having a shit ass day at work and just getting home all worked up and on edge, gator picking up on it right away because you’re not all happy and bubbly like you usually are—you’re scowling and giving him clipped answers and when you walk into the kitchen and see a sinkful of dishes and dinner decidedly UNstarted, you just turn on him ready to snap
but gator just puts his hands on your arms, rubbing them a little trying to soothe you and maybe it works, bc he’s got his lips pressed to your temple, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, your lips, and yeah ok. that helps
this one is pure fluff guys enjoy
he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, and once you're secure in his hold, once you inhale the scent of him, leather and tobacco and a little bit of the bubblegum of his vape, you feel yourself relax exponentially
"wanna talk about it?" he asks, rubbing the spot between your shoulders where you hold all of the tension that builds up throughout the day.
"no," you say, because it isn't even that something happened. it's just a lot of bullshit all snowballing until you felt like you couldn't move without fucking something up, and he just squeezes you a little tighter and smacks one last, sloppy, almost disgustingly wet kiss right on your cheek—it always makes you laugh when he does—and then steps back, letting his hand rest against the side of your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point. you rub at your cheek where he left a wet lip-print from the kiss.
"i know you ain't wipin' my kiss off."
"it's gross."
"you wanna see gross?" he asks, dropping his hands to your hips and pulling you closer to him, lowering his mouth to your neck where he play-bites at you, making you laugh even more as he pretends to eat your neck, holding you tight until you manage to wriggle out of his hold.
"i'll order a pizza, how's'at sound?" he suggests, and you nod.
"with pepperoni?"
he laughs. "'course, doll. go get changed. 'nd i don't wanna see ya in nothin' that's yers. you better go up there 'nd come down lookin' like me."
you roll your eyes, but you know why he said that and what he means: the nights of your rough days always end with you stealing his clothes. his joggers and oversized hoodies, or sweats and a thermal long-sleeve. tonight it's a pair of his flannel pajama pants and the hoodie he wore to sleep in last night; it smells like him. a little pinch of musk, of toothpaste and when you put the hood up, the shampoo from his shower before bed.
you pad back downstairs and settle onto the couch, and you hear him finishing up the pizza order as you open up netflix, scrolling to your profile as you tuck your legs up so he can pass by you to take his place to your left, trapping you between the arm of the couch and himself.
you lean away, smirking to yourself as he tries to crowd you for a kiss on the cheek.
"fuck you doin'? he asks. "lemme kiss ya."
"promise you won't slobber all over me this time."
"can't," he says. "always got me droolin' for ya."
"that's gross, gator," you say, but finally relent, straightening up so he can tug you into him. you wait as he first nuzzles your cheek with his nose, then places a soft, gentle kiss there, lingering there, waiting to pull away until he feels it: your smile growing, rounding the apples of your cheeks, and only then does he pull away, but it's only to ensure there's even more contact between you; he pulls your legs over his thighs, so you're sitting perpendicular to him, your shoulder to his as he lets you rest against his front, and you sit just like that, scrolling through potential viewing options before just choosing gilmore girls as always.
"start it from season three," gator says.
"why? we're almost finished with this watch-through."
"'cause i fuckin' can't stand logan, and i don't wanna see his sorry ass."
you laugh, but just make a mental note of what episode you were actually on, so you can watch by yourself the next time he's got an overnight shift.
"you know you're gonna have to answer the door when the pizza gets here," you say, settling in against him to watch season 1, episode 1.
"we'll see about that," he says, but you know he will.
you sleeping on your tummy, one leg stretched out and one knee bent close to you. and your boyfriend arrives, cock hard and aching for you. he presses his bulge to your ass and rubs it against you, groaning as he does so. inhaling the scent of your shampoo. rubs your pussy through your panties before he pulls his cock out. he moves your cute undies to the side and fills you up with him :( and you begin to wake up and you’re so needy. so unbelievably needy for him
letting out an involuntary little moan the first time you make out with your bf and having that alter his brain chemistry so much, he replays it in head later with his hand wrapped around his cock
“I need nothing but to want for something so bad it drives me near outta my mind…”
Gator Tillman x f!reader
NSFW/MDNI
💐Major thanks to @cpnsteverogers for the mouth-watering blind!Gator ask you sent while I was sleeping - I hope this is okay!
The lamp is off.
You didn’t plan it that way. The afternoon stretched into evening somewhere out on the couch, and when you migrated in here you didn’t reach for the switch. It doesn’t matter to him - nothing in this room is lit or unlit to Gator Tillman, the dark behind his eyelids the same as it always is, the same as it has been since the night someone took his sight from him and left the rest. But it matters to you. You needed the permission of it. The sense that the dark itself was doing some of the work.
You’re still not entirely sure how you got from the couch to here. Only that he reached for you - not the absent, habitual reaching he does to know where you are, but something different, something that had a destination - and when his hand found your face you understood exactly what he was saying, and you turned into it, and that was enough.
