Another Whore For Fictional Men.

𝔖𝔥𝔢/ℌ𝔢𝔯 - 𝟸8 𝔓𝔢𝔡𝔯𝔬 𝔓𝔞𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔩, 𝔄𝔡𝔞𝔪 𝔇𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯, 𝔅𝔲𝔠𝔨𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝕬𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖓 𝕳𝖔𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖓𝖊𝖗’𝖘 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖞𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑

[sundayniche]

nothing screams girlhood more than reading fanfics late at night in bed

[notinamoodforsociety]

PEDRO PASCAL in Behemoth (Teaser trailer)

[winterswake]

The Mandalorian moodboard

[zinainblue]

house arrest ✴ gator tillman

childhood enemy!gator tillman x reader - w.c. 16.6k

summary: when your dad takes off for a weekend fishing trip with his friend roy, he enlists the help of his son gator to keep you in line while they're away. unfortunately for you, gator might be the one person you hate enough to get grounded for.

tags/warnings: childhood enemy!gator x reader, no use of y/n, childhood/family friends (but you hate each other), enemies to lovers, reader and gator are 19, mentions of domestic violence, mean!possessive!douchebag!gator, hate sex, manhandling, play fighting but kind of not play (scratching, wrestling, etc), slut-shaming, degradation, praise, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, maybe elements of cnc if you squint?, cannot stress enough gator is mean in this

author's note: based on this request from a while back! i'm so proud of this and if no one reads it i will cry. please check the tags!

---

You stand in your driveway watching your dad pack up his gear, your arms crossed and your face set in a scowl.

“Don’t give me that look,” he calls to you, loading his tacklebox into the bed of his behemoth truck. “You made your damn bed.”

You don’t argue back, already sensing how futile it would be. Your father is many things, but unpredictable is not one of them. And now that he’s made up his mind about how you’re going to be spending the weekend while he’s out fishing with Roy Tillman, you know there’s no changing it. 

“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”

Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son. 

As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter. 

The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.

Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him. 

Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you. 

You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch. 

Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”

Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.

Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”

“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.

Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”

The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.

Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.

You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.

The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.

He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks. 

He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating. 

In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.

Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.

And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him. 

That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.

As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you. 

Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.

You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug. 

“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”

You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”

“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”

You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”

Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.

“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you. 

You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”

“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.

“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”

Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”

He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage. 

“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”

Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”

You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”

“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up. 

“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand. 

Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”

Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.

Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him. 

Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window. 

Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer. 

“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again. 

Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!” 

His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him. 

The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”

“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.

“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”

Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell. 

“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.

“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”

You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms. 

“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”

He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying. 

Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions. 

“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him. 

Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you. 

Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him. 

“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming. 

Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?” 

The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs. 

Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”

He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”

You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.

A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly. 

Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.

You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch. 

Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”

“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”

You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”

Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”

You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”

You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him. 

A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.

You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed. 

You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.

Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward. 

Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter. 

“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”

Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”

“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”

“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”

You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks. 

“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.

“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”

“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”

Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”

You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.

“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.

Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”

“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.

You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."

“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”

“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”

Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it. 

“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.

“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”

“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”

His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”

The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always. 

His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”

His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.

Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone. 

You don’t care. You’re already gone. 

It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears. 

“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling. 

Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”

“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly. 

He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it. 

You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.

“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him. 

He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”

“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”

His chuckle echoes down the hall.

The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.

“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.

“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.

You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.

You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.

The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.

“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.

You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”

You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”

He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”

When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh. 

You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”

“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him. 

Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”

“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”

“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.

“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”

Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”

“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”

“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.

“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”

“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.

Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”

“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”

“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”

“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.

“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”

“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.

“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.

“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”

For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”

“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”

“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.

“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”

The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.

Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life. 

And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.

And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered. 

Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.

With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath. 

His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen. 

Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh. 

Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door. 

You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes. 

It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid. 

After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape. 

Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor. 

You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened. 

Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of. 

Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”

Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately. 

A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.

Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.

He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.

Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.

She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”

You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family. 

But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”

Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator. 

He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again. 

When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”

“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.

You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.

The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly. 

“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”

“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”

He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”

“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”

“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”

You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”

“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.

“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”

You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”

“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”

“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”

“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”

You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.

“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”

Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”

“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”

“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”

Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”

“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.

Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”

You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision. 

You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand. 

So, that night, you don’t go back to your room. 

You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.

You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.

Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.

“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”

You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.” 

Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.

Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”

“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”

Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”

You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”

“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”

“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”

“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.

“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”

“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.

“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.

Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat. 

 It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.

Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore. 

You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you. 

You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won. 

It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you. 

You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.

You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory. 

The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces. 

And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off. 

The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you. 

Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it. 

You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips. 

You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.

Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth. 

His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it. 

Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs. 

Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”

“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”

You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”

His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there. 

“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature. 

“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”

You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.

When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”

“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”

With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”

“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch. 

Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”

“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire. 

“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway. 

“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest. 

You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”

“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?” 

Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”

You give him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.” 

“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”

“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.

Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.

Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”

“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”

Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?” 

You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”

He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”

“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.

Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”

“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.

“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp. 

Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.

“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak. 

“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.” That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting. 

Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.

Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it. 

His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”

His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.

His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”

The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.

And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt. 

He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks. 

“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”

“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”

“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”

Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low. 

Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”

You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”

At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips. 

It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing. 

As in most things, Gator feels different.

It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face. 

Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”

“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed. 

“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered. 

“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows. 

“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”

You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”

He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”

Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts. 

“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”

The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”

You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”

“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.

“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.

“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”

“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”

Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again. 

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.

“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself. 

Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”

Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”

“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”

“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.

“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”

“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”

“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.

“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up. 

“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”

“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.

“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.

Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.

In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.

“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.

You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.

“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”

“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”

“Gator—“

“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.

Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together. 

“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.

You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”

Gator pulls back, looking downright appalled. “What?”

You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”

“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”

“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.

Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”

You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”

Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”

“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”

“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”

“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly. 

He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth. 

“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly. 

You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly. 

“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”

“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”

“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.” 

“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.

“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”

Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”

He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”

“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”

“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.

Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”

His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.

Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him. 

“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you. 

“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”

You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation. 

Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut. 

He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”

With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch. 

“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”

You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain. 

“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”

You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again. 

A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring. 

“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”

“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants. 

He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”

“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”

Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again. 

When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”  

“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”

You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.

The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago. 

“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”

“Shut up,” you breathe. 

“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”

“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”

“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”

He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.” You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”

He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”

“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”

“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”

Gator groans.

“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.

You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”

“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”

“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.

“Yeah, baby?”

You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.

“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.

You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours. 

“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back. 

He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”

Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”

His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.” 

You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”

“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”

“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.

Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”

“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”

Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–

You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you. 

He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion. 

Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp. 

For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too. 

Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight. 

Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.

He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.

“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.

He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.” You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”

Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”

You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am,” he insists, voice low. 

The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off. 

“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe. 

“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”

“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”

You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”

“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”

You huff. “No.”

