrapping around him tight, thighs squeezing his waist, as he covers your body fully with his, practically folding you in half and you feel him even deeper when he starts fucking you again, his cock reaching every single inch of you; you’re so keenly aware of him inside of you, above you, around you, that you feel yourself already about to finish. You open your mouth against his, ready to speak right into the kiss, but he already knows, reading your body, picking up all of the tells you have.
“Close, baby?” he asks, and the pet name thrills you even more than you’re already feeling.
“Y-Yeah,” you manage.
“Good,” he half growls, his voice low. He’s so hard inside you—so fucking stiff, his pace brutal, satisfying, overwhelming. “Come for me, baby, that’s a good girl, go on.”
“Steve,” you cry, his name a choked-out sob; your fingers are moving over your clit, no semblance of a rhythm to be found, the back of your hand tickling his abdomen; you feel him clench up against it, feel him move into you and stop, feel his cock kicking inside you as he’s coming, filling the condom, and that—that is what pushes you over, too.
His name mixed with guttural whines and moans fall from your lips, the hand on his chest moving to the nape of his neck, pulling him down against you as you arch your chest up against him, breasts rubbing against his chest, feeling his chest hair on you, the soft press of his stomach on yours, and you come on Steve’s cock, hard, your walls tightening up around him, your cunt fucking spasming on his dick as your clit throbs against your fingertips, and Steve’s lips move over yours, not a kiss, not even really meaning for them to—and it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking.
“—off you?”
“What?” you ask, tuning back in and meeting his eyes.
“I asked if you wanted me to get off you,” he says, just this side of amused.
“Oh,” you respond, though his question hasn’t really sunk in yet. After a moment, it does. “Yeah.”
Steve chuckles, giving the corner of your lips a kiss before he straightens up and pulls out of you, slowly, easing his cock free. You squirm a little as you feel his absence grow, and once you’re empty of him, you feel yourself gaping just a little before you close your legs. Even now, spent and tired, you want to feel him again. He rubs your thighs, helps you sit up.
“Need a hand?” he asks. “To the bathroom?”
You pause, then nod, and let him lead you across the hall with your hand in his. He leaves you in the middle of the room, stepping toward the door and closing it as he returns to the hall.
“Wait,” you say, and he pokes his head back in. “I usually shower after work.”
He smiles a little, nods. “Ok. Do you want me to wait…or head out?”
You shake your head.
Steve shakes his in return. “Then…”
“My legs are still all shaky,” you say. “You should probably…come make sure I don’t slip and fall.”
Steve opens his mouth to reply. Then, thinking better of it, he shuts it, steps into the bathroom, and closes the door behind both of you.
i want ur opinion on big spoon or little spoon for gator and teacake and why
🩵 @keer-y on main
teacake takes either depending on how good/bad of a day y’all have, but he prefers big spoon because he likes to run his hand up and down your arms and torso — he just loves touching you and he also thinks its kinda cool that one time you told him you could feel his heartbeat against your back. he always asks “can ya’ feel it now?” and laughs whenever you reply back, “well, you’re alive, aren’t you?”
gator is a little spoon and if you didn’t ask me to, i’d say “no i will not elaborate”. HOWEVER. you asked me to. i think gator swoons at the feeling of your arm wrapped around his torso and the weight of your leg against his hip when you hook it onto him. he’s a touchy son of a bitch and definitely won’t oppose if you asked him to be the big spoon, but he will get moody if the two of you don’t spoon at all. it even gets to a point where he kind of needs to feel you touching him in any capacity in order to fall asleep. he also likes it when you kiss the back of his neck and the little spot beneath his ear before saying goodnight :)
🩷 for teacake (because i love hurting my own feelings!)
🩷 [ Comfort ] - A tender kiss to provide comfort or reassurance && prompt me!
&&
"I'm just not sure," you said, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the sidewalk outside the coffee shot where you'd met your boyfriend on your lunch break.
"What are you not sure about?" Teacake asked, tipping his head to the side, but holding eye contact.
"I just—don't think I like where I'm at."
"Like...metaphysically?"
You rolled your eyes. "No, I hate my job."
"I mean, same thing really, if you think about it."
"Is it stupid?" you asked, quieter this time. "I have it pretty good where I am, you know? I've been there a while, I know the people, the procedures..."
"But you're unhappy," Teacake said. "Right?"
You bit your lip in lieu of answering.
"If you're unhappy," he said, closing the distance between you, hands coming to rest on your upper arms, "then yeah. You should make a change."
"But what if I—" you started to ask, but he ducked down to your height, the tip of his nose brushing yours.
"No buts. If you're not happy, I don't wanna see that. I only wanna see you smiling, ok?"
"That's sexist."
"I didn't say 'smile more, toots'," Teacake said. "But fine. I'll just do it myself then."
"What do you—"
He cut you off, tipping his chin forward to let his mouth brush yours, soft, sweet, his lips taking your lower one between them for just a moment, making sure you could feel how sincere he was about just wanting you to be happy, and yes, ok, smile more.
As he pulled away, you bit your lip, trying to keep from smiling just to be contrary, but his grin made it impossible. You smiled, rolling your eyes as he leaned in to kiss you again.
Imagine it's a quiet Friday night, a rare one when Teacake isn't working the night shift at the storage facility. You picked up takeout on the way home from work so that neither of you had to worry about cooking and could just spend some quality time together.
You're lounging together, lying back against Tea's chest as you watch the movie together. Scott Pilgrim vs. The World — he says it's his favorite movie, and you don't mind watching. It's something easy that keeps Travis entertained enough to not talk your ear off and genuinely react. It's a little after halfway through the movie when Travis snakes his arms around your waist, tugging you upwards and closer. You both shift a little to get comfortable again and settle back in, nothing crazy. He keeps one arm around your abdomen as the other falls to his thigh. You keep watching as he anxiously taps at his thigh, but you think nothing of it.
Another ten minutes pass, and Travis presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. His lips remain there, gentle and warm. His breath tickles your neck, but you're still comfortable. The kisses continue, some firmer, some still gentle. Except Travis' hand begins to drift from your stomach and into the waistband of your sweatpants. He lightly cups your mound, his thumb grazing at the juncture of your pelvis and thigh. You roll your hips forward to create a little friction for yourself, "Whatcha doin', Tea?"
He follows with another kiss, this time against your jaw, "Don't worry 'bout it."
Right when the words leave his mouth, his fingers rub circles over your covered slit. It stirs a subtle ache between your thighs, one that you know requires more than a little petting. When you roll your hips a second time, Travis glides his hand back up, only to travel back down beneath your panties.
His middle finger slides upward through your slit, collecting your slick as he drags it upwards. The digit catches on your clit, causing your stomach to flip, "Fuck, Tea."
Your whine pushes him further, but he's still quieter than usual. When you cock your head back at him, you catch your boyfriend still watching the fucking movie while he teases you relentlessly.
You attempt to grab his attention, but as soon as you open your mouth, two thick fingers stuff themselves into your wet hole. His middle and ring fingers set the perfect pace and curl upwards to find just the right spot. Travis knows he's found it when you clutch onto his forearm for dear life. You can feel the muscle their grow taut and release with each movement.
While his fingers keep pace, his thumb swipes down to circle your clit. He applies just the right amount of pressure to make you lightheaded and thoughtless. Little moans fall from your lips as Travis keeps toying with your pussy, all while watching a stupid fight scene where Michael Cera is definitely getting his ass whopped.
Finally, the other hand moves over your lower belly. He presses down lightly, just to keep you in place as he feels your body start to squirm. The pressure coils inside with each thrust and swipe of his thumb. Your eyes were shut, hips rolling on their own accord as you took everything Travis would give you. Your fingernails created small crescent indents in his arm as you came around his fingers with a shudder, "T-Travis. Please, please."
"It's okay, I got you," He hums, pressing a few grounding kisses to your cheek. His fingers help in coaxing you through the aftershocks, and his eyes fall from the TV to check on your breathing instead. He gently murmurs sweet nothings into your ear as you settle back against him.
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 26.7k
tags: rivals to lovers, slow burn (there's just a lot of buildup), slapping, shotgunning (smoke/vaping), dirty talk, vaginal fingering, nipple play, oral sex (f + m receiving), pussy slapping, deep throating, vaginal sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, slightly unrealistic male refractory period but whatever don’t @ me
a/n: *laughs all the way to hell*
&&
IT'S A FRIENDLY COMPETITION.
At least, that's what they want you to believe.
Two departments, eighteen players, one charity softball game. For the good of the community.
Yeah, fuck that. It was about showing those pigs who was better, and you and your brethren knew: It was the fire department.
Your crew had been playing in the league for years, and you were defending the title. Yes, of course, you knew it wasn't all about that, but it was nice to win and be able to rub it in the police department's face.
This year, though, they were changing up the rules a little. In addition to the regular state police officers who were joining the team, they were allowing the sheriff's department to offer up a few deputies—young men, of course—to play and try to change the tide.
Wouldn't work. You and the other firefighters were a cohesive unit. You had each other's backs in every manner, every way you possibly could, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—you were going to win, again.
The lead up to the game was tense. Things were taken seriously and then taken too far. Like, spying on each other's practices, standing vigil outside the police stations to intimidate the cops, trying to infiltrate the firehouse to plant stink bombs using some turncoat EMTs—no one said you guys were mature adults, because everything was fair game and this was gravely important.
One of the newbies on the PD squad was a deputy you knew by name only, simply because his father was the sheriff in Stark County. The circulating rumor was that he was a nepo baby who couldn't find his dick in the dark, but when you and one of your fellows, a middle-aged volunteer firefighter named Pete, did some recon on the guy, you had to admit you could see why they'd asked him to play in the game.
He was young, probably around your age, and spry, and while he didn't look like a bodybuilder or overly athletic in general, a quick Google search turned up plenty of articles about him from several years ago, touting his athletic ability in high school, though his sport of choice at the time had been football.
So, nothing to worry about from him.
No, what you had to worry about was how attractive you found him, and whether helping the FD team absolutely decimate the PD team would ruin your chances of getting him to rail you.
&&
Someone above your pay grade had made the brilliant decision to do some PR for the game, even though the entire county and even some neighboring ones knew about it. But publicity helps bring in more donations, and when you show up to the field where you'll be playing the game in just a few weeks’ time, the law enforcement officers are all there showing off, laughing, rowdy, some even shirtless and showing off their physiques. Even the handful of women over there are in sports bras and bike shorts, which—have fun trying to slide into a base in those.
You suck your teeth and sidle up to Pete, who's standing with the rest of the firefighters, watching.
“They're too cocky,” you say. “Look at them.”
“They think they're showing off,” Pete says.
“They are showing off,” you say. “But that's all it is. Show.”
Pete smirks and leads you over to the rest of your group, who are pulling their jerseys out of the garment bag where they're kept over the winter and spring. You only really need them for the charity game and home run derby in the fall, after all. Yet another indication that the FD squad is taking this way more seriously than the police.
They're organized by number, and yours is 14—the letters of your last name neatly stitched over the number, the patch with the emblem of the fire department on your chest and on your right arm. You leave on your jeans, even though it's unseasonably warm for spring and you have a pair of shorts in the gym bag in the back of your car, because you're a slider and you won't make the same mistake as the cops in the other dugout. Not that you're going to be doing much more than posing for photos today.
“You guys got a girl on yer team?” one of them calls, and though he's a little too far away to make out his face, you can see he's laughing.
“You have three!” the captain of your team, and the captain of your unit, who goes exclusively by his last name, Lopez, shouts back.
The cop who called that out to you shuts up, and you laugh, shaking your head. You're used to the sexism, the slights, and the chiding comments, but your boys always have your back, and as you fit a Minnesota Twins cap onto your head, you grab a bat just as the photographer that the charity provided ambles over.
“Good morning,” he calls, waving at you all as he ducks into the little covered bench that serves as your dugout. “Are we ready for some photos?”
Yeahs and Yeses resound from you and your fellows, and the photographer nods, walking through and introducing himself as Ashton every time he shakes a hand. You pause in buttoning your jersey to take his hand and nod, introducing yourself to him as well, and then leave the fenced-in bench to feel the sun on your face again.
The PD team's players are still laughing, throwing balls to each other and catching pop flies; the one who called out to your team is practicing pitching with their catcher, winding up and landing throw after throw right into the mitt. You quirk an eyebrow—this guy seems better than last year's pitcher. He must be one of the new deputies.
“All right,” Ashton calls as he emerges from the fire department dugout. “Let's get some team shots, and then individual shots.”
“Do we really need individual shots?” one of the officers calls, and Ashton just shrugs.
“That's what I was asked to do,” he says, and then motions for the teams to line up in front of each bench.
You all do, but the police finish their lineup first, not worrying about height order or blocking anyone who might be standing behind them—so Ashton heads over there, making placement adjustments as needed and then snapping several photos. He allows them to disperse and says he'll be walking around for individual and action shots once he finishes with the other group shot. The police scatter across the field, bringing gloves and balls and bats along with them, splitting into pairs or trios to play catch or bat.
Pete and Lopez flank you, and you all stand together, smiling for the camera as Ashton takes a few shots, then asks you to move to the middle of the group.
“For what?” you ask, looking at Lopez, who just shrugs.
“You're the star,” he replies.
“I play right field,” you say, laughing. “Tommy's the pitcher.” You point. “Threw a perfect game three years ago and almost again last year.”
“You also won the home run derby for the last three years,” Ashton says to you. “Stand in the middle, please.”
You bite your lip, then move over to stand in between Tommy and Lenny. You can't help but smile a little, because he's right—you might not be the best at fielding but you're a great fucking hitter, and you help the team just as much when you're at bat even if you're weak in your actual position.
By the time he takes a few more shots, the PD team is fully on the diamond, playing a little mini game where each batter is only bunting, just to keep things in the infield. Ashton walks right up to you as the FD team disperses.
“I'd like to get some solo shots of you first,” he says, and you laugh.
“Are you like—serious?” you ask, laughing. “I'm not the best player on the team.”
“You're a triple-time winner of the home run derby, and by my count, you're best known in these charity games for runs batted in, even if your own scoring isn't notable. Isn't that right?”
You shrug. Yes, he's right, but you also aren't really the type to brag about it, even if several of the charity game wins were the result of you driving in the game-winning runs. “I mean, I guess.”
“Grab a bat, please,” Ashton says, and you do, posing for some photos and feeling spectacularly stupid as you do. Last year's photographer had taken team shots and left as quickly as possible. This guy is super into it.
After your shots are done, he releases you to join the rest of your team and makes his rounds, grabbing solo pictures of each player on the field in turn. You make your way over to the three policewomen in the outfield and join them for a round of catch. They introduce themselves as Miri, Portia, and Ebony. They're so nice, actually, that you forget about the rivalry that fuels the feud that makes the PD vs. FD game so exciting and ask if they've ever played baseball or softball before. They all shake their heads no, saying they were asked to play and joined just for fun and a little exercise . You advise them not to even think about sliding unless they want a real fucking painful scrape on their thighs in those shorts.
The four of you head back to the group, both teams now congregating near the pitcher's mound. As you approach, you realize very quickly that you, and your new friends, are the center of attention, and that the guy who yelled about you being the only girl on the FD team is none other than the deputy you'd been staking out with Pete: Gator Tillman.
All fifteen of the men present are looking at the four of you, but you feel Gator's eyes locked on you, feel his gaze the heaviest. You pointedly ignore him.
“I'd like to get some duo shots,” Ashton says, gesturing toward both teams as they mill together. “Everyone, please find your counterpart. So, pitcher and pitcher, shortstop and shortstop, et cetera.”
Gator makes a beeline for you. He jerks his chin at you and sizes you up as he approaches.
“I'm not the pitcher,” you say, pointing at Tommy, who's watching all of this—you all saw Gator pitching to his team before.
“Don't care about this guy's fuckin' pictures,” Gator says, and you almost smirk before remembering he's technically the enemy. “Just wanted ta let you know I ain't gonna take it easy on ya 'cause yer a girl.”
You hold his gaze. “Um, did someone tell you to?” you asked, laughing a little.
“Nah, I just know how you ladies tend ta get,” he says. He jerks his thumb back toward Portia and Ebony, who have found their left field and first base buddies. “Them three ain't got no grit.”
“Well, I've been on this team for years,” you say, moving to step around him and to find the other right fielder. “Excuse me.”
“Wait,” Gator says after you, but you ignore him and approach Tommy, who's standing with one of the police officers, a young man—younger than you, he looks fresh out of the academy—who's bright eyed and bushy tailed and looks thrilled to be paired with a woman, toned arms and strong legs and a face that clearly impresses upon him that you take no shit—only supported by the way you dismissed yourself from Gator's presence when probably no one else ever has or ever would do such a thing.
Ashton makes his rounds, yet again, each team thinking up a funny pose—Tommy suggests putting Gator in a headlock, but the deputy absolutely refuses and so they just end up standing side by side, Tommy smiling widely and Gator just scowling at the camera—he truly did not care about Ashton's fucking pictures, he wasn’t lying. You and the other right fielder, a rookie cop by the name of Leon, mug for the camera, your elbow leaning on Leon's shoulder with your head tipped toward his, while he has his arm wrapped around your waist, his hand (inside his glove, of course) resting around your hip. It's cute and cheesy—the way something like that should be, you thought—but as you break apart from him and see the way Gator is still glaring, you just give him a small smile and turn to Leon.
“Hey,” you say, reaching out to tug at the drawstring of his sleeveless hoodie. “Do you wanna practice catching some pop flies? On the off chance one comes to us on game day?” Your eyes flick to Gator as you ask. He absolutely seems like the type to fall for this kind of thing, you blatantly flirtng with someone else in front of him. If you're right about Gator Tillman—and you think you are—it's a good way to get under his skin and keep him thinking about you, but also to throw him off his game even weeks before the first inning.
“Oh, um,” Leon says. “Yeah, ok!” He smiles at you and you head into the outfield, which Ashton loves because it offers him more opportunity for action shots. At this point, you're wondering whether he actually needs all these photos for whatever PR the charity is doing, or if he just likes baseball that much.
Other duos join you out there, and before long it turns into an impromptu scrimmage game. You all collectively decide to just play until someone hits a home run, and the PD and FD teams flip a coin to decide who bats first. When Leon from the PD team makes the correct call, they align themselves into their batting order while Tommy steps up to the mound.
It takes three innings for a home run to happen. Tommy is a great pitcher, but Gator honestly might be better. He strikes out three of the FD players in 12 throws total, sending Lopez, who hadn't even swung at any of his three pitches, back to the bench looking.
The sides switch, and you're third up. You stand outside the dugout, leaning against the chainlink, watching Gator as he takes the mound, turning his hat around backward and nodding to the catcher once he's ready. The FD's first batter, Pete, steps up to the plate. Two pitches in, he gets a hit, but it's actually a pop fly to right field and Leon catches it.
You catch his eye when he looks for you, and you give him a small “Whoo!” and a wink, then turn back to Gator as you step up to take a few practice swings in the area your team has collectively chosen as the “on deck” spot. Gator walks the batter before you, and you're almost surprised—he seemed better than that. Five pitches, four balls—not a great look. But maybe it was just a fluke.
You step up to the plate, eyeing the PD team as they all look back at you, Portia and Ebony waving at you while Miri blows you a kiss, and you just ready your bat, staring down Gator as he looks past you to the catcher. You wait, gripping the bat, ready to swing—or not—at whatever pitch he sends your way. Gator shakes his head once, then twice. He hesitates, then shakes his head again. You're glad he doesn't have sunglasses on, because it makes his expression a little easier to read. He's nervous, or at the very least, unhappy that he walked someone, but then he nods and readies the pitch.
Bracing yourself, you swing—feel the jump of your heart in your chest when the bat connects with the ball, and then grin, so wide your face hurts a little, because it's fucking flying out of the field. You start running toward first base, but you don't really even need to hurry—by your estimation, it's already over the fence. You and Jeff, the guy Gator had walked, both step on home plate and the game is deemed over, even though it was only a few innings.
You gratefully accept the pats on the back from the other firefighters, and then let Miri, Portia, and Ebony pull you in for a group hug, just as Ashton appears again in your periphery.
He looks smug, a smirk plastered on his face, and gestures to you and the other girls.
“Can we take a picture, ladies?” he asks, and the four of you accept, arms draped over each other's hips as you stand in a line, all of you glistening with a little sweat from running and standing in the heavy afternoon sun. Leon catches your eye, but before you can step away toward him, you see Ashton gesturing, beckoning over another player.
“What,” Gator snaps as he approaches the two of you, the three other women on the diamond making themselves scarce. For the first time since you've joined this softball team, you're regretting it.
“I just think a fun little rivalry like yours should be a focus of the game,” Ashton says, and you look at Gator as he looks at you.
“What rivalry?” you ask.
Ashton looks pleased that you questioned it. “Well—how Deputy Tillman was doing perfectly fine pitching until you stepped out of your dugout. And how you were the player who managed to get the home run.”
Looking from Ashton to Gator, you can't help the way the corner of your lips quirk upward.
“I guess that's true,” you say, as Gator spoke over you.
“This was a fuckin' practice game,” he says. “And what the fuck're you tryna say, anyway?” Gator asks, stepping closer to Ashton, even as you try to move in between to block them from each other.
“What do you want, more photos?” you ask, and Ashton looks from Gator to you, then nods.
“If you don't mind,” he says.
“I fuckin' mind,” Gator protests, but you just huff a sigh.
“It's for charity,” you remind him.
“The game is for charity,” Gator corrects you. “This is all just... fluff bullshit.”
“Just a couple pictures?” you ask to Ashton, who nods. “Let's just do it. We're both already here.”
Gator rolls his eyes, grumbling to himself and then turning away, spitting onto the field before he takes a step closer to you. He makes no move to touch you or even really enter your personal space.
“However you like,” Ashton says.
You're the one to close the distance between yourself and Gator, reaching out to put your arm around his waist. You feel him stiffen up, and then he relaxes—which for Gator still feels and looks like he's constipated—and drapes his arm over your shoulders.
Ashton steps back and readies his camera.
“So what makes you so special?” Gator asks you out of the corner of his mouth. His hand moves from your shoulder to your lower back.
You keep the smile on your face. “Excuse me?” you ask, tipping your head a little to the side as Ashton takes another photo.
“First one ta get solo pictures,” Gator says. “Stuck ya right in the middle of yer team.” He lowers his hand from your back to your ass. “Sleep with him?”