He’s propped up against the headboard, caught halfway between sitting and lying down. There is still something in the set of him that belongs to a different room - his shoulders carrying the memory of a uniform, his jaw held with the clench of a man who spent years making sure nothing crossed his face that he hadn’t authorised. It’s not armour anymore, not exactly. He’s already past that with you, has been for a long time, the habitual blankness worn away by months of your particular kind of patience. But the body remembers what the man is trying to forget. The posture of authority. The habit of not asking.
You climb onto his thighs and feel him breathe.
His hands find you before you’ve finished settling. That’s the thing about Gator - he doesn’t fumble, doesn’t reach uncertainly. He’s learned the landscape of the world by touch and he applies that knowledge to your body with a steadiness that catches you off guard. His palms move up your thighs, slow like molasses, and then up further, tracing the curve of your hips, your waist, and back down again. Not impatiently, just present. Checking. Making sure you’re really there.
You’ve noticed this about him. The way he always has a hand on you when you’re close. Your wrist across a dinner table. Your shoulder when you’re sitting together on the couch. Not possessive. Something more careful than that. Something that says I know where you are and finds comfort in the knowing.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice kept low. Like the word is just for you, like there’s no version of this in any room where he’d say it to anyone else.
You shift closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him. “Yeah.” Then, because he deserves the same care sent back to him, “…what about you?”
The tip of his tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip, and his hands move once across your hips - not searching or grabbing, just feeling. Reassuring himself you’re there.
“Yeah,” he says, quiet and certain and a little rough around the edges. “Yeah, I am.”
You reach for him in the dark, wrap your hand around his length, and the breath that leaves him is threaded through with lust, like he’s been holding it since you climbed into his lap. He’s already hard, already straining into your touch, and feeling that - feeling what you’ve done to him before you’ve even started - moves through you like heat. You stroke over his velvet skin, thumb circling the tip, drawing your hand over and over him slowly. A promise, more than anything else.
For a moment he just lets himself be touched. His hands stay at your hips, barely. His head tips back against the headboard and his jaw tightens and you can see him doing the work of it - staying still, staying careful, not taking.
“You don’t -” He takes a breath. “We don’t have to.” As though he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. As though he’s been waiting long enough that the waiting has become a habit he doesn’t quite know how to break.
“Gator.” You twist your wrist, just to see what it does to him.
He hisses out a breath and bites down on his lip, and that’s the end of any doubt.
His hands move from your hips with a new kind of purpose. He finds the edges of whatever’s left of your clothing and, without fumbling, strips it away, and then his hands are on your skin and the thoroughness of his attention is almost overwhelming - he touches like he’s learning you, like this is information he intends to keep. His palms map your tits, the curve of your waist, your stomach, the inside of your thighs, pressing them apart with a quiet sureness that makes your breath catch. And then his fingers find you - already slick, already wanting - and the noise you make escapes you before you can think to hold it back.
His whole face changes.
“Again,” he croons. Low and insistent. The closest thing to an order he’s given all night.
You make the sound again, the choked-back gasp, and his fingers move with more confidence, reading you, two thick fingers curling inside you while his thumb works slow, firm circles against your clit and the accuracy of it - the focused, determined accuracy - makes your thighs tremble against him.
“That’s it.” Almost to himself. His face turned toward you, toward the sounds you’re making, drinking them in. “Come on. Let me hear you.”
His other hand presses flat against your stomach, feeling the tension in you, the way you’re winding tighter. Always touching. Always that point of contact, warm and grounding and inescapable.
“Gator -” A whine, his name coming apart in your mouth.
“I’ve got you.” Rough and certain. His fingers curling again, a third joining them, finding the place that makes your hips dance, staying there. “I’ve got you. Give it to me.”
You give him it all. You come apart against his hand with his name on your lips and his palm pressed flat against your stomach feeling every second of it, and the noise you make is shameless and loud and he absorbs it like sunlight, his breath ragged, his fingers working you through it until you’re pulling at his wrist, begging for a reprieve you’re not sure you really want.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks each one clean.
The sight of it - the brazenness of it, no hesitation, like he’s been thinking about doing nothing else - hits you somewhere deep and molten.
“Come here,” he says, and his voice is wrecked already, raw with wanting, and he reaches for you with both hands and pulls you up further into his lap.
His hands find your face first. Thumbs tracing your cheekbones, your jaw, the curve of your bottom lip, and you understand this is how he finds your mouth - mapping the route before he takes it. When he kisses you it’s not tentative. It’s slow and deep and devastating, and you feel the need in it, and the patience of it, his hands cradling your face while his mouth takes its time with yours.
You pull back just enough to breathe, balanced on your knees above him, and reach between you to guide him. The first touch of his tip against your slick folds drags a half-caught sigh out of him - helpless, barely contained - and his forehead drops to your shoulder, his hands sliding up and down your sides, his breath coming uneven against your skin.
