Nattie

23 • Annoying • Sexy • Writer (i guess) • 18+ mdni

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

Welcome to my blog!

My name's Nattie, I'm 23 from Aus and I made this blog to get back into my writing ❤️

Asks are currently open. Feel free to send requests for fics, hcs, x readers, and as always 18+ MDNI 🩷

My Masterlist ✨️

Who I write for:

Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

Gator Tillman

Baron Lamram

Walter "Keys" McKeys

Bucky Barnes

Clark Kent

Yelena Belova

Bob Reynolds

[munsonstorm]

disgusting little freak

I want him

[treehugger4leyef]

Chili Pepper

Steve Harrington x wife!reader | inspired by this lovely fic

***********************************

Growing up has never been easy. People change, as do relationships and the definition of love, but the heartache is not all for nothing.

Steve never had it easy growing up. Not as a kid, or a teen, or even young adult. Neglectful parents, being someone he’s not, and watching his best friend find love while he had to watch his own chance slip through his fingers. Fighting. Oh, the fighting. With people — his father, Jonathan, Billy, ungodly monsters and Russians that haunted his dreams. And, the inevitable, loss.

But there are those who are fortunate enough to make it out alive — bruised and beaten — but alive. Your husband is one of the lucky ones.

Now, his days are filled with questions from young and curious minds, baseball drills and games and practices and moms who can’t get enough of him. He comes home to you in the evening with a big, dopey grin on his face as he lays his head in your lap on the couch or massages your feet while you talk about your days. His weekends are filled with house projects — setting up the pool in summer, building garden beds and picking up rocks for you to decorate said garden beds with.

He hauls fountains with fairy statues from the strange, eclectic garden store a few blocks outside of town. He learns how to tile just because you mentioned that you’d like to add more character to the kitchen. The kitchen that you two own, a work of art made from your love.

Steve Harrington survived for this moment right here, under the blazing summer sun, sweat dripping down his forehead and back, hands on his hips and eyes squinted as he watched you squeal with delight, walking around your vegetable garden.

“Steve, look! Our first pepper!”

And so he looks, the tiny, red chili pepper spurting from leaves of green. Then he looks at you, a wide smile stretched across your face, hands clasped together because with this level of excitement you don’t trust yourself to not pick it immediately, and he thinks to himself, “this is what it was all for.”

“That’s all you, baby.”

“Oh, Steve,” you soften immediately, walking towards him with outstretched arms. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

He chuckles and catches your arms before they can wrap around him, “I don’t wanna get you all sweaty,” he sheepishly admits.

“I don’t care about that, I wanna love on my man,” you protest.

With a sigh of defeat, Steve lets you wrap your arms around his neck as he laughs, a little uncomfortable for you. But you don’t let his insecurities get the best of him, not even the small, seemingly insignificant ones. So, you take his ever growing arms and wrap them around yourself as you press kisses into his sweaty skin.

“Wanna go for a swim?” You ask, playfully swiping beads of sweat of his forehead.

“Don’t think I can refuse that offer,” he grins, leaning down to kiss you. Before your lips can unlock and you have to let go and change, he pats your ass a few times, firm and loving, and thinks that life couldn’t get any better than this.

Taglist: @keerygirlie98 @ann-aatn @watercolorskyy @dopeysunflowers, @ilovest3veh4rr1ngt0n @fullmetalflower @offbrandhandymanny @meowsberry @ladybug-polkadots, @princessofthefrogss, @storietilman, @micheledawn1975

as always, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :)

OR if the @ is not working correctly

Masterlist

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

🥹🥹

[levanswrites]

𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.

Some are old enough to be your grandfather.

They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.

The tips are obscene, though.

So you smile. 

You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.

You pocket your tips. You move on.

Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.

He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.

Maybe not older at all.

He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.

He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.   

The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.

Old money.

Of course.

Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”

You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.

He glances up as you set the glass beside him.

Unfortunately...

He's somehow even better-looking up close.

His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.

Rich boy's got a nice face.

Shame about everything else.

His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.

“Thanks, honey.”

Then his attention drops right back to his cards.

You blink.

Honey?

Who the fuck is this guy?

He's your age.

Maybe younger.

You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.

You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.

Trust-fund asshole.

Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.

Fuck that guy.

· · ·

Well.

Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.

Disgustingly good.

He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.