“Lunch.”

“Gator—“

“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”

“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.

Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”

“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”

“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.

“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.

He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."

You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”

“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”

“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”

You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.

Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”

“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”

“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”

You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”

“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.

“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”

Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”

“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”

“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.

The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.

You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.

When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”

“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.

“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”

You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”

“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”

“I’m not–”

“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”

You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”

Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know?” you press him. 

“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”

You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.

She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?

Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”

Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you. 

“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”

“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming. 

He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”

You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.

“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”

You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat. 

Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation. 

So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”

---

[gothicxbarbie]

[daltoncharm]

Pedro Pascal eating a taco. That's all you need to know.

[agentinlove]

"fuck the government" GIRL IM TRYING

[mandalor-the-reluctant]

Happy Father’s Day to these three!

[prophetic-writer]

I'm sorry but I have one draft that I never finished but I laugh every time I see it

[hellsquills]

Writing Tip

Neither do i

[no-1-reylo-fan]

[jobean12-blog]

Meet Me in the Dark

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader/ The Mandalorian x reader (Princess!reader)

Word Count: 300

Summary: Your love is forbidden but that won't stop you from stealing away every chance you get.

Author's Note: This is for June 27th of @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the song: 'The Dark End of the Street by James Carr' and the lyrics: "They're gonna find us," and "you and me." Wanted to revist my princess!reader and Mando and this song kind of fit the idea. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-in-darkness Thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: implied sneaking around, tension, flirting, implied smut, neediness, forbidden love (But they are doing it anyway!)

June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist

The Mandalorian drags you closer until you’re flush against him and when you tilt your head up, he’s already looking at you, dark eyes filled with desire.

“What do you want?” you ask as your fingertips dance along the sharp edge of his jaw. He leans in, pressing the barest whisper of a kiss to your neck and it sets every nerve ending in your body on fire.

“You know damn well what I want, Princess.” His deep and rough voice vibrates against your skin and your chin lifts in challenge.

“Then take it.”

Desire flares in his gaze and he crowds your body with his, ignoring the dangers lurking in the shadows.

“They’re gonna find us,” he whispers, lips inching closer.

You breathe him in and he reaches for you, running his thumb over your bottom lip before tracing the column of your throat. His nose follows the same path then his teeth sink into the soft flesh over your pulse.

“Let them,” you answer, stifling your whimper.

He replies with a kiss, the intensity nearly shattering you, your fingers raking through his hair as he groans into your mouth.

“You and me,” he murmurs, as he skims your curves. “Against it all.”

Every part of you sings out for his touch, his mouth, his…

“Do you think you can die from it?” you gasp. “The need? The desire?”

“I can’t think of a better way to go,” he whispers as his hand slips under your thigh, lifting your leg around his waist.

Rough palms caress every inch of skin he can find, as though he doesn’t know where he wants to touch first. Then his fingertips find the ribbons at your shoulders.

“You were made for me,” he whispers as his gaze sweeps along your now bare skin.

[gothicxbarbie]

[jobean12-blog]

Anything For Love

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader/ The Mandalorian x reader

Word Count: 300

Summary: The Mandalorian shows you just how thoughtful he is and it means everything!

Author’s Note: This is for June 25th of @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the song, ‘Rude by Magic! And the lyric: “she’s in love with me.” Thank you both bunches for hosting and thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always🩷🩷🩷Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: just a soft and sweet moment of love, Mando is the best, fluffs

June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist

“We’re running out of time,” Colonel Ward says. “But I may have one last lead on Janu’s location.”

“And if it’s wrong?” you ask.

Zeb looks as though he’s about to say something brash, but his eyes widen at someone’s approach and his mouth snaps shut.

A warm, muscular arm bands around your chest from behind, a familiar scent engulfing your senses.

“I don’t like waking up with you not in my bed,” Djarin’s gruff voice rumbles against your ear.

You twist in your seat, finding him already dressed in his armor, except for his helmet, dark hair still deliciously disheveled. His mouth closes over yours, capturing your lips in a deep, decadent kiss. It’s slow and thorough and makes you forget it’s right in front of everyone at the Imperial base.

Someone whistles loudly.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Zeb chuckles as you break apart.

With his arm still around you, Djarin reaches for your glass of tea, taking a sip of the warm liquid. “I don’t know how you drink this stuff!” he says, making a face.

Your lips turn down. “What do you mean? You drink it all the time.”

Djarin huffs out a laugh. “Never.”

“But it’s always in your bag. You have it on the ship!”

“Who’d you think that was for?” He kisses your neck gently. “You told me on the first night we met that it’s your favorite. I keep getting it because of you.”

Warmth blooms throughout your body and you whisper, “let me get you something you like.” Reluctantly he lets you go and sits in the seat you vacated, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed.

“Really? Tea?” Zeb says, his eyes bright.

“She’s in love with me,” Djarin answers. “And I’ll do anything to keep it that way.”

[gothicxbarbie]

[meshla-cyarika]

Can I be honest for a second and say that one of my biggest fanfiction pet peeves is when someone will write their character or the reader insert as someone who should in theory be really badass (for example a Jedi or a Mandalorian, or an Avenger, or a soldier/fighter in general) and then make them really weak and basically not be able to handle themselves at all? Like come on realistically these mfs should be able to kill someone. Maybe this is just me being a girl who isn't girly, but I just want a character like this who can actually defend themselves and doesn't cry and need to be picked up by their s/o all the time.

[minautoluvo]

“But hes not even real?!?”

And..you thought that would stop me?

[mooonbae]

“So this is how liberty dies…with thunderous applause.”

Star Wars (1977-)

[djarinmuse]

I don't have words to say really for how insane I feel right now. If you have been a Mando fan from from the first season, second even...and read the fics, written the fics. You guys, we had like 4 screenshots and then one magazine cover to go off of!

You just had to be there. SEVEN YEARS!

And now he's just out there looking the hottest he's ever possibly looked, wearing the suit FOR FUN!

[thecreelhouse]

stuck

Paring: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

Summary: Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is. MDNI

WC: 4.6k+

Includes: no plot all filth, unrealistic “stuck” porn trope, friends to horny idiots, dirty talk, pet names/name calling, unprotected PiV sex, oral (f receiving), briefest mention of monsterfucking, brief anal play, a smidge of humiliation kink with a healthy side of a praise kink, d/s dynamic, etc.

A/N: Literally got this idea from a certain filthy piece of DBD fanart that I can’t find, but if you know the one I’m talking about, please lmk so I can properly credit for the inspo!! Is this ridiculous? Yes. Was this originally for Halloween? Also yes. We hate rules here (and deadlines). Hope y’all enjoy it <3 (dividers from @/saradika-graphics)

Everyone told Steve he was insane to venture back into the Upside Down, but he couldn’t leave you there alone. 

He felt sick for even leaving you behind at all. Quite honestly, no one felt good about evacuating without you, but it was smarter to go home, gear up, grab another working walkie, before wandering back into hell to find you.