You laugh, just as Ashton snaps a photo of the two of you. “Guess I'm just that good.”
Gator also chuckles. “Guess we'll see about that,” he says, giving your ass a little slap before he pulls away from you completely, even as Ashton protests that he wasn't finished yet. “After the game. We'll see.”
You give him a small smile, then turn away, spotting who you're looking for after a moment, and jogging away from Gator, leaving him there unanswered and unhappy.
“Leon!” you shout, making your way over to the rookie. You glance back at Gator as you do, seeing him chatting up Miri now, but he's looking back at you too.
He can talk to whoever he wants—you're both looking at each other, and you both understand what that means.
&&
You blow off Leon, because he served his purpose and, honestly, you don't like cops just by default.
The game is about a week and a half away now, and you spend a lot of your free time when not at work with your girlfriends at the gym and your downtime while you are at work with your team in the grassy yard out behind the firehouse, practicing hitting and fielding. It's what makes you guys the best—the way you refuse to compromise and work your hardest to be the best players that you can be.
The call comes in late one evening, long after your practice is over: A brush fire next to a house out near the outskirts of the city, not sure if it was accidental, campers, kids playing with firecrackers, or what.
There are already police there, no reports of any people nearby other than the house, so you hop into the fire engine and speed off to the address provided. By the time you arrive, it's already getting way too close to the structure, and you get to action.
Hoses, water from the tank, shouting and coordinating while the family steps out of the house to look on, the police officers there making sure that they stay a safe distance away. The trees and bushes from the field are blackened and dead, dripping with water, steam pouring off of the damaged limbs and branches as Lopez steps through the area, making sure there's no embers that will catch and reignite or sparks that might blaze up again.
Thankfully, you don't need to head inside to the house—you got there in time to prevent the fire from spreading, and despite the chill of the spring evening, you're still sweating in your gear, heavy clothing and helmet, though you do take that off once the fire is out.
One of the police officers is talking to the family with Pete, while you stand beside the engine and take a few deep breaths, humming softly at the scent of smoke and dirt permeating the air.
The flashing lights from the fire engine and the police cars nearby are turning everything red-then-blue then back again, but even in the dimness of the moonlight, you're still able to make out his face when he approaches you.
“So ya ain't just a diversity hire,” Gator says, and you sigh in response, but you're amused anyway.
“I'm good at what I do,” you reply.
“Yeah,” Gator says. “Real good at workin' a hose.”
You meet his eyes, and then laugh right in his face. “That's your line?” you ask, positively basking in his scowl. “Jesus, the girls in town always talk you up but fuck, you leave a lot to be desired, Tillman.”
He opens his mouth, looks like he's torn between telling you to fuck off or to let him show you exactly what you should be desiring, but in the end he just clamps his jaw closed.
“Aw, come on,” you say, reaching out to push at his shoulder with your gloved hand, and then you just remove them both, tossing them into the cab seat in the truck behind you. “Don't be like that.”
“Like what?” he says.
“All pissy,” you say. “If you can call me a diversity hire but can't take a little negging, I think maybe you need to grow a pair.”
He scoffs. “I said you ain't a diversity hire.”
“I'm not parsing words with you,” you say, laughing. “You said what you said.” You lean back against the engine and he steps closer, to your side, leaning up on the truck, in a posture you recognize from every guy who's ever hit on you at the bar, or grocery store, or laundromat, or... literally anywhere you go.
“Said what I said but y'ain't hearin' me.”
“No, I think I can read between the lines of your hose comment just fine, Deputy,” you say, but you're still smirking, still laughing, still entertaining this.
“So what d'ya say?” he asks, leaning closer. You're still overwhelmed with the odor of burning wood, but as he leans in you smell leather and metal.
“About what?” You bite your lip to keep from smirking even wider.
“What, that ya need me ta spell out for ya?”
You shake your head once just for good measure. “No,” you say. “I just want to hear you say it.”
Gator, finally, smirks back at you, closing the distance, his hand landing on your waist, sliding into your open uniform coat, and moving straight to your lower back just like the photoshoot last week. He leans in close, and now you catch the hair gel, the cologne, the chewing tobacco he has tucked into his lip. You tip your face up to his as he speaks.
“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, barely perceptibly. You know that there's not much time—the fire is out, the inspection of the area will be over soon, the family will go back inside and your fellow firefighters will return to the engine to go back to the station, but you don't pull away even when Gator says the most hideously filthy things right to your face.
“Ya wanna hear me say how I'm gonna have ya soakin' my cock wetter'n anything? How I'll finger that tight little gash'a yers until yer cryin' my name?” You inhale sharply, eyes wide, but he doesn't stop, his hand pressing tighter to your back, pulling you closer. You're almost flush against him, but not yet. “Gonna nut straight down yer throat, how's that? Let ya have a taste 'fore ya ride me.”
“Maybe,” you utter, trying to save face, and he laughs, loudly, definitely drawing attention from probably everyone else who's still at the scene.
“Maybe?” he repeats. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I'll give yer pretty little kitty”—you almost laugh; you should, and you would, if you didn't feel every press of his fingertips like a brand, if you didn't feel your thighs pressing together because you were so stupidly attracted to him you wanted to die of embarrassment—“a second t'breathe 'fore I fit this fat fuckin' dick inside ya 'nd have ya bouncin' on it real nice.”
“Gator,” you manage to scoff, gasping a little as his hand slides down, his fingertips slipping inside the waistband of your pants since he can't very well fondle you through the heavy uniform you've got on.
“You asked, sweets,” Gator says. “Wanted ta hear me say it.” He moves even closer to you, his face right beside you, his cheek practically brushing yours as he whispers, right into your ear, “Wanna hear you too, so how's about it?”
“Deputy,” you hear Lopez' voice say, and just like that he's off you, stepping away, holding up both hands like he's trying to showcase his innocence.
“Captain,” Gator says, nodding to Lopez before turning around to you. “Have a good evening, miss,” he says to you, and the duality of him in that moment makes you turn away and briefly cover your face with your hands
“You good?” Lopez asks. “He giving you a hard time?”
“No,” you squeak out.
“About the game?” Lopez pushes, and you shake your head.
“Don't worry,” you say. “I'm not fraternizing with the enemy.” Not before the game, at least.
Lopez laughs and claps a hand on your shoulder. “Good girl,” he says, squeezing you a little. “Let's head back to the station.”
You climb into the engine and watch as the police cars start to drive away as well, the deputy's leaving last.
Pete leans over. “If he was fucking with you, we'll get him back at the game.”
“I'm fine,” you say, half touched that they care so much to want to protect you, and half annoyed that they think you'd let a guy make unwelcome advances (or otherwise) without standing up for yourself.
“Just another ten days,” Lopez says from the driver's seat. “It'll pass before you know it.”
&&
And they do—well, mostly. The days pass without you seeing hide nor hair of Gator—in person, anyway. You can't speak it aloud, even to your friends, but you replay the conversation, if you can even call it that, to yourself sometimes, at night if you're bored or lonely or, you know. Horny.
You still think he talked a big game that you'd love for him to prove. But you're not about to seek him out three days before the game during which you're hoping to destroy him and his copper friends. Like you'd been hoping since you staked him out—you just hope he won't be too sore a loser to put his money where his mouth is.
The night before the game is scheduled, you head to the gym with your friend Melissa, and, surprisingly, Miri from the PD team. Both of you promised that you weren't going to let the rivalry get between you, and since she doesn't really care about the game other than that it's for charity, it seems like that will actually be the case.
Miri heads straight for the treadmill while you and Melissa head over to the weights—you go for a run on your own time, usually, and get your cardio in that way, so lifting is what you primarily use the gym for.
You're spotting her while she does a set of bench presses, when suddenly you hear a loud wolf whistle and look up, because you hate when men act like dogs at the gym. You're ready to start a fight, honestly, until you realize that Miri is the one who whistled and she was, in fact, whistling at Gator Tillman, who apparently, coincidentally, also decided to work out the night before the game.
And once your eyes fall on him, you see exactly why she whistled at him: He's wearing a muscle tank and a pair of shorts, but not the kind you'd expect to see a guy like him wearing at the gym. They leave most of his legs exposed, and with the slits down the sides of his tank top, you can also see straight into his shirt to his abdomen, his chest.
Gripping the bar Melissa's holding, you help her set it back onto the rack and she sits up, whistling herself, but lower so only you can hear.
“Fancy seeing him here,” she says, and you look down at her. She isn't even looking at Gator—she's looking at you looking at him, and smirking. “He's playing in the game tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” you say absently, and she just sucks her lower lip into her mouth.
“How's his form?” she asks. You give her a look. “What? I see you sizing him up! Either you want him or you already had him.”
“Neither,” you protest, but it's futile—Mel knows you better than anyone. “Ok, well—”
“Already? When?!” she nearly shouts, and you reach your hands out to cover her face, smothering her a little as she laughs and bats your wrists with her palms.
“No, not—Jesus, no. We were just flirting a little,” you say, because that's the only way you can put it without sounding like a harlot.
“Ok, and?”
“And nothing,” you say. “I can't get involved with him, the game is tomorrow. I need to focus—FD needs to win.”
Mel pushes herself up off the bench, gesturing for you to lie down so she can spot you; you do so. “What if you got involved with him to... get in his head before tomorrow?” she suggests, and you look at her upside down, quirking your eyebrow.
“You mean cheat?”
“Nooo,” she says, singsong. “I mean use the assets you have to give yourself an advantage over a disgusting man-pig.”
You both laugh, and before you finish your set, you hear footsteps approaching.
“Oh, hello, Deputy,” Mel says, and you don't let yourself get distracted from your set. You extend your arms, then retract them, three more times before Mel helps you replace the bar.
“Evenin', ladies,” Gator says, and as you sit up, you can see he's not looking at Melissa. He's not really even looking at you—his eyes are fixed on your crotch, the leggings you're wearing clinging to your thighs—and everything between them, surely—and you know it.
“Gator,” you say, figuring that since he's already got you both fantasizing about fucking each other, you're officially on a first name basis for good.
“Mind spottin' me?” he asks you, and Mel only snickers under her breath and just steps away over to the leg press machine, which is far enough away to give you some semblance of privacy but close enough to absolutely eavesdrop, which you fully expect from her and would do too if you were in her position.
“Sure,” you say, sitting up to straddle the bench. “Let me just wipe this down for you.” You stand and step over the bench, and before you can even make a move to grab something to clean the bench, Gator steps astride it and sits down.
“Don't worry ‘bout it, sweets,” he says. “Little sweat never hurt nobody.”
You glance at Melissa, who scoffed at that statement to get your attention and is now making eyes at you, but you just ignore her and round the bench.
“How much more weight d’you want?” you ask, ready to go get some plates for him, assuming he'll want more.
“How much ya got on there?” he asks, turning to look.
“Seventy-five,” you say, and he looks at the weights, then looks at you.
“Double it,” he says, watching as your muscles flex as you lift the weights to secure them on the bar. You spot him, but he lifts it easily, obviously not really needing you, and when you look down at him, you can see he's just watching you as he lifts the weights. “Ready for the game tomorrow?” he asks when you make eye contact.
“Of course,” you say, shifting your weight a little. “Are you ready to lose?”
He chuckles and you help him place the bar back in its resting place. “You talk a big talk, y'know.”
“Yeah, 'cause I can back it up. FD team always wins the charity game.”
“Not this year,” Gator says, and he lifts up to face you, still seated, the bar thankfully between you, because even though he hasn't broken a sweat the way you did, he still looks like he's glowing a little, lit up, his hair loose and half down over his forehead, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief and the freckles on his face so goddamn lickable that you have to look away.
Your eyes land on Mel, and she just shakes her head, mouthing FUCK HIM ALREADY at you. You just barely feel Gator's fingertips graze your thigh and you turn back to him. By the time you look at him again, his hand is already gone.
“Guess we'll see,” you say, echoing his words back to him.
“Guess we will,” he says, stepping away, over the bench, and you stare at his ass and thighs once his back is turned as he walks to the free weights, hands in his pockets.
Thankfully, considering you're in public, that exchange wasn't nearly as heated and blatant as the last one you'd had. You continue with your workout, catching up with Miri as she grabs a smoothie, and it's when you're heading outside to your respective cars you realize—you don't have your phone. You usually stick it in your leggings pocket when you're at the gym, but maybe it fell out. You let Mel and Miri know and wave away their offers to wait for you—you'll just be a second.
They both look like they want to insist, but you insist first: “I'll be fine, I swear. Besides, Nate won't let anything happen to me, right, Nate?” you ask, gesturing to the attendant at the front desk who also doubles as security and the smoothie-maker.
“Right,” Nate says, giving you a thumbs up. “I'll walk you to your car if you want.”
“Fine,” Mel says. “But you text me the second you find it.”
“I swear on Nate's life,” you say, all three of you laughing as Nate pretends to grasp at his heart through his chest.
Miri and Mel head out into the parking lot, and you return to the weights area, where—oh.
Gator is there, seated on the weight bench, leaning back against the bar you’d used earlier. He's got his arms draped over it nonchalantly, and in his right hand you see—your phone.
“I'd thank you but I don't think you deserve it,” you say.
“I don't,” Gator agrees. “Lifted it right outta yer pocket, ya didn't even notice.”
“Why?” you ask.
“Wanted to talk ta ya alone,” he says. “Without yer girl and Miri around.”
You look over your shoulder; it's late. Late enough that the gym has mostly emptied out, just one solitary figure with its back to you on a stationary bike with their headphones on.
“Then talk,” you reply, and he stands up, holding out your phone. You take it and stow it away in your pocket again.
“Honestly... ain't got much t'say after all,” he admits, keeping his face angled down a little but looking straight at you.
And you feel it, again, the little spark, the electricity between you. It's purely physical, you know that, you understand that, and you remember Mel's comment about getting into his head.
Seems like you're already there though.
“So all that just to let me walk away?” you say, holding his gaze even as you smirk.
Where you're standing, you're out of sight of Nate. You know it and he knows it.
“No fuckin' way,” Gator says, and his hands are on your waist before you can register it. You almost pull away, just by virtue of having unknown hands on you, but you give in because your brain wants it and also, more importantly, almost fundamentally more importantly, your body wants it. He tugs you closer by your hips and this time, you do end up right against him, standing as close as you possibly can in the middle of the gym, his hazel eyes fixed on yours, thick lashes half-shrouding his eyes, and you're wrapped up again in him, the smell of sweat and tobacco this time, his rough fingers moving over your skin as they dip into the waistband of your leggings.
“Here?” you ask, and he just snickers.
“I'll take ya anywhere ya wanna go,” he answers, and then his lips are on yours and you give in all over again.
Gator leaves one hand on your lower back, and the other comes up to cup your face. The way he kisses you is a stark contrast to the dirty words he was saying to you the last time you were in this position, his lips soft and slow on yours, tongue barely dipping into your mouth before he pulls back.
“So?” he asks, and shoves his hand a little further down into your leggings, groping your ass before he pulls it out, the waistband riding way too low, and gives you a playful little slap on your ass cheek. The act of it—of everything he just did—leaves you way, way more exposed than you'd ever want, though his hand on you is still thrilling as he rubs the tender flesh he just spanked. The ebb and flow of it make you want to let him take you home, but the way he's playing with your body in public like this pisses you off, and so you step back, fix your leggings with one hand and slap him in the face with the other.
“What the fuck?” he half-shouts, loud enough that you know Nate will come to see what that was about.
“Tomorrow,” you say, stepping backwards, away from him, fighting to keep your expression coy and probably failing—you do want it, after all, just on your own terms. “If your team wins...” You gesture to yourself, your body. “Wherever you want.”
You hear Nate's sneakers squeaking as he rushes around the corner. He's still far enough away not to hear.
“And if your team wins?” Gator asks.
“Guess you'll find out,” you reply, turning on your heel and waving at Nate as you make your way out of the gym, Nate skidding to a stop and following you, walking you out to your car like he promised while Gator just watches, rubbing at his cheek with his palm, grimacing a little.
&&
The sky is a beautiful baby blue, cloudless and clear, sunshine beaming down on the baseball field as the stands fill with fans, donors, police officers, and your fellow firefighters. The crowd's already raucous before the game even starts, as the FD and PD teams practice before the official start time of 11:00AM.
Last you checked, it was just about a quarter to, so you head back to the little clubhouse by the parking lot for a bathroom break beforehand and to refill your water bottle from the fountain.
You pause only to take a selfie in the mirror, waiting to post it in case the unthinkable happens and you don't win the game, and as you head out of the bathroom, you almost walk right into someone.
“Oh, sor—” you start to say, before realizing it's Gator. You back up a step. Look up at him. Suppress the smirk. “Did you follow me in here?”
He looks you up and down instead of answering, and you straighten your jersey even though it isn't askew, flattening it down over the baseball pants you have on. You stand your ground, not shrinking back under his surveying look, or letting him get under your skin the way you presume you've gotten under his.
“Just wanted t'wish ya luck before the game,” Gator says, and you laugh.
“Oh, yeah?” you say, not smirking now but smiling, in a way that says you definitely don't believe him.
“Yeah,” he says, moving closer to you even though you were already pretty damn close. “How 'bout a kiss fer good luck?”
You don't move, and he takes your inaction as permission, leaning down to try and steal a kiss. Just as he's about to let his lips touch yours, you speak.
“You think you deserve one after the shit you pulled last night?”
He stops, pulls away.
“You think it wouldn't getcha another slap in the mouth?”
Gator smirks this time. “Worth the risk.”
“Oh yeah?” you counter.
Instead of saying anything, he just steps right up to you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body from its proximity to yours, and he kisses you. Like at the gym, it's soft and slow, but it builds quickly, and before you really think about stopping, he's licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss right in the middle of the clubhouse lobby, where anyone could see you. And anyone might, because it's got to be almost 11 by now, the game will be starting any minute, and someone’s bound to come looking for the pair of you.
You just let Gator practically fuck your mouth with his tongue as you suck at it, your tongue moving over his as he kisses you almost savagely, and you manage to get a grip on yourself, your hands on his arms, pushing him back as you step away.
“Yeah,” he answers you, finally, and you look up at him before you just lift your hand and slap him again.
This time, he seems to be ready for it, but he doesn't dodge it, he just takes it like a champ. Though even you'll admit you didn't really put too much force behind it.
Gator just chuckles quietly. “Gonna make me start assumin' that's just foreplay t'you, sweets.”
You laugh and step around him, and he lets you go. At the door, you stop and turn to look at him; he's still standing there, watching you. “You coming?” you ask, holding the door open.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, walking over to you. “Just got used t'you walkin' away from me mid-conversation.”
You roll your eyes, but together you leave the clubhouse and approach the field to thunderous applause. You made a point to avoid any of the publicity stuff that Ashton had provided the photos for, but you heard from Miri and Pete that they were very heavily pitting you and Gator against each other for some reason. Stupid, you thought, but hopefully making you two seem like you were going to antagonize each other made more people take notice of the game and donate for the winner's charity.
When you walk around the side of the stands with Gator—not that you were even that close together, and he was a couple steps behind you—the crowd notices. The cheering increases in volume, and you almost have to laugh, because these people are acting like you're a legitimate softball star with an actual rival. You'd gotten decent attention from the crowd in years past, but not like this.
You chance a look back at Gator, who looks thoroughly miserable at being the center of attention. He'd hated having his photo taken, so it stands to reason that he would hate being watched by so many people too. Part of you hopes he'll choke on the mound; the other part hopes he doesn't, because you want to win fair and square, not by using your tits (thanks Mel!) or his nerves to your advantage.
The PD team is up at bat first, and you watch as they line up back into their dugout as your team takes to the field and the first couple of batters emerge, one to home plate, and one to the on deck circle.
All of the police officers are wearing brown t-shirts which you figure are supposed to be their “uniforms”—they all say Stark County Police on the back in lieu of a name or number, like the FD jerseys you're all wearing. It seems either the deputies missed the memo or weren't given any shirts, because they're all wearing mismatched clothing. Gator in a white t-shirt, the sleeves short enough to show off the tattoo on his left forearm and the barbed-wire lettering on his right; the other two deputies have on a New York Yankees jersey (Jeter; you roll your eyes), and a camouflage shirt. They couldn't even bother to look professional, cohesive; if that's how the day is going to start, you hope it's a sign of how it will end too.
Gator and Tommy are both on one in the first few innings alone. Gator is striking out batters left and right, and Tommy only lets up one hit which ends in an out as Jeff dives to catch it.
By the 9th inning, though, both teams have scored some runs, and it's 3-2 in favor of the police department. There are three batters ahead of you: Lopez, Donnie, and Jeff. If any one of them can just get himself onto a fucking base, you know for sure you can drive in two runs. And after that, it's game over. The FD team gets last licks, and you're known for making sure the game ends in a win.
You slink out of the dugout to watch the game without a chainlink fence in your way, leaning back against it from the outside, eyeing Gator, watching as Lopez heads to the plate, taking in the scene as Gator spins the ball in his hand. He happens to glance to his left and his eyes fall on you for just a second; he turns quickly back to the catcher. He shakes his head, shakes his head, shakes his head, then nods.
Lopez catches the first pitch square on his bat and takes off like a rocket. It bounces somewhere in the outfield and then it's sailing on its way to second base, thrown there by the left fielder. Lopez stays put on first.
Donnie takes his place in the batter's box while Jeff takes a few practice swings off to the side. Gator throws two strikes, and Donnie hits two foul balls before the fifth pitch is thrown, and then he manages to hit another single.
Jeff is up now, and then you. You take Jeff's place on deck, while he squares up with Gator. In a move that you should have expected but are amused by anyway, Jeff bunts and it's clear that Gator and the other infielders are not expecting it. Jeff laughs as he sprints to first base, moving Lopez to third and Donnie to second.
Bases loaded.
You're up.
As you step up to the plate, you can already feel the adrenaline coursing through you, excitement making you half-giddy. No outs, three men on. Facing the guy who you're pretty sure is fucking up consistently because of you. You just have to hope you don't fuck up because of him, too.
You settle into your stance and wait for Gator to ready himself for the first pitch. It goes wide, you think, but they call it a strike. You straighten, look to Lopez for assistance or a second opinion, but he just waves it off. So he agrees—strike.
Fine.
You raise the bat again, and this time, at the second pitch, you swing—and miss. You hear the umpire call it a strike, and you even see Gator clench his hand into a fist and thump it against his chest like he's hyping himself up for what could very well be his final pitch to you.