For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.

So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.

You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.

Serves him right.

By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.

Everyone's in a foul mood.

Everyone except for seat four.

You set another Woodford beside him.

“Thanks, honey.”

He smiles, this time.

The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.

Huh.

Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.

Asshole.

· · ·

The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.

You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.

You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.

It's all hundreds.

A lot of hundreds.

You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.

Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.    

You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.

“Hey! Um, excuse me!”

He turns.

“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”

His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.   

He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.  

A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.

“Did I?”

“...Yeah.”

He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.

“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”

“No?”

“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”

You laugh, because that's insane.

To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.

To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.

“I... I can't take this.”

His brows pull together again. “Why not?”

You stare at him.

“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”

He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.

Smiles, just a little.

“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.

He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.

One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You're here Thursdays, right?”

It takes you a second to answer.

“...Yeah?”

His smile comes back.

“Great.”

He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.

“I'll see you next week, honey.”

And then he's gone.

· · ·

He comes back the next Thursday.

And the Thursday after that.

By week five, you've learned his name.

By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.

By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.

One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.

You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.  

You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.

“Then why are you doing it?”

He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.

“Gets me an extra five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“With you.”

He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.

And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.

· · ·

After that, Thursdays become a little easier.

The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.

But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.

He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.

He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.  

He always arrives ten minutes early.

Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.

Always calls you honey.

You learn little things about him.

That he tips everyone far more than necessary.

That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.

That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.

That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.

(You never tell him you figured that one out.)

You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.  

Instead, he asks about you.

Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.

You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.

That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.

Special.

You never quite believe it.

· · ·

One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.

The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.

You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.

Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.

He waits until you look up.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.

Which is new.

And, admittedly, a little adorable.

You set your money down.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”

You eye him suspiciously.

“With you? Depends.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth.

“Fair.”

He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.

“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”    

Tap. Tap.

Two soft taps against the bar top.

You bite back a smile.

“Would you let me take you to dinner?”

You blink.

“...Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“It's midnight.”

“Late dinner, then?”

His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.

Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

You look back at him, pursing your lips.

“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”

He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.

Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.

“In a good way or a bad way?”

You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.

This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.

You can't help but smile.

“Ask me again after dinner.”

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

FAAARRRRKK 😩😩🥵🥵

[keer-y]

[check-in.] with Steve, I feel like it’s clear why…

[check-in.] sender pauses every few thrusts to ensure receiver is handling things okay.

lmao i was WAITING for someone to send me this one

MDNI//SMUT—

“Baby一” Steve grunted, the slap of his hips against yours slowing. “Baby, talk to me. You good?”

“Uh huh,” you whimpered, because you were, but whenever he stopped it was like your body settled一relaxed一forgot that Steve was inside of you, and so by stopping, he wasn’t giving you a reprieve. He was making you have to get used to him all over again.

“Words,” Steve prompted you.

“Steve, I’m good,” you said, lifting your hips up, the both of you groaning as your cunt slipped onto him, his thick cock stretching you.

“Can I一should I一go again?”

“Please,” you whined, and he resumed his motions, elbows digging into the bed on either side of you, his lips finding yours again as you met each of his hearty thrusts with your own, the smack of his heavy balls on your ass making you whimper at the feeling of it, of him. “Oh, god一” you half-cried, grasping at his back, fingernails digging half-moons into his skin, and again, he stopped.

“You ok?”

He wasn’t usually like this一it was sweet, that he kept checking on you, but you wondered what was so different about this time.

“Why do you keep asking?” you questioned, not angrily, just curious, and since he’d stopped moving anyway, you had a moment.

“You一just got back,” Steve said, referencing the three-week long business trip you’d needed to take, because your firm was acquiring another, smaller one, and as named partner you’d needed to be there for every step.

“Yes, and I missed my husband, so一?”

“I just thought一you might need to… get used to me again. After three weeks.”

Your face burned, because yes. You and Steve had a very healthy sex life. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone three weeks without fucking him. Probably before you’d met him.

“I don’t think I could ever forget,” you said, drawing him down to you with both hands on his cheeks, pulling his lips to yours. “Don’t you always say I feel like I was made for you?”

It was Steve’s turn to redden, the bashful smile flickering onto his lips and just as quickly disappearing. “You do,” Steve said, shifting his hips, burying his cock into you to the hilt, and then leaning against you even further. “You were.”