See, among the chaos of trying to help Eddie, trying to keep Max alive, he worried about you and your unusual absence from the group, but you were strong enough to handle nearly anything— that much, he was confident on. You had fought side by side with him over the years, protecting everyone in the group, and one another; through demodogs, a shit summer job gone awry, and anything in between, you could hold your own with a bravery he wished he didn’t need to front at times.

That didn’t quell his anxiety one bit, though. When and where you had disappeared to, he wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t until your voice broke through over the airwaves, when Steve, Eddie, Nancy, and Robin were on the lake, that he felt relief you were at least alive. Your voice was tinny through the static.

“Guys?”

The only reason a signal existed at all was because the group floated just above the gate at the bottom of the lake— they just didn’t know it yet.

Steve had just thrown his sweater off, ready to dive in, when the sound of your voice made his eyes widen. 

“Holy shit, give me the—“ He rocked the tiny boat a little too much for anyone’s comfort as he fell to his knees, grabbing the walkie from the floor. “Where the fuck are you?!”

“Hi to you too, Harrington.”

Robin yanked the device from Steve’s grip, “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Long fuckin’ story, but—“ Your voice cut out, static filling the dead air for a few seconds. “And that’s—“ Cut off again. “Upside Down, but I- I don’t know where I am, exactly. Why didn’t any of y’all tell me how bad this place sucks?”

Steve laughed to himself, unaware his eyes became glassy, hearing the familiar attitude and sailor’s mouth you carried; the other three noticed just how relieved and emotional he was right away. He grabbed the walkie back from Robin with shaky hands.

“We’re gonna come find you, we think we found a gate,” He rushed out. “Are you safe at least?”

“For now, but these—“ Signal cutting out, Steve hit the walkie a few times, as if that’d fix the disconnect between literal dimensions. “— Th- they’re everywhere. I don’t know where to hi— oh, shit—“ Your end fell dead again, leaving the four on edge, waiting for you to speak. White noise droned on for less than a minute; you weren’t coming back. 

Wasting not a second longer, Steve dove into the dark, chilled waters of the lake. He found the gate they suspected of, and broke the surface to alert his friends. As he relayed the information, rushed and panicked, wanting to find you as soon as possible, something tugged on his leg. Only startling the group at first, Steve was caught off guard, pulled under, back down to the bottom. He kicked, struggled, lungs burning as he fought off the urge to gasp for a breath he couldn’t dare to take.

It was all a blur, being dragged through the gate and tossed around like a rag doll; the bats diving towards him, finding an oar to defend himself with among the Upside Down’s mirrored decay of the lake, only to be bombarded by the gnarly creatures. They tore at his flesh as he was being strangled to death; brain growing fuzzy as he put up a good fight, he began to accept this fate. He wasn’t sure when his friends came through the gate, but one by one they retaliated against the bats, leaving just the one still strangling Steve.

“Get fucked!”

Unexpectedly, you appeared, slamming an ax— one you always left in your trunk, just in case— down onto one of its wings, chopping through completely, yet it still tried to flee as Steve bit down on its tail. Stunned, you all watched as Steve swung it around, slamming it down into the ground before violently ripping its spine out, fueled by pure rage.

Blood dripped from his mouth while he glanced up at you, rage and fear fading as relief flooded every inch of his heart. Despite your ragged appearance— covered in grime, soot, and blood— he was just happy to see you alive; a sight for sore eyes.

“I fuckin’ hate those things.” You wanted to run and hug him, but restrained yourself at the sight of his wounds. Taking in the sight of all four friends, you sighed, “Y’all okay?”

Another screech in the sky tore everyone’s attention away, “C’mon!” Where everyone ran off to the rocks, you made the mistake of running off in the opposite direction. The group of bats split off, heading towards both you and the others; when you looked over your shoulder, you watched Steve do the same, panic fueling you both to run for your lives.

You sprinted off towards the woods, hoping you’d find each other again soon, and alive.

Steve climbed back through the gate in Eddie’s trailer, and had searched for what felt like hours; he was losing hope of finding you by the minute. He knows you; you wouldn’t give up without a fight. You had to be alive, but dread was still building within him.

At least he caught a signal over the walkies.

“What do you mean you’re stuck?”

Your voice warbles through the speaker of Steve’s walkie, barely coherent through the sharp static. 

“Okay, okay, where are you?”

“The— g—“ Feedback rips through your words, shrill and sharp. “I’m tr—“

“You’re cutting out—“

“Gate! I’m—“ A drone of white noise floods the speaker, and you’re gone.

“Shit. Fuck. God-fucking-dammit!” He hits the device with his free hand, slams the buttons and messes with the knobs and antenna— if only he actually paid attention when Dustin tried showing him how to work this fucking thing.

He did hear you say ‘gate’ at least, but which one? You clearly weren’t at the one he just entered, and the one at the lake had closed up by now. 

This would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Steve’s exhausted, searching high and low for you, at every possible spot that crosses his mind. It had to have been another hour since he last heard from you, and he’s running out of ideas of where you could be.

“Checked around town,” He begins murmuring to himself, listing and eliminating options out loud. “No luck there… but— shit, didn’t check the library…” Could a gate even open in there? Anywhere was possible, right? And if that was the case, he’d have to tear through every room of every building, circle each structure, check any cars, houses, sheds, backyards, parks, the woods—

Christ, at this rate, he’ll never find you—

“Oof!” Steve loses his footing, tumbling over something in the stretch of woods he was combing through. Colliding with the ground, he groans on impact.

“What the fuck?”

Steve rolls over quickly, sitting up to find he had tripped over you.

“Oh, thank fuck.” He scrambles to his feet, brushing debris off his body as he finally glances your way.

When you said you were stuck, Steve didn’t picture the sight before him now; you, halfway through a gate found in a tree trunk, unable to move because it began to close up around your waist. Your upper half is on the other side, but your bottom half is still stuck in the Upside Down.

“Oh…. You’re… wow, okay.” He snickers, “Yeah. You’re stuck, alright.”

Steve’s muffled cackling echoes through the slimy gate. You huff and roll your eyes; not like he can see.

“Just help me out of here, would ya’?!”

“Okay, okay… Jesus.” He drops to his knees, still towering over you— well, your back half, at least. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s just fucking annoying. Maybe try, I dunno, pulling at the edges of it, or something?”

“I don’t think that’s how these things work—“

“Steve!”

“Okay, right, yeah, sorry.” He bites his bottom lip, stifling more laughter. It’s certainly an… awkward position, leaning over you from behind, but it’s the only way he can pull at the edges with both hands at once. He gives the gate’s edge a tug, but it’s stone solid. He tries again, this time with a grunt that has your mind wandering elsewhere. “Yeah, this is, uh… that’s not gonna work.”

“Oh my god, I’m stuck here forever,” You groan, kicking your feet. “I’m gonna die here.”