You sink down onto him slowly, taking him in inch by inch, the thick drag of it drawing your breath out of you in a long, shaking exhale that you feel him drink in, his hands gripping your sides, his mouth open against your collarbone. For a moment neither of you moves. The fullness of it, the heat, the stretch of him inside you after everything you’ve imagined - it sits in your chest like something that needs a moment to be understood. You feel him breathe through it. His chest against yours, his mouth still pressed to your collarbone, both of you just… here. Present.
His head lifts. His mouth finds yours again.
It’s hungrier this time, less patient, one hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. His kiss is different now - deeper, more urgent, the careful man almost entirely gone. You can feel his restraint fraying against your lips as he licks in to taste you, his hand fisting in your hair, and you give it back to him in full, both of you breathing hard through your noses, neither wanting to be the one to break it.
But you break it eventually. You draw back and take a moment that is entirely yours to just look at him - his face open and wanting, and only you to see it.
He’s breathing hard. His eyelids, his jaw, the working of his throat - all of it stripped of the composure he came in with. His hands start moving again. Restless, mapping - your thighs, your hips, the small of your back, always in contact, always touching, like losing the thread of you is the thing he’s most afraid of.
“Okay,” he says, more to himself than you. Like he’s taking stock of what’s happened to him. Okay. Okay.
You roll your hips.
The taking stock ends there.
When one hand slides to your stomach you catch it. Turn it over, and lace your fingers through his.
He goes still.
“Tell me -” His voice reaching for steadiness but not quite finding it. “ - what you look like. Right now.”
“Gator -”
“Please.” Stripped bare, no steadiness in his voice at all. “I need to know, I can’t - please, just tell me.”
So you tell him. Your voice quiet in the dark, somehow still a little shy. You watch his face while you do, the careful version of him coming apart piece by piece. His eyelids don’t move, don’t flutter - there’s no reflex of sight in him, just his face turning toward your voice like that’s everything, like the sound of you is the whole world. His free hand presses flat against your thigh, hot and grounding, fingers spread and digging into your flesh.
Still there. Still there. Still there.
You stop talking and start moving instead and the moan that falls from his mouth has no composure in it at all.
The world narrows to sensation. One hand still laced with yours, his other palm hot and firm on your thigh. The full, aching weight of him within you as you start to move. You make a sound - not intentionally, not contained, just wrung out of you by the intensity of him beside and inside you - and feel him react instantly, hips rising to meet yours, a sharp breath through his teeth, his whole body surging toward you like you’ve closed a circuit.
You make the sound again.
He shudders.
Oh, you think, distantly. Oh. That’s what this is.
“Let me hear you.” The steadiness is gone completely now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, then his mouth finds your throat, his free hand moving up from your thigh to your back, pressing you closer, needing the contact. Your hands are still joined and his grip on you has tightened, fingers threaded through yours like he’s holding onto something that might slip away. His voice has changed - the vowels broader, something more plainspoken underneath the wreck of it, the part of him that is just a man from North Dakota who needs something and can’t stop. “Please. Please, I need to - I can’t -”
He can’t finish it. He doesn’t have to.
You understand. He has nothing in this room except what you give him. No sight, no light, no information of any kind except sound and touch and the press of your body against his, and he’s navigating entirely by you, and he is so desperate for it that the desperation has burned through every last habit of self-containment.
You stop keeping anything back.
The sound you make for him is shameless and his whole body convulses with it, a noise tearing out of him that would embarrass the man he was an hour ago, his hips driving up to meet you. “Yeah,” he says, barely a word. “Please - don’t stop, you feel so - please -”
He keeps saying please. Over and over, helpless with it, nothing like the man who came in with steady hands and almost smiled in the dark. This is someone more raw and more real, the deputy he once was now entirely gone, just Gator, just this, and you feel something fierce move through you at being the one who gets to see it.
“Good?” you manage between breaths.
“Y-yeah, good.” His voice barely his anymore, scraped clean of everything. “You’re so - fuck - be loud, please, let me hear you, I need to know - need to know I’m -”
“You are.” Your voice breaking. “Gator. You are, you’re so good -”
His free hand slides from your thigh back up your spine and into your hair, and your joined hands are still pressed together, his pulse hammering through his fingers into yours, and the orgasm builds and crests and breaks over you without warning - your back arching, his name loud in the dark, your body gripping him tight as you shudder through it. He makes a sound against your throat like the feeling of it is almost too much, and you can feel it, how close he is. His hand tightens in yours.
He gives you a moment. Just one. Then his hands shift. Purposeful. He unthreads his fingers from yours and finds your hips and the message is clear enough.
You let him roll you over.
It happens carefully, his hands guiding you through the dark without hesitation, repositioning you with the same quiet sureness he does everything. When he settles over you his weight is certain and grounding and you feel your pulse quicken at the sight - him above you, around you, everywhere.