You bit at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth as he kissed your upper lip, and you spread your legs as far as you could for him, giving him all the room he needed.

He met your eyes as you spoke. “Then prove it.”

There was a short, blink of a moment before he moved, and when he started up again, it was with abandon this time. He eased out of you before bullying his massive cock right back into you, feeling you stretch around him, feeling the give of your walls as he thrust in, over and over, hitting all of the right spots because he was so big he simply couldn’t not, and as the sound of skin on skin reached your ears, you moaned his name into his mouth, your hands clutching his arms as he rode you, drilling you down into the bed, your arousal leaking from your slit around his cock, staining your legs, his legs, the wet spot on your bed growing the longer he pounded into you. You could feel yourself dripping, hear the wet squelch of his cock entering you, then leaving you, then entering you, leaving, and at the moment your body gave a kick, so did his.

“Feel you,” Steve mumbled into your ear. “Feel me?” he asked.

“Feel you everywhere,” you mewled”, gasping out your next words. “You were made for一for me too一”

“Prove it,” he said again, and reached a hand down between your bodies, his fingertips spreading over your creamy skin, the ample slick coating your hot folds enough to have you bucking up into him, chasing your release.

“Steve一” you choked out, your body a tight coil, poised to snap, an electrified wire snapping this way and that, until一

“Prove it,” Steve nearly hissed at you, his voice low, thin, and you felt his cock twitch inside of you once, twice.

“God一Steve, I’m coming, I’m一please一”

His mouth found yours, taking your lips in a searing kiss as you felt yourself let go, felt your body crackle with lightning beneath him as he snapped too, his arousal unfurling against yours, bodies writhing together, twisting the sheets, your cunt spasming around his length as he filled you so copiously that you felt it forced out of you as Steve drove his cock shallowly into you a few more times.

Your neck felt tight, your heart hammering away in your chest, and Steve pushed himself up, reached down to circle two fingers around the base of his dick, and eased himself out of your gaping slit. As you watched, he knelt between your legs, reached down to wrap his arms around your thighs, and lifted you up一back arching off the bed, shoulders and arms flat against it, neck craned to watch him一and brought your soaking, pleasantly aching, come-filled pussy to his mouth. He licked into you, and you knew he was going to prove all over again that both of you were made for the other.

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

Gator Tillman is an eater (no literally, he loves food)

This is a little thing I just woke up thinking about, not proofread soz

Gator Tillman loves being in a relationship with you. You're simply amazing to him in every sense, but it's especially because Mama can cook 💅🏻

You send him to work with a packed lunch everyday. And today it had: some big ass scooby-doo looking sandwich that his coworkers stare at with longing and jealousy, beef jerky, a big square of your fudgie homemade brownies, and a piece of fruit or sliced up vegetables because "You need FIBRE. NO. ARGUING." But he's come to love it because a juicy piece of fruit just hits so good halfway through the day, and the way you season the vegetables has him tripping because if they tasted like this when he was a kid he would've cleaned his plate no problem.

And then he gets home 🤤

The first thing he notices is the smell. The house is filled with it and he's immediately salivating like a dog. There's slow-cooked beef that he knows is going to fall of the bone, potatoes roasting in duck fat (he almost gets horny at the fact you make them so crispy on the outside but so soft on the inside), and green beans that you're currently covering in garlic butter.

He then makes his way to the kitchen and it is a sight to behold. There you are, in that little black thing that clings to you, no bra, hair down, plating up a "big dinner for the big strong man" as you always describe it. Gator has never felt so blessed.

"Hey, baby. Dinner's just about ready." You say sweetly as you scoop the potatoes onto his plate.

You don't realise how quickly Gator circled the kitchen island until you turn to go grab some napkins and he's on you like a magnet. His huge rough hands slide around your hips to squeeze that ass while he presses his lips against yours, tongue sweeping into your mouth to immediately deepen the kiss.

Once his mouth releases yours you feel lightheaded. Although this wasn't an unusual occurence, Gator’s romantic side always left you feeling hot and dizzy.

"Love ya, mama." His voice is deep and rasped after the kiss, and you can feel his hard-on pressing into your thigh as he's pulling you impossibly close.

"Love you too," you say, slightly out of breath with a blush settling over your cheeks.