This is not good, but you can't focus on that, can't do anything other than hit that goddamn fucking ball.
You watch Gator, staring straight at him, as he shakes his head at the catcher, then nods. The third pitch—the potential third strike—is coming.
Gator throws.
You swing.
It connects.
Right away, from the resounding crack and the hush that falls over the crowd, you can tell. You know. It's a home run. A grand slam. Four runs batted in in the bottom of the 9th. Game over. You won. You won.
Lopez, Donnie, Jeff, and the rest of the FD squad are waiting for you at home plate when you hop onto it with both feet, and then you're surrounded by men, all hooting and hollering and smothering you with hugs and slaps on the back. You lose your Twins hat as they hoist you up on top of them, eight firefighters holding you up to crowdsurf you along the first base line.
You're still buzzing, still thrilling from the grand slam and the win and the sheer contagious excited energy of your teammates—and then you see Gator.
He's not on the pitcher's mound anymore; he's over near the dugout with Miri, sucking on a vape and blowing the smoke up and away from her. He's watching the spectacle of you being venerated by your team, by the crowd—hell, even by his team a little—and when he catches you looking, he offers Miri the vape and she takes it, grinning up at him. But he's not paying her any attention; he's watching for your reaction.
Like you'll be jealous.
Please.
You ignore the slight pull in your stomach and just throw your arms up into the air, losing yourself to the victory and the roar from the stands.
&&
The entire crew plus countless others—both teams, along with a bunch of volunteer firefighters, off-duty cops, and family members—are supposed to meet up at the local bar later that evening after the game for food and drinks.
You're definitely going; you want to, plus you promised Miri, Ebony, and Portia you'd show face, and Mel wanted to meet you there to celebrate too. Or to watch what happens with Gator, though she denies that one up and down.
When you arrive, freshly showered and dolled up in a sleeveless dress that shows off your arms and your legs, you can see right away that it's all-around good fun, revelry of the highest order. You're not the only one who went home and got cleaned up—you can see Portia's hair is freshly straightened, Ebony is wearing an adorable technicolor romper, and Miri has on a full face of makeup. You arrive the bar, linking arms with Mel in the parking lot, who drove separately from you because, as she put it, “Either of you could meet someone” and then gave you an exaggerated wink.
You know better than to rise to the comment, and so you just ignore her, walking in to the wall of sound emanating from the sheer number of people—even if they were all speaking at normal volume, it would have still been staggeringly loud. As it is, people are yelling, laughing, singing along to the jukebox, and all of it's spurred on by alcohol, so it's at least twice as loud as it should be. The trio of your new police officer friends rush over to you right away, drinks already in hand, and you make your way over to the bar to procure your own libations. You do a round of shots, and as you swallow the mouthful of liquor, letting the glass thunk hollowly on the bar as you put it down, you turn and spot Gator leaning against the opposite wall, pint glass in his hand, eyes directly on you, ignoring whatever Leon is yapping away about at his side.
It's a little too early in the evening to entertain leaving with him just yet, but you tuck him away into the corner of your mind for later. There's no music to dance to—not that kind of bar, really—but the jukebox is stocked with classic rock hits and when you crowd around it with Miri and Mel, you flip through the records until you find a track by Heart and immediately select it, then queue up another by the Stones (Mel) and then Blondie (Miri) for good measure. Ebony and Portia are waiting for you when you return to the bar, and the five of you chat about the game and the charity and work. Portia is pulled away barely ten minutes later by Jeff (you give her a nod, because he's a good guy), and Ebony decides she's hungry and wanders away to the opposite end of the bar to order food.
Miri orders a second round of shots for the three of you, and just as you're about to knock yours back, you feel a presence at your elbow. You ignore him and just drink the liquor, smacking your lips before you turn to Gator—
Except it's not Gator, it's Leon.
“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he says, and you can tell he's trying to keep it cool. Mel snickers behind you, while Miri looks on, biting her lips together from the inside. “You killed it in the game today.”
“Ah, thanks.” You smile at him and over his shoulder, you notice someone sidle up to the jukebox, flipping through the song selections, but he's looking back at you too often to really be subtle. That, of course, is where Gator got to. He's smirking at you, like this is all his doing.
“—a drink?”
“What?” you ask, looking up at Leon, whose smile falters a little. Behind you, you hear Mel laugh quietly even with all of the other ambient noise.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Leon asks, and you open your mouth to decline.
“She's sober,” Mel says, interrupting, like he didn't just see you doing a shot. “But I'd love one.”
Leon looks from you to her and back again, questioning. You nod, then shake your head. “No—I'm not sober, but, um, Mel's a lot more fun than me.”
“You... sure?” Leon asks, but he's taking in Mel's smile, her toned arms, the way she's stepping around you to get to him.
“I'm gonna go find Ebony,” Miri says, clapping her hand onto your shoulder, and then she's gone. Leon orders two drinks.
“You really did, um,” Leon says, turning back around with a glass of some amber liquid, neat, while Mel pulls the little umbrella out of her cocktail and tucks it behind her ear, “do well in the game today.”
“Thank you,” you say, smiling, and then giving Mel a look.
“I just saved your ass,” she mutters into your ear, pulling you in for a hug, giving you a kiss on the cheek, and then a pinch on the ass. “Have fun with the deputy!”
“Shut up!” you call after her, but she's already gone, her arm curled around Leon's, and you turn back to look for Gator at the jukebox at the same moment he steps right into your personal space, startling you. You jump a little and steady yourself against the bar, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”
“Lovin' all the attention?” he drawls, and you look up at him, taking him in from close up now. He's got a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, and you don't detect the scent of chewing tobacco or leather clinging to him—no, now you smell a musky, deep cologne and mint mingling with beer. His hair is loose, falling just a little over his forehead, and as your eyes move over his face, he smirks, flicking the toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.
“Oh, yeah,” you say, pulling your gaze away from him and turning to the bar, signaling to the guy tending it that you want to order something. “It's what I live for.”
“Well, when ya hit a grand slam in the bottom'a the ninth... wha'd'ya expect?” Gator asks, leaning on the bar beside you, both elbows on the wood.
You scoff. “I don't know. It feels a lot different this year,” you admit.
“Why's that?”
You look at him, opening your mouth just as the bartender approaches, and you order a vodka cranberry. You look at Gator who asks for whatever's cheapest on tap, then looks at you expectantly.
“No one made such a big deal out of it before,” you say. “Last year, or... before that. I think it's 'cause they really played up... me and you.”
Gator smirks. “Oh yeah?”
You roll your eyes. “Not 'me and you' like that,” you say. “I just mean... the photos of us, and the story of what happened at the practice game. And... what happened today.”
“Yeah...” Gator says, his voice trailing off as he takes the glass of beer from the bartender, eyeing your glass as it's plunked down in front of you. “Choked.”
Sipping your drink, you look at him out of the corner of your eyes, waiting for him to elaborate. He doesn't. “Yeah, what happened?” you ask.
Gator scoffs. “Nothin',” he says. “Just choked.”
The drink is sweet and tart on your tongue as you lean over to him. “Thinking too much about me to focus?”
“You fuckin' wish,” Gator snaps, but there's no real bite in it.
“Shouldn't've kissed me before the game, Tillman,” you say. “Probably had a boner for all nine innings.”
“Jesus Christ, are we 12? A boner?” He huffs, disgusted, at you, then lifts his hand to pluck the toothpick from his mouth, and takes a long swig of his beer.
“What would you call it?” you ask.
“I wouldn't call it nothin', 'cause I didn't have one.”
“Have what?” You snicker a little. “Wanna hear you say it. Have what?”
“I didn't have a fuckin' boner, Christ. Lay off, woman.”
“From sweets to woman,” you say, raising your eyebrows as you sip your drink. “I see how it is. That why you sent Leon over? Tired of me?”
Gator laughs. “Nah. Just thought it'd be funny.”
“Funny to ruin your own chances?”
He looks at you then, sidelong and impudent. “Please. Y'know that kid wouldn't shut the fuck up aboutcha. What the hell happened?”
You bite your lip, because you both know why he's here. You both know why you're talking to him. You just have to decide how much you want to divulge.
“My friend Mel scooped him up.”
“Why's that?” Gator asks.
You shrug, but his eyes fix on you, looking like amber in the dim lights of the bar, and you're entirely unable to keep your mouth shut. “She wants me to hook up with you.”
Gator laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh that has him grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, greatly amused. “I think you want you to hook up with me,” he says. “Speakin' of, your team won, 'nd I'm itchin' t'find out what that means.”
“Me too,” you admit, and he pushes off the bar to face you. He takes you in, a smirk playing at his lips as he takes another drink of beer—you mimic him, sip your cocktail—and then he puts the mostly-empty glass down on the bar.
“Well,” Gator says. “We got all night, sweets. How 'bout a little fun?”
You tip your head to the side, shrugging in a way you hope reads as coy, and follow him, still clinging to your glass.
A little fun, apparently, means heading over to the heavily populated area of the bar that contains the pool table and dartboard. You notice a handful of men circled around the pool table so Gator veers toward the dartboard, mostly because it's less crowded and not currently in use.
“Know how ta play?” he asks, and you shrug. He suppresses a smirk; you absolutely catch it. “All right. I'll take it easy on ya—let's just see who can score highest after a couple rounds.” He steps over to the board, grabbing six total darts, and hands you three.
“Ladies first,” Gator says, and you shake your head again.
“Show me how it's done,” you suggest, and he takes the bait, sticking the toothpick back into his mouth—you force yourself to avoid looking at his lips—and lining up a throw. He measures it out, taking his time, and his first shot lands and he gains 20 points. The other two net him a total of 43 points which brings him to 63 total.
“Nice,” you say, taking his spot as he grabs his darts from the board and stands off to the side. His gaze weighs heavy on you as he steps to the side, watching as you attempt to copy his posture and stance, and your first dart lands in one of the triple rings. “How many is that?”
Gator sucks the inside of his cheek. “Fifty-seven,” he says.
You grin at him and make your next two throws. Carefully, carefully... you gain another 13 points.
“First shot a fluke?” he asks, an edge to his voice.
“Beginner's luck,” you chirp.
“Mm,” he hums, flicking the toothpick with his tongue.
His second round ups his score to 137, one of his darts landing in the triple ring as well, and the other two in the double ring.
This time, when you trade places with him, you feel him scrutinizing you; there are other eyes on you now, too, police and firefighters alike watching. Some of them know what's going on and it's not the police.
You toss the first dart at the board and cock your head to the side when it lands in a spot that only gets you 6 points. “Darn.”
“Uh huh,” Gator says, because now he sees your fellow firefighters behind you snickering and nudging each other—you wish that they had even a pinch of subtlety—and you use your next two throws to just give it up, because there's no way you could keep pretending after this.
Your second throw lands in the triple ring directly above the bullseye: 60 points.
And for good measure, you make sure your last throw lands in the dead center of the board. Bullseye. Only 50 points, but enough to take you to 180 total.
You feel the hands of your colleagues on your arms, razzing you, laughing and hyping you up, as you make eye contact with Gator. You open your mouth to speak as the group of firemen leave you, but he cuts you off.
“You hustlin' me?” Gator asks.
“No...” you say, not quite able to suppress the giggle. “We didn't bet anything.”
He steps closer to the board, stabbing the three darts he's holding into it, and then approaches you.
“You were hustlin' me,” he says, and this time it's not a question.
“So I know how to play darts,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Gonna arrest me, Deputy?”
“Fuckin' should,” Gator says, once again crowding you, stepping right up into your space, and maybe it was the shots and the drink, lowering your inhibitions just enough to allow it even in public, just enough to not care that there could be any number of eyes on you, your colleagues and Mel and Leon and strangers—you let Gator put his hands on your waist and pull your front against his, his lips trailing over yours as you gasp a little, because he's got you up against the now-unused pool table, your ass on the edge of it as he boxes you in.
“You wouldn't,” you say against his lips, resisting the urge to hop up onto the pool table and let him step in between your thighs, even though the heat coiling in your belly really, really wants you to.
“Don't test me, sweets,” he says, and you laugh against his lips; your amusement lingers as he does kiss you, and his hands squeeze your ass through your skirt before someone behind you wolf whistles. Gator is unfazed by it, but you turn away, starting with your face and then your body, twisting yourself out of his hold. You blearily look around to maybe see who whistled at you—your eyes fall on Lopez who's laughing, but he turns back to the bar, giving you as much privacy as you can get in a crowded room, and you rest your palm on the pool table, fingertips skimming over the felt as you round its corner, now standing on the side perpendicular to Gator.
“You play pool?” you ask.
“Yeah,” Gator says, moving a few steps forward, like he wants to follow you but knows nothing can really come of it when you're still in the bar.
“Better than you play darts?” Your hand curls around the 8-ball.
Gator scowls at you, but then snickers—he'll give you that jibe, because it's kind of funny in a catty way. “Yeah, actually.” He follows you around to your side of the table, reaching for the rack to set the balls out on the table. “You?”
“Not a clue,” you reply. “For real, I swear.”
He racks the balls, gesturing for you to roll the 8 over to him, and you do. He settles it into the center of the triangle then grabs a cue and hands it to you, placing the cue ball.
“Break 'em,” Gator says, and you study the set up on the table, then lean over it and line up the cue with the ball at the point of the triangle. You hit the cue ball and watch as they scatter over the table—and then as the cue ball rolls right into one of the side pockets, scratching right out of the gate.
You laugh, and Gator groans behind you.
“That was so bad I almost think yer fuckin' with me again,” he says.
“There's no way I could have done that on purpose,” you retort, and he just gives you a look, reaching into the pocket for the cue ball.
“Get over here,” he says, putting the ball back on the table. “C'mon, let's try to sink the 5,” he says, pointing to the solid orange ball, precariously close to one of the corner pockets. “C'mere.”
Moving over to him, Gator steps back to let you lean over the table, and as you do, his hands end up back on your hips. You turn back to look at him, but his only response is to wink at you, toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, curved up into a smirk, and then he leans over you, your back tucked against his front, his hands sliding down your arms to guide you.
“Everyone can see us,” you mutter, as he jerks his hips against your ass just enough for you to know he's doing it on purpose.
“And?” Gator asks. “I'm teachin’ ya how t'play pool. Perfectly normal behavior fer a bar.”
You fall silent, letting him adjust your arms, your posture. One of his hands slides off of your arm and moves beneath your front, pressing against your stomach just beneath your breasts. Your breath catches, but he doesn't move it further. He just holds it there, holding you against him.
“Take the shot,” he says, and you move your arm with his—he keeps your elbow steady as you draw back, and when you hit the cue ball, it shoots into the 5 and you sink it right into the corner like he'd called for. The cue ball spins safely away from the pocket.
“Ok,” you say, grinning, expecting him to move off of you. And he does—but not before moving his hand from your stomach to your chest, surreptitiously squeezing one of your tits before he pulls back.
Without missing a beat, you straighten up, spin around, and slap him right on the cheek.
You hear several bar patrons whoop and whistle—a few even applaud, because you know they witnessed the way he was slathering himself all over you, even if they didn't see him cop a feel—but Gator just chuckles.
Leaning in, his breath warm on your cheek, you hear the laugh lingering in his words. “Must be doin' somethin' right if that's the treatment yer givin' me.”
He takes the cue stick right out of your hand.
“Gonna sink 10 in 'at side pocket, there,” he says, using the end of the cue to indicate which one he means, and then he artfully does exactly what he said as you watch, desire clouding your mind. He's such a cocky asshole, but that doesn't change how strongly you feel about getting him on top of you. Or under you. Or next to you. Whatever works.
“Gonna trounce me?” you ask, and he meets your eye, smirking.
“At pool, or...?” he counters.
“No,” you say, stepping away from the pool table, watching as he looks you up and down. “Don't think I'm much of a billiards girl.”
“Well, I ain't much of a darts girl,” Gator says, making you snicker. “So I think we exhausted our options.”
“Well, there's food. And alcohol,” you say, gesturing to the bar. You can see Miri and Ebony seated at the far end, while Mel and Leon are off in a corner, actually still chatting. Maybe in addition to helping you out, she's actually doing something for herself too.
“You hungry?” Gator asks.
You bite your lip. “Kinda.”
“Well,” Gator says. “When yer the softball MVP and a covert darts pro, I guess ya work up an appetite.”
“Oh my god,” you say, hitting his arm. “Shut up.”
“Nah, you like it,” Gator says dismissively, tossing the cue back onto the pool table, still littered with billiard balls. It knocks some of them out of place, the sound of wood clunking against the resin as you walk away. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, leading you back to the bar. You end up right next to Miri and Ebony, who give you knowing looks.
“Well, hi,” Miri says, raising her eyebrows at you.
“Hey guys,” you greet them, as Gator tries to catch the bartender's attention.
“Is this an impromptu date?” Ebony asks.
“No,” you say, hoping he's not listening.
“No?” Miri repeats. “Looks like a date.”
“It's not a date,” you say. “We're just...messing around.”
“You slapped him,” Miri says.
Before you can respond, Gator leans into you, his front against your back again. “That was foreplay.”
Miri gasps and Ebony shrieks out a laugh, and you elbow him in the ribs as he just laughs too.
“It was not,” you try to say, but Gator is nodding at the others, and Miri is coughing, trying to compose herself, and then the bartender's there with a small, cardstock menu for you to look at and you just absently order a burger and fries without even looking at it. Wanting to fuck Gator has been a net positive (your team won the game) but it's also proving itself to be a lot more trouble than its worth (you are, indeed, on an impromptu date with him at a bar, and pretty much everyone you see on a daily basis is bearing witness to it happening).
“I'll have the same,” Gator says to the bartender, handing him back the menu, and you realize that now you have to stand here even longer with the guy you're totally on a date-not-date with and two relatively new friends who you theoretically could ghost after this. Which would be totally fine, until Mel pops up beside you with Leon in tow.
“You guys getting food?” she asks, and you nod only because you can't lie to Mel. She always knows.
Gator is the one who speaks. “Yeah,” he says. “She's been working up an appetite fuckin' with me all goddamn day.”
“Hey!” you say, hitting him on the arm again, and he just laughs, stepping out of the small throng of people and over to a clear area of the bar to order a drink. It's less crowded than it was when you first arrived—many of the firefighters and police officers have left, along with their friends and family, so now most of the people in the bar are just regular patrons or townies. He leans over the bar, and you turn to Mel.
“Bathroom,” she says to you, hooking her arm in yours and leading you away from the little bubble of people surrounding you. Once you step through the door, it's immediately cooler and brighter, the air less stuffy even though it smells like disinfectant and dirty mop water.
“What?” you ask, and she steps closer to you in case any of the stalls are occupied.
“So things seem to be going well,” she says, voice low, smirk on her lips.
“I guess so,” you say, and she grins a little, wiggling her eyebrow at you.
“You're so in.” She squeezes your arm. “First the gym, and then the game, and now whatever the hell you guys have going on right now.” She sighs wistfully. “I'm such a good matchmaker.”
“You? You did nothing!” you insist, but she speaks over you, her voice staying quiet in the stillness of the bathroom. Behind you, a toilet flushes and you hear the rattle of the paper roll.
“Excuse me,” she says, “I put the whole idea into your head at the gym.”
“No you didn't, and it's not like that,” you say, and she pauses. “I didn't—use my 'assets' or whatever you said.”
The stall door opens and you push Mel back, away from the sinks, as the woman washes her hands. Mel waits to reply until she leaves.
“Ok...” she says, nodding. “Ok. Well, you know what to text me if you need me to come get you.”
“I have my own car,” you say.
“Then I expect a full rundown tomorrow morning,” she says, reaching out to fix your hair, then wiping a stray eyelash off your cheek. “Over coffee?”
“We'll see what time I wake up,” you quip, and she squeals, squeezing your arms as the door opens behind her and Ebony walks in with Miri.
“Oh, did we miss some girl talk?” Miri asks.
“Sorry,” you say, while Ebony just winks at you as you pass the two of them on the way out.
When you return to the bar, Gator and Leon are sitting on stools, far apart—there are two empty spots between them, and you take the one beside Gator while Mel hops up beside Leon. You watch as she places her hand on his thigh as soon as she settles down.
You turn to Gator just as he sips his beer, and once you're seated, he slides you a second vodka cranberry, which he taps with his beer glass as soon as you pick it up.
“Cheers,” he mutters, and you smirk before you sip the cocktail.
“To what?” you ask.
Gator leans in closer to you, his elbow against yours on the bar, his lips brushing your ear.
“To wherever the night takes us, sweets.”
He tilts his head a little to the side, and you feel the rush in your belly as you realize that he's going to kiss you, without any antagonizing or even any playfulness, any banter—but before he can, two plates are set down before each of you with a clatter. You spring apart, and without waiting for you to even survey your meal, Mel is already picking at your fries.
“Melissa, I swear to god,” you say, grabbing her wrist, even as she artfully plucks the fry out of her left hand with her right and bites it in half.
Beside you, Gator is laughing, picking up his burger, and Leon is watching, amused.
“You know, um, Mel, I can—get you some fries,” Leon says, and she just looks at him the way someone would look at a lost puppy.
“I don't actually want fries,” she says, and you move your plate a little away from her since she's distracted. “I just like ruining my best friend's night.”
“She's really good at it,” you say, leaning forward to look at Leon around Mel, then turn your bar stool toward Gator a little more. He's eating quietly, not watching you intently but keeping an eye on you. You both work at clearing your plates in silence, and once half of your burger is gone and you've stopped barring Mel from taking your fries, you shift on your stool to face Gator. Once you do, he sips his beer and clears his throat after he swallows.
“So,” he begins, “thought any more 'bout yer prize fer winnin' the game?”
You pick up one of his fries and pop it into your mouth, shrugging a little. “Maybe.”
“Feel like' enlightenin' me?” he asks.
“No,” you reply, and he just chuckles to himself, taking another bite of food and smirking as he chews. “Yer real fuckin' funny, y'know that?”
“Why?” you ask, taking a bite of your burger and looking at him with your eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain.
Gator lifts his hand to rub at his mouth, his chin, before his cheek, and your eyes trail over the freckles on that side of his face. “Think yer bein' real slick actin' like this ain't gonna end the way we both know it's gonna end.” He picks a fry off his plate and holds it out to you, intending to feed it to you. You hesitate, hoping that Mel isn't seeing this happen, but you open your mouth and let him feed you the French fry. You close your lips, but his hand lingers there, his index finger tracing over your lower lip. It isn't particularly sexy, but you also know that he didn't really mean for it to be. He just moves his fingertip over your lip, then his hand over your cheek to thread his hand through the hair at the side of your head, the nape of your neck, and as he leans in, you move closer to him too. He doesn't kiss you, but his breath is warm on your cheek as he speaks, just low enough that you can still hear him in the din of the bar interior.
“Wanna head outside fer a smoke?”
“I'm a firefighter,” you joke, turning toward him and letting your lips just barely move over the two prominent freckles you'd focused on earlier. “Kind of anti-smoke by default.”
Gator laughs, pulling back from you, dropping his hand from the nape of your neck down to your thigh, letting it slip between your legs and disappear under your skirt. He's letting it rest on your inner thigh, but not trying to move too high up over your bare skin. You squeeze your legs together, feeling yourself react to his touch, feeling yourself clench up but you manage to save face.
“I ain't a real smoker,” he says, using his free hand to reach into his pocket and pull out the lime green vape you'd seen him sharing with Miri at the photo shoot. “So this ain't real smoke.”
“Guess you got me,” you say.
“Guess I do,” Gator retorts, sliding his hand back down to your knee as he steps off of the bar stool, pocketing the vape again and pulling out his wallet instead, tossing a few folded bills onto the bar to cover your food and drinks. “Need ta tell yer girly we're headin' out?”
“We're—leaving?” you ask.
Gator sniffs, then huffs a laugh through his nose. “Hey, this is yer show, I guess—yer callin' the shots. I'm headin' outside real quick, though.”
“Ok, wait, I'll—I'll come.”
“Sure fuckin' will,” you think you hear Gator say, but you ignore the warmth rushing to your cheeks as you also hop off your stool, then press yourself up against Mel's back and hook your chin over her shoulder.
“Babe, I'm going outside real quick,” you say, and she just nods, reaching behind herself to squeeze your hip.
“Text me,” she says, a reminder, and when you pull back from her, when you turn back around, you see Gator's still standing there, waiting for you, a faint smile curving his lips up at the corners and despite yourself, you feel a little tightness in your chest because you wouldn't have expected that kind of thing from him. Waiting for you, watching for you, reaching out toward you when you step closer—not to take your hand, but to lay his palm on your lower back as you walk together toward the door, the gesture possessive but still charming.
When you reach the door, he pushes it open but lets you step out first, not guiding you with his hand as much as just keeping contact with you in some way, and then you're out in the cool spring evening, a complete breath of fresh air after the hot, stuffy interior of the bar.
There are a few other people smoking outside beneath the darkening blue sky, the streetlights not on just yet so the whole parking lot feels a little bit dangerous, a little bit like somewhere you shouldn't be, but you still follow as Gator leads you around the side of the building, his boots scuffing over the blacktop. He leans his back against the side of the building, removing the vape from his pocket again and lifts it to his mouth. The blue light on the end blinks on as he inhales, and you watch as he lowers it, holding his breath for a long moment before he offers the vape to you.
You take it as he exhales, the cloud obscuring his face. You suck at the vape, not drawing off of it nearly as long as he did or holding it as long. It's cherry menthol, you think, which explains where the scent of mint clinging to Gator earlier came from.
“Tastes like shit,” you say, exhaling the vapor as a little puff with each word, pursing your lips and blowing the rest out in one final stream.
“Well, I'm real sorry 'bout that, princess,” Gator says, reaching out for the vape. “When you start buyin' my shit fer me, you can pick the flavor, how's'at sound?”
You hand him the vape, knowing he's joking, but you can't help playing along. You step closer, leaning your shoulder against the wall to face him even as he's facing out into the lot, taking another pull.
“Maybe I just need another taste,” you say, reaching up as he lowers his hand from his mouth.
He attempts to pass it over, but you cup his face instead, turning it toward you. He follows with his body, shifting so he's no longer perpendicular to you and instead facing you properly, and you lean up to press your lips to his before he can exhale.
As his lips part against yours, you breathe in the cool vapor he breathes out, letting your tongue move against his as you kiss him. It's slow and lazy, one hand still clinging to his vape, the other moving to your lower back. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you press yourself flush against him, and he deepens the kiss, licking further into your mouth, as you feel his hand creep down over your skirt, and then—you should have expected this—pull the hem up and grope your ass through the flimsy panties you have on. He's got your ass fully out, just like at the gym, but this time, you're in a parking lot and you don't think you care.
He's positively pawing at it, and you feel him shove the vape back in his pocket so he can get his other hand on your waist, though it doesn't stay there long. You pull away from him just enough to bite at his lower lip, drawing it into your mouth to suck at it as he trails his tongue over the cupid's bow of your upper lip, kissing you there while his hand moves from your waist to your lower back, holding you tight against him.
You sigh softly into his mouth and then he's muttering your name, and that, for some reason, affects you more than you thought it might. You lean further into him, hands moving to his shoulders; one stays there, the other moves to his neck, cupping the underside of his jaw as you lick into his mouth again, tongues sliding together.
Gator's hand moves over your ass, giving it a sharp little slap—you startle, pressing your front even harder against his, and you feel him smirk against your mouth even as you're kissing him—and then he's yanking your skirt up even further, his hand sliding into your underwear to touch you skin-to-skin. You whine his name and lower your hand from his shoulder to his front, feeling his chest through his t-shirt, before lowering it further to try and untuck it from his jeans.
“Ah,” he breaks the kiss, pulling away and grabbing your wrist to stop you, though he doesn't pull his hand out of your panties. “Nuh-uh. Little overeager, y'think?”
“You should talk,” you counter, trying for one more kiss, licking over the seam of his lips, but he holds your wrist tightly with his hand, then retracts the other away from your ass and takes hold of your other wrist, pulling both of your hands away from him.
“Enough'a that,” he says, and he kisses you one more time, the bastard. He keeps a hold of your arms.
“Thought I was callin' the shots?” you question him.
Gator snickers. “Might be able ta get away with plenty'a shit in this town,” he says, “but I don't think even I could get away with fuckin' ya in public, sweets, sorry ta disappoint.”
You struggle a little against his hold, and he smirks down at you.
“Relax,” he says, releasing your wrists. He steps back from you and plucks his vape from his pocket again, offering it to you—you decline—and takes one last draw before putting it back. “So, tell me,” he continues, “where ya takin' me?” As he speaks, his words are clouded with cherry menthol and he tilts his head back to blow it fully out of his lungs as he waits for your answer.
“Your place?” you ask, and he just clears his throat, shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says. “Too much fuckin' goin' on over there. My old man, the twins...fuckin' horses...”
Your mouth twitches into a half-smirk, but you dial it back. “Guess your car's off limits?” you suggest.
Gator laughs. “My car ain't conducive t'all the shit I wanna do t'you,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on your waist, sliding it down to your hip. “Ain't just foldin' y'up in my backseat 'nd callin' it a day.” He lifts his hand to card his fingers through your hair then, not pulling you in for a kiss or trying to get you to press yourself against him again; it seems like he's doing it just to keep touching you. “Y'got a roommate?”
“No,” you reply, and he drops his hand to your shoulder, fidgeting with the collar of your dress.
“Solves that, then,” he says. “My truck's right over there.” He nods his chin toward a pickup; you turn to look.
“I drove myself here,” you say. “Follow me?”
Gator smirks, and you get the impression that he's trying to contain how thrilled he actually is that he's going home with you, even if it's just to get his dick wet. He nods, then asks, “Lemme guess, you drive a cute lil' two-door somethin'-’r-other? Maybe a hatchback?”
You laugh. “Not quite.”
“Volkswagen Beetle. With a lil' flower in the dash,” Gator guesses, following as you begin to wend your way through the parked cars, stopping beside a white and red classic Ford pickup.
“Close,” you say, pulling your keys out of your shoulder bag, unlocking the pickup, and hopping up into it as Gator watches you, jaw dropped.
“This is yer car?” he asks, and you close the door, roll the window down, and lean your elbow onto it to tip your head as you rest your cheek on your hand.
“Just like yours,” you say—his Ford F-150 was just a little more modern. “Got a good, what...forty years on it, though, I'd guess.”
He just watches as you start the engine, slapping your hand on the dashboard to get the radio to start playing.
“Damn thing always gives me trouble,” you mutter, as it finally starts transmitting a warbling classic rock song. “Anyway.” You look over at Gator. “You're gonna follow me?”
“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding, staring at you in the classic truck.
“Hey, Tillman,” you say, snapping your fingers in front of his face to make him look up at you. “Don't be jealous that my truck's nicer than yours, ok? I got a whole squad of guys who think they know more than me about cars who love to beg me to see under the hood. Not really a fair competition on your end.”
“I ain't jealous,” Gator says.
“Your drool says otherwise,” you quip, then reach out of your truck to tug him closer to you by his collar. “If you play nice tonight, I'll let you look under the hood tomorrow too, how's that sound?” You have no idea why you're making promises to him that sound long term, when this is clearly going to be a one time thing based solely on physical attraction; you're not going to get your hopes up that he'll even be there when you wake up tomorrow morning, much less that he'll stick around long enough to even look twice at your truck.
But Gator only snickers. “Oh, I'm gonna play real nice, sweets. Promise.”
You lean out of the truck, just enough to let your lips brush his; that's all you really wanted to do, all you intended to do, but you linger and then turn it into a real kiss, and he kisses you back, not pulling away as soon as you'd expect, really, but he does after a few moments.
“All right, c'mon. Enough screwin' around,” he says, and you just move back into your truck, settling into your seat as Gator softly hits both palms against the window sill of the door then backs up a step. You roll up the window as he watches, and once it's closed, he turns to walk over to his truck.
While he's climbing in and starting his engine—you keep watch on him out of the corner of your eye—you pull out your phone to text Mel, sending her a quick message to let her know that you're heading home and you're bringing Gator with you.
Then, you put your phone on DND because you don't want to hear her thoughts or comments, even though you know she would be happy for you and undoubtedly sex positive—you just don't want her to get in your head and make you self-conscious. You weren't joking when you told Gator that the girls in town talked him up—he has a reputation, and after hearing it from more than just a few women, you know he lives up to it.
His truck's engine rumbles as he pulls out of the spot and idles just short of where you're parked. You start your truck and shift into gear, leading Gator out of the bar's lot and into town where your apartment is situated, above a laundromat which is closed currently—thankfully, because you get to have quiet nights rather than hearing people bustling around downstairs or shouting over the sound of the machines into their phones while they're switching from washer to dryer.
You park in your reserved spot—the laundry's owner Irv allowed you, as his tenant, to keep a spot to yourself, and Gator takes the one next to you. Might cause a problem in the morning if he's still there when the laundromat opens, but you also have a feeling that once Irv finds out the truck belongs to Deputy Gator Tillman, he won't have much to say about having the damn thing towed.
Hopping out of your truck, you slam the door and lock it, heading up to round the hood as Gator steps out of his too, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath his feet. He joins you, and without a word you lead him around the front of the building, keys jingling as you pass the plate glass window and door to the store itself, and step over to the solid wood door to the vestibule of your apartment instead, unlocking it. Gator reaches over your head to hold the door open, allowing you to step inside first; he follows you into the dark little landing, letting the door swing closed as you flick the light switch to illuminate the stairs leading up to your actual front door.
Gator locks the door behind you as you begin to ascend the stairs, stopping after a few steps up because he's still standing at the bottom.
“You good?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “Just tryin'a get a bird's eye view.” He winks at you and you don't understand what he means at first, until you remember you're wearing a dress—short enough that it stops above your knees—and by heading upstairs before him, you’re indirectly allowing him to look right up your skirt.
“Pervert,” you say, flipping him off—and then just turning right around and continuing to climb the stairs, now directly giving him the view he wanted.
“Takes one t'know one,” Gator says, waiting until you're a few steps higher before following you, the staircase creaking as he takes them two at a time. He reaches you just as you arrive at the second floor landing, which is a little more spacious and even has a window to the outside, with a small collection of succulents on the sill.
Gator pokes at one as you unlock this door as well, opening it and stepping in, waiting patiently for him to join you. He does, and you kick off your flats while he crouches down to unlace his boots, leaving them beside your shoes as you close this door too.
“Cute place,” he says, and you feel yourself get a little embarrassed, because it is a cute place—spacious for what you pay for it, since it's always a little warm during the day with all the machines downstairs running and all the foot traffic coming and going—but it's not straightened up. You left it a little bit of a mess—your pajamas and baseball uniform are still on the floor outside the bathroom, and even though you haven't gotten to your bedroom yet, you know that you left your bed unmade and there are at least three outfits you'd tried on for the bar still on top of your sheets, nixing each before settling on the vintage off-white cotton minidress you're currently wearing.
“I wasn't expecting company,” you say, hurrying away from him to pick up the dirty laundry outside of the bathroom. “Make—um, make yourself at home.” You gesture at the couch, which doesn't have anything untoward on it, but the blanket is askew, there's a book on one of the cushions propped open upside-down with the spine cracking, and an unfinished mug of tea sitting on the coffee table, definitely leaving a ring. Part of you wishes you made a better impression, but when you glance back at Gator before you disappear into your bedroom, he's not even looking at your furniture or the disarray you left. He's just looking at you, a faint smile gracing his lips.
When you catch him, he looks away immediately and crosses to the couch.
You just hurry into your bedroom, bare feet skimming over the carpet as you shove the dirty clothes into your laundry basket, tucked away into the closet, then pick up the other clothes you hadn't decided to wear and, in the interest of time, shove those in with your laundry too, even though they are most definitely clean. You straighten your bedsheets as best you can without properly making it, and then return to Gator—who's gone.
Your living area is empty, but you catch movement out of your periphery, and when you turn to your left, you see that Gator's in the little kitchenette, emptying your stale tea and putting your mug into the sink.
“Thanks?” you say, and Gator glances up at you.
“Figured ya might want coffee'r somethin',” he mumbles.
“Sure... thanks,” you say, which feels weird, because this is your house, your kitchen, your coffee—you don't have coffee. “Oh wait, I just have tea.” As you speak, you look back at the couch and notice that your book has also been placed neatly on the coffee table, with the receipt you were using as a bookmark sticking out of the top, keeping your page. You turn to Gator again, who's now at your refrigerator.
“Ya got beer,” he points and you just laugh.
“You didn't have enough beer?”
He shrugs. “Ya fuckin' scampered away so goddamn fast, thought you might need t'relax.”
“I'm fine,” you say. “Like I said I just—wasn't expecting company.”
Gator closes the refrigerator and steps over to you. “I ain't here t'be company, sweets. I don't give a shit what yer place looks like.”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod. “Right.”
“Right,” Gator echoes you, his hands on your waist again, leaning down to kiss you, and you put your hands on his chest, leaning up into him, to meet him half way. It's different in your apartment—behind closed doors, it feels more real, like it will lead to something because now it can. You slide your hands up over his shoulders, wrapping them around his neck again to bow his back further toward you, and then he's pushing you backward, walking you toward your couch. He lays you down easily, settling above you and you sigh at the feeling of his weight atop you, the way he fits between your thighs, his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your sides, moving slowly up and up and up.
“Fuck,” you mutter, not quite meaning to, and you feel him snicker as he pulls away from you, lowering his mouth to your neck to suck a bruise there, leaving a trail of kisses along your throat and collarbones, the neckline of the dress low enough that he can do so with no trouble.
One of his hands settles onto your chest, squeezing your breast through your dress as the other moves back down, hooking his hand around your thigh and pulling it up and over his hip, letting him grind a bit against you even with too many layers of fabric between you. But your legs are more open now, and you can feel your skirt riding up—you whine quietly as he takes your lips with his again, kissing you slow and deep as he rolls his hips down into you.
He's groping your thigh, rubbing his hand over it, sinking his fingers in, squeezing it as you reach down between your bodies and tug at his shirt, trying to untuck it from his jeans and get it off of him for real this time. And this time, he does let you, the t-shirt stretching a little as you pull at it, yanking it up and over his chest, though it gets stuck beneath his arms since his hands are a little occupied.
You don't care—you leave it there and let your hands skim over his front, fingers tracing through the thick patch of hair on his chest, over his nipples, down to his slender waist, and up over his muscular back, which you can feel stretching and flexing as he keeps his hips moving against your core. You tip your head back and he follows you, wanting to keep kissing you, and you press one of your palms against his back before moving the other once again to his chest, tweaking his nipple with two of your fingers to hear the noise he makes when you do. It ends up being a small moan, which makes you smirk against his mouth, smug—and then you just touch him everywhere you can, his pecs and his stomach and up beneath the shirt too, fingertips trailing over his throat until he's had enough and pushes up and away off of you.
Kneeling above you, he straightens up and you watch as he pulls off his shirt the rest of the way. For some reason, it thrills you a little to see that the freckles on his face extend all over his body, and that there's also a thin trail of hair down from his chest to his bellybutton and then lower. You lick your lower lip unconsciously, not even really thinking about it, but Gator clocks it and he snickers.
“Tit for tat, yeah?” he says, and you don't understand what he means—truthfully, you're still a little caught up in having him on top of you—until he reaches down to the buttons adorning the front of your dress and starts to undo them. They stop at your bellybutton, just where the skirt begins, and he pushes the front of your dress open to expose your torso to him, still covered in the satiny, nude bra you'd chosen to wear beneath the white cotton. Wasting no time, Gator just reaches to push the cups up and off your tits, not bothering to try and undo it or take either garment off of you. No, he just frees your breasts from the bra and then leans back down, taking one of your nipples between his lips before it's even perked up from the way his hands slid over them seconds ago.
“Gator—” you gasp, because he's sucking at your tit like there's nothing else he'd rather do with you, and he has the other one cupped in his hand, thumb swiping side to side over your nipple as it hardens, pebbling beneath his touch.
He hums against your chest, pulling off your nipple with a pop to just lave over the pert bud, dragging his tongue over it as you watch, breath coming thin already, his mouth barely even on you for any time at all and already destroying your resolve.
Gator pushes himself up again, bending one of his legs at the knee to tuck it beneath your leg, the one he'd hiked up onto his hip, and licks into your mouth this time, your spit-slick nipple pressing against his chest, the hair he has there tickling you a little as he kisses you, sucking at your lower lip before drawing away.
“What was it I said?” he asks you, and you meet his eyes, wild, uncertain what he's asking. “The night'a that fire,” he reaches up to brush some hair away from your face. “Said, what...I'd letcha suck me off 'fore I fuck ya real nice, was that it?”
You nod, because you remember, vividly, the way he was saying the most vile shit right to your face, the way he said it without any shame.
“Y'know what?” Gator asks. “I think I wanna hear you say it this time.” He leans down again to kiss you, languorous, lips lingering against yours before he pulls back, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple a little as he plays with it, tugging and rolling it back to hardness. “Go on. Lemme hear ya spoil that sweet mouth'a yers.”
You huff a sigh, almost in disbelief, wondering if he's really going to make you, but he just settles his chin down between your tits, his hand still cradling the side of your head, the other still toying with your nipple, and it feels so good that you let your eyes flutter closed to lose yourself in it, the way the pads of his fingers squeeze it, the way his fingers gently card through your hair, the way his jaw flexes when he opens his mouth.
“I'm waitin', doll,” he says, and you take a deep breath, opening your eyes to look down at him.
Flitting your tongue over your lips, you speak. “You said...you said you were gonna finger me until I was crying your name.” His lips twitch at the corners, but he keeps his stoic expression. You continue. “Gonna let me taste you before I—ride you,” you breathe out, and he licks his lips this time, nodding.
“'S right,” he says. “'Nd what else?”
“Wanted me to take your—take your fat cock and bounce on it,” you say, and he grins, which makes the warmth in your cheeks ramp up to blazing heat, and even though you're feeling bashful after saying such filthy things right back to him, he seems completely unaffected other than to be even more into it than he was before you did: He surges up over your body and crashes his lips into yours, kissing you harshly as you lift your hips into him, his body aligned with yours well enough that you can, now. He groans quietly into your mouth and drops his hand from your face down between your bodies, sticking it between your legs and rubbing at your cunt through your panties, matching the satiny feel of your bra.
You curl your hips up against his hand, and he pulls away enough to speak.
“Ya gonna make me fuck ya on yer couch?” he asks, and it's such an unexpected question that you laugh, even though he's making your entire body light up with his hands and his mouth and his solid weight on top of you.
“Get off me then,” you reply, but he doesn't move, instead just tugging your panties to the side and letting his fingers slick through your wet folds, finding your slit quickly enough but not entering you. You take a sharp breath in, and he just kisses you in response.
“I thought you”—you try to say, in between kisses—“didn't want to stay on the couch.”
“I ain't puttin' it in yet, sweets, relax,” he says, and curls two fingers into your pussy, making you draw up, tighten up, shiver a little as he pushes them deeper, the pads of his fingers pressing into your front wall. “Ahh, now thatta girl.”
“Fuck,” you say again, and Gator chuckles.
“Gon' give me a big head,” he says, pulling away from your mouth and letting his chin and lips trail over your chest, over the swell of your breast—the one he isn't still playing with—and takes your nipple back into his mouth, sucking at it while he fingers you slowly, curling both digits inside of you again and again, not to make you come, but to rile you up, you can already tell. He told you it was his plan, and not only are you not in any position to fight him on it, you don't want to either.
Just as you lift a hand to curl it into his hair, Gator pulls back from you, moving away and down between your legs. You trail your hand after him, catching up to him when he lets his lips move over your thigh—not a kiss, just a glancing movement, as he slides his fingers free from your slit and then reaches up. He streaks your wetness over your stomach, curling his hand into the elastic of your panties to pull them down, maneuvering your legs so he can slide them off you, and then he's right back where he was, between your thighs, fingers sliding between your lips to spread you open before him.
Your hand cards through his hair and you tug at him; he moves with you easily, lips curled into a smirk as he buries his face in your pussy, his fingertips still spreading you open, and his tongue delves into your dripping hole before both of his fingers join it, stretching you around himself and you curl your other hand into your skirt, pulling it up and away so you can watch as he goes down on you, pressing his fingers into you as deeply as he can, feeling you squeeze down on them.
He pulls away, not really far at all, and latches his mouth to your clit instead, sucking at it, teasing entrance to your weeping slit with a third finger now.
“Gator,” you whimper, and he flicks his eyes up to look at you, to watch you as you writhe on the couch above him.
You feel his tongue moving against your clit, not bothering to come up for air as he presses his mouth a little harder against your mound, really exploring your folds with his tongue, teasing your clit, its hood, sucking everywhere he can close his mouth around, taking your lips between them and dripping spit and your own arousal onto his chin.
He curls a third finger into you, and your hips buck up into his hand, a sharp gasp of breath sounding from your parted lips, and then, to your dismay—he does pull away.
“Wh—” you start to ask, clenching down on his fingers as he stills them, deep within your pussy. He leaves them hooked there as he moves up and over you, tugging at your walls as he slips them out just an inch and then fucks them back in.
“Now, correct me if I'm wrong,” he says, his voice low, stern; you feel yourself gush a little around him. “I said I wanted ta hear ya cryin' my name.”
You stare up at him, just watching his face as he shallowly finger fucks you.
“Ain't that right?” he pushes.
“You—hah—aren't doing it right then,” you say, and he quirks an eyebrow, lips parting as he tucks his tongue into his cheek, looking just this side of pissed—and your chest swells a little in excitement, knowing you got him with that.
“Oh, yeah?” he says, almost sounding amused as he lets his fingers slip fully out of you; you whine as he does, missing the feeling of being stuffed with three of them. “Well, why don'tcha show me how it's done, since you know better?”
A smirk plays at your lips as you tug your skirt up a little higher, your dress half twisted around your body from how much he had you squirming, how much you were rolling your hips up into his fingers. With your free hand, you stretch your arm down your body and rub your palm flat against your pussy, feeling your warm slickness, the ease with which your fingers move through your folds, and then you press your middle and ring finger against your slit and sigh as you slide them home.
Gator watches, eyes half-lidded, as you slowly work your fingers into your own cunt. You gather the fabric of your skirt up into your hand, your chest exposed, panties on the carpet next to you, thighs spread open, one leg hanging off the couch to give Gator the view he'd wanted when walking up the stairs behind you—and finger your own tight little snatch just so he can watch you do it.
“Fuckin' Christ,” Gator mumbles as the first whimper falls from your lips. He looks up at your face and when he meets your eyes, when he realizes you've been watching his face the whole time, he closes his eyes and swallows, then looks back down at your hand between your legs.
“Help me,” you whisper, and Gator doesn't try to play like he doesn't know what you're asking for—he settles himself down between your legs, one hand on your thigh, splaying out to push you open even more, your hips straining at the position you're in, but you don't even fucking care when he adds his middle finger in along with yours, stretching you out, giving it to you deeper than you can reach, and you groan, loud this time, the sound punched out of your chest as he presses into you a little harder than you're doing it to yourself.
“Gat—or—” you half-shout, biting your lip at the last moment to keep your volume in check. He glances up at you, takes in your smirk, and immediately understands what you're doing.
“You little fuckin' brat,” he says, and leans down to suck a harsh kiss to your breast, just beside your nipple, just beside where you'd want him to put his mouth, and then pulls his finger out of you just to add his own ring finger in beside it.
You stutter out a moan, head pressing back into the couch cushion beneath you, as you let go of your skirt and now you have both hands between your legs, one further down, pressing inside of yourself, and the other with two fingers erratically moving over your clit, because you're so stretched out on four fingers you can't possibly keep an even pattern, not with the way your legs are twitching and your cunt is fucking soaked, your thighs tensed.
Gator's fingers work in tandem to yours, and harder too, still; he's fucking you with them deep and fast, in contrast to the way you're gently curling yours into yourself, your clit on fire as you rub at it, not even sure what you're doing to yourself because you're so fucking worked up already.
“Go on, sweets,” Gator says, taunting you, egging you on. “Y'know ya wanna.” He stretches himself over you, his free hand bracing himself on the back of the couch as he hovers above you, watching your face even as he works his fingers with yours, hears the obscenely slick sounds from between your legs.
“Gator,” you say through clenched teeth, and he leans down closer to you, lips trailing over yours.
“Go on,” he says again, and you sob with the feeling of it all, the overwhelming pleasure, the orgasm just flitting around you, ready whenever you are.
“Gator!” you half-sob, half-shout, and he smirks because he won, but even so he gives you your prize: He kisses you, hard, licking into your mouth as your hips flex up into both of your hands and one of his, his fingers slipping out of you even as your pussy tries to suck him back in, and he gives you a small little, harsh little slap right on your cunt.
“Ah—nn—” you intone, your body tensing, wound up beyond belief, and then you're coming, hard enough that you have to pull your fingers out too because you've never felt yourself tighten up like that, never felt your entire body snap the way it had. You're crying his name and then you're moaning his name and then you're sighing his name, and the whole time he's got his lips on your lips, soaking it in, taking it all as you shift a little beneath him, and then you slap him right on the cheek with your come-drenched hand and he looks down at you in shock, drawing back.
“That's for calling me a brat,” you say, and you laugh at the disbelief written on his face, before he snickers too.
“Guess that's fair,” he says, reaching down to rub his hand between your legs, smearing your release over your quivering pussy. He teases entrance again with two fingers, smirking when you clench up. “Nah.” He shakes his head, still rubbing over your cunt before moving sideways to your thigh. “Let's getcha somewhere more comf'table for my turn.”
He pushes himself off of the couch, looking down at you, limp and pliant, and he reaches out one hand to help you up while he reaches down with the other, adjusting his package in his jeans; he has to be hard by now—you'd be shocked if he wasn't.
Once you're upright, Gator keeps his head bowed just a little, watching as you slide the straps of your dress and your bra down off your arms. You lower the dress down around your hips, stepping out of it before crouching quickly to pick up your underwear too, and then you're bare in your own living room while Gator drinks in the sight of you, fully, for the first time.
“After you,” he says, not even trying to tear his gaze away from your tits, except to let them dip down to your crotch, the patch of hair between your thighs, tufted together with the way you both spread your arousal over yourself. You're still wet and him looking right at you makes you squeeze your legs together, just a little. And of course he notices.
“Don't worry,” he says, stepping closer, one hand moving to your lower back, the other pulling your panties from your hand. “I ain't even close t'done with ya.” He holds up your underwear, like you missed him taking them from the little bundle of clothes you're holding, and sticks them into the back pocket of his jeans. “Little souvenir if ya don't mind.”
“I do, actually,” you say, even though the way he's touching you and looking at you and speaking to you is very much affecting your composure. “They're a matching set.”
He smirks as he lowers his hand and gently gives your ass a little swat to get you moving—and you go, stepping around the coffee table and leading him to your bedroom.
“Maybe ya got another pair I can swipe, then,” he says as he walks behind you.
“Should've figured you for a panty thief, Deputy,” you say, glancing back at him, and he just licks his lips, shrugging.
“I'm a simple man, sweets, don't take much t'make me happy.”
“Pervert,” you say, rounding the corner to your bedroom and flicking the light switch. As soon as you drop your clothes into the laundry basket, he's behind you, his arms wrapped around you, turning you so your front is flush with his, your tits against his chest as his belt buckle presses into your stomach, and his cock, still confined in his jeans, pressing against you even through the taut denim.
“Thought we already covered that one,” Gator practically growls, his forehead resting against yours. “Me 'nd you both, remember?” In the dimness of your bedroom—just one lamp, the low wattage of the bulb turning the light yellow and syrupy through the shade—his eyes look deep green, irises barely discernible from his pupils, and you can't even help yourself when you ignore his question and tip your chin up, meeting his lips in a soft kiss, one gentle enough that it defies the fact that you're naked, his hands are tight around your hips, and you can feel his erection, stiff against your thigh. His mouth moves over yours, not really deepening it but instead just pressing kiss after kiss to your lower lip, coaxing your lips to part, and once your mouth is open for him, he licks into you, his tongue moving against yours as you move your hands over his broad back, arms curling up to hold his shoulders from behind, your chests pressed together, his body warm and firm against yours.
He turns away, the strands of hair that fall over his forehead brushing against your nose as he does, and he steps back, moving you with him as he crosses from your closet to your bed. He sits on the edge and you sink down onto his thigh, your wet core settling onto the dark denim of his jeans, soaking them as you kiss him again, your hands on his chest now, one playing with his nipple the same way he'd done to you, and the other skimming through the hair adorning his belly, right above his waistband.
Gator sighs into your mouth as you curl your fingers around his belt, still worrying his nipple between your fingers, and since you're not showing any signs of stopping your ministrations at his chest, he reaches to help you with his belt himself, each of you using one hand to work it open. You slip the button expertly with one hand, tug the zipper down over him as you trail your lips over his tensed neck, and once his jeans have been worked fully open, you slip your hand inside them and cup him through the cotton of his briefs.
“Ahh...” you say, lascivious. “Thatta boy,” you tease, repeating what he'd said to you earlier, and Gator, bless him, tries to snicker but can't quite manage it now you've got a hand on him. You rub him with your palm, the drag of the fabric giving him the friction you can tell he's craving—he's pressing against your hand with everything he has, one hand on your ass to hold you still on his thigh, the other coming to rest gently on your forearm, not to try to force you to do more, but seemingly just to touch you, to feel you as you're feeling him.
You let your tongue flit over his Adam's apple and feel his body give a kick when you do, your nose bumping the underside of his chin, and then you're curving your hand around him, molding it to the underside of his length, as you lean up and kiss him again, pressing your hand harder into him, stroking him without actually stroking him, and he grunts against your mouth as he bucks his hips forward.
“God damn it,” he mutters, letting his head fall back away from you. “Fuckin' tease, gonna make me beg?”
“Maybe,” you say, but you don't hold to it, just slide your hand up and off his cock, palm flat against his stomach before easing it into his underwear, the elastic tight over your wrist as you finally, finally, get your fingers curled around him. Gator practically keens as you take him in hand, jerking him off for real, the skin of his cock velvet, wet and hot and so hellishly soft you know there's no way you'll stop touching him except to feel the silken weight of him on your tongue. “Let go.”
It's obvious he doesn't want to, doesn't want you anywhere but rubbing your sopping pussy on his thigh, but when you pull against his hold, he releases you and you lower yourself to your knees between his legs. Gator hurriedly lifts himself up as you begin to tug his pants down; he helps you get them to his knees, and you purposely don't look up, keeping your face angled down as you rid him of the rest of his clothes. Just as you're about to look, about to see everything he has to offer you, his index finger curls beneath your chin and he lifts your face up—to his face, not his body, and he holds your gaze as he speaks.
“Didn't ferget what I said, didja?”
You shake your head.
“Wanna hear me say it again?” Gator asks.
You inhale sharply through your nose—you remember every word, but that isn't the same as Gator saying it to you. The drawl of his accent, the words he chooses, the way he says it so matter-of-fact, like he could be talking about anything, when it's actually so depraved that it turns you on—yes. You want to hear him say it again.
“Yeah,” you manage, and he smirks, pulling his hand away from your chin and taking hold of his cock immediately, drawing your eyes to it. He's big—you could tell just by touch, it was blatantly obvious—but seeing his hand wrapped around it, your lips part at just the sight.
Gator drags his hand from the base to the tip, slowly, then lets himself go completely just to take hold of himself again right at the root. You watch as he does it twice more, precome beading at the slit as he touches himself.
“Gonna feed it to ya, sweets,” he says, and your eyes flick up to his face and back down to his cock just in time to watch him move his thumb over the head, smearing the wetness collecting in the slit over himself. “Gonna hold ya right in place and just... ease it on in, real slow. Watch ya choke on it.” Your tongue peeks out at the corner of your lips, pink and fleeting. “Oh, ya like that? Wanna feel it in yer throat?” You nod despite yourself. Gator chuckles, reaches out with his free hand, cups your face. He lets his thumb move over your cheekbone, back and forth. “Sweet thing,” he mumbles, shifting himself closer to the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to give you as much room as you could possibly want. “C'mere 'nd take it.” You shuffle closer on your knees, his hand moving to your jaw, and you open your mouth as he angles his cock down toward your parted lips. “Take it,” he says again, and you do.
His precome is the first thing you register, bright and salty on your tongue. You look up at him as best you can, eyes searching for his face above you, but the further you move onto his cock, the harder it is to see him. His palm stays cradling your jaw, and his other hand moves from his cock to your throat, feeling as it spasms a little even though he's not even that far into your mouth yet. It gives you a sick thrill that he's putting his hand there to feel himself when he enters it, and you hum quietly, feeling his cock twitch against your palate when you do.
Lifting your hands to his thighs, that's where you choose to touch him first as you keep drawing him into your mouth, keep sliding forward onto his length; he's massaging your jaw, your neck, and you swallow around the head just as he bottoms out into your mouth.
“I know that's fuckin' right,” Gator murmurs, leaning back enough that you can see him now, eyes angled up toward him, as he looks right back down at you. “Look'it you. Look'it you fuckin' takin' it, just like that.”
“Mmn,” you hum around him, and he sighs your name quietly, thumb rubbing over your throat. You swallow again so he can feel it, but even so, a thin dribble of saliva escapes from the corner of your mouth.
He snaps his hips forward just a little, and you moan around him this time, eyes slipping closed as you do almost choke on it, managing to suppress it; he doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you there for another few moments before he eases you off him, but only enough that he's still mostly in your mouth, and you take a deep breath in through your nose before you get to work, bobbing your head on his cock while you reposition your hands. You move one up his body again, reaching to push your fingers through the hair scattered across his chest, feeling him up before you pinch his nipple, playing with it as he huffs out a sigh; with your other hand, you press your palm against his bare thigh, using it to brace yourself each time you take him in a little bit deeper, letting the tip just barely graze the back of your throat before you pull off.
Above you, Gator makes a choked noise, like he's trying to hold back for your sake, or maybe his, you have no idea and you don't care. You lean back, the wet shaft sliding out from between your lips; just as you lift your hand off his thigh to stroke him into your mouth, he beats you to it and wraps his own hand around himself.
You look up at him, eyes wide, questioning, but he just moves his other hand from your jaw to the crown of your head, and you know he's not going to let you move now. Not that you even want to, really.
Precome is dripping from him as you suck at the head, your tongue teasing the slit, as he starts to jerk himself off right into your mouth. You hum weakly, eyes fluttering shut at how he's using you, using your mouth, just for his own end, and you hear his lips smack as he parts them to speak.
“Look at me,” he says, and you slowly open your eyes again, bringing your hands to his waist, holding onto him. He presses his palm a bit harder against your head, making sure you stay still. “Ya like it?”
You don't bother trying to nod, instead letting your tongue answer for you, licking slow and flat against his tip. He looses a shuddering breath as he starts moving his hand in earnest, the curl of his index finger bumping your lip each time he strokes himself. The taste of him deepens, darkens a little—you know he's close just by how quickly he's moving his hand now, and you suck at his head as he keeps going.
“Can—can I—” he stammers, and you don't know what he wants to ask but you tighten your hold on his sides, squeezing him, hoping he infers that yes, he can come in your mouth. “Lemme—lemme feel yer throat a-again, oh fuck—”
You blink, then try to drop your jaw a bit more, leaning forward, taking another inch or so of his cock into your mouth.
“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, f-fuck—” Gator is repeating, absently; he doesn't even seem to mean to say it, and with his question as the only warning you really got, he pulls you right up against him by the back of your head, your nose pressing into the short, curled hair nestled at the base of his cock, as he enters your throat again and comes right down it, pulsing in your mouth as his hips twitch forward too, giving you everything he has, making you take it as you drool around him, lips shiny with spit as your cunt throbs between your legs, the arousal you feel for him, because of him, un-fucking-paralleled.
He pulls out of your mouth as one last weak, feeble spurt of come leaks out of his head, and you swallow that too as his wet prick leaves your lips.
You're panting and so is he, and you look up at him, legs numb from kneeling, as he looks back down at you. He cups your face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the wetness beneath your eyes, and then using the back of his hand to swipe away the residual saliva and come from your chin.
“Y'ok?” he asks, and even though your head is still swimming, you can tell he feels strange even asking it.
“Yeah,” you say, voice scratchy, and he hooks his hands beneath your arms to pull you up, back onto his lap. You don't straddle his leg this time, just sit on it as he keeps one arm around you, the other resting along the top of your knee. His fingers dip between your legs then, rubbing at your thigh, which tells you even with the check in on your well being, he's far from finished.
Good.
You're not done with him yet either.
“Do you need a minute?” you ask, turning to him, and he almost has the decency to look surprised, but just smirks.
“Do you?” he counters, and you laugh.
“No,” you reply, putting your hand on his cheek as you kiss him. He swipes his tongue into your mouth with no hesitation, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he tastes himself on you, and then you're standing up and pushing him backwards down onto your bed, standing above him on your knees even as you move to lean over him. You let your chest lower to press into his, but you keep your hips elevated, even as you meet his lips again, kissing him almost lazily.
“Said y'were ready t'go again,” he says, as you draw away for a moment. “What gives?”
“Nothing,” you purr. “I like kissing you, that a crime too?”
“Smartass,” he mutters, and you lower your face to his again; this time, he doesn't question you, doesn't protest, and when he moves his hands to your hips, you slide your knees down so you're laying on top of him properly now, his arms around you, squeezing your ass as you make out with him tangled together atop your sheets.
It turns into something quiet and easy, the two of you cocooned in the faint light from your bedside lamp, your hands exploring his arms and his front, one snaking down to reach for his cock again, and when you do, he gives your ass a quick slap, making you yelp.
“What is with you?” you ask, but you're not mad, you're smiling too much.
“Nothin',” Gator says, but he's amused too, and you can tell. “Just like pissin' y'off.”
“I think you like when I hit you back,” you say, hands sliding to his shoulders to push yourself up so you're sitting on his stomach. You lift a hand and Gator flinches, then realizes you're not actually moving it.
He grins. “Well, y'ain't that subtle about likin' it either, sweets. Forepl—” he says, but he's cut off as you bring your hand down against the side of his face, not hard, not nearly as fierce as he'd been when he hit your ass or—god help you—your pussy. Below you, he just chuckles. “Hey, if yer into it, I ain't gonna complain.”
“Shut up,” you say, sliding down his body, bowing your back to kiss him again even as your slick folds catch the length of his cock between them. He moans softly into your mouth, your wet heat surrounding him, and just as he's about to grab your hips to hold you there, his own body already trying to roll and grind up against you, you're off of him and pulling open your nightstand drawer.
Gator pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch you, and when you straighten up with a handful of condoms, he reaches out for one, snapping his fingers when you don't immediately hand one over.
“Patience,” you chide him, but he just snaps his fingers again.
“Ain't got none,” he answers, then rolls onto his side and crawls up the bed, settling himself down against your pillows. “That's one virtue I was born without.”
“And other virtues do you have, exactly?” you ask, turning to face him properly.
Gator scoffs. “If yer gonna be like that, yer doin' all the work.”
“I thought we already covered that,” you say, echoing him. “What was it, you were gonna give me a taste before you let me ride it?”
Gator scoffs. “Yeah, but way t'make it sound...clinical.”
“Clinical?” you ask, dropping the handful of condoms to the bed, save one, which you palm as you kneel on the mattress, moving closer to him. “How is 'ride it' clinical?”
“Listen, not everyone got the gift'a gab, sweets,” Gator says, and you roll your eyes, unimpressed. He reaches out for you, and you move into his reach, letting him caress your hip with one hand and your thigh with the other. “Why don'tcha give it another shot?”
You hum as his hands move over your bare skin, tearing the condom wrapper slowly. You tuck your chin down to your chest and look at him through your lashes. One of his hands comes up to cup your breast, thumb skimming over your pebbled nipple. “Wanna... let you fuck me,” you start, and he just nods, encouragingly, but you don't miss the hardened eyes, the quirk of his lips into a smirk because you're not good at this, just like he said. “Gonna sit on your cock. Your...” You bite your lower lip, drawing it into your mouth. “Your big, fat cock.” He exhales audibly, letting his other hand move from your thigh to your mound, trailing two fingertips through your folds. “Let you in my—my wet little pussy.”
“Uh huh...” Gator leads you, and even though you know he's just humoring you because it's really terrible dirty talk, you still appreciate him letting you try, even though you'd be certain you were ruining the mood if he wasn't still circling your clit with his index finger, eyes on where his hand is down between your legs.
“Gonna...get you soaking wet,” you try, and he flicks his eyes up at you. “Gonna come all over you.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer, firm and assured, and he withdraws his hand.
“Not too shabby,” he says, tugging you down into him by your wrist. “I'll give ya...an A for effort.”
“Fuck off,” you laugh, pulling the condom from the wrapper and rolling it onto him—he's hard again, or maybe still hard. He definitely didn't feel like he'd gotten soft when you were rubbing your pussy all over him—and when you look back up at his face, he's watching you closely, eyes on your hands.
You lick your lip, almost a little self-conscious, and you have no idea why, other than this has started to feel a little less like a one night stand and a little more like something substantial—which you force yourself to forget, because this is Gator Tillman, not someone like Leon who would take you for breakfast tomorrow morning. You're going to wake up, thoroughly fucked out but alone, because Gator Tillman doesn't do bitches more than once (or so is word on the street. His own word).
With one deft hand, you slide your palm up and down over his cock, then throw one leg over him, leaning forward. He reaches up to cup your tits, and you smirk to yourself as you take hold of his cock again, guiding the tip up against your slit; you both gasp at the same moment when the blunt head presses against you, and you meet his eyes as you lower yourself onto him, the stretch immediate and intense.
“Fuck,” you mumble, breath catching in your throat as he flicks your nipples with his thumbs, palming your tits as you press your hands against his shoulders, clinging to them as you spread your knees a little further apart, taking him in deeper—you're clamping down so tightly on him as your body both accepts the intrusion and rebels against it, clenching down like it could force him out, even though you want him inside.
“Tight little bird, ain't ya?” Gator asks, and you tilt your head back, rolling it to the side, the words affecting you and he knows it. He lowers one of his hands to your mound, searching for your clit again, rubbing his fingertip over it as you lift up and then push back down, his cock entering you even deeper this time. Your walls are sucking at him, and when you fit all of him in you, you exhale, chest stuttering.
“Gator...” you whine, and he presses against your clit harder.
“'S ok,” he tells you. “Yer doin' so fuckin' good, y'know that?” His finger traces figure eights over your clit, the throbbing little bead swollen where it's nestled between your quivering folds. “Perfect little pussy,” he says, and you tremble as you press the heels of your hands down against his chest. He pinches your nipple as you lift up off him, the slide eased with how wet you are, and even though most of him is still in you, you feel woefully empty. You drop back down onto him and it's like sliding right back home, putting him back where he belongs.
“Feel ya shakin' around me, sweets,” Gator says, and you sigh as you pull your pussy up over his length again, strong thighs working as you roll your hips back down, and now that you're used to his size, now that you've taken him in a few times, you fuck yourself onto his cock and he's the one who sighs this time.
“God, look at ya,” he goes on, almost like he's just talking to himself. His fingertips swirl around your clit, which you feel twitch against them. “How's—how's it feel, huh? Talk to me.”
“It's—” you begin, but smack your lips together as you swallow thickly, your arousal dripping down his shaft every time you lift up. “God, fuck, it's so good, Gator—”
“Uh huh,” he leads you, pressing his hand a little further between your legs, letting his fingers slide around where he's got you stretched around his dick, feeling the way your pussy tightens and spasms as he rubs your slit from the outside. “What else? Go on, tell me.”
“I'm so—so fucking...you make me so wet, Gat-Gator, I—” you break off to gasp, then moan as he finds your clit again. “I'm—I'm soaking it—you, just like you—like you said, r-right?”
“That's right,” Gator says, and you look at him through half-lidded eyes just in time for him to sit up and wrap his free arm around you, hold you tight to his front and roll you onto your side, and then your back; his cock slips free of you and you whine, mewl, cry for him.
“No, no—put it—put it back,” you say, reaching up to curl your hand around the nape of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you; he obliges you, but after you lick into his mouth, he ducks away and kneels between your spread legs, your gaping pussy on display for him as he props your thighs up on his. Between his legs, his cock is jutting out, shiny with your fluids as he reaches with one hand to ghost his finger over your slit, which clenches up around nothing.
“Put it back,” you say again, only realizing now how desperate that phrasing is, how filthy and uncouth.
He curls two fingers into you, ignoring his rigid cock, pink at the tip, so hard it's straining up and up, the tip nearly against his stomach.
“And you were gettin' on me for my lack'a virtue,” he teases. “Sounds like you ain't got no manners either, missy.” You can only goggle at him for a moment, because before you can really even formulate a response, he eases his fingers out of you, turns his hand over, and brings his palm down on your pussy in a hard smack, making you jump and moan simultaneously; you feel your pussy practically gush as he rubs his full hand over it, the sound of it reaching your ears and turning you on even more.
“That's one,” he says.
“Two,” you correct him, and he cocks his head to the side. “You did one before.”
He looks at you, then chuckles, smirking. “Two.” He pauses. “How many times didja hit me? Figure I oughtta make it even. You can dish it out, but let's see if ya can take it.”
You squirm a little, splayed open before him, wondering if he'd like it more or less if you made it clear you wanted it as much as he did. “Five.”
“Five,” Gator repeats. “Got three more for ya, then.” He moves his free hand to your thigh, rubbing his thumb over the folded skin where your leg meets your mound.
“Just three?” you ask, and he glances up at you. “What?” you ask, hoping you're not overstepping. “Foreplay, right?”
He laughs at that, then leans down to press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “Yup, just s'more foreplay, sweets.” He straightens up and gives your cunt a quick swat, making you lift your hips up off the bed, your fists curled into the sheets below you.
“How bad ya want it?” he asks, taunting you, and you bite your lip.
“Want what?” you ask.
He rubs your clit with his thumb for a brief moment, then gives your pussy another slap, the sound of it hitting your ears just as sharply as his hand feels against you.
“You know what.”
“Your fat cock?” you ask, and he grins, smug.
“Yeah. My fat fuckin' cock.” He curls three fingers into you, and push your head back into the pillow behind you as he fingers you, his free hand now curled around his cock too, squeezing himself at the base as he fucks into you with his fingers, deep but not deep enough.
“Gator,” you whimper, and he pulls out of you, rubbing from side to side over your tight clit—you shy away, and he smirks.
“Answer,” he says, taking his hand away from you entirely, replacing it with the one he'd just had wrapped around his cock. He teases your clit with it, rubbing in tight little circles.
“Gator,” you try again, but he just raises his hand, palm toward you, readying the final slap, the one you know will ruin you—the one you want so, so fucking bad.
“Answer,” he directs you, and you flex your hips, parting your thighs as much as you can, giving him room for when he brings his hand down on you again.
You cup your own breasts, rolling your perked nipples between your fingers, and your voice is calm and quiet when you answer him. “Please,” you say. “I—want it. Bad.”
“You asked for it, sweets,” he says, and with one last flick of his thumb on your clit, he pulls his hand away, letting you wait in sweet, painful anticipation, and then he slaps your cunt one final time; you're so worked up and strung out and on edge that the shock of it makes you clamp down on yourself, the pressure between your legs so fucking much that it brings you to orgasm, your heels digging into the bed on either side of him as you arch up off the bed, shuddering and shaking as you come so hard you have no control over the sounds you're making or the words you're saying (or trying to say, really).
“Can I come inside ya?” Gator asks suddenly, and you nod, agreeing without even thinking, and as you feel him slide back inside you, your whole body tenses up again, another orgasm building even though you've barely come down from the previous one.
Gator hikes your leg up over his hip on one side, bracing himself on the bed with his other hand, and snaps his hips into you, so hard and fast that the sound of skin slapping skin makes you moan, would get you off even without how good he feels as he moves into you repeatedly.
You pull your other leg up, hand curled around the back of your knee, opening yourself up to try to feel him even deeper, and you do—he's got his knees up on either side of you, fucking into you half feral, animalistic, your fingernails dig into the back of your thigh as you grasp at his shoulder with your other hand and pull him down to kiss him. It's fierce and neither of you wants to yield control to the other, so your lips are around his tongue and his teeth meet your lower lip and you moan into him as he growls into you and then you're coming again, wrapped up in all of it, in Gator, in everything—your cunt flutters around him as he fucks into you even harder, harder, harder, one more time and then his hips still, pressing his full weight into you as he comes, fully sheathed inside of you, a sound punched from his throat that's half laugh and half gasp.
“Oh my fuckin' god,” Gator says after a moment, his lips still against yours, and he pulls out, fingers on either side of his cock to hold the condom on himself, making absolutely sure it stays where it's supposed to.
You breathe out slowly, then inhale deeply, untangling your limbs from his as he lowers himself down onto the bed beside you, limbless, flopping down to stare at the ceiling as his cock flags to one side. You roll over to face him, laying your arm over his stomach, and he turns his head toward you and kisses you back when you try for one more.
“Lemme get up,” he says, because your arm is on him and he doesn't really want to dislodge you. “'Nd you need ta get t'the bathroom.”
“Conscientious,” you quip.
“I ain't givin' no one a UTI,” he says. “See? Virtuous.”
You laugh and push yourself up, away from him, heading to the bathroom. You hear him pad into the kitchen as you close the door behind you and you wonder if he'll still be in the apartment when you finish cleaning yourself up. You do what you need to do, then wash your face and brush your teeth for good measure, and when you open the bathroom door, you see the light's off in your bedroom.
Stepping lightly across the hall, you peek into your room to find Gator back in your bed, under the sheets this time.
“Hi,” you say, and he looks up at you, smirking.
“Hi.”
“You, um. Staying?”
He looks at you like you've grown a second head. “You kickin' me out?”
“No.”
“A'right. Then what, you waitin' fer an invitation t'yer own bedroom?”
In lieu of answering, you cross the threshold, closing the door behind you as you round the foot of your bed and climb in beside him. You wonder for a moment if you should have put something on, but as you settle the sheets down, you notice—no, he's definitely still naked too.
“You always do this?” you ask.
“Do what?” Gator asks, turning toward you, his features starting to become more visible as your eyes adjust to the dark.
“Stay over. After.”
“After?” You see the apple of his cheek round up. “Sweets, we ain't finished yet.”
You have just enough time to formulate a question—the very eloquent “Wait, what?”—before he's back on you again, lips on yours in the darkness, but you can tell it's different this time. It's softer, calmer, like you earned the right to see a part of him he's never shown to anyone else.
One hand comes to rest on your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he kisses you, deepening it, his tongue against yours as he breaks the kiss but does not move away, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Think ya got one more in ya?” he asks, and as you kiss him again, tongue swiping over his lower lip, you smile to yourself at the fact that he now tastes minty just like your toothpaste.
“Do you?” you counter.
Gator laughs. “This shit again? Yeah. Scout's honor. I'm good fer it.”
You feel over the bedspread for one of the condoms you left there, but before you can move away from him to search for real, you hear the crinkle of a wrapper and know Gator already has one in hand.
“You were pretty sure I'd say yes,” you say.
“Hard pressed t’find someone that says no. And you… ain’t that hard t'read, 'f I'm bein' honest,” he ribs you, and you almost decide to slap him again, just for the bit, but instead you kiss him.
“Lie down,” he whispers against your mouth, and as you do, he joins you, pushing you onto your back and then away from him so your back is to his front.
Behind you, the sound of the wrapper tearing comes and you feel the bed jostle a little as Gator strokes his cock, fits the condom on, and then he's got his chest pressed to your back, the head of his cock poking between your thighs.
You reach back behind yourself to help him, guiding him into your slit again, and this time when he enters you, you groan at the feeling of it, a little sensitive but not too much to stop.
Gator's hips press up against your ass as he rolls them against you, his cock slipping in and sliding out, languid movements as he takes you again, slow and easy. He pulls you back against him, one arm beneath your pillow, and the other draped over your side as he rests his hand on your stomach, holding you close.
Sighing heavily, you close your eyes, pushing yourself back against him as he fucks you, unhurried, taking his time like neither of you have a care in the world, nothing to do besides this, besides each other, and as you relax into him, he stretches himself up around you, his lips tracing over your neck, the shell of your ear, giving you tentative kisses like he's shy about what they might mean, like they mean anything in the first place.
“Gator,” you sigh, and you feel his hips kick a little when you do, thrusting inside of you faster, harder, for just a moment before he eases back to the softer pace, the slower one, the one that feels like he feels something.
Shifting his arm beneath you, he cups your breast in his hand, playing with your nipple as he lowers his hand from your stomach down between your legs, feeling your whole body shiver as he rubs his middle finger over your clit. You lean into him, his cheek against the side of your head, as he makes small noises into your ear: whimpers and whines and little breathy puffs, most of which sound like your name.
“Y'gettin' there again?” Gator asks after the two of you move together, writhing beneath the bedsheets, your bodies joined as his arms encircle you, playing with your clit and your nipple in the same way, circling with his fingertip or rubbing over them both identically. It has you simpering for more, lips pursed as you turn your face toward his, and your lips meet just as the fingers between your legs skim over your clit just the right way, and you're coming on his cock again, your chest tight and your thighs squeezing together; you faintly register his hips stuttering too, behind you, as he groans your name into your mouth and then, for the second time, you two are tangled together, a sweaty, spent mess, all the desire you have to move from your bed dissolving into the sheets where you lay.
Neither of you stir for a long moment; it's only when Gator pulls his hips back from yours that you even realize you have to get up, a second time, and clean up—a second time. Gator moves to lay on his back, glancing at you as he eases off the second condom, and you wait for him to sit up before reaching out to graze his face with the back of your hand, very much a half-hearted slap. He gives you an indignant look and you giggle.
“Fuck was that for?” he asks. “Givin' you the best sex'a yer life? Twice?”
“For making me have to get up again,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him, not even sure if he can see you.
“Fuck off,” Gator says, but there's no bite to it at all. You giggle again. “Fuckin' brat.”
This time, when you pretend you're going to hit him again, he grabs your wrist and redirects the momentum to pull you into him.
“Y'don't have ta get up right now if ya let me give ya number...four, was it?” he suggests. “Might as well go fer five, that's the number'a the day.”
“Bullshit,” you say, even as he leans in to kiss you one more time. “You can't.”
“No one said shit about me, sweets,” he says. “Gonna have ya takin' that back right quick.” His lips find yours and you kiss him, letting him in. “Wanna hear ya say it.”
&&
The next morning, Irv wakes you up bright and early to complain about the truck taking up a space in the laundromat's parking lot, but Gator fixes that by 1) cursing Irv out, 2) informing Irv exactly who he (and his daddy) is, and 3) vacating the spot by pulling a Leon and taking you out for breakfast.
maybe a fluffy gater-being-gentle-with-pickle-the-cat blurb? or him secretly being a big ol' softy around her
sorry nile but i'm afraid of snakes :(
original djoling pet prompt here!
so funny you asked for this because i was talking to @djob00bies about it yesterday lol
for some context pickle is actually the pet that i gave swg gator/reader lol so that’s where she comes from!
as previously established gator does not like pickle much, at all. he’s just not a fan of things that are furry or fuzzy and that’s part of why he gravitates to snakes and lizards.
that said, when you and him get a place together and you bring pickle along, the cat takes to him like nothing else. she’s super friendly and loves everyone she’s ever met一purring super loud, rubbing on their legs, sitting on their lap一but she’s never taken to anyone like she takes to gator. which is honestly a little offensive to you because you raised her from basically birth, she was only a couple weeks old when you got her.
but she LOVES gator. she follows him around the house, she yowls at him for food because he wakes up way earlier than you do on most days, and because he “can’t stand the sound’a that fuckin’ feline” he is usually the one who feeds her.
he will allow her to sit on his lap but he doesn’t pet her much because he’s just not that kind of guy. doesn’t deter pickle at all, she just curls up on his thighs and falls right to sleep.
pickle is an indoor cat but every day she watches as gator readies himself to leave for work, putting on his boots by the door and then she pitter-patters over to watch him from afar as he crosses the yard and climbs into his truck
one day, when he opens the door to leave, she pounces out after him to follow him to his truck, much to your dismay and his confusion一but she doesn’t make a break for it, she just tries to hop up onto his lap in his truck. and he just sits there like wtf while you’re running out in your bare feet and bathrobe, and when you reach gator’s truck, the door still open, him sitting there rigid as anything, pickle is standing on his legs with her front paws on his chest, rubbing her face against his while gator just glances over at you and says “get this fuckin’ cat off’a me, she’s gettin’ hair all over my work clothes”
and she lets you pick her up and cradle her as gator closes the door and backs out of the drive, but by the time he’s back home you’re already ready to tease him about it
“she wants to be a deputy too,” you say, and gator just gives you a withering stare.
“she’s a fuckin’ cat,” he says back.
“you don’t think she can handle it?”
“she’s a cat!”
she follows him out to his truck every single day for a week until you learn that you need to start corralling her elsewhere when gator leaves otherwise she’s just going to keep doing it一but you do head down to the pet store one day to pick up a little something that you know gator will hate outwardly but internally think is funny. and when he gets home from work that day, there’s pickle, waiting for him right inside the front door, wearing the costume you bought, so she’s dressed up like woody from toy story, the gold sheriff’s badge right at the center of her chest.
gator walks up the porch steps, stops outside of the storm door, stares down the cat, and then when you appear behind her, he looks up at you.
“fuck is she wearin’?” he asks you through the glass, and you just laugh and scoop her up when he opens the door.
“she wants to be a deputy so bad!” you say. “now she’s ready for take your kid to work day.”
“i ain’t bringin’ that cat to work!” he half-shouts, but you can see the way his lips are quirking up at the corners. “knock it off.”
you wait for him to head down the hall before replying, “never.”
you relieve pickle of the costume and set her down and she immediately hops up onto the couch, settling in gator’s spot for when he sits to watch a little tv while you’re fixing dinner. and when you come out to call him to the table, you see him, for just the briefest moment, scritching her head a little, though when the floor creaks beneath your feet as you approach, he pulls his hand away like he was burned.
like... you're honestly not properly together even, it's definitely just a fwb situation and the friends part is tenuous. you're really just each other's booty call. your text thread is just you guys taking turns saying "you up?" and gator responding with the thumbs up emoji or you responding with a "yeah, come over"
so when he texts "you up?" at 1:47AM a short while after you've gotten home from your shift at the bar—where you saw him flirting with endless pairs of tits earlier in the night—you just sigh heavily and reply "yeah, come over" like you always do.
because yes, you're up, and yes, you're hoping that maybe him fucking you within an inch of your life will make you feel better. because it wasn't that seeing him groping other girl's asses in their short skirts or skintight jeans upset you. no, it was seeing that combined with every other asshole in the place pawing at you when you went to clear empties off tables, when the one guy you actually kind of wanted the attention from pretended like you didn't exist.
which was the norm. you were at work, and he was on the prowl, and you'd both mutually agreed that when you were wearing your apron, you and your body were off limits.
and it wasn't even that you liked gator. it's just—god, you were tired of being slapped on the ass or being called baby every time you walked past a table that stunk of axe body spray and horses.
there's a knock on your door about 3 minutes after you text him, which leads you to believe that he was already outside waiting for your response. and for the first time since this whole situation started, you don't want to let him in.
but you do. you climb out of bed and pick the wedgie you have out of your butt and then shuffle to your front door. you're ready for bed—not that that's ever stopped you before—but when you open the door, your skin shiny from the mask you did after your shower, your shoulders a little slumped, the scowl affixed to your mouth... gator hesitates when he sees you.
"you look like shit," he says, and you just scoff.
"you comin' in or what?" you reply, turning and leaving the door open, leaving him standing on your front step. that's your normal dynamic: the attitude, the playful disrespect, but tonight you can tell it's going to grate on you.
and instead of telling him, giving him any kind of warning, you walk down the hall to your bedroom, and after a moment you hear your front door latch closed and the deadbolt click, gator's jacket unzip, and his heavy footsteps trailing yours.
you're sitting on the edge of your bed when he turns the corner into your room, and he stands there for a moment. it's not that you're ever thrilled to see him, but tonight you seem especially unenthused.
"fuck's yer problem?" he asks, and you sigh, heavily.
"no problem. you come over here to ask me stupid questions?"
and there's the bite he's used to from you, so he just enters your bedroom, kicks his boots off so haphazardly they scuff the wall beside your closet, and crosses to you, standing over you where you sit.
"me first?" he asks, and you just shrug, because your shitty fucking overwhelming night might as well end with you choking on gator's cock as the gateway to you getting the dicking you want and deserve and, honestly, need after the shitshow that was the closing shift at the bar.
to his credit, gator does seem to realize that something's off, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he just reaches for his belt buckle and undoes it, the metal tinkling in the quiet dark of your room as you just sit there in front of him, adjusting the strap of your tank top, biding time until he's got his camo pants around his thighs and the elastic of his boxers beneath his balls, propping them up as he takes hold of his cock in one hand, holding it out for you.
you sigh—gator frowns above you, though you don't see—and lean in to part your lips and take the head into your mouth. gator's free hand moves to the crown of your head, guiding you with none-too-gentle movements as he moves your head down onto his length for you, lips sliding over the warm, soft skin of his prick. you lave your tongue against the underside of him, sucking him off and you squeeze your eyes shut, because you can do this by muscle memory by now.
it's about the point when his tip hits the back of your throat that you choke on him, just a little, and gag, which doesn't usually happen. and then gator really starts in with the shit talking that you usually give to each other.
"fuck's wrong with ya t'night?" he asks. "forget how t'suck a dick?"
you just hum around him, ignoring the question and wrapping your hand around the part of him that isn't currently between your lips.
"'sall yer fuckin' good for 'nd ya can't even do it right," he says.
and normally, you'd pull off and look him right in the face and tell him if he didn't like what you were doing he could suck his own dick, but this time, the opposite of that happens. which is you pausing in your movements, your hand resting loosely around the base of his cock, as your breath hitches, catching in your throat, and you make the strangest noise either of you has ever heard: a sob around a penis.
you pull off of him at the same moment he lifts his hand from your head, and he actually steps back as you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm the fuck down because you're not about to cry in front of gator fucking tillman except actually you are, and he's looking down at you with a mixture of disgust and concern on his face.
"uh..." gator starts to say, because you're pressing the back of your wrist against your nose, clamping your jaw shut, trying to keep your breaths even as your chest kicks and you shudder as you exhale. "you good?"
"uh huh," you barely manage to say. "just need a sec, sorry." and you're up like a rocket, pushing past gator with his dick out and unsucked in your bedroom, slamming the bathroom door behind you as you stand there in the dark, the only light the warm yellow of the nightlight next to the sink. you hate that you're acting like this, but you hate even more that gator saw what little sliver of it that he did. you half-sob again and turn the tap so hard that you're pretty sure you almost dislodge the knob and then just sink down to kneel in front of the sink, your forehead against the vanity as you try to rein in the tears that won't stop now that you're alone.
you manage to keep it down, actually, but there was just something so particularly tender in you tonight that what he said wormed its way inside you and genuinely hurt, even though he's said much worse to you in the past. you were being stupid—this was just a hook up, and you had no business being so emotionally invested in a hook up—but part of you had also hoped that gator might know you well enough by now to dial it back when he sensed something was off.
the other part of you knew how presumptuous that was.
so you just turned yourself to sit on the tile floor with your back against the undersink cabinet, the heels of your hands on your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there. maybe when you opened the bathroom door, gator would be gone and you could go to bed and pretend the whole damn thing was just a dream.
except just as the thought crossed your mind, just as you heaved a sigh and started to push yourself up to your feet, a knock came on the bathroom door and you felt yourself sink back into the pool of embarrassment that you'd cried for yourself.
"you good?" gator asked again, and you considered your options.
you could:
a) answer him, tell him why you were upset, and from that point on your only interactions would be you serving him beer at the bar
b) brush off his concern and finish sucking his cock
option b sounded just perfect.
"i'm fine," you said, and as you rose to your feet the bathroom door opened. you turned to face gator, just his silhouette really visible, but you could tell that he'd (thank god) put his cock away.
"don't sound fine," he commented.
you scoffed. "i don't have you over here to play therapist."
"well, i don't especially love a girl startin' t'cry when my dick's in her mouth, so. either spill or i'm leavin'."
"bye, then," you said, pushing past him, and once you were back in your room, you wiped your eyes again, ridding them of any residual tears. you turned your bed down, intending to climb back in after you locked the door behind gator, but you only heard him pad into the room behind you.
"was it 'cause'a me?" he asked.
"was what 'cause of you?" you countered.
"whyever you were cryin'," he said awkwardly, like he desperately wanted to leave, but the bigger part of his ego needed to know that whatever had upset you was an outside force at work and not him.
"it had nothing to do with you," you said. outright, you thought.
"well, then tell me," gator said, and you spun around to look at him. he was still in his camos, his stupid quarter-zip shirt, hair slicked back; he even had his goddamn sunglasses still wrapped around the back of his head even though it was the middle of the fucking night. you hated how much you wanted him around sometimes.
"it's nothin'. i already told you."
gator stood his ground, shoving his hands into his pockets. "someone at the bar do somethin' t'ya?"
"what?" you asked. "no." it as multiple someones, practically two-thirds of the clientele.
"just gimme a name. he'll never bother ya again."
"right now it's gator tillman," you snapped.
he huffed an unamused laugh. "y'know," he said. "i seen you starin' over at me all night."
you looked up at him, meeting his eyes, holding his gaze, no matter how much you wanted to look away. "when?"
"shoot, any fuckin' time you walked out from behind that bar. y'think i didn't notice the way you'd fuckin' look every time some guy grabbed yer ass? yeah, i saw."
you felt your eyes moisten again, because he'd noticed and that, for some reason, made all of it worse.
"think i'd take kindly t'seein' a buncha fuckin' animals pawin' all over ya?"
"do you think i take kindly to seeing you chat up every fuckin' woman that walks in?"
gator clamps his mouth shut, taking you in. what you just said, the way your hands are clenched into fists at your side, the way your lower lip is wibbling again. then, he speaks.
"and whose fuckin' place do i end up at every goddamn time?"
that sobers you, shuts you up. because he's right—he's here, standing right in front of you.
"i—" you start, but the words break in your mouth, a fresh wave of tears filling your eyes. you blink them away. "fuck you."
"i mean, if ya want—"
"no, fuck you, gator. you can't just act like you give a shit now."
"who said i don't?"
"you did!" you half-shout at him, forgetting that it's after 2AM and your upstairs neighbor's bedroom is right above yours. "we both made it real fuckin' clear that this was just sex."
"yeah. sure did. and then you started cryin' on my dick."
"because i had a bad night. and you weren't exactly nice."
"since when am i nice?"
"fuck off with that," you say. "just go, ok? i didn't even want you to come over anyway."
gator steps closer to you. says nothing.
"i said go," you demand now, even as he takes another step, closing the distance. "go. go." he doesn't hug you, because that's something gator wouldn't do, but he does take hold of your arm and steer you toward your bed, easing you down onto it.
"let's see if i can turn this shit around," gator says, and before you can tell him to leave again, he curls his hands into the waistband of your sweats and pulls them down just an inch or two over your hips. he pauses, glancing up at you, waiting for you to tell him to stop.
you just nod for him to continue. "keep goin'."
and he does, ridding you of your bottoms and then settling down between your legs, pushing your thighs up and over his shoulders as he leans in to lick a long, languid stripe up through your center, tongue flicking against your clit. you shudder a little, for a different reason this time, and he lays into you, tongue curling into your slit as he fucks you with it, the wet sounds from between your legs reaching your ears and actually turning you on a little. maybe whatever you and gator have isn't perfect—maybe it isn't anything at all—but he always does make you feel better, at least a little. maybe that's all that really matters.
you he wraps his arms around your thighs as he buries his face in your cunt, sucking at your folds and your clit, his fingertips pressing divots into your legs, and you come as he closes his lips around your clit, tongue massaging it as he sucks softly. he pulls off of you, face soaked with your fluids, and he rests his wet chin on your thigh.
"so, what, ya gonna cry s'more, or what?"
"fuck you," you say again.
"i mean, shit, woman. i'm tryin' here."
you laugh weakly, but as he pushes himself upright, you close your legs.
"i don't... i don't know."
gator picks up your sweats and uses them to clean off his face. "i mean, if ya ain't up fer it i c'n take care of myself."
"i just had a bad night, gator," you say.
"'nd i made it worse," he says. "'course, you ain't never choked on my dick before so i think you can understand where i was comin' from."
"you are insufferable."
"yeah."
"this ain't gonna happen again," you say.
he frowns. "what, this?" he gestures between the two of you as you pull the hem of your tank top down, attempting to cover your modesty and failing.
"no," you say, crossing your legs one over the other, and then pulling your knees up to your chest, keeping your ankles crossed to block his view. "i mean, you know. the crying part."
gator chuckles. "that ain't no thing."
"you didn't sign up for it," you say.
"look," gator says. "i ain't gonna pretend i like this shit, ain't gonna pretend like i know what ta say when a broad starts cryin'. ain't gonna pretend like i like ya."
"wow, cool." you huff. "maybe this"—you gesture between yourselves like he did moments ago—"really isn't gonna happen again."
"that ain't what i meant. just 'cause i don't like ya don't mean i don't like ya."
you narrow your eyes. "explain."
"i ain't yer fuckin' boyfriend. 'nd i don't think ya want me t'be. 'nd that suits me just fine." he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "but i like ya well enough. only chick around who ain't on my ass for a promise or commitment or a fuckin' ring—swear t'god some of these townie bitches get a few inches in 'em and lose their fuckin' minds." you snicker. "look, what i'm sayin' is—i ain't catchin' feelings for my favorite bartender. but that don't mean i wanna see ya cry neither. capisce?"
you laugh, because objectively gator confessing to you that you're friends is funny. also, hearing him say capisce is kind of the highlight of your week.
"yeah, ok. capisce."
gator gives you a smirk, which is the closest you think you've ever seen him come to smiling. until you uncross your legs and reach out for him, pulling him closer, and then he's fumbling between your bodies as he undoes his pants again, pulling out his half-hard cock and stroking it as you spread your legs wide to fit him between them as he kneels over you, and once he's hard enough he pushes you back against your pillows, lining his cock up with your cunt, and enters you in one swift motion; you take him to the hilt with no resistance, your walls sucking him in as he starts moving, and even though it doesn't feel different it feels like everything has changed.
you flex your hips up into his, the slap of skin on skin audible, and you feel his lips on the underside of your jaw. it's the closest his mouth has ever been to yours—kissing is not something you do, not something you've ever wanted from him, and you always got the feeling it wasn't on his radar in the slightest—and then you tip your chin down as he rises up, his hips stilling flush against yours, his cock deep inside you, and your lips meet for the first time.
sucking his lower lip into your mouth, he kisses your upper lip as best he can, and your tongues meet and he tastes like tobacco and beer and whatever flavor of vape he's using this week, something stupid and cloyingly sweet, but you drink him in, because you squeeze down on his cock and he whimpers into your mouth and you love that. you love it because you bet you're the only one he ever lets hear him like this, see him so vulnerable.
the thought has you snaking your arm down between your bodies, reaching for your clit, and you feel his stomach tense up against your arm as you start rubbing yourself with two fingertips, small little circles over your swollen bead.
he starts moving in you again, fucking you harder, faster, pushing you back up against the headboard even as he reaches one hand out over your head to grip at the top, white-knuckling it as he pounds into you, hips pistoning against yours, his cock so hard and hot and thick within you that you moan his name and before you even finish the second syllable, he's licking your tongue, swallowing his own name from your lips as he reaches down with his free arm. he hooks his hand beneath your knee, pulling your leg up to open you further, wider, for him, and you sob again but in a much, much better way this time.
one of his knees comes up beside you, changing the angle at which he's driving into you, letting him fuck you faster and deeper, your fingers slipping over your clit, so fucking wet that the slide is so easy, you almost miss how close you are until he drags against your walls so fucking perfectly that your whole body twitches beneath him.
"felt that," gator mumbles, his lips on your cheek. "gonna come on this cock?"
"uh huh," you manage, nodding.
"gonna come fer me, huh?" he asks. "remember how ta get me off, at least?"
you laugh, not because it's funny, but because of course he would start that shit again.
"ain't like it's hard," you shoot back.
"no?"
"fuck no."
"watch that mouth," gator says, covering it with his own and taking your lips in a kiss—you feel his hips stutter against yours.
"you gonna come for me?" you echo him. "gonna fill up this pussy, hm?" you're panting a little, but so is he—you're both so close you can feel the warmth spreading through your limbs from where you're joined with him.
"fuck," gator grunts, nodding. "yeah, i'm—"
"come for me," you coax him. "give it to me gator, g-give—fuck—"
"take it," he finishes for you, and you feel him fuck into you harder, one final motion before the sticky heat of his release enters you, his hips twitching against you as he comes, feeling each thick spurt inside you.
gator releases your leg, lowering his hand from your knee to move it between you as well, and he nudges your hand out of the way as he takes over touching you—and as soon as his hand is on you, the feeling of fingers that aren't your own circling your throbbing clit, you come, your orgasm overtaking you, body tight tight tight until you release all of the tension, pleasure coursing through you until you relax back against your bed and he pulls out of you.
he moves his hand from your headboard to your face, then drops it to your neck, rubbing his thumb over your throat before he rolls onto his back beside you.
"hope that helped, ya crybaby," he says, after a short while, the both of you waiting for your pulse to slow, for your breathing to calm.
wanna know your take on the djolings & what pets them and their partner would have (assuming they have some sort of house/apartment together). and what each blorb’s relationship with that animal would be like :p 🩷
kurt: so we all think that kurt as a human person can even take care of a pet? that said, his girly would have a chihuahua and he would hate him. bites his ankles whenever it has a chance. his name is bruiser like in legally blonde and he likes literally everyone except kurt.
keys: i think you and keys would have a guinea pig and his name is woodstock. you also have a bearded dragon named zelda, and a tank of sea monkeys which you collectively refer to as the horde. keys always has zelda sitting on his shoulder whenever he’s playing something chill like stardew valley.
teacake: he would definitely want an exotic pet like a capuchin but know that would end terribly so he would get a stuffed monkey and name him jonesy, and then that stuffed animal would turn into the chew toy for the dog you would adopt together. she’s a mutt named penelope and she has 3 legs. she follows teacake around like … well, a lost puppy. he loves her more than you (almost).
steve: along with your happy meal, you and steve have a pet golden retriever named silvy. your 4th kiddo named her that and also likes to ride silvy around like a horse. steve is definitely the dog dad, he is the one who takes her for walks and feeds her and plays with her when the kids don’t feel like it. he refers to silvy as his seventh nugget.
gator: you brought a cat named pickle to the relationship. she’s a mackerel tabby who loves every single person she’s ever come into contact with but no one more than gator, which you take very personally especially since gator doesn’t like her that much. he also has a ball python which he would have gotten the second he had more room for a tank bigger than 10 gallons. her name is nile because he thought it sounded cool and it’s undeniably better than just calling her crocodile. nile is his pride and joy and he shows pictures of her to everyone who he can.
hey!! the art of patience was so good, are you planning on maybe posting some more of ur work? i personally would love to see it, i love ur writing, u are very talented :)
hello anon! thank u for the compliment, i appreciate it a lot :)
yes, i am planning on posting more in the future. however, i cannot give anyone hope that i will post anything consistently— my inspiration to write comes in waves (byproduct of being an art school burnout with a creative writing minor) so all i can ask is for your patience with me.
i have a fic coming but it’s been sitting unfinished in my drafts for about a month now, same goes for some gator hcs that i’m working on. so, if you love surprises and love uncertainty even more, you have those to look forward to! :3
• a Gator Tillman x f!reader ‘choose your own’ fanfic •
Part 1: The End
&&
tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, friends to enemies to lovers, childhood friends, mean gator, kinda mean reader also. tags will be added as this goes on!
Part 2: The Beginning
(Five Years Ago)
Every day is “take your kid to work day” when you’re 13, your daddy is the sheriff, and it’s summer vacation.
Mid-June, and Gator is getting pretty tired of staring at the ceiling or the inside of his eyelids. Neither is particularly stimulating, but his dad’s office is probably the most interesting part of the station, so it’s where he spends most of his day: Eavesdropping on calls, sneaking peeks at files he shouldn’t be, “practicing” with his dad’s gun whenever he leaves the office (the safety is on, it’s fine).
He’s planted in there all day, except for lunch, when he heads out to bother Lynette at the front desk, because she gives him Pixy Stix and even though they’re not really anyone’s favorite candy, it’s still sugar and it still turns his tongue funny colors, which is still something that he enjoys even as a teenager.
He’s just gotten to Lynette’s desk when Roy strides out behind him, and Gator watches as he comes to a stop beside the front entrance to the station. Gator gives Lynette a sidelong look, which she returns, before handing him five straws that he takes without question, sticking two beneath his upper lip to mug at Lynette with tusks. She smirks and turns back to her computer.
The front door opens, and Gator doesn’t really spare a glance until he hears your voice, the voice of a girl complaining about how hot it is outside, and then he’s yanking the Stix out of his mouth and peeking around his dad to see who you are and what you’re doing there.
You’re with your dad too, or who Gator assumes to be your dad. While Roy is the sheriff, your father isn’t wearing a police uniform of any kind, which makes him wonder why he’s there, but he marches right up to your dad and gives him a firm handshake.
“Roy,” he says, and Gator watches as his dad welcomes yours (probably) in, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and leading him into the bullpen, leaving you (and Gator) with Lynette.
“Hello sweetheart,” Lynette says, and from where he’s standing, Gator can see her rummage around in her purse for some more Pixy Stix. She holds them out to you, and you slowly walk over, your teal Converse high-tops, covered in bubbly handwriting, squeaking a little on the brown linoleum tile of the reception area. You take the candy from her, and stick one behind your ear. Gator smiles a little despite himself.
“Honey,” Lynette says, reaching out and tapping Gator’s back. “Why don’t you introduce yourself.”
He looks at you, while you’re busy picking at the end of one of the other Stix, finally ripping it open and then looking up at him with wide eyes.
“I can call you Honey if you want,” you say, and Lynette suppresses a smile while Gator scoffs, very clearly offended.
“Uh, no,” he says. “I’m Gator.”
“Gator?” you repeat, quirking an eyebrow, then just tipping the sour sugar into your mouth. “All right.” You shrug, let the candy stain your tongue, then tell him your name too. “I don’t go by Honey either.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call you that anyway,” Gator says. “Why’re you here?”
You shrug again. “My dad knows your dad.”
Gator looks at Lynette. “Come on,” he says, and you follow him through the doors your fathers walked through. Gator navigates his way through the desks easily, and you tag along. His father’s office door is closed, fully closed, not cracked, not left open just an inch, and Gator knows well enough that that means it’s off limits, for right now at least. You follow him back to the little kitchenette area the deputies use as a break room, and watch as he tosses himself onto the worn couch pushed up beside the refrigerator.
“What are you doing here?” you ask him, pouring more sugar onto your tongue, sticking it out at Gator until it dissolves into a purple sludge, which you then swallow.
He watches, amused. “My dad doesn’t want me doing nothin’ at the ranch all summer.”
“You have a ranch?” you ask, tearing open the other two Pixy Stix you have in your hand, the last still tucked behind your ear.
“He has a ranch,” Gator says, like you genuinely may have thought that Gator, your fellow adolescent, owned a ranch. “Says I shouldn’t be sittin’ around jerkin’ off all day.” He seems to realize what he said a beat after he said it, and he just coughs loudly, standing up and turning to the fridge, opening it and grabbing a can of Sprite. “I don’t do that, by the way, so I don’t even know why he said it.”
You watch him nervously pop the tab on the can, completely unfazed. “Can I have one?” you ask, even though he’s already closed the fridge.
“Um,” Gator says, then just holds the one he already opened out to you. You take it and immediately upend the Stix into it, shoving them into the open can. Gator watches as you manage to tear open the other end of the tubes, then proceed to use them as legitimate straws. “Whoa.”
“What?” you ask, your eyes shining with sugar intake, mischief, and pride that you’ve done something that this boy’s never seen or thought to do.
“Nothin’,” he says, then turns back to the fridge, takes out another can of Sprite, and proceeds to copy you.
“So besides not jerking off, do you actually do anything at your ranch?”
Gator chokes on the sip of soda he took, coughing a little as he shakes his head, and then nods.
“Yeah,” he says, wheezing a little. “I help with the horses. And, around the house ‘nd stuff.”
“Do they make you do the laundry?” you ask, knowingly, and he scowls at you because if he could give anything to go back in time and stop himself from saying that to you, he literally would.
“I cook breakfast ‘cause I have to get up so early for school ‘nd the horses.” He clears his throat again, then falls back onto the couch a second time, focusing on his soda can as he sucks at his straws, the Sprite now a weird mixture of sickly purple-brown thanks to each flavor of the Stix. “And laundry.”
You laugh. “Knew it,” you say, sitting down next to him, sticking your legs straight out and tapping the toes of your high tops together. “We just moved here.”
Gator looks over at you, shaking his head a little so his hair falls into his face, obscuring his eyes, because maybe he’s a little embarrassed, and he’s still new to finding girls cute but he thinks you might be.
“From where?”
You rub at your nose a little with your fingers before answering. “Seattle.”
Gator looks at you fully, forgetting to be shy or reserved. “Then how does your dad know my dad?”
You’re mid-sip when he asks, and you stop drinking, but keep the stripey straws between your teeth. “My dad used to live here. They were in the academy together.”
“The police academy?”
“No, the Academy of Dance,” you say, and Gator gives you a look before you dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Yes, the police academy.”
“So you’re just visiting?”
You shake your head. “Nuh uh. I just said we’re moving back. We need to be close by for my grandpa.”
Gator nods but doesn’t ask any further questions. About that, anyway. “So what do you do all summer?”
You don’t answer, just drinking your soda through the Pixy Stix straws you created, then you abruptly pull them out of your mouth and grin at him. “My dad says I just get into trouble.”
And Gator knows that he should discourage this, at the very least because you’re in his daddy’s workplace. But the way your cheeks are rounded up, the way you’ve already shown him an excellent way to get twice as much sugar into his body in half the time, the way you’re very clearly inviting him to join you in whatever scheme you’re planning—he’s literally only a boy.
“What kind of trouble?”
Your grin widens, you stand up, and you hold your hand out to him, ready to pull him along behind you.
He hesitates, then takes it, following after you this time as you leave your extra-sweet Sprite cans on the floor in front of the couch.
&&
You get about as far as the bullpen before your confidence starts to wane just a little; you don’t know where you’re going.
“Take me to the back,” you say. “Where they do the cop stuff.”
“Cop stuff?” Gator asks, trying not to draw attention to the fact that you’re still holding his hand, lest you pull it away.
“Yeah, like where they interrogate people and hold them in cells.”
“Wha—why?”
“‘Cause it’s cooler back there,” you say. “I hung out there all the time at my dad’s precinct.”
“Is your dad sheriff too?”
You shake your head. “Seattle PD. I think he was having trouble trying to transfer so he’s seeing if your dad can just… let him be a deputy.”
“I bet he will,” Gator says. “My dad does anything he wants.” He grins. “That’s why being sheriff is so cool.”
You quirk an eyebrow. “Sure,” you say, noncommittal, then point with your free hand. “So which door gets us to the holding cells?”
“Holdin’ cells?” Gator asks, looking around to see if any of the deputies nearby heard anything either of you were saying, but the two of you are as good as invisible where you’re standing.
“Yeah,” you say, laying on the attitude a little because you are freshly teenaged and you need to test out those brand new claws on someone. “You know, where they put people who are in custody in cells to hold them?”
“Yeah, I know what a holdin’ cell is,” Gator says, then just starts walking, dragging you along with him, leading you to the door that leads into the bowels of the sheriff’s station, where they interrogate suspects, fingerprint them, all the shit that booking someone encompasses, and yes, the holding cells too.
The warm light of the bullpen is not present in the back of the station. The walls are concrete and the cold tile floor echoes as Gator leads you down the hall. It’s quiet and dim, and you slip your hand out of his with no comment, so he doesn’t comment either. There’s two smaller cells and one larger one, but all three are currently empty.
“Do they open?” you ask, and Gator gives you a look, slightly concerned this time.
“Uh, yeah,” he says.
“Do you have a key?”
“Why would I have the key?” Gator asks, halfway to exasperated.
You shrug. “For fun.”
“That’s not fun,” he says, “it’s stupid.”
You frown at him. “You’re stupid if you don’t think it’s fun.”
“If I don’t think what is fun? Breaking into jail?”
“Yes.” You giggle, and Gator softens immediately, internally berating himself because he’d always told himself he would never be a sucker for a cute girl with a laugh that sounded like a cross between bells and a frog, and yet here he is, being a sucker for a cute girl with a laugh that sounded like a cross between bells and a frog.
God damn it.
“Well, either way I don’t have a key, so,” he says.
“Does your dad have the only one?” you ask.
“I don’t—know,” he says, uncertain.
You bite your lower lip, nodding. “Ok. Hm.” You step past Gator and rub at your nose again absently; Gator wonders if you have allergies or a cold or it’s just a habit. You step forward and wrap your hand around a bar of one of the cells and tug—and it opens. You pause, surprised that you’re holding an open cell door, and then look at Gator. “Ok.” Your smile is, unfortunately, contagious.
He steps closer. “Now what?”
“Get in,” you say, pulling the door open fully and then gesturing with your free hand to sweep him into the cell.
“No way,” Gator says, but you just pout.
“It’ll be fun,” you insist.
“You said yerself you get into trouble, ‘nd I know trouble when I see it. My daddy’ll kill me if he catches me back here.”
“So he won’t catch us, duh,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ll just close the door for a second.”
“Why?” Gator asks. “Why me?”
“‘Cause I said so,” you say, sticking your purple tongue out at him. “Inside, delinquent!”
Gator hesitates, but looks at the way your hair is curling over the shells of your ears, the slight sheen to your eyes despite the wan lighting, the way your tongue is peeking out between your teeth, and he just walks right into the cell.
He barely clears the bars when you swing the door shut, slamming it with such force that you hear a second metallic clang that sounds more final than just the door closing.
“Oh,” you say, sticking out your lower lip as you reach for the bars again just as Gator turns to place his hands on them too. You pull, he pushes, but the door doesn’t budge.
“Oh,” you say again, a little more nervousness present this time.
“What the hell happened?” Gator asks, rattling the door.
“Um,” you intone. “Not sure.”
“Get me out,” Gator says, and while you can’t discern it, he is panicking. Or, starting to. The idea of being locked in a cell, unable to get out isn’t what’s bothering him. It’s the fact that his dad will find him in there, or one of the other deputies will find him in there and then tell his dad. Both are equally mortifying.
“Well—” you start to say, and Gator shakes the door of the cell again.
“Get me out,” he says, and this time, you can tell he’s actually worried. Anxious.
“Ok,” you say. “Just… it’s ok. You’re not actually, like… in trouble.” You try to keep your tone light, but he just fixes you with a piercing look. “Hey,” you continue, reaching up to peel one of his hands off the bars. You lace your fingers with his and feel your heart pop into your throat for a brief second when he squeezes your hand and then looks away like he did not mean to do that. “You’re not stuck in there.”
“No, my dad’s just gonna tear me a new one,” Gator says.
“I’ll be right back,” you say.
“Don’t tell my dad,” Gator implores you, and you look at him with sympathy.
“I won’t.” You tug your hand free from his. “Promise.”
“Promise,” Gator repeats, but it’s a little more forceful, as he holds his pinky out to you.
You look from his hand to his face. “Really?” you ask, incredulous, even as you hook your pinky with his and then step back.
“What are you gonna do?” Gator asks.
“I’m gonna go get your dad’s keys.”
Without further ado, you turn on your heel and make for the door back out to the station proper, only for Gator to call out to you again.
“Wait—how?”
You face him again, rubbing at your nose in a way that is now starting to grow on Gator, which he forces himself to ignore.
“I’ll just get them,” you say, nonchalant, like it’ll be easy to pickpocket law enforcement.
“How are you gonna—you can’t just steal his keys,” Gator protests.
You turn around, making a face at him. “I’m not stealing them,” you said. “I’m borrowing them. It’s not even a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal, actually,” Gator says, but he can’t stop you as you resume your walk back to the door that leads to the bullpen. “It’s—”
You disappear through the door before he can finish his sentence.
You’re alone in the station now, but still, none of the deputies look at you. You make a beeline for the door that leads to the lobby, because Lynette was cool and will probably help you.
The issue is that when you get out there, so is your dad, and so is Roy.
“There you are!” your dad says, looking down at you with blatant concern. “Where were you?”
“Um,” you say, and gesture vaguely behind you.
“Was Gator with you, darlin’?” Roy asks, and you look up at him with wide eyes, not quite fearful but…concerned.
“Um,” you say again, and with both your dad and Gator’s dad looking at you expectantly, you decide to… bend the truth just a little.
“Well, he was,” you say, reaching up to pluck the Pixy Stick from behind your ear, tearing open one end.
“And…where is he now?” Roy asks.
You pull a face, twisting your lips a little before you tip some of the candy into your mouth. You try to speak with an entire Pixy Stick in your mouth, but it doesn’t quite make it out intelligibly. “‘Oldin’ fel.”
“What?” your dad prompts.
“‘Oldin’ fel,” you say again, and he purses his lips.
“Eat what’s in your mouth please,” he says, and you just press the sugar up against the roof of your mouth as it dissolves.
“Holding cell,” you say, and they both start, straightening up for a beat before Roy shakes his head.
“Now, I know I must’ve misheard you, young lady,” he says, and you just shake your head because no he didn’t. “Did you say my son’s in a holding cell?”
You nod, rubbing your nose again. “Yeah.”
“Why in god’s name is he in a holding cell?” Roy asks.
“Um.” You bite your lip, blue-stained teeth visible. Inspiration strikes. “He was kind of showing off?” Yeah, they’ll believe that. Boys are stupid, especially around girls.
Roy and your dad both seem to relax. Your dad laughs, actually.
“That so?” Roy asks, but he’s smirking. Doesn’t even seem mad.
“Yeah,” you say, nodding like you’re agreeing with something he suggested rather than your own lie.
“I guess I’ll go get’im out,” Roy says, pulling his keys from his pocket.
Pfft. If you’d tried to lift them he definitely wouldn’t have noticed.
“Maybe let him sweat for a little,” your dad jokes. “Nah, go get him. I’ll see you next week, Roy. Thank you for the opportunity.”
They shake hands, and you wave to Roy—and Lynette, who’s giving you a knowing look—as you walk toward the main doors.
“Oh, Mr. Tillman?” you say, turning just as you reach the threshold of the lobby.
“Yes, darlin’?” he asks, turning back to you even as he pushes the door to the back of the station open, the deputies at their desks visible. They still aren’t looking over at anything that’s been going on.
“Tell Gator I said bye, ok?”
Roy chuckles like he understands what’s happening when he actually has no fucking idea.
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll tell’im.”
Your dad’s hand falls to your shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he leads you out to his truck.
“You’re a good kid,” he says, and you just smile to yourself, because no. You’re not.
pairing: teacake meacham/f!reader
wc: 4100
tags: travis will never shut up, very bad dirty talk (but he’s cute so it evens out), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, [unsafe] vaginal sex, face sitting, come eating
a/n: this is combining two very… well i can’t really say similar asks but they both mentioned teacake talking a lot during sex (different fonts though) so i combined them into one fic that has it all. by which i mean trying to get teacake to shut up with your pussy and it definitely not working. enjoy! (travis sure did.)
for @djob00bies and 🪽anon.
&&
It’s not that you zone out when Teacake is talking. He’s called you on it before, but that is not what it is. You swear.
When he gets going, really on a tangent, it’s like he’s a fucking hypnotist and his tongue is the pendulum.
You really try to take in what he’s saying, but he’s just so cute and charming that it’s not your fault that you just let yourself get wrapped up in the excitement he has for whatever he’s yapping about and just…forget to actively listen. Nevermind that you’d fail a pop quiz about it as soon as he stops talking一his little country drawl and the way he emphasizes his words with his hands, everything about the one-sided conversations you tend to have is your favorite part of your day.
So when he stopped abruptly and tilted his head to the side, you were shocked out of your reverie and focused on him again. He was smirking, looking down at your crotch.
“You good?” Teacake asked, and you blinked.
“Yeah? Why?”
“You’re, uh…” he tipped his head to the side, shrugging that shoulder. “Well you seem a little worked up.”
“What?” you asked, but now that you were tuned back into your body you know what he meant, what he must have seen. You were squeezing your thighs together. “I’m fine.”
“You were literally licking your lips staring at mine,” Teacake said, and he stood up from where he was seated perpendicular to you at your kitchen table. “Come on, pretty girl.”
“What?” you repeated, and he just reached for your hand, resting around a coffee mug that you forgot was there because you were too busy staring at Teacake’s mouth and letting your mind wander to what else it could do besides talk your ear off (affectionate).
“Ya want it that bad, I’m not gonna keep it from you. Let’s go.” He tugged at your fingers, and you rose from the chair, let him lead you down the hall. This was not usually how his daily summary of his shift at Atchison Storage went, but you weren’t going to complain.
“You can finish your story first,” you said, and he just chuckled.
“Oh, I’m gonna,” he said, pulling you around the door jamb into your bedroom. “Don’t worry, I won’t spare a single detail.”
You laughed a little, to yourself mostly. “Good.” You loved hearing Travis talk almost as much as you loved Travis himself.
Instead of continuing his story, though, he stopped pulling you when you were beside the bed, keeping his hand closed around yours, then reaching up to brush the backs of his fingers over your cheek. “God, you’re pretty,” he said again, and you smiled a little. It was his go-to compliment, and it never got old. He called you other adjectives: Gorgeous, beautiful, perfect一but “God, you’re pretty” was the first thing he ever said to you, by accident when you were strangers, and you sort of loved that a guy who talks so much on purpose and so deliberately, said the first words he ever said to you unintentionally.
Cupping your face in both hands, he leaned down to kiss you and you let him in immediately, no hesitation, no pretense一just a smile on your lips as his hands dropped to your shoulders and then your arms, turning you slowly to the bed and sitting you down.
“So, like I was saying,” he said, and you couldn’t help but to smile as he pushed you back a little一you moved with him easily, letting him spread your legs as he kneeled in between them, reaching up to undo the button of your jeans, lifting your hips as he tugged them down. “Griffin brought in donuts for us this morning which, I believe, is because he wants me to do some more illegal shit for him.”
As he spoke, he worked the denim off your legs, removing your socks along with them, then rising to stand on his knees between your thighs. He placed one hand on your arm, the other reaching around to your lower back. He helped you out of your shirt.
“Can I take this off too?” he asked, once your shirt collar was clear of your head, reaching to let his index finger slip beneath the band of your bra, tickling you.
“Yeah,” you affirmed, and he slipped the hooks with just one hand. “Impressive.”
“I’m pretty good with my hands,” he said.
“Better with your tongue,” you snickered.
“Possibly true,” he said, sliding your bra down your arms and then leaning in to kiss your breasts.
“I had two donuts though,” he said, between kisses, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as he spoke, so his words were a bit too muffled for you to really comprehend. “Vey w’r pr-y一mm一good.”
“Travis,” you said, laughing, smoothing his hair back over his forehead to look down at him.
“Mmn’ sayin’,” he said, pulling off of you.
“It’s really a miracle that I can understand you when you do that.”
“Talented tongue,” he said, sticking that very thing out at you.
“Prove it,” you said, and he just grinned up at you, his tongue peeking out just a little between his teeth.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Or yours, I guess.”
Teacake licked his lower lip and lowered himself back down between your thighs, hands splayed out on your legs as he pushed you open a bit further to accommodate him. He leaned in, letting his lips trace over your pussy, not really doing much with his mouth yet, but he did bring one of his hands over to rub two fingers against your slit, parting your folds and sighing softly when he felt how wet you were for him already.
“Wow,” he breathed, looking up at you from where you had settled back, resting on your elbows, looking down your body at him. “You’re so…” he trailed off, not lost for words (he never was) but choosing to stop himself, as he licked a long, thick stripe up your center. Your hips lifted off the bed, following him, as he held you open for him, revealing your tight little hole, and he licked at it again, just barely tracing his tongue over it before he pulled back, sighing.
“Travis,” you whined, but you didn’t mean it. He’d said he was going to finish his story, and you knew he intended to.
“Not sure what it’ll be this time,” Teacake said, curling one finger inside of you slowly, letting you take him in, even and easy. “Some stupid shit, I’m sure, it always is with Griffin.”
You tipped your head back, letting the timbre of his voice wash over you as he fed his finger inside your body, pulling it back out before pushing back in. His cheek was on your thigh, his eyes right on your cunt, as he teased entrance with a second finger.
“More?” he asked, and you managed to whimper out an “Uh huh” before he was pressing his second fingertip against you, stretching you on two fingers.
“I should’ve brought a donut home for you,” he said, and you groaned, squeezing down on his fingers as he spoke, as he scissored them inside of you to feel your walls quiver against him. He grinned up at you, though you weren’t looking. “You like that, huh, pretty girl?”
You snapped back to attention, because the pet name got through to you when nothing else he was saying really did, and you lifted your head, meeting his eyes.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding.
“Good,” he replied, leaning in to take your clit between his lips, and your hips bucked up into his mouth as he hummed around it. “Fuck, you taste so good.”
“Travis,” you whined as he pulled away.
“So sweet,” he said, and you felt him about to branch off on another verbal journey. “Sweeter’n sugar.” He took another pull off your clit, lowering his mouth to suck at your slit around his fingers, slurping at your arousal like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. “Better than anything,” he murmured. “Better than those donuts.”
You laughed despite yourself, because god, he couldn’t stop himself and that was what had made you fall for him in the first place. No filter, but also nothing bad to ever say一he was just pure sweetness and light.
“Shoulda brought one home for you,” he said again, then resumed his work, fucking you with his fingers and making sure to press up against your front wall each time he entered you with them fully. You were practically gushing around him, and each time your body shook, wracked with pleasure, he leaned down to lick at your cunt, taking his fingers so goddamn well.
“Travis, I’m一”
“Oh yeah,” he said, pulling his fingers out of you. “I didn’t finish telling you about Griffin yet.”
“We’re not talking about Griffin right now,” you hissed, but there was no venom in it, no malice whatsoever, because you were well practiced in tuning out anything that didn’t contribute to your orgasm when he had his hands on you.
“I was talking about the donuts.”
“We’re not talking about donuts either,” you said, snippy, but he only laughed.
“Just sayin’, you taste better.” He leaned in to suck at your clit, but pulled off of you just enough to speak. “Maybe I could make you the cream-filled kind and see how ya like that.”
“Travis!” you said, reaching down to push him away from you, because you were horrified but also laughing, and when you pushed his forehead back with the heel of your hand, you saw he was grinning just as wide as you were.
“Would ya hate it, really?” he asked, and you bit your lip.
“No,” you admitted.
Teacake shrugged one shoulder, tilted his head to the side like that was all there was to it. “Slide back, pretty girl,” he said, and you pushed yourself backward on the bed as he rose up to stand over you, tugging off the thermal henley shirt he was wearing and leaning over you, hands skimming up your thighs as he did. He made his way up to your hips, then your waist, finally cupping your breasts as he leaned fully over you, enveloping your bare body with his own, as he nosed his way in to kiss you, lips meeting yours in a chaste kiss that turned heated all too quickly, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down against you even though he was still half clothed.
He melted against your lips, eyes fluttering closed as he drank you in, quiet for a long moment, too long in your opinion, before he was mumbling softly against your mouth and you pulled back to hear him.
“Your lips are so soft, it’s just一they’re perfect,” he said, half to himself, really. “Like little pillows.”
“Oh my god,” you said, laughing, and he looked not nearly sheepish enough as he pulled back from you, grinning.
“It’s true!”
“You’re so weird,” you said.
“Maybe,” he replied, giving you one last peck on the lips before he pushed himself back upright, reaching down to his waist and undoing his own button and fly, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, baring himself now while you watched.
A smile was all that graced your lips, and he took himself in hand even as he watched. You heard him start talking again, thankful that it wasn’t about Griffin or donuts this time.
“See how you get me all worked up?” he asked, and you nodded, reaching down between your legs to touch yourself a little too, because while he’d fingered you, he hadn’t paid all that much attention to your clit, and honestly? It felt a little neglected. “You get me so horned up, I swear, everything about you just一god, you know?”
“Tell me,” you said, mostly because you just wanted to hear the low rumble of his voice, the way he mumbled his words, the cute way he spoke to you about anything and everything that crossed his mind.
“You’re just so pretty,” Teacake said. “Your eyes and your smile, your nose? It’s perfect. And the way your cheeks get all round when you laugh at me.” You giggled and he pointed at you with his free hand, even as he was still stroking his cock with the other. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
He stepped closer to the bed, leaving his bottoms in a pile on the floor, and crawled onto the bed, kneeling between your legs.
“And…” he started, his cock bobbing a little as he moved closer to you; you could see it hanging below him, under the small tummy he had. “These too,” he said, lowering himself down to let his lips trail over your tits, taking each nipple into his mouth in turn, sucking softly at them just to coax whimpers from you, to perk them up so he could trace his lips over them to tease you a bit more. “So nice,” he muttered, letting his tongue move over one pert nipple, pressing flat and hard against it, dragging it along with his mouth as he moved to the other side, but instead of licking over that one, he sucked it, teasing the tip with his tongue while it was in his mouth. “Reminds me of this one lady at work today,”
“Excuse me?” you said, actually a little stern, because it was one thing to talk about his boss or the donuts he brought; it was another to talk about a woman at work.
“No, just一she had all these dolls to store away.”
You blinked. “I’m not following.”
“Like… baby dolls,” Teacake said, gesturing at your chest like that made any kind of sense.
“I don’t…think I want to know.”
“Y’know, the kind you can pretend t’feed ‘nd they say ‘mama’ and shit,” he said, and as he did, he lowered his gaze to your body, looking down as he hoisted your legs up over his hips, before angling his cock against your slit.
“I’m still一” you began, but before you could say you were still fucking confused by whatever he was going on about, he’d pushed the head of his cock up against your slit and was now just barely breaching you, entering your wet little snatch in one fluid movement. “Oh god, Travis.”
“Anyway, one’a the dolls kept staring at me no matter where I was in the unit,” he said, sheathing himself fully inside you. He ground his hips against you a little.
“What?” you asked, absently, because now that he was in you all you could think of was him, nothing else, no stupid haunted dolls at the storage facility or whatever the fuck else.
“It kept lookin’ at me,” he said, reaching down to take hold of your hands, and instead of leaving you laying on the bed, he pulled you up to sit on his lap, holding you upright against him, his strong arms wrapping around you as he moved you bodily off of his cock, only to let you slide right back down.
“Travis一” you gasped, and he just chuckled.
“Figure it’s easier to have a conversation face to face,” he said, and you just whined, curling your arms around his neck and holding yourself tight against him, even as you rolled your hips above his, taking him in over and over, pulling off and letting gravity sink you back down.
He took your lips with his, kissing you again. He broke off the kiss but you didn’t stop kissing him, even as he talked to you.
“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he said, and you hummed quietly, nodding, as you bounced on his cock, his arms ringed around you, his muscles tensing up each time you squeezed down on his length. You were so fucking wet it felt like you were suctioned to his cock, not wanting to let him slip out of you, wanting to just feel full of him, wanting him to claim you as his own again and again, and each time you slipped back onto him, it felt like he was. “So wet, god, you’re fucking一soaking me,” he said, his tone amused because you were fucking him silly. “Gonna ruin the sheets.”
“Don’t care,” you managed, and he just kissed the corner of your mouth.
“You feel good too?” he asked, and you nodded, the tip of your nose brushing his before you kissed him again, and even when you did, he was still going. “You’re so good to me, pretty girl,” he said, kissing your lips between every couple words. “So good一to一me一” He punctuated each word with a kiss, and then you were biting at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth as you rolled your hips above his, riding his cock.
“Travis,” you whispered, and even with just that one word he was off again.
“Gonna fill ya up,” he said, squeezing you tighter around the middle, holding you closer to him as he bucked his hips into you as best he could while kneeling, while holding you. You clung to him desperately. “Gonna do it, you like that?” You nodded. “Yeah, ‘course you do, I like it too, fuck, you’re just so一tight and一and wet, and一fuck一”
“Touch me?” you asked, and you weren’t sure if he even heard you because he was still going on, his lips brushing yours as he praised you. Your cunt was fluttering around him, your clit throbbing for attention, and his fingers smeared your arousal over your folds before he found the swollen bead of your clit and let his fingertips move over it, circling it slowly as you worked your hips onto him, grinding down against him, and it was like as soon as he got a hand on you properly, you were already gone.
“Oh, ok,” Teacake said. “Ok, that’s一yeah, you like that,” he said, and he wasn’t asking. “You got一really tight on me when I一” he trailed off, because you’d just clenched down on him again, your walls slipping around his cock inside of you and he took a sharp inhale. “Fuck, pretty girl, I can’t一won’t last if you一fuck一”
You weren’t able to keep yourself composed anymore一far from it. Your body had tightened, coiled like a spring, then snapped, your cunt pulsing around his thick length taking him in as deep as you could, your lips glancing over his as you tried to kiss him but missed, which was fine, because he was talking you through it.
“That’s it, pretty girl, feel so nice on me like that, right?” he said, his voice washing over you; you could feel it in his chest where you were pressed against him, and as he lifted his hips into you a few times, snapping them up into your tight heat, you felt him come too, deep inside you, just as you were coming down.
He just kept going, his body and his mouth.
“Fuckin’一hell, god, I’m fillin’ you up so一so good, so fuckin’ wet, both of us, just一just, so一god, you feel good,” Teacake was babbling through his own orgasm, the warmth of his release coating you on the inside, and you took a long, heavy breath while Travis let his hands move to your hips.
“Never get tired of feelin’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and you locked eyes with him, reaching up to cup his cheek with your hand.
“I never get tired of hearing you,” you said, and he looked momentarily like maybe he didn’t believe you, but smiled in the end as you kissed him softly. “But…I can think of something else you’re so good at.”
“What’s that?” he asked, squirming a little beneath you as his load oozed out of your slit, leaking down over him.
“Lie down,” you said, gripping his shoulders before pushing yourself up and off of him, some of his come rolling in thick rivulets down your thigh before you squeezed your legs together.
He licked his lip, smirking at you as he did, resting his head on his pillow.
“Really quick,” he said, “since, you know, eating is sort of the topic of the moment…” You watched him even as you moved closer to him on your knees, reaching down between your legs to try and keep his come from completely rolling back out of you, which felt filthy as hell but somehow still necessary.
“Yeah?” you prompted.
“One of the regulars told me about this new brunch spot we should check out,” he said, and you laughed, then lifted one of your legs over him to straddle his face, your cunt dripping with your fluids and his spunk just inches from his mouth.
“Maybe,” you said, a smirk playing at your lips; it was mirrored on Teacake’s mouth.
“I think it would be nnmf一” he said, but you’d lowered your pussy to his mouth before he could get the statement out, and without missing a beat, he had licked into you, his eyes slipping closed as he put his tongue to the test, really letting it delve into you, eating his own come out of you as you curled up over him, the fingers of one hand fisting into his hair as the heel of your other hand dragged down your front, playful fingers slipping through your wet folds yet again to tease your clit, the hard little nub begging for you to touch it, and so you did.
Teacake was still mumbling something, muffled against your cunt, and it just made you smile a little to yourself, even as you held onto him, even as you rubbed your own clit, your pussy twitching around his tongue.
“Mmn, mhn,” Teacake was trying to say, and you just pressed yourself down a little further onto him. “Mhm!” he hummed, actually giving you a thumbs up, and you just laughed because he was yours, and he was everything you could want.
His arms came up to curl around your thighs, holding you down against his face as he ate your pussy, the sloppy, wet sounds of his lips on your cunt only spurred you on, your second orgasm dangerously close as you let your fingers move purposefully over your clit.
“M-by,” Teacake said. “Lemme一mngh,” he said, pulling away before diving right back in before he’d even said what he’d wanted to.
“Tr-Travis,” you moaned, and then before you could really even warn him you were grinding yourself down on his face, your second climax hitting you as your legs trembled even in his hold, your full weight resting on him for a second. It only made him lick you more firmly, suck at your folds even harder, smack his lips as he pulled away just barely, taking you back in and nudging your fingers out of the way with his nose so he could suck at you there too. You curled your wet, sticky fingers into his hair and held him up against you even as he was still trying to speak, or at the very least was just moaning against you.
Spent, you fell back, your wet thighs on his chest, your cunt still spasming a little with aftershocks as you sat on his torso. He was mid-sentence as you fell away from his mouth.
“一won’t be as good as you,” he was saying.
“What?” you sighed, half amused, half exasperated, like he expected you to know what the first half of that statement had been.
“I was saying, however good that brunch place is, nothing would taste as good as you,” he said.
You looked at him, lips pressed into a thin line as you tried not to laugh.
“What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You didn’t reply一he would figure it out and tell you so in a minute一so instead, you just slid yourself down his body to kiss him, tasting the two of you mixed together on his lips, and as you pulled away, you only smiled as he opened his mouth and inhaled, readying himself to keep talking to you, his pretty girl.