He finds your hands immediately. Both of them this time, fingers lacing through yours, pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head as he eases himself back inside.
He pauses, bracing most of his weight above you. Waiting.
“I’m still here,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he says, grazing his nose against your cheek. “I know.”
He pulls back and snaps his hips, and the sound he makes when he does - deep and fractured, pulled from somewhere he doesn’t usually let you see - tells you everything about how close he already is. His grip on your hands tightens, pressing them deeper into the pillow. The full weight of him pins you to the bed, his pelvis rolling against yours, the rough drag of his leg hair against the soft underside of your thighs, the scratch of his chest hair against your skin every time he drives forward. All of it feels overwhelming. All of it him. His rhythm is less measured than before, more urgent, chasing something he needs badly enough that the wanting of it is written all over him.
“Tell me,” he pants, ragged against your ear. “…gotta let me hear you. Please - I - I need it -”
You give it to him. Everything. Your voice, his name, every sound you’ve been swallowing your whole life out of some old self-consciousness, all of it loose now, all of it his. You feel what it does to him in real time - the way his hips stutter, the way his breath goes to pieces, the way he says your name back like it’s the only word he has left.
“I’ve got you,” you tell him. “Gator. I’ve got you, you’re so good, you feel so, so -”
He comes at your voice, hard and sudden. It moves through him like a wave breaking, his whole body shuddering, his hands crushing yours into the pillow, your name in his mouth over and over in that flat honest vowel until it stops sounding like a word and starts sounding like something more necessary than that. His face presses into your throat. Every last piece of composure gone.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
You don’t ask him to. You lie there with his weight still half on you, his face still pressed into your throat, his hands still threaded through yours even now, even here, the grip looser but not gone. His breathing slows gradually. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, kicking like a buck, trying to find its way back to something steady.
You become aware of small things. The heat of his body along the full length of yours. The faint scratch of his chest hair against your skin when he breathes. The way his thumb has started moving without him seeming to know it, slow and repetitive across your knuckles, like a thing his body does when his mind has gone somewhere quiet.
Eventually he shifts. Rolls to the side, taking you with him, and you end up pressed against his chest with one arm heavy across your back and the other hand still loosely laced through yours between your bodies.
You wait.
“Are you alright?” you ask, when the silence has gone on long enough that you need to know.
There’s a long pause. His thumb stills on your knuckles, then starts again.
“Didn’t know it could be like that,” he says finally, like he’s reporting a fact he hasn’t finished understanding.
You press a little closer. Don’t say anything, because there isn’t anything to say that would improve on it.
His arm tightens around you.
You lie there in the dark and listen to him breathe. His hand still in yours, his heartbeat gradually steadying under your palm. His thumb moves slow across your knuckles, back and forth, like he’s not aware he’s doing it. Like it’s just what his body does now, when you’re close. When you’re his.
Telling Gator (or Steve) he looks like he doesn’t know where the clit is, that’s the tweet.
Anon, I’m gonna apologise right off the bat because I’m pretty sure👇this👇 isn’t what you had in mind when you sent in this prompt. Unfortunately I’m incapable of not being soft for Gator fucking Tillman, and what should have been a hot little drabble turned into angst and yearning. Take me out back, I’m done.
wc: 2.6k
The thing about the Tillman ranch is that it looks exactly the same every time. Same flat reach of land, same house sitting out in the middle of it like a declaration. You’ve been coming here since you were four years old and it has never once changed, which should be comforting, but it mostly just makes you feel like time works differently out here. Like the ranch itself is trapped in amber, but the people can still come and go.
Gator is leaning against the fence when your father’s car pulls in. He straightens when he sees it, and you watch him through the rear window for the few seconds you have before your father parks and the whole arrival dance starts up, the handshakes and the how-was-the-drive and Roy’s hand on your father’s shoulder. Two seconds of Gator looking at you looking at him, and then it’s over.
“My, you’ve sure grown up,” Roy says to you, which he says every time you come up here and it always leaves a greasy uneasiness under your skin. His wife, Karen, says very little. She’s never been a warm woman - at least to you - but she’s positively arctic today, looking at you through narrowed eyes as Roy and your father talk about how pretty you’ve grown. You wish you could disappear.
Gator shakes your hand. He doesn’t hug you, none of the Tillmans do, but he used to, back when you were small and more interested in running into the barn to see the horses. His palm is dry and warm and he drops your hand quickly, which is new, and you’re not sure what to do with that so you don’t do anything.
“Hey,” he says, squinting into the sunlight as he looks at you.
“Hey,” you say back.
Twenty years of visits, and that’s what you’ve got.
It’s no easier once you’re inside. Roy and your father disappear into the sheriff’s study to talk while your mother gets swept up by Karen and absorbed into something in the kitchen. You and Gator orbit the living room separately for a while, which is a choreography you’ve both done enough times to know the steps. You know where he is without looking. You’ve always been able to do that.