Gator usually devours his food, but over time you've taught him to savour it. And watching anybody eat would normally have your stomach turning. But when you watch Gator eat the food you've prepared him, his face full of pleasure and gratitude, it fills you with warmth and sometimes even turns you on a little - knowing that he appreciates what you do for him.

After dinner is literally the cherry on top.

The plates have been cleared, and you're both laid out on your bed as you rub circles on Gator’s full tummy. His pudge is sticking out from just having eaten, and his little face is so cute to watch while you give him tummy rubs - with his eyes softly closed and his mouth slightly curved with a teeny little blissed out smile from just how happy he is.

[kind-of-a-writer]

yours to lose

Gator doesn't like being replaced.

part 2 of mine to miss Gator Tillman x fem!reader tags: fingering, p in v sex, oral sex, handcuffs are involved, gets kinda angsty in the middle (the whole thing is kinda angsty), car sex, a lot of talking, etc

Gator Tillman wasn’t fond of losing control. His need for authority and to feel powerful was written all over his face, it was almost pathetic. And you? You liked being the one thing that made him lose a little bit of that control. That made him almost beg for you to let him in at the middle of the night. Nothing else in your life seemed right. At least you had the sheriff’s son wrapped around your finger for a couple hours a week.

But even that was starting to slip away. The gap between his late night visits was increasing. Two times a week had turned into one. Once a week turned to maybe once a fortnight. He was getting busier with his new girlfriend. Or maybe he was losing interest in you. You didn’t know which was worse. 

You hated to admit it but that thought scared you. The one thing in this fucked up town that made you feel just a little bit in control was slipping away. Because Roy Tillman had deemed you as tainted, unfit to be wed because you dared to have ‘relations outside of marriage’. Whatever. It’s not like you cared about what Roy Tillman had to say about your sex life. Not when Gator Tillman used to beg to fuck you almost every chance he got. 

The days were hotter as summer arrived; the nights even more so. Your body feeling empty, no sharp knocks only your front door. You hated missing the nuisance that Gator was, making his way through your apartment like he owned it. Owned you.

It’s not like you needed him. This town had a specialty for men who’d fuck you in a heartbeat at night, then deem you as a slut the morning after, ruined for a husband. The hypocrisy was almost laughable, but you’d long outgrown the need to listen to what people in this town had to say about you. 

But anything that got your mind off of Gator fucking Tillman for an hour or two was worth it at this point.

Somewhere between a long, exhausting shift where you forced on fake smiles for poor tips, happily wiped away messes from patrons who were too drunk to even walk straight, he’d caught your eye.

His name was Theo maybe, or Leo, you didn’t really care. A familiar face at your bar, usually with his friends. Shyer than most of those loud, sleazy fucks who all eyed you as you worked. But he was cute enough. A friendly smile on his face. You gave him a once over - with his greasy blond hair and dorky glasses - and offered him a smile. A real one. Accidentally brushed your arm when you served him a drink. 

You weren’t inexperienced, far from it. But your lack of action in the dating pool between Gator’s usual presence keeping you busy and now, his extended absence, had you slightly off balance. Slightly out of touch. If it sucked, at least you got some practice out of it. 

“Just you tonight?” you asked, leaning over to grab his empty drink to refill. “Where are your buddies?” You didn’t really care much for the answer. His friends were gross, loud, messy. And more importantly, if he was alone, it was easier to get his attention. And that’s what you needed right now. 

“Ah, nope, just me,” he replied, after the initial surprise wore off that you were actually making conversation with him. “Got off work late, needed a drink… you know how it is.”

Sure. You could definitely work with that.

“I could keep you company,” you said, tilting your head, blinking down at him. “I mean… after I get off tonight. Or any other night.” 

A week later, you were sitting in the booth across from - Theo, you’d now learned - listening to him talk your ear off about … okay. Maybe you weren’t the best listener right now. But you were nodding at the right times, sipping your drink generously as you twirled your hair with one finger. Anything to show him you were interested. 

Two drinks in, Theo was still talking. Seemingly not picking up on your signals that you wanted to do anything but talk right now. You weren’t sure how many more hints you could drop about heading back to his place or yours.

With a soft sigh, you stood up, still forcing that smile on your face. It was your second date and, sure, you’d hooked up last time, and that wasn’t bad. But now he wanted to talk, get to know you more.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, “just getting a refill.”