“Calm down, drama queen. Gimme a second, I’ll try again.” Steve keeps himself balanced on one knee, while the other leg plants a steady foot into the ground. Again, he attempts to pry open the gate, hoping to free you; his foot slips, causing him to rub against your backside.

Okay, ‘rub’ is a generous term— more like roughly falling against your ass, then whining over the pressure on his bulge.

“Steve, what the fuck?” You crane your neck, only able to see where the tree bark opens up into the gate, snug around your waist. “Did you just—“

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! M- my foot slipped!”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Look, it’s not exactly the easiest to move around you without touching you right now,” He argues. “You really think I’m trying to make a move on you in a situation like this?!”

“Well, I can’t see shit, Harrington. I don’t know what the hell’s going on back there.”

Ignoring you, Steve murmurs, more to himself but loud enough for you to still hear, “The hell are you wearing these tiny shorts for, anyway?” He tugs at the hem around your thigh, elastic snapping back against your skin. You bite back whatever pathetic noise threatens to escape your lips.

“It was warm out earlier!”

“It’s March—“

“And unreasonably warm for March, y- you jerk.”

“That why you’re shivering?”

“Considering the sun set, uh, yeah?”

You grumble, annoyed how wet this easily has made you. You need out, and Steve needs out, too, and the two of you need to just forget about all of this.

“Okay, just—“ You can’t think straight, mind clouded with dirty thoughts— how embarrassing. “Push me through.”

“You… want me to push you… how?”

“With your hands, St—“

“I know with my h— I meant, like, where?”

You can’t see the way he licks his lips, staring at your ass, but you sure can hear the strangled moan he miserably tries to hide in his throat. 

“Wherever works— I don’t know, I’ve never been stuck between dimensions before!”

He shudders a breath before calling through the gate, “I’m gonna— if I touch anything I shouldn’t, I swear to god I’m not trying to—“

“Okay, yeah, I get it, Steve— just push me out of here!”

“Christ, you’re fucking bossy…”

His hands grip the plush of your hips, first, hoping he can grip hard enough and push this way— it’s useless; his hands lose grip, sliding up your body. His knuckles run into the tree, and he’s grateful for that barrier; who knows how far his hands could’ve slipped. He yelps and recoils away. “Sorry!”

“Dude, I don’t care, just do whatever works.” You sound exhausted, and who wouldn’t be in a situation like this? You had to have been here at least an hour, and even if it doesn’t hurt, it can’t be very comfortable. 

Steve shakes his nerves off, hands reaching for the back of your thighs; his fingers splay apart, pushing as hard as he can, and you finally begin to budge. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Until you cry out for him to stop. “Shit, that fuckin’ hurts— It’s— ow, fuck! My hips—”

He immediately backs off, hands releasing pressure, but still resting gently on your thighs. It’s automatic, the way his thumbs rub slow circles into your exposed skin to try comforting you; the shorts you’re wearing are not helping either of you. It was warm out earlier, like you said, but did you have to wear these now?

Goosebumps prickle up under his fingers, and it’s hard to miss the way you clench your thighs together. 

“You, uh…” Steve gulps, fingers gently kneading at the meat of your thighs. “You okay over there?”

“Uh-huh,” Your answer isn’t very convincing, with a trembling voice. “Everything okay back there? W- with you, I mean.”

“Sure, yeah, it’s… I’m good.” He feels like such a pervert, fantasizing about taking you right here, like this. It’s wrong when you’re trapped like this. “Honey, I- I don’t know what else to do.”

The pet name twists at a coil deep within you, building up a pressure of some kind. 

“This is gonna sound fucked up, but just— push my ass— Steve, that better not be you laughing!”

He can’t hold back his immature giggling, but he’d rather this than moan.

“You sure? I don’t want you to get mad or anything.” He tries to settle down, focus on getting you unstuck. “Tell me to stop if it hurts again, alright?”

You imagine hearing those words of sweet consent in a different circumstance, biting back a whimper. “Ye- yeah, I will.”

Steve slides his hands up to the curve of your ass, unable to restrain himself before digging his fingers into your soft, plushy body. “Gonna count down, sweetheart, okay?”

This time a whimper does beat you to the punch before you can actually reply. He squeezes a little harder.

“Three… two… one—“ Steve shoves his hands against you, pushing as hard as he can. Again, your hips shove up against the tree trunk, and you cry out from the pinch. He pulls you back an inch, wincing with guilt. “M’sorry, I—“

“Again,” You boldly call back to him.

“… You sure?”

“Just do it, please,” His hands are so warm, touch so soft; you wish the fabric of your shorts would just disappear. There’s an extra whine to your voice, “Don’t hold back, I can take it.”

“Oh, fuck…” He mumbles, sucking in a sharp breath. “Go— I’m gonna try again, ready?” He hears a faint noise of consent, shoving himself into you; this time, his hips rut into you, too. You still can’t get through the gate, but you’re not sure that’s either of your concern at this moment. His bulge, rock-hard now, brushes up against your ass, and you both moan out. This is bad.

The way you push back against him isn’t helping much, either.

Both of you still, falling silent while trying to steady your breaths. Are you really about to do this here? Now?

Steve makes the decision for you both, muttering, “I can’t fuckin’ take it anymore.” He’s purposefully grinding against you, head lolling back with a groan as you push into him in return. From either end, both of you are shuddering out sinful noises. “Always wanted to kiss you first, but—“

“As soon as you rescue me, y’can kiss me all ya’ want.”

“Shit, princess, never took you for the damsel in distress type.” He tugs your shorts down, choking on air when he discovers you’re completely nude underneath. “Jesus, did you think at all about your outfit today?”

“Uh, considering I don’t have a bra on… no.”

“You don’t have a—“ Steve comically pouts that part of you is through the other side of the gate; he’s grateful you can’t see the pathetic expression. “What, did you just roll outta bed and stroll down here?”

“Steve, the longer we talk about the logistics of my outfit, the dryer I’m becoming.”

“Good thing I can help with that.”

“Okay, that was goofy to s— oh…” His thumbs spread your folds apart; despite your failed quip, you’re soaked as sin. 

“So fuckin’ pretty…” He leans down, kissing the swell of your ass, trailing his lips down your backside until he’s level with your heat. There’s no warning, just his tongue gliding along your folds, lapping up your arousal. A feral sounding groan vibrates through your core as he loses himself tasting you. It’s not rushed— not on purpose, at least— but any restraint is long gone now.

“Oh m’god,” You shudder while his tongue swirls around your clit, sucking it softly. His arms wrap around your thighs from behind, hooking you in place. You twitch back, like you’re desperate to grind on his face, but worried to freak him out.

Steve’s far from freaked out; in fact, he’s delving his tongue deeper, nearly incoherent when he mirrors your earlier words, “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

That’s all the permission you need, rolling your body back as far as the gate allows, trembling as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. If only you could see the glistening mess on his pretty features. “Steve…”

He angles his nose against your clit just right, making you squeal into the empty forest around you. His tongue laps away, eventually tapering to fuck into you with it.

“Fuck, more, ple- please,” You pant, grateful Steve’s holding you upright, or you’d go limp against the tree. “Please— god!”

He slides a finger into you, curling it just right as he kisses and sucks back to your clit. He’s rougher this time when he suckles on the sensitive bud, rolling your eyes back and tensing your body up. You chant his name in whimpers, like a desperate prayer, only urging him to finger fuck you harder.

“Jesus, sweetheart, you’re gripping me so hard.” He groans into you, adding another finger. “Taste so good, I could be here all night—“

An orgasm startles you, going 0 to 100 without warning; lewd noises floating back through the gate toward Steve only challenge him to keep going.

“S- Steve, ha- hang on—“

“You want me to stop?” He slows his pace, but you ram yourself back into his hand and lips.

“No! Please, god, no—“

“Then what is it?” His tongue flits out, teasing around your sensitive nub.

“M- move your fingers up, back where you had it— ohhhmyfuckinggod—“

“C’mon, come for me, y’can do it again,” he coaxes, spitting onto your folds while relentlessly ruining you with his thick, long fingers. Your legs tremble wildly. “I can tell you’re close, angel. Make a mess, come for me again—“

This time, you cry out, praying whatever woods you found yourself in was deep enough, away from the public. Your hips twitch and convulse, while you flutter around his digits, soaking his face while he continues to delve deeper, as if that’s even possible.

The pumping pace of his fingers never relents, despite how overstimulated you feel already.

“St- Steve…”

“Got one more in ya’?” You feel his hot breath fanning over your folds again. It’s not long before he’s flicking his tongue back out, teasing your clit while adding another finger. “Christ… yeah… yeah, angel, that’s it…” He laps at the nectar dribbling from your centre, grunting as his free hand pulls you by your thigh, guiding you to bounce against his face. The fingers buried in you curl just right, earning a broken, breathy noise from the other side; he hits the right spot, and under a minute in, you’re gushing against his pretty face.

You can hear how drenched he is when he speaks, licking his lips between his words, “That was… oh, fuck, that… that was so… can we do that every day?”

Winded, you manage to laugh weakly, “If you can figure out how to get me un-stuck, I’ll let you do that as much as you fuckin’ want.”

You’d kill to see his face right now, dripping with your release, but until then you’ll just need to use your imagination.

“…. Can we—“

“Please.”

The head of his cock slides along your folds, teasing as it runs over your sensitive clit. You jolt back, and he grips you by the hip, holding you in place with one hand.

“Be patient for me, angel. I don’t wanna hurt you,” he slides in, taking his time, paying attention to your gasps. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh, ju- just go slow.”

Like earlier, when Steve tried pushing you through the gate, he soothes you with his touch, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin. He sinks a bit further, feeling you clench around him with anticipation. “Angel, gotta relax to let me in…”

“I- I know, m’trying, you’re just— you’re so… so…”

“Shhh, it’s okay, I have you. You’re okay…” He slides deeper, hips almost flush against your backside. “Just relax… that’s it, that’s my girl.”

The praise elicits a pornographic moan out of you, only triggering his cock to twitch against your walls.

“God, wish I could see your face right now,” his mumbling fades into a gravelly groan, sinking deep into you. 

“Y’can if you fuck me when we’re outta here,” you strain out, taking him to the hilt. His cock twitches again, making you both shudder.

“I dunno, what if we can’t get you out, sweetheart?” The tides turn with his tone. He pulls out slowly, teasing your clit with the head of his cock. You twitch and clench around nothing, making him smirk. “What if you’re stuck here forever?” Slamming back into you, your walls clamp down on him, tighter than before. “Oh, what, you like that idea?”

“Steve…”

“You wanna be left here? Where anyone can walk by, use you however they want?” He draws back, snapping his hips back into your ass, relishing in the way you cry out. “Anyone can find you in the woods over there, use that pretty mouth of yours…” Gripping your hips, he pulls back slowly, thrusting in with everything he’s got. It’s becoming a torturous pattern, but he can tell you’re enjoying it with the way you’re soaking his cock. 

“Oh my— fuck…” You gasp from the other side, throwing yourself back into him as far as the gate allows you. He grunts as you meet his thrusts.

“You’d be up for grabs over here too, y’know…” Hands trailing back to your ass, he spreads your cheeks, spitting lewdly on your pretty, puckered hole. “But maybe you’re not that much of a freak—“ You don’t hold back the sinful sound building in your throat over his unfinished concept. “Oh. Oh. You’d like gettin’ fucked by some monsters too, huh? That’s so fuckin’ gross, babe.”

“That ain’t even the half of it,” you manage to reveal through panting and whimpering.

His mind races over the possibilities, slamming into you a little faster.

Steve circles the tight entrance with the pad of his thumb, throbbing deep inside you as he tests the waters, sinking in just a bit. You squirm and whine, relaxing as he continues on, eventually making it past his knuckle— which, wouldn’t be too much, but with the size of his hands, you feel so full off that alone.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, I don’t think I’ll l- last long,” he murmurs while he pistons his hips into you, growing sloppier by the minute. 

“S’okay… m’not…” You can’t grasp onto the words you need, not when he’s fucking you absolutely brainless between dimensions. “God, Steve, you’re so deep.”

His thumb slips out of you, leaving you emptier than before, making desperate, pathetic mewls and cries. Ignoring you, his hand slides underneath, pressing down onto the peak of your mound. “Where do you feel me? Here?”

“N- no, deeper…”

Steve splays his hand wide, fingers blanketing over your skin; he inches his touch up, just where your belly and pelvis begin to meet. The further he stretches his touch, the more he leans over you, kissing along any bare skin on your back he can reach.

“Here?”

You shake your head, but he can’t see. Your lapse in verbal response earns a smack on your ass, causing you to cry out into the expanse of the woods. 

“Where, babe? Tell me.”

“Up,” whimpering, you push back into him. Hand gliding up to your belly button, he stops.

“Here?”

Eyes rolling back, you let out a broken sob, “Yes!”

Steve pushes down on your belly, just enough for the pressure to meet his thrusts.

“You’re takin’ me like a slut… sound like one, too.” He grunts while bucking wildly into you. His hand disappears, only to join the other in grabbing you by the thighs, nearly lifting your lower half off the ground against him.

The sound is absolutely what you’d expect from two, hopelessly horny idiots, fucking in a circumstance like this one right here. Skin on skin slapping roughly, echoing out into the woods of the Upside Down, in time with his near-feral grunts and throaty groans. On your side, in your world, you can only imagine how close to an injured animal you might sound like, or someone in actual distress, unable to cover your mouth as you hold yourself up while he fucks into you relentlessly.

“M’pretty close, angel,” Steve pants through the gate, hips stuttering while he still gives his all, thrusting mercilessly into you. “Where—  where can I—“

“‘Side…” You groan out, lost in a lust-driven delirium.

Attitude softening, he manages to ask, “In— you mean inside?”

“Uh-huh, wanna be full,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Make me yours—“

“Oh, fuck,” Steve’s hips freeze over your words, finally reaching his high. One final cry tears out of you as your fourth and final orgasm trembles through your body, rolling into his. The delicious squeeze and fluttering around him helps milk his release, doing just as you asked, filling you up with his spend. 

Involuntarily, his entire lower half twitches violently into you, and finally, finally, the gate gives, allowing him to tumble through to the other side, shoving you out first. He lands on top of you, rolling over onto the forest floor while you both groan. The woods are quiet, aside from occasional crickets and your loud, ragged breaths, weaving through the branches above.

Though the two of you are ready to fully collapse, the squelching sound of the gate constricting catches your attention; the damn thing closes completely.

Steve chuckles weakly, while you push past any shame that might still linger, shyly smiling over at him.

“Hey…” You attempt to greet him, now that you’re face to face— which, speaking of, his features are still glistening from sweat and your multiple releases. 

“Hi,” he breathes, eyes trailing over your figure, landing and pausing on your exposed core, dripping a lewd mixture of fluids. “Fuck…” He leans forward, but stops himself, mumbling, “If we weren’t in the woods, I’d, uh, help clean you up, but…”

Your eyes widen, taking in his words; neither of you are in a state to fuck around any further, but you make a mental note of the suggestion for the future. “I’m— I’ll remember that.”

Surging towards him with an ounce of renewed energy, you capture his lips in a long-awaited kiss. He makes the cutest noise of surprise, melding against you. Pausing, he murmurs against your lips, “Sorry we couldn’t do that first.” It’s a wild shift in his demeanor post-sex, from a dominant, feral wreck, to this soft, precious person before you.

“We can make up for it though.”

“After a super long fuckin’ nap.” Then he cringes, “And the— y’know, the whole—“ He waves his hand around, rolling his eyes, “the Vecna thing.”

“Right. Yeah. Priorities.” You’re looking forward to all of this coming to an end. All you want is to curl up in bed with Steve, and sleep a whole day away, but that’ll have to wait. 

As clarity brings you back down to earth, you realize you’re still naked from the waist down… which means— 

“Um… Steve?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“… Where’s my shorts?”

[gothicxbarbie]

“… Where’s my shorts?”

[palmtreesx3]

A two-parter. Two people. Two soulmate portraits. Two wildly different perspectives on the same increasingly ridiculous situation

PROLOGUE

Modern!Steve Harrington x Reader

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Fic Summary: Steve Harrington doesn't believe in psychics, soulmates, fate, or anything else being sold by strangers on the internet. Unfortunately, after one of Robin Buckley's latest hyperfixations leads him down a particularly ridiculous Etsy rabbit hole, he finds himself unable to stop thinking about a listing that claims to do the impossible: draw the face of your future soulmate. It's a scam. Obviously. A joke. Definitely. A completely irrational thing to spend money on. Which becomes a problem when he can't stop reopening the page.

Hundreds of miles away, a woman is packing boxes for a new town and laughing with her friend over the exact same bad decision. Neither of them expects much from a sketch commissioned from an Etsy witch. Neither of them expects it to be accurate. And neither of them is prepared for what happens when a portrait meant to depict a stranger starts looking a little too familiar..

---

Fic Warnings: Eventual smut (18+), eventual sexual content, sexual references and innuendo, adult language, male masturbation, online stalking-adjacent behavior (the romantic comedy variety, not the felony variety), internet psychics, Etsy witchcraft, discussions of soulmates and fate, single parent Reader, mild emotional baggage, mutual pining, idiots in love, and one extremely judgmental cat.

Steve was halfway through cleaning out the backseat of his car when Robin called for the third time.

Not texted. Called. Which was how he knew whatever she wanted wasn't important. Important things got texts. Usually several. Sometimes in all caps. Robin reserved phone calls for situations that could have been a text but would be significantly more entertaining if she forced another person to participate in them.

The first call came while he was standing in line at the grocery store. The second happened during the drive home. By the third, he was crouched awkwardly in his driveway trying to wrestle a tangled bucket of baseballs out from underneath a folding chair and actively pretending not to hear his ringtone.

The bucket won. Three of the baseballs immediately escaped and rolled down the slight incline of the driveway toward the street. Steve watched them go with the sort of exhausted resignation usually reserved for natural disasters. For a brief moment he considered letting them live there permanently.

Maybe they'd start a colony.

Maybe they'd build a society.

Maybe they could elect a mayor.

Anything that prevented him from having to bend over one more time. Instead he shoved himself upright, collected the baseballs, and finally answered the phone.

"What." There wasn't even a greeting on the other end. Just the sound of Robin laughing, which somehow felt worse.

Steve closed his eyes. The sun had been beating down on him since baseball practice ended. His t-shirt stuck to the back of his neck. The driveway radiated heat through the soles of his shoes. Somewhere down the street a lawn mower droned away, adding one more layer of irritation to a day that already felt too loud.

"Hello to you too," Robin managed between laughs.

"What do you want?"

"You sound grumpy."

"I am grumpy."

"You always say that."

"Because you're always calling." The accusation failed to land because Robin immediately laughed harder. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced toward the house. All he wanted was a shower, leftovers, and an evening where nobody needed anything from him. Unfortunately, after years of friendship, Robin Buckley had developed the uncanny ability to sense exactly when he was trying to have a peaceful night.

The line went quiet for a second. Not silent. Never silent. He could hear her moving around her apartment, the rustle of blankets, a cabinet opening and closing, music playing faintly somewhere in the background. Then came the sound that immediately put him on edge.

A gasp.

Not a scared gasp or even a surprised gasp. An excited gasp. A Robin gasp. The kind that historically preceded nonsense.

Steve stared up at the sky. "Absolutely not."

"Wait, I haven't even told you yet."

"You gasped."

"...you can tell what kind of gasp it was?"

"Robin."

"...that's honestly kind of concerning."

"Robin."

"Fine. But I think I've discovered something." And there it was. The beginning of the problem.

By the time Steve got to Robin's apartment, she'd apparently forgotten she'd invited him over in the first place.

That wasn't particularly unusual. Robin's attention span tended to operate on its own schedule and rarely consulted the rest of the world before changing directions. Steve had once shown up to help her assemble a bookshelf and found her halfway through stripping wallpaper she'd decided she suddenly hated. Another time she'd called him in a panic because she was convinced she'd lost her keys only for them to be discovered twenty minutes later in the freezer beside a pint of rocky road ice cream. Neither of them ever figured out how they'd gotten there.

So when he let himself into her apartment and found her sitting cross-legged on the couch staring at her laptop with the intensity of somebody trying to crack a military code, he wasn't immediately concerned.

Concern arrived about ten minutes later. She'd laughed out loud four separate times, gasped twice, and shushed him when he asked if she wanted the food he'd picked up on the way over. That's when Steve started getting concerned.

The food itself was already making the apartment smell better. Robin's place had developed a tendency to absorb the scent of whatever she forgot to clean out of her refrigerator that week, and tonight's contribution seemed to be leftover Thai food and something vaguely citrus-scented burning in a wax warmer on the windowsill. Outside, the sun was starting to dip below the neighboring apartment buildings, casting everything in that weird golden light that made even Robin's clutter look intentional.

Steve dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and started pulling containers out of the takeout bag. "You know, most people usually talk to the person they invited over."

"Hmm?"

"You invited me here."

"I did."

"You remember that?"

"Barely."

Steve snorted and handed her a container. She accepted it automatically without taking her eyes off the screen.

That probably should have been another warning sign.

Instead, he spent the next few minutes trying to figure out what exactly she was looking at. Every time he caught a glimpse of the screen, there seemed to be a different website open. One featured what looked like a medieval illustration. Another had several photographs of crystals arranged in concentric circles. A third appeared to be selling candles with names like Moon Water and Divine Feminine Awakening.

At some point Robin abandoned the food entirely.

Then she abandoned sitting.

Then she somehow ended up kneeling on the couch.

By the time she announced she had discovered something important, Steve had reached that special level of exhaustion where absolutely nothing sounded surprising anymore.

Steve watched her for another minute before finally giving up on trying to figure it out from context clues. That strategy rarely worked with Robin. Most of the time her train of thought had already taken three separate connections she hadn't bothered explaining to anyone else. By the time she invited another person into the conversation, she'd usually spent enough time with the idea that she forgot nobody else had access to the previous forty-five minutes of internal monologue.

"What are you doing?" Robin looked up from the laptop. The expression on her face immediately made him regret asking. Not because she looked guilty…because she looked excited and excited Robin was infinitely more dangerous.

"Research."

Steve groaned. That answer alone told him everything he needed to know. Research was never actually research. Research implied a reasonable amount of curiosity directed toward a reasonable topic. Robin used the word to describe everything from learning a new hobby to spending three hours investigating whether raccoons could theoretically survive a zombie apocalypse.

He'd made the mistake of asking once. She'd had charts. Actual charts.

"Research for what?" Instead of answering, Robin rotated the laptop toward him. Steve immediately wished she hadn't. The page looked like a crystal store had exploded across the internet.

Stars.

Moons.

Gold lettering.

A woman wearing approximately twelve pounds of jewelry smiled back at him from a profile photo while advertising services that included aura readings, spiritual guidance, energy balancing, chakra cleansing and something called ancestral communication.

Steve stared. Then he looked at Robin. Then back at the screen. Then back at Robin.

The silence stretched long enough that she started smiling. "Oh no," Steve muttered.

"What?"

"You've got the look."

"What look?"

"The look you get right before you become unbearable." Robin laughed so hard she nearly dropped the laptop. The annoying thing was that she knew exactly what he meant.

There had always been a specific point in Robin's interests where they stopped being casual curiosities and became full-blown obsessions. Once she crossed that line, the rest of the world had no choice but to come with her. Steve had lived through enough of them to recognize the symptoms immediately.

The sudden inability to discuss anything else.

The rapidly accumulating collection of facts nobody asked for.

The tendency to somehow connect every conversation back to the topic.

Three weeks ago it had been vintage record stores.

Before that it was mushrooms. Not eating mushrooms. Learning about mushrooms. Steve had spent an entire afternoon listening to Robin explain fungal communication networks while they waited for an oil change.

Now, apparently, it was witches. Internet witches. Which somehow felt worse.

"You paid one, didn't you?"

Robin's eyes widened. Then narrowed.

"Oh my God, you did.”

"I paid for a service."

"You paid a witch."

"That's a very judgmental way to phrase that."

Steve actually laughed. The kind that escaped before he could stop it and Robin immediately looked offended, which only made it worse.

"You paid an Etsy witch."

"She's highly reviewed."

"Robin."

"Four point nine stars."

"Robin."

"Over two thousand sales."

"ROBIN."

She finally lost the battle and started laughing too. The sound filled the apartment, bouncing off the walls and mixing with the distant hum of traffic outside. The sun had slipped lower while they'd been sitting there, turning the windows amber and gold. Somewhere downstairs a dog barked. Somebody's television filtered faintly through the floorboards.

For a moment, Steve found himself smiling despite every intention not to. This was familiar territory. Robin got excited. Robin made questionable choices. Steve complained about them. Robin ignored him. The universe continued spinning. It was one of the few constants left in his life.

"What did you even buy?"

Robin hesitated. That was new. Not a long hesitation, but it was just enough to make Steve suspicious. "Oh no."

"What?"

"Whatever it is, it's worse than I thought."

"It isn't."

"You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Robin pulled her lower lip between her teeth, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break despite years of trying. The sight alone immediately told him there was a reason she hadn't answered the question and that, unfortunately, made him curious. A terrible development. Curiosity was how Robin won. Because once a person became curious, they were already participating. Steve knew that. Robin knew that. And Robin was counting on that.

Steve shouldn't ask. The problem was that he'd known Robin long enough to understand exactly what the hesitation meant. Whatever she'd paid for wasn't just embarrassing. It was embarrassing enough that she was actively avoiding saying it out loud, which unfortunately made him want to know even more.

Sure enough, thirty seconds later he found himself asking the question anyway. "What did you buy?" And the smile that spread across Robin's face told him he'd walked directly into the trap.

For a second she didn't answer. Instead she reached for her laptop and started clicking through tabs with the sort of confidence usually reserved for attorneys preparing closing arguments. And yet again, this clue tells Steve more information. Robin was many things, but organized had never been one of them, so whenever she started producing evidence, it meant she'd spent enough time with an idea that she'd crossed the line from curiosity into conviction.

The screen finally stopped on what looked like a PDF.

A PDF. Steve stared. "Robin."

"What?"

"Why is there a PDF?"

"Because she sends detailed reports."

"Who sends detailed reports?"

"The witch."

Steve dropped his head back against the couch cushion and stared at the ceiling. The apartment above them thumped with the sound of somebody walking across the floor. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed briefly before fading into the distance. He suddenly had the distinct feeling that if he stood up and left right now, he'd still somehow end up hearing the rest of this story.

"What did you buy?"

Robin spun the laptop around. "The cat reading."

Steve blinked. “The what?"

"The cat reading."

"The cat reading."

"Yes."

"The cat reading."

Robin's expression immediately soured. "Why are you saying it like that?"

"Because I want to make sure I'm hearing you correctly."

"You are."

"The cat reading."

"Steve."

"What cat?"

Robin looked offended. As if he'd forgotten a close family member. "The gray one."

Steve stared at her. "The gray one."

"The gray one."

"The cat that lives downstairs?"

"See? You know exactly which cat."

Unfortunately, he did. The cat in question spent most of its life draped across the railing outside Mrs Jensen's first-floor apartment like some sort of furry gargoyle. It was old enough that nobody seemed entirely sure who originally owned it anymore. Residents fed it. Residents petted it. Residents took photographs of it. The thing had somehow become a shared community asset.

Steve had never given the cat much thought. Robin, apparently, had. “You paid money because of Mrs Jensen’s cat?”

Robin immediately sat up straighter. "Okay, first of all, it isn't Mrs. Jensen's cat."

"Robin."

"It isn't."

"Robin."

"It belongs to the building."

"The cat belongs to itself."

"Exactly."

Steve pointed at her. "That's not helping your case."

Robin ignored him. “Second of all, I've had concerns for months."

The words were delivered with enough seriousness that Steve almost laughed. Almost. "What concerns?"

Robin leaned forward. "The way it looks at me."

There was a beat of silence.

Then another. Steve was waiting for the punchline. It never came. "The way..."

"The way it looks at me."

"The cat."

"Yes."

"The cat."

"Steve."

"You paid an Etsy witch because a cat looked at you." Robin threw a throw pillow that hit him directly in the face.

"I paid an Etsy witch because that cat has had a problem with me since the day I moved into this building. Haven't you heard about cats, Steve? They're not all right. You like...have to be careful with them around babies and everything. They'll steal their breath or something straight from their cribs while they sleep!"

Steve was laughing now. The kind of genuine laughter that scrunches up the corners of his eyes and makes his shoulders shake. Robin watched him for a moment before reaching for the laptop and opening another document.

"See, this is why I made a timeline."

That immediately stopped him. “A what?"

"A timeline."

Steve slowly lowered his beer as Robin clicked to the next page. There was, in fact, a timeline…and it was color-coded. With dates and bullet points and what appeared to be witness statements. "Oh my God."

"I documented everything."

"ROBIN."

"I wanted objective data."

Steve couldn't breathe. “Objective data?"

"Look at April nineteenth."

Steve made the mistake of looking.

April 19th: Cat observed staring at me for approximately four minutes without blinking.

Below that:

May 3rd: Attempted friendly greeting. No response.

May 17th: Accepted pets from woman in red coat. Rejected pets from me.

June 2nd: Made direct eye contact while knocking my iced coffee off balcony railing.

Steve folded in half. The sound that came out of him barely qualified as human. Meanwhile Robin looked vindicated.

"You think this is funny."

"I think you made a surveillance report."

"I think there's a pattern."

"Robin, it's a cat."

"It knows."

Steve laughed harder. "What does it know?"

"I don't know yet."

The answer came far too quickly. Far too confidently. Far too seriously and suddenly Steve understood exactly how an otherwise intelligent woman had ended up paying a witch on Etsy.

Not because she believed in magic (Not entirely). But because once Robin got interested in something, she followed the thread until she reached the end of it. Sometimes the thread led to a new hobby. Sometimes it led to a three-hour lecture, and apparently, sometimes it led to a psychic cat behavioral analysis purchased online for twenty-eight dollars and ninety-nine cents.

The worst part was that she wasn't done. Robin scrolled down to the actual report and Steve's eyes caught on highlighted passages.

Highlighted.

Passages.

"Tell me you didn't print this."

Robin didn't answer.

"Oh my God."

"I wanted to annotate."

"Robin."

"Just ...can we please just read the conclusion?"

Against every instinct he possessed, Steve did. The report concluded that the cat appeared "cautious but curious" about Robin's energy, was "not actively antagonistic," and might require additional offerings to establish trust. Robin slapped the coffee table hard enough to make the takeout containers rattle.

"I KNEW IT."

Steve completely lost whatever composure he had left.

Steve was still laughing when Robin snatched the laptop back.

No, she didn't suddenly become embarrassed. If anything, she looked more convinced than ever. The report disappeared as she continued scrolling through the seller's page, muttering to herself while Steve attempted to regain control of his breathing. "This woman is very thorough."

"This woman is a criminal."

"You're being dramatic."

"She convinced you a cat has a personal vendetta."

"The report specifically says cautious."

"The report specifically says you paid thirty dollars to lose an argument with an animal." Robin waved him off.

Steve took another drink of his beer and settled back into the couch, still grinning despite himself. Outside, the last of the sunlight had disappeared. The apartment had fallen into that comfortable evening quiet where the lamps were on, the takeout containers were open, and neither of them had any real plans beyond existing in the same room for a few hours.

Robin continued scrolling.

Then she stopped and a smile slowly spread across her face.

Steve immediately groaned. "No."

"What?"

"I know that look."

"You don't know this look."

"I absolutely know this look."

Robin tilted the screen away from him and that only made him more suspicious. A few seconds pass before a soft, nearly maniacal chuckle fills the space, the way she did when she'd discovered something she couldn't wait to weaponize. "Oh, this is perfect."

"Robin."

"You know what your problem is?"

Steve barked out a laugh. “You wanna narrow that down?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Robin pointed at him with all the authority of a woman who had just commissioned a psychic cat analysis. "Your problem is that you're impossible."

"I am not impossible."

"You are deeply impossible." Steve rolled his eyes and Robin promptly ignored him. "You claim you don't care about dating, but every six months you meet a woman and suddenly start talking like you're auditioning for a Jane Austen novel."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"It means you're grumpy all the time until you decide somebody is interesting and they show any inkling of being interested in you."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"It is not."

"You literally referred to a woman as enchanting once."

Steve's entire face twisted in horror. "I did not."

"You did."

"I absolutely did not."

"You were wearing a Henley."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It was a very vulnerable period for you."

Steve covered his face with one hand while Robin kept going. "You want romance. You have wanted to be the main character in a rom-com since we were teenagers."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I want a normal relationship."

"You want someone to gaze at across a farmer's market."

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

"You want somebody to make soup when you're sick."

"Everybody wants soup."

"You want somebody to split crossword puzzles with."

Steve pointed at her. "That's not even a romantic activity."

"It is when you do it."

The worst part was that she was laughing now. The second worst part was that she wasn't entirely wrong. Robin clicked something, then rotated the laptop. "There."

Steve looked. The same Etsy page. Different listing. Black background. Gold lettering. A handful of sample sketches.

He frowned. "What am I looking at?"

Robin's smile widened. "A solution."

"To what?"

"To you."

Steve felt immediate dread. "Robin."

"Look."

"No."

"Just look."

Against his better judgment, he glanced down. The title sat across the top of the page.

SOULMATE PORTRAIT COMMISSION

Steve stared before he could even try to look at Robin again. For a moment neither of them spoke until, finally, Robin leaned back into the couch and folded her arms. "Honestly, at this point, put us all out of our misery and just ask the witch who your soulmate is. I can't take another one of your tragic little dating eras. It's embarrassing."

Steve continued staring at the listing."The fuck?"

Steve handed the laptop back immediately. "Absolutely not."

But the smile Robin gave him suggested she already knew she worked her way in.