You were fourteen the last summer you were actually easy with each other. You’ve done the math many times.
The living room is the same as it always was. Same mounted elk above the fireplace, same heavy leather furniture arranged around it, same family photos on the wall that you’ve looked at enough times to know them by heart. Roy at various ages. Gator at various ages. A few of Roy’s great-grandfather, stern and sun-weathered, looking like he built the land rather than settled on it.
You’re looking at one of Gator at maybe twelve, gap-toothed and holding a fish, when you hear him come in from the kitchen.
“Beer?” he says.
“Sure.”
He hands it to you without ceremony and stands next to you looking at the same photo. Close enough that you’re aware of it.
“God,” you say. “You were such an ugly kid.”
“Shut the fuck up. You had a bowl cut until you were eleven.”
“That was my mother’s fault.”
“Uh huh.” He takes a drink. “How is she? Besides getting real interested in other people’s business.”
“She’s good. Same as ever.” You move along the wall. Gator follows, or maybe he was already moving, it’s hard to tell. “Your dad looks well.”
“He’s fine. Busy. Sheriff stuff.”
“Still loving it?”
“Born to it.” Something in his voice that you can’t quite place, not bitterness exactly, more like a fact he’s made his peace with. “You still in Duluth?”
“It’s a good city. Nice lake. You should visit sometime.” You say it without thinking, and then you hear it hanging in the air and you take a drink of your beer.
Gator doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t let it pass unnoticed either, you can feel him not letting it pass, and that’s almost worse.
“Come on,” he says, after a moment. “I’ll show you what we’ve done with the south pasture.”
****************
Outside is easier. It usually is with Gator, always has been, like the open air takes some of the pressure out of the room and lets you both breathe normally. The sun is lower now, the heat going out of the day, and you walk beside him along the fence line while he talks about the land in the sparse way he talks about things he actually cares about. A few sentences. Long pauses. The occasional gesture toward something in the middle distance.
You ask questions. He answers them. It’s almost comfortable.
“You remember when we were ten, or eleven maybe, that summer you fell in the creek?” he says, out of nowhere.
“I remember the summer you pushed me in - ”
“I didn’t push you.”
“Gator. You pushed me off the end of the log.”
“No, you just slipped.”
“Yeah, because you pushed me in!”
He barks out a laugh, loose with it, hands clasped behind his head while he looks at the sky. You remember it vividly; crawling your way out of the creek, your jeans and tshirt soaked and sticking to you, your face screwed up before you started wailing slaps on him.
He drops his hands and turns to look at you, a little chastened. “You were so mad.”
“I was soaked through. Your mom made me put on one of her dresses while she dried my clothes. It was itchy.”
His expression falters a little at the mention of his mother. He never talks about her, not unless he’s been drinking hard, and it’s been a couple of years since you’ve been close enough to do that with him. He drains the rest of his beer and fits the empty bottle into his back pocket. “My dad thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.”
“My mom didn’t.”
He laughs again, short and genuine, and you look at him and he’s looking at you and for a second it’s just easy, just two people who’ve known each other a long time remembering something stupid. He looks back out at the pasture and says, still with the tail of the laugh in his voice, “…been a long time since we’ve done this.”
The laugh is still there when he starts saying it and gone by the time he finishes, and the last few words come out quieter, more deliberate, ending up somewhere different from where they started. You know exactly what he means. That’s the whole problem, standing out here in the cooling air with his shoulder six inches from yours.
You look at the fence post nearest you, listing to one side. “Walked around your dad’s land?”
“Yeah,” he says, something heavier in it. “That.”
The word sits there. That. Like it has a second meaning he’s offering you the option of taking, or not taking, entirely up to you, no pressure, he’ll wait either way.
You choose not to take it.
“You’ve done a lot with the pasture,” you say.
His throat bobs, and he looks out beyond the fence line. “Yeah,” he says. “We have.”
You walk back to the house in something close to silence. Your shoulders almost touching. Not quite.
****************
Dinner is a long table and too much food and Roy Tillman at the head of it, holding court the way he always does, big and genial and completely in charge of the room without appearing to try. Your father loves him for it. You’ve never been entirely sure how you feel about it.
Gator sits across from you. Not next to you, which you’d been braced for, some parental manoeuvre to nudge your elbows together all evening. Across from you, which is somehow worse, because it means you can see his face.
He’s different at the table. Not unrecognisable, just shifted, the volume turned up on everything. He laughs at Roy’s stories in a way that’s easy and practiced. He asks your father questions about his work with genuine-seeming interest. He tops up your mother’s wine before she has to ask and she looks at him like he’s just solved something she’d been puzzling over, which you understand because your mother has never been subtle.
“Gator’s been doing real well with the deputy work,” Roy says, to no one in particular and everyone specifically. “Real asset to the county.”
“I’ll bet he is,” your mother says, with exactly the intonation you knew was coming.
Gator smiles, feigning modesty. “Just doing the job.”
“He’s being humble,” Roy says. “Not a natural state for him.”
Laughter carries around the table. Gator catches your eye across the centerpiece and something flickers there, quick as anything, gone before you can name it.
You smile. It’s a good smile, you’ve been told. You deploy it now without thinking, matching his energy the way you match a conversational register, automatic, social, completely hollow, and you watch something in his expression settle into satisfaction and you hate that you’ve given him that, hate that you can’t seem to stop.
Your mother says something about Duluth. His father asks a polite question. You answer it well. You are charming and warm and easy and you despise every second of it.
Across the table Gator refills his own glass and leans back in his chair with the comfort of a man who has never once in his life felt like a guest at his own dinner, and you think about the fence line and the empty beer bottle in his back pocket and him saying that like it meant something, and then you think about how he sat down and put his real self away like a tool he was done using.
You excuse yourself before dessert. Air, you tell them. Just need a minute.
Nobody stops you. Gator watches you go.
****************
He finds you on the back porch after dinner. You’ve got a glass of wine and the remains of the daylight and you were doing perfectly fine until the door opens and there he is, the self-assurance he wears like a second skin pulled back on, leaning against the doorframe looking at you like he’s found something mildly amusing.
“Hiding?” he says.
“Getting some air.”
“Uh huh.” He comes outside, lets the door fall shut behind him, and leans against the railing a few feet away with his arms crossed, looking out at the land. “Your dad tell you what they’ve been talking about in there?”
“Nope. I didn’t ask.”
“Smart.” He tilts his head. “Your mother tell you?”
You roll your eyes and say nothing.
Gator smiles. Not a nice smile, exactly. The smile he’s had since he was sixteen, the one that means he knows something you don’t and he’s enjoying it.
“Dad says your dad’s worried about you. Says you haven’t had a boyfriend in a while. Getting older, might be time to think about the future.” He pauses before he steals the glass out of your hand, swallowing a mouthful before he returns it. “Think about who you’re spending it with.”
“That’s very touching. Did Roy also tell you that Karen’s been telling my mom that you haven’t had a proper girlfriend since high school?” You look at him sideways. “Just dates. One night stands. Nothing that sticks in seven years.”
The smile doesn’t disappear exactly. It recalibrates.
“Karen talks too much,” he says.
“My mom asks too many questions. That’s why they’re friends.” You turn, leaning back against the railing. “So here we are. Two people whose families think they’re both sad cases who need managing.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“You just said your dad’s been -”
“I said my dad talks to your dad. I didn’t say I was a sad case.”
“Right, because the best part of a decade of one night stands is a real confident life choice.”
“Better than waiting around for something that isn’t coming.”
“What the fuck? I’m not waiting around.”
“No?” He looks at you properly now, turning away from the view. “So what are you doing? Why’d your folks bring you out here?”
And there it is. The question underneath the sparring, the one he’s been angling toward since he came out here, and you can feel it the way you can feel a change in weather. The smile is still on his face but his eyes are doing something different and you know, you have always known, that Gator Tillman is smarter than he shows and more patient than he looks and he has just been waiting for one clear shot.
You don’t have an answer. Not an honest one. So you do what you’ve always done.
“You know what I think?” Your voice comes out sharper than you planned. “I think maybe the reason nothing sticks for you is because you’re… you’re a shitty lay. I think you couldn’t find the clit even if you had GPS.”
The silence hits like a stone dropping into still water.
Gator goes very still. Not the stillness of offense or of someone winding up to retaliate. He’s just still. Looking at you. And you look back at him and hear what you just said playing back in your own ears, and underneath the shame of having said it is something worse, the knowledge of exactly how untrue it is, how precisely and specifically untrue, a thing you have spent six long years not thinking about with moderate success until right now.
You don’t apologise, but you stop talking. You turn back to the view and take a drink of what’s left of your wine and watch the red in the sky turn to purple at the edges.
For a second you think he’s going to walk back inside. But then he says it, rough and raw. “That’s not what you said, in the loft, when we were nineteen.”
The wine glass is very fragile in your hand.
You don’t answer. There is no answer that you can give him freely, and you stand there looking at the last of the light bleeding out of the sky while your heart does something inconvenient and Gator waits, the way he always waits, like time is something he has plenty of.
“That was a long time ago,” you say, finally. To the horizon.
“Six years.”
“Like I said.”
Another silence, this one a different texture from the others. He uncrosses his arms.
“The girls, the…” he says, slowly, trailing off with it like he’s deciding whether to say it as he goes. “It’s easier. You know what it is. Nobody’s expecting anything and you’re not expecting anything and when it’s done it’s done.” He looks out at the land. “No risk in it.”
“Mmhm,” is all you can give him.
“You’re not so different. Not like you’re living like a nun out in Duluth.”
“No, I’m not.” You look at him. There’s something settled on his face that wasn’t there before, and neither of you says anything for a long moment.
It’s easier somehow, this silence, easier than all the ones before it. The porch light has come on without either of you noticing and somewhere inside your parents are laughing about something and out here it’s just this. Just the two of you and the wide plains beyond.
“This thing our dads are doing,” he says.
“What about it?”
“I get that it’s annoying. Doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it.”
“No,” you agree.
He nods. Looks down at his hands on the railing, then back out at the dark. “But it doesn’t mean we have to not do nothing, neither.”
You look at him. He’s not looking at you, still watching the land the way he does, like he’s in no hurry, like he’s got all the time in the world and he’s decided to spend some of it here. With you.
“‘…not do nothin’ neither’,” you parrot back to him, affecting the North Dakotan twang he carries. “That’s the worst come-on I’ve ever heard.”
The smile comes back. The real one this time, the one that’s rarer, the one you remember from when you were kids before everything got complicated. “You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem. You’ve always known what he means.
You don’t say anything else. Neither does he. You stay there at the railing while the dark settles in around the ranch and the wine gets warm in your glass and your arms are almost touching, and neither of you moves away.
Biting, from this prompt, feel free to send one in!
“You smell so fuckin’ good.” Gator rasped against your neck, his breathing laboured and inhaling deeply as if your scent was a drug that he couldn’t get enough of. His body was warm, and heavy against yours, his hands gripping your hips to press you against the mattress. His tongue lapped at your skin, his breath hot in your ear. Your hands came up over his arms, feeling his hairs stand on end all the way to his shoulders, palms pressed against his muscles as your back arched, pushing your chest into him. Your moans were soft as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against you, his jeans rough against your soft underwear.
“Gator-” You moaned, your eyes closing as his teeth grazed your neck, your hand sliding up to the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair to keep his lips on your skin as his hips grinded against you. He smiled as his teeth pressed into your skin, the gasp that fell from your lips going straight to his cock, twitching against you as you pulled him impossibly closer. He inhaled deeply again, his eyes rolling as the scent of you filled his lungs. He buried his face further into your skin as he felt his eyes narrow, a low growl rumbling from his throat.
You moaned again as he sunk his teeth into your skin, his hips grinding against you as he controlled the urge to draw blood from you, to taste it, to smell the scent that had been driving him mad fresh from your skin. He could feel every goosebump under his rough fingertips, every shiver that ran down your spine, every soft sigh that left your lips had his blood running loud in his ears. His tongue ran over the mark his teeth had left on your skin, tasting the beads of sweat that travelled down your neck.
His fingers dug into your hips further, almost painfully as he fought against his urges, if his fingers grew into his claws, they would not only pierce your skin, but tear you apart completely. He shifted his hips against you again, hoping the length of his cock was enough to distract you from the animalistic growls he let out every time he breathed in your aroma.
His teeth were sharper this time as he bit into the junction of your neck and shoulder, the gasp coming out of your throat a little more pained than before. Your nails grasped his shoulders harder as the sensation rippled through your body, grinding your hips upwards against him as he smiled against your skin.
summary: you let it slip that you’ve touched yourself while thinking of gator before. he wants to know exactly how.
w.c: 1.2k
tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, pure filth, fingering (f receiving), new relationship, use of pet names (baby), no use of y/n, only half proof read
a/n: idk man i’m ovulating and i’m horny. this is my first (perhaps only) attempt at actual graphic smut and it’s genuinely because i was bored hope yall enjoy and we’ll see where the wind takes us. lmk ur thoughts as alway xx
Your desperation got the better of you when you saw each other in your date night outfits, not even making it to dinner. You’re straddled in Gator’s lap, both of you fully naked, when you finally pull yourself from his mouth. “You got any - Mm.” His tongue is back with yours, barely letting you speak. “You got anything?”
He pauses then, eyes going wide with the deepest regret you’ve ever seen. “Shit.”
“Gator…” You whine, shifting so you’re sitting on his bare thigh now. “I kinda need this.” You roll your hips once against his thigh, though you don’t need to. He can feel the wetness soaking over his skin.
He lets out a laugh that gets caught in a moan. “I can’t believe…” He’s half breathless as he feels you on him. “I forgot. Fucking dumbass.”
You kiss the side of his forehead. “Not a dumbass.” Then a tiny little smirk plays on the side of your mouth as you lean into him, your hand sliding down his chest, between your bodies. “Guess I’m just gonna have to take care of this the way I did when I was thinking of you and we weren’t a thing.”
That statement lights a spark in his eye you’ve never seen. His pupils dilate instantly. “You touch yourself while thinking of me?” It’s choked out, like he’s genuinely breathless, thigh lifting into your gently rocking hips.
“Gotta get rid of this somehow.” You breathe, all soft and airy, knowing what it does to him.
That’s when his lips curl up in a smirk that matches your own. It happens so fast you don’t register it for a moment.
His hands grab your waist, flipping you around on his lap like you weigh nothing. One hand then moves to your own, cradling the back of yours in his palm. “Show me.” He places his chin on your shoulder so he can see between your legs, that he’s pinned apart with his knees and guides your hand down to your thighs. Your chest buzzes in excitement.
“Not so fast.” His breath hitches behind your back as you bring your connected hands back up to your chest. “You want me to show you how I do it, right?” You bat your lashes at him, all feigned innocence.
“Fuck yes.” He’s already lost in you.
“I like to take my time. Pretend it’s your hands, feeling me.” Your fingertips and his collectively ghost down your front in light little patterns that make you shiver. Up and and down. Up and down. You bring it back up, stopping at your chest. He doesn’t need instruction here.
His lips kiss the curve of your neck, groaning low as he squeezes his hand over yours. A soft breath escapes your lips. You only let him do it once, bringing you both back down. All the way down to your thigh. You tilt your face to him, capturing him in a long, reverent kiss. He meets you, whimpering into your mouth when you slip your hand out of his to put your palm on the outside.
“Learn by doing.” You sigh as he takes your instruction in stride, pulling his hand and yours up your thigh. It’s rushed and desperate. “Slooow.” You instruct, squeezing his hand gently. He kisses you again in apology, breaths shaky just like yours when he finally touches you. He drags his fingers through you and your back arches a little bit, an involuntarily whine escaping.
“Wow.” He responds in turn, doing it again — slower, better.
When he reaches where you really need him, your hand stops him. “Not too fast.” He nods like his head’s going to fall off, kissing you again, this time desperate.
“But, baby…” He finally speaks, and his voice seems more wrecked than yours.
“Yeah?” You shift your hips a little upwards, because his fingers are right there and you need it now.
“It’s a bit crowded in here.” He nods down to where your hand is still on his. “Promise, I’ll take care of you.” He nips the skin of your ear as his fingers circle just around your clit. You gasp, letting go of his hand. You believe him, in more ways than one. He starts slow, making you let out small breaths, every movement sinking you deeper into him. Then, his circles get smaller, tighter, till it’s perfect and your breaths turn into moans, loud and filthy.
“N-need you in-” You don’t finish your sentence before he’s sliding two fingers inside you, sealing your lips onto his to swallow your groan. “This is when I start saying your name.” He groans low in his throat at that and you have to hold back a smile. But when put his fingers in again, you’re actually sighing out, “Gator.” And that only stirs him on more. Your brain starts to become fuzz at this point, all you can process is sloppy sounds and greedy moans shared between breaths. Your neck hurts at this angle, but you don’t want to stop kissing him. He won’t stop kissing you. Tongue brushing against yours, lips close even when you pull away to inhale at the feeling of his fingers.
“Harder.” You breathe, pushing your hips into his hand. He moans into your ear, pushing you down with his free hand.
“Slow.” He reminds you and you almost laugh at that glint in his eye. The one that is so desperate to please and so greedy to take at the same time. It’s not long before he speeds up though, seeing your desperation. Or maybe his own. “Gator- ohmygod.” It comes out one breathless word when his fingers curl into that perfect spot.
“There?”
“There.” It’s like a switch flips. He curls again, deeper, and you gasp. Then again. You’re bending into him everytime he hits it, thumb rubbing tighter, faster circles and he’s whimpering at the sight. “I’m so cl…” The words end in a strangled breath with one particularly sharp push.
“Yes, c’mon baby.” He’s destroyed as he speaks, and you can feel him throbbing against you. His name repeats out of your mouth a broken mantra, all moans that get faster and higher and whinier as you reach your peak.
And when you fall off it’s hard and sharp and perfect. Your body arches all the way, head lulling back into his shoulder as his fingers keep working, making you thrash against him. Short, sharp gasps escape your body as he kisses your neck, coaxing your aftershocks. “Keep going. I got you.”
When you’ve finally settled, totally boneless in his lap, he wraps his arms tight around your waist. You look over at him, exhausted but so damn satisfied and lean in for a sloppy kiss. You almost miss his lips in your haze but he guides them to you. When you pull away, you rest your forehead on his.
“So how was that?” He asks, voice raspy, because honestly, he was moaning more that you.
You turn around in his lap, returning to your original position, and rub against him. “Not as good as the real thing.” He whines at the feeling.
“Can you wait a minute while I go to the gas station? Please.” It’s so desperate, he’s almost shaking.
“As long as you want.” He smiles, and you can feel the shared butterflies. “But Gator…” He hums, eyes half closed, just focused on your face. “You can’t go like this.” Your face pouts all innocent but your hand slides down to him, so hard it has to be painful.
He breathes out, stunned, grabbing your cheeks and pulling you towards him. “You are such a fucking vixen.” He kisses again, this time gentler, grateful. “How did I get you?”