And you very much needed it if the next hour was going to be filled with more talking instead of fucking. With a little wave to the bartender - one of your coworkers who already knew your favorite - you leaned against the counter, trying not to contemplate every life decision that had led you here. 

If you hadn’t let Gator get the best of you every time, maybe you wouldn’t be in this position. It happened one too many times - going out with a guy once or twice before you got bored, not giving them a chance to get to know you better. Because nothing fueled that fire in you like he did. And here you were again, on a second date with a guy you weren’t even that interested in just because you felt empty, because you needed to prove to yourself that you were still wanted. 

Then you heard his voice. 

“Oh, look who it is,” his voice was low behind you, sarcastic and mocking. “Aren’t you off tonight?”

A beat passed before you turned to glance at Gator over your shoulder, schooling your expression. He was in uniform, camo pants and deputy vest, that stupid black, tight muscle tee as always. 

“You keeping track of my shift schedules, deputy?” you asked dryly. 

“What? No,” he replied quickly, scoffing as he glanced to the side. Then he glanced back at you, giving you a once over, noticing the fresh drink now in your hand. “Got a call about disorderly conduct. Some desperate slut making a scene.”

You scoffed loudly at that. “You’re so full of shit.” 

“And you’re a whore, dressed like that.” he reached out, tugging at the thin strap of your dress, smirking when it snapped against your skin. 

You pulled back, glancing over his shoulder at Theo who was still sitting in the booth, checking his phone. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed Gator talking to you yet. 

But looking at him was a mistake, because Gator immediately followed your gaze. 

“Who the fuck is that?” 

You folded your arms, pursing your lips. “None of your goddamn business.” 

“If he’s fucking you, then it is my goddamn business.” 

His nerve to seem self righteous, as if he had some kind of right over you, made you angry. 

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?”

A tense moment passed between you. The chatter from around you seemed to fade, both of you in a silent standoff as you stared at each other. Waiting. 

And then he snatched your drink, setting it down on the counter before he grabbed your arm, dragging you out of the bar. “You’re under arrest.” 

“What?” you said, dumbfounded, trying to pull away. But he didn’t even budge, just yanked you harder outside of the bar. “You can’t-”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” he pinned your hands behind your back. The metal of the cuffs were cool against your wrists as he clicked them on, before tugging you forward to his patrol car. “Disorderly conduct, contempt, obstruction of justice. You’re sure gettin’ yourself some hefty charges tonight.”

“On what fucking grounds, you pig?” you snapped. “You can’t just-”

“Think you’re forgettin’ who runs this town,” he murmured in your ear before he shoved you into the backseat. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, sweet thing.” 

“Right,” you glanced at him. “Except when your daddy tells you not to.”

His eyes flashed at your words, and you knew what that meant. If you hadn’t completely pissed him off earlier, you surely had now. Maybe enough for him to actually drive you down to the station and book you in just to remind you that he had the authority to do whatever the hell he wanted. 

But you were past caring. Not when he’d interrupted your date and dragged you out of the bar in front of everyone. 

“How’s it going, anyway?” you asked once he sat in the driver’s seat, starting up the engine. “That girl of yours. Sweet little Virgin Mary herself.” 

“Shut up. She’s none of your business.” 

You could never tell if his hypocrisy was deliberate or he was just that stupid. 

“Oh, you’re getting defensive.” you mocked, scooting closer to the edge of the seat as he sped down the road. “Is she not doing it for you? Guess you can’t exactly get it up if they’re too easy.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ bitch.” he muttered, taking a hit of his vape. The fruity scent filled the car, making your nose scrunch with disgust. 

“Why were you hangin’ ‘round that bar anyway? You said it’s a shithole.”

“It is a shithole,” he grunted in response. “No wonder they hired ya.” 

“So why the hell were you there?” you pressed on. “The good girl daddy picked out still boring you?”

You could see the clench of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Why the fuck were you? That poor fella doesn’t know you’re an easy little bitch.”

“You just can’t fucking admit it, huh? You listened to your daddy and broke up with me. And yet you’re still here.”

“Does he even make you cum?” Gator scoffed. He wasn’t even listening to you now, more caught up in whether Theo was even good, whether he could satisfy you. Like that was any of his fucking business.

You felt your irritation rising, glancing out the window to watch the lights blur past. 

“Yeah, he did.”

A total blatant lie. It slipped out before you could even think; you were just so pissed off. That even though you were trying to do the right thing and move on from Gator, you were still here. Cuffed in the back of his car like he didn’t have a girlfriend; as if he wasn’t the one who broke things off in the first place. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar.” 

“Oh yeah? ‘Cause he’s bigger than you.” you snapped. “And fucks me better.”

Your face slammed into the seat in front of you as Gator pulled over to the side of the road, car screeching to a halt. 

He yanked open the door, shoving you onto your stomach across the leather seats, making you yelp softly. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he murmured, voice low. He loomed over you in the cramped space of the car, hiking your dress up. The very one you’d worn in hopes of getting Theo’s attention, which was now getting crumpled as Gator bunched it up around your waist to slap your ass. “You’re gonna shut up while I fuck you, and maybe I’ll let your pretty ass off with a warning.” 

Your knees dug into the leather seats uncomfortably. Your hands were still cuffed behind your back, wrists chafing slightly against the metal, your face awkwardly pressed down against the seat. 

“That’s real generous. Considering I haven’t done anything wrong.” you snapped. “Uncuff me.”

Gator scoffed loudly, one hand tugging at your cuffed wrists just to fuck with you. “Haven’t done anything wrong? You’re going ‘round town like a fuckin’ tramp.” 

“And that’s none of your-”

An involuntary, pathetic little squeak left your throat as his palm cracked down on your ass again, leaving your skin burning. 

“He fucks you better, huh?” he muttered, fingers sliding against your clothed cunt, pressing his thumb down on your clit through the thin fabric. “Really, darlin’? ‘Cause it feels like you’re real wet for me right now.”

Your cheeks were burning, shifting your hips, but he wasn’t giving you an inch. Gator’s rough hands gripped your sides, keeping you in place as he stared down at the state of your wet panties. 

“That’s-”

“So what were you gonna do tonight, huh?” he continued, sliding your panties to one side before he pushed two thick fingers inside your slick pussy. “Let that loser touch you like this? Or does he just stick his dick in like a fuckin’ dumbass?”

All you could do was moan in response, the way his fingers curled, making your head spin. 

And despite that, a breathy laugh let your lips, because finally, you had Gator right where you wanted. Fueled with ugly jealousy, fingers pressing into your sweet spot like he needed to prove something to you. 

“You sure you wanna know?” you asked. 

He didn’t respond, but his silence was enough of an answer. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, already starting to drool as his fingers stretched out your needy hole, pulsing around his fingers. You needed more. 

But he wasn’t giving you more. He stared down at you, hazel eyes dark as he studied your expression like he needed the approval that he was making you feel good. 

“You’re such a slut,” he muttered, voice low and raspy, fucking his fingers in deeper. 

The crackle of the radio chatter didn’t even deter him. Was he still on duty? 

You didn’t get the chance to ask him, because suddenly his fingers pulled out of you, leaving you empty. Then he was leaning down, licking a broad stripe from your clit all the way up. And all of a sudden you didn’t really care if he was still on patrol.

“Gator,” you said, because that’s the only thing your useless mouth could say as he sucked on your clit.

“Bet he doesn’t do this for you,” he was mumbling against your dripping cunt before his teeth grazed against your clit. A jolt of pain tangled with pleasure ripped through your body at the sensation. “Bet he didn’t even make you come, huh?”

“I…” you trailed off, a little too far gone to fully process his question. 

“It’s a simple fuckin’ question, darlin’,” he said, thumbs spreading your cheeks wider before he spit on your clit. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards at the sight of his spit dripping down your glistening folds before he dove back in, nose nudging your cunt as his tongue swirled around your throbbing clit. 

“Fuck you.” you managed to say between pants, but it came out breathy and soft. Almost like a plea.

“So much attitude, baby.” he smacked your ass again. “If you answer, I’ll take ‘em cuffs off you and fuck you proper.”

That made you pause. “No,” you finally admitted. “I was lying.”

You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking. “Good girl.”

When his mouth pulled away from your clit, you whimpered pathetically. Your clit throbbed, aching for more pleasure, more of his touch. 

The cuffs clicked off you finally, and you shifted to turn over, but Gator’s hands moved back to your hips. 

“Didn’t say you could fuckin’ move.”

You gritted your teeth, holding back another insult because his fingers finally slid back into your slick pussy. The wet sounds filled the cramped space of the car, fingers curling again. Pushing in and out repeatedly until you were moaning like the pathetic mess you always ended up being under his touch. 

“Fuck, Gator,” the words spilled out of your mouth with a rough groan as he leaned down to suck on your clit. “That’s- fuck.”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “Fuckin’ come, baby, show me I’m better than him.”

Your thighs trembled, your orgasm hitting you fast, a strangled moan ripping out of your throat. White hot pleasure overtook your senses, but Gator didn’t stop; still thrusting his fingers as your walls squeezed around them tightly. 

“I’m always gonna be the best you’ve ever fuckin’ had,” he said as he finally pulled out of your dripping cunt. “You should know that.”

You did know that. You lived it. Every time you were with a guy that wasn’t him. But you couldn’t speak, still trying to catch your breath as he finally turned you onto your back. 

His eyes met yours, a smirk curling at his lips as he grabbed a fistful of your hair. “Say it. Say I’m the best you’ve ever had.” 

You tilted your head back, hips lifting off the seat as he pressed his hips down, dick bulging in his pants. The rough fabric pressed against your oversensitive clit and you were whimpering again. 

“What about you, huh?” you replied. “You wouldn’t be here if she was satisfying you.”

Gator tilted his head, hands clumsily tugging down his pants to free his cock, glistening under the low light. “Fuck that,” he muttered. “This ain’t about me. It’s about you bein’ a slut.” 

“You’re the one with a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, you think I fuckin’ want that?” he raised his voice. “That I want her?”

You huffed softly. “I think you still want me and just can’t admit it.”

His thumb slid inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “Shut up.” He shut his eyes as you sucked on it, cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

The silence stretched in the car as you stared up at him, drooling around his thumb. Then he shook his head, pressing his hips forward, rocking against you. 

“Say it,” you murmured, squeezing your eyes shut as his tip nudged between your aching folds, pressing against your clit once before he slid inside. “Admit it. That’s why you were at the bar tonight. Why you arrested me.”

“I said, shut up,” he said, louder, as he slammed into you, knocking the air right out of your lungs. “Fuck.” 

You couldn’t speak or think or even breathe, the car rocking violently as he snapped his hips forward, fucking into your pussy. Each rough thrust had you moaning louder, the curve of his cock pushing in and out of you. 

His hands were rough, fingers digging into your skin as he gripped your hips to keep you in place. Not like you had much room in the tiny backseat. Gator was panting, fucking moaning as he leaned down, lips finding yours. 

Then he bit down hard, eyes hazy as he stared down at you, and you moaned, tilting your head back. “This enough to show you what I want, huh?” he asked breathlessly, making that smug tone come out more like a need for approval. “This fuckin’ pussy. Every day if I could. Shit, yeah. Every day.” 

“Then do it,” you whispered, chasing his lips as he pushed one knee up so he could fuck into you deeper. “Everyday. All the time. I want you.”

Gator groaned into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours as he gripped your hair. Your words were only spurring him on, making him go faster. The car creaked and groaned with every thrust he was giving you.

“Bet you’d like that, little whore,” he was saying now, hands groping your tits through the fabric. “Think you can take this everyday? My cock fillin’ you up every mornin’? Every night?”

You couldn’t speak anymore, not with the way his hand slid down to circle your puffy clit while the other pinched your nipple. All while his cock stuffing you up, balls slapping against your skin like you were all he needed. 

“Fuck, Gator, ‘m…” 

“Yeah,” he groaned, thumb circling your clit faster as his tip nudged that sweet spot, making your walls squeeze tightly around his dick. Gator practically whined at the sensation, rutting into the same spot, his thick cock angling just right each time against your g-spot. “Yeah, I know, baby.”

You bit your lip so hard you could taste blood, muffling your whine as your second climax hit you even harder than the first. Your skin felt like it was on fire, the pleasure swirling in your stomach and your head dizzy. 

Gator’s hips stuttered, thrusts growing clumsy before he was spilling into you, too lost in his pleasure to think about pulling out. Thick, hot spurts of cum filling up your still fluttering cunt, making your toes curl. 

The car finally came to a halt, cock still buried deep inside you before he collapsed over your body. Your breaths mingled in the hot, heavy air. 

His hand brushed your hair back, blinking down at you with heavy lids. “Get up,” he mumbled, voice softer than it’d been all night. “I’ll drive you home.”

What he meant didn’t have to be said out loud. Not when you knew how his father was. 

This was all you were ever going to get from Gator.

[sunshinereaderx]

☀️💛🌻🌼✨

[snoopyharrington]

I've been writing A LOT of summer blurbs and summer-themed stuff lately so i thought it would be fun to compile them all into one masterlist!! inspired by @holawdw's summer diaries fic rec list <3

steve harrington

friends with benefits scoops!steve (18+)

swim instructor!steve x single mom!reader (plus everything in their tag here)

swim teacher!steve

swim instructor!steve headcanons

lifeguard!steve | more lifeguard!steve

coach!steve

camp counselor!steve 1 | camp counselor!steve 2

getting ice cream with college student!steve and single mom!reader

alt!reader x scoops!steve

alt!reader sunbathing at scoops!steve's house (kind of a part two to the above)

gator tillman

going camping with ex!gator

going to the fair with gator

going to the beach with gator | follow-up: what if gator didn't know how to swim?

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

Back on my steve shit 😤🥵

[sunshinereaderx]

Sighhhhh pinterest got me this morning ✨

[horsecockharrington]

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

Does anyone wanna be my friend

[snoopyharrington]

okaaayyyy go on what have we to say about lifeguard!steve 🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

maya......you're giving me too much power.......

(also this ended up being a full meet cute blurb)

wc: 900 | afab reader

lifeguard!steve doesn't really care for his job too much. in his mind, it's a means to an end, a way to make some money this summer without completely wasting away while his parents spend the entire season at their beach house down in florida. his coworkers are decent, the shifts are fine, the pay is mediocre — it's all overwhelmingly okay, until the day you show up.

steve's sitting atop the tall, plastic lifeguard chair, swinging his whistle in his fingers as he watches the kids of hawkins destroy each other in the community pool. he's eyeing the entrance, waiting to see when robin, dustin, and eddie show up to at least provide him with a little bit of entertainment. he sighs, shifting in his seat and tugging the red swim trunks he wears, yanking them down his sweaty thighs before placing his cheek in his palm.

glancing back down at the blue pool below him, he spots you, his interest suddenly piqued. shoulders glistening beneath the high noon sun, you wear a pretty yellow bathing suit, your nose tucked into a romance novel with your legs kicked out in the water behind you. the sight is sweet — so much so that it's the first thing that makes steve smile all day, and he misses when his friends approach him.

"hellloooooo? earth to harrington?"

steve's focus snaps down to dustin and he quickly clears his throat, jumping down from his seat.

"what's with you? you were supposed to spot our entrance fees," robin tacks on, and steve rolls his eyes from behind his black rayban shades.

"he was too busy checking out that little cutie over there," eddie says with a smirk, jutting his chin in your direction. steve elbows him, sending him a dirty look. simultaneously, robin and dustin peek out from behind steve to look at you, and he groans. "why don't you go use that harrington charm on her."

"because she's busy and i'm not a creep!" steve hisses, urging his friends to look away.

"i think she was in the grade below me," robin says as she tilts her head, squinting her eyes as she tries to place her. "we were in advanced english together, maybe?"

dustin snorts, "you were in advanced english?"

"you know, you're not the only smart person around here—"

"alright, you know what?" steve puts his hands up, eager to stop the argument before it begins, "i'm gonna go talk to her. you three go... do whatever it is you do here. i'll buy you ice cream if you leave me alone."

eddie's all too happy to drag them away, a grin on his face as he tugs them each by the elbow.

steve takes a deep breath, adjusts his swim trunks, and walks over to where you're propped up in the pool. you don't initially acknowledge him when he stands over you, which makes him feel even more awkward, so he sits down on the hot concrete, his feet and ankles in the water.

he coughs into his fist. "did you go to hawkins high?"

you look up from your book, then place it flat on the pavement before tucking your sunglasses up into your hair.

"i did," you nod, "you did too, right? steve harrington. you were a few grades above me."

steve hopes the flush on his cheeks is covered up by the slight sunburn he has.

"yeah," he admits. "um, i haven't seen you here before. i've been working as a lifeguard all summer and... i would've noticed you."

you smile softly, placