❥ are you still breaking hearts with the efficiency only youth can afford? | masterlists: steve harrington, gator tillman, spn, kinktober 2022, request / taglist open
It's not that he just wants to eat you out. Well, of course he does— he can feel himself growing weak whenever he hasn't stuffed his head between your thighs for too long. And too long is anything between 2 days and a week. And if Steve gets moody whenever you two don't have enough time alone for him to worship your pussy as you deserve to the point even Robin asks him why he's gotten his pants in a twist, so what?
But it's not just a tender want. It's a need.
Whenever he's not eating you out, he's thinking about it. Late at night, when the city's asleep. Fresh out in the morning, when Steve is making bacon and eggs. When the song you like is playing. When you laugh and touch his arm. At work, when Robin is busy in the back and he has nothing to do but entertain himself. Doesn't matter where he is, or who he is with, his mind drifts off to its favorite thing to think about: you.
You, sprawled out on his bed, legs wide open for him and him only. You, sliding your finger through his hair when he's going down on you. You, soaked and needy for his lips, wanting him to make out with you in the filthiest way possible. You, trembling when he breathes a little too close to your core, teasing you, salivating for you. You, the way you dance on his tongue when he finally, finally places his mouth on your dripping pussy. You, pulling his hair hard when he sucks your clit. You, reduced to a whining mess when he starts fucking you with his skilled tongue. You, rubbing against his face without caring if he's breathing or not, just shutting him up with your tight cunt. You, whimpering out his name as if it's the only thing keeping you both sane, and maybe it is.
Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.
Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.
Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.
He just calls it being a good boyfriend.
( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )
Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.
a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)
It's not that he just wants to eat you out. Well, of course he does— he can feel himself growing weak whenever he hasn't stuffed his head between your thighs for too long. And too long is anything between 2 days and a week. And if Steve gets moody whenever you two don't have enough time alone for him to worship your pussy as you deserve to the point even Robin asks him why he's gotten his pants in a twist, so what?
But it's not just a tender want. It's a need.
Whenever he's not eating you out, he's thinking about it. Late at night, when the city's asleep. Fresh out in the morning, when Steve is making bacon and eggs. When the song you like is playing. When you laugh and touch his arm. At work, when Robin is busy in the back and he has nothing to do but entertain himself. Doesn't matter where he is, or who he is with, his mind drifts off to its favorite thing to think about: you.
You, sprawled out on his bed, legs wide open for him and him only. You, sliding your finger through his hair when he's going down on you. You, soaked and needy for his lips, wanting him to make out with you in the filthiest way possible. You, trembling when he breathes a little too close to your core, teasing you, salivating for you. You, the way you dance on his tongue when he finally, finally places his mouth on your dripping pussy. You, pulling his hair hard when he sucks your clit. You, reduced to a whining mess when he starts fucking you with his skilled tongue. You, rubbing against his face without caring if he's breathing or not, just shutting him up with your tight cunt. You, whimpering out his name as if it's the only thing keeping you both sane, and maybe it is.
Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.
Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.
Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.
He just calls it being a good boyfriend.
( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )
Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.
a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)
It's not that he just wants to eat you out. Well, of course he does— he can feel himself growing weak whenever he hasn't stuffed his head between your thighs for too long. And too long is anything between 2 days and a week. And if Steve gets moody whenever you two don't have enough time alone for him to worship your pussy as you deserve to the point even Robin asks him why he's gotten his pants in a twist, so what?
But it's not just a tender want. It's a need.
Whenever he's not eating you out, he's thinking about it. Late at night, when the city's asleep. Fresh out in the morning, when Steve is making bacon and eggs. When the song you like is playing. When you laugh and touch his arm. At work, when Robin is busy in the back and he has nothing to do but entertain himself. Doesn't matter where he is, or who he is with, his mind drifts off to its favorite thing to think about: you.
You, sprawled out on his bed, legs wide open for him and him only. You, sliding your finger through his hair when he's going down on you. You, soaked and needy for his lips, wanting him to make out with you in the filthiest way possible. You, trembling when he breathes a little too close to your core, teasing you, salivating for you. You, the way you dance on his tongue when he finally, finally places his mouth on your dripping pussy. You, pulling his hair hard when he sucks your clit. You, reduced to a whining mess when he starts fucking you with his skilled tongue. You, rubbing against his face without caring if he's breathing or not, just shutting him up with your tight cunt. You, whimpering out his name as if it's the only thing keeping you both sane, and maybe it is.
Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.
Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.
Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.
He just calls it being a good boyfriend.
( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )
Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.
a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)
It's not that he just wants to eat you out. Well, of course he does— he can feel himself growing weak whenever he hasn't stuffed his head between your thighs for too long. And too long is anything between 2 days and a week. And if Steve gets moody whenever you two don't have enough time alone for him to worship your pussy as you deserve to the point even Robin asks him why he's gotten his pants in a twist, so what?
But it's not just a tender want. It's a need.
Whenever he's not eating you out, he's thinking about it. Late at night, when the city's asleep. Fresh out in the morning, when Steve is making bacon and eggs. When the song you like is playing. When you laugh and touch his arm. At work, when Robin is busy in the back and he has nothing to do but entertain himself. Doesn't matter where he is, or who he is with, his mind drifts off to its favorite thing to think about: you.
You, sprawled out on his bed, legs wide open for him and him only. You, sliding your finger through his hair when he's going down on you. You, soaked and needy for his lips, wanting him to make out with you in the filthiest way possible. You, trembling when he breathes a little too close to your core, teasing you, salivating for you. You, the way you dance on his tongue when he finally, finally places his mouth on your dripping pussy. You, pulling his hair hard when he sucks your clit. You, reduced to a whining mess when he starts fucking you with his skilled tongue. You, rubbing against his face without caring if he's breathing or not, just shutting him up with your tight cunt. You, whimpering out his name as if it's the only thing keeping you both sane, and maybe it is.
Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.
Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.
Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.
He just calls it being a good boyfriend.
( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )
Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.
a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)
It's not that he just wants to eat you out. Well, of course he does— he can feel himself growing weak whenever he hasn't stuffed his head between your thighs for too long. And too long is anything between 2 days and a week. And if Steve gets moody whenever you two don't have enough time alone for him to worship your pussy as you deserve to the point even Robin asks him why he's gotten his pants in a twist, so what?
But it's not just a tender want. It's a need.
Whenever he's not eating you out, he's thinking about it. Late at night, when the city's asleep. Fresh out in the morning, when Steve is making bacon and eggs. When the song you like is playing. When you laugh and touch his arm. At work, when Robin is busy in the back and he has nothing to do but entertain himself. Doesn't matter where he is, or who he is with, his mind drifts off to its favorite thing to think about: you.
You, sprawled out on his bed, legs wide open for him and him only. You, sliding your finger through his hair when he's going down on you. You, soaked and needy for his lips, wanting him to make out with you in the filthiest way possible. You, trembling when he breathes a little too close to your core, teasing you, salivating for you. You, the way you dance on his tongue when he finally, finally places his mouth on your dripping pussy. You, pulling his hair hard when he sucks your clit. You, reduced to a whining mess when he starts fucking you with his skilled tongue. You, rubbing against his face without caring if he's breathing or not, just shutting him up with your tight cunt. You, whimpering out his name as if it's the only thing keeping you both sane, and maybe it is.
Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.
Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.
Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.
He just calls it being a good boyfriend.
( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )
Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.
steve harrington masterlist taglist request nav
a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)
there are a lot of things to like about gator tillman, despite popular belief. the way the corner of his lips curve backward, making the slightest pout when you pull away after a kiss; his sharp-as-knife jawline, his nose that always brushes against your clit when he gets too excited while eating you out, the way he's always leaning towards you — either it's just by being close, fingers brushing your back, arms touching slightly, or even knee-to-knee when you are sitting next to each other.
but there's one thing that has always caught your attention the most.
his hands.
at first sight, he already looked like the kind of guy who worked with his hands. gator lived on a ranch and he was a cop. the outline made a clear painting: a man, in the worst sense of the world. tough on the outside, spouting revolting shit out loud like he was proud to be an asshole, and a whole lot of sadness hiding underneath the cool facade.
tillman could dress his misery up in any way; the deputy uniform, the snake-like smirk, the tough talk, the smoke hanging from his lips. he could hide whatever he wanted with the right amount of bullshit.
except his hands.
gator could never hide the truth in his palms.
his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.
sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.
you never talked about these marks.
he never offered you an explanation, either.
yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.
therefore, you kissed his scars.
he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.
you let him get away with it.
and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.
his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.
it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.
but you didn't say it.
still, he glared at you like he knew.
some things are better left unsaid.
when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.
in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.
when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.
when he touches you, it doesn't matter.
his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.
“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.
“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”
the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.
you don't mention it.
but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.
his hands never lie.
so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.
but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.
his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.
gator tillman masterlist taglist request nav
man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.
there are a lot of things to like about gator tillman, despite popular belief. the way the corner of his lips curve backward, making the slightest pout when you pull away after a kiss; his sharp-as-knife jawline, his nose that always brushes against your clit when he gets too excited while eating you out, the way he's always leaning towards you — either it's just by being close, fingers brushing your back, arms touching slightly, or even knee-to-knee when you are sitting next to each other.
but there's one thing that has always caught your attention the most.
his hands.
at first sight, he already looked like the kind of guy who worked with his hands. gator lived on a ranch and he was a cop. the outline made a clear painting: a man, in the worst sense of the world. tough on the outside, spouting revolting shit out loud like he was proud to be an asshole, and a whole lot of sadness hiding underneath the cool facade.
tillman could dress his misery up in any way; the deputy uniform, the snake-like smirk, the tough talk, the smoke hanging from his lips. he could hide whatever he wanted with the right amount of bullshit.
except his hands.
gator could never hide the truth in his palms.
his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.
sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.
you never talked about these marks.
he never offered you an explanation, either.
yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.
therefore, you kissed his scars.
he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.
you let him get away with it.
and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.
his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.
it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.
but you didn't say it.
still, he glared at you like he knew.
some things are better left unsaid.
when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.
in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.
when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.
when he touches you, it doesn't matter.
his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.
“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.
“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”
the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.
you don't mention it.
but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.
his hands never lie.
so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.
but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.
his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.
gator tillman masterlist taglist request nav
man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.
there are a lot of things to like about gator tillman, despite popular belief. the way the corner of his lips curve backward, making the slightest pout when you pull away after a kiss; his sharp-as-knife jawline, his nose that always brushes against your clit when he gets too excited while eating you out, the way he's always leaning towards you — either it's just by being close, fingers brushing your back, arms touching slightly, or even knee-to-knee when you are sitting next to each other.
but there's one thing that has always caught your attention the most.
his hands.
at first sight, he already looked like the kind of guy who worked with his hands. gator lived on a ranch and he was a cop. the outline made a clear painting: a man, in the worst sense of the world. tough on the outside, spouting revolting shit out loud like he was proud to be an asshole, and a whole lot of sadness hiding underneath the cool facade.
tillman could dress his misery up in any way; the deputy uniform, the snake-like smirk, the tough talk, the smoke hanging from his lips. he could hide whatever he wanted with the right amount of bullshit.
except his hands.
gator could never hide the truth in his palms.
his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.
sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.
you never talked about these marks.
he never offered you an explanation, either.
yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.
therefore, you kissed his scars.
he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.
you let him get away with it.
and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.
his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.
it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.
but you didn't say it.
still, he glared at you like he knew.
some things are better left unsaid.
when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.
in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.
when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.
when he touches you, it doesn't matter.
his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.
“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.
“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”
the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.
you don't mention it.
but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.
his hands never lie.
so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.
but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.
his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.
gator tillman masterlist taglist request nav
man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.
there are a lot of things to like about gator tillman, despite popular belief. the way the corner of his lips curve backward, making the slightest pout when you pull away after a kiss; his sharp-as-knife jawline, his nose that always brushes against your clit when he gets too excited while eating you out, the way he's always leaning towards you — either it's just by being close, fingers brushing your back, arms touching slightly, or even knee-to-knee when you are sitting next to each other.
but there's one thing that has always caught your attention the most.
his hands.
at first sight, he already looked like the kind of guy who worked with his hands. gator lived on a ranch and he was a cop. the outline made a clear painting: a man, in the worst sense of the world. tough on the outside, spouting revolting shit out loud like he was proud to be an asshole, and a whole lot of sadness hiding underneath the cool facade.
tillman could dress his misery up in any way; the deputy uniform, the snake-like smirk, the tough talk, the smoke hanging from his lips. he could hide whatever he wanted with the right amount of bullshit.
except his hands.
gator could never hide the truth in his palms.
his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.
sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.
you never talked about these marks.
he never offered you an explanation, either.
yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.
therefore, you kissed his scars.
he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.
you let him get away with it.
and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.
his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.
it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.
but you didn't say it.
still, he glared at you like he knew.
some things are better left unsaid.
when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.
in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.
when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.
when he touches you, it doesn't matter.
his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.
“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.
“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”
the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.
you don't mention it.
but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.
his hands never lie.
so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.
but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.
his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.
gator tillman masterlist taglist request nav
man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.
there are a lot of things to like about gator tillman, despite popular belief. the way the corner of his lips curve backward, making the slightest pout when you pull away after a kiss; his sharp-as-knife jawline, his nose that always brushes against your clit when he gets too excited while eating you out, the way he's always leaning towards you — either it's just by being close, fingers brushing your back, arms touching slightly, or even knee-to-knee when you are sitting next to each other.
but there's one thing that has always caught your attention the most.
his hands.
at first sight, he already looked like the kind of guy who worked with his hands. gator lived on a ranch and he was a cop. the outline made a clear painting: a man, in the worst sense of the world. tough on the outside, spouting revolting shit out loud like he was proud to be an asshole, and a whole lot of sadness hiding underneath the cool facade.
tillman could dress his misery up in any way; the deputy uniform, the snake-like smirk, the tough talk, the smoke hanging from his lips. he could hide whatever he wanted with the right amount of bullshit.
except his hands.
gator could never hide the truth in his palms.
his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.
sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.
you never talked about these marks.
he never offered you an explanation, either.
yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.
therefore, you kissed his scars.
he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.
you let him get away with it.
and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.
his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.
it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.
but you didn't say it.
still, he glared at you like he knew.
some things are better left unsaid.
when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.
in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.
when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.
when he touches you, it doesn't matter.
his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.
“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.
“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”
the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.
you don't mention it.
but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.
his hands never lie.
so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.
but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.
his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.
gator tillman masterlist taglist request nav
man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.
https://www.tumblr.com/herstarburststories/815461548643532800/how-he-eats-you-out?source=share
OMGGG TY FOR ADDING COLE I WATCHED MOLLYS GAME FOR JOE and ik we dont even know who this man even is but idec bc hes SOO hot
OMG THE ONLY OTHER COLE FAN EVER, HELLOOOO. And yes, I'm obsessed with him. I wish there were more fics, who cares that he just showed up for ( less than ) five minutes? I have him in other hcs too!!
Valentine's Day (Joe Keery characters)
Making him come in his pants (Joe Keery characters)
How he eats you out
Ok I really need a term for "Joe Keery characters". I've heard "djolings" being used by some people, but are there any suggestions? You guys tell meeee.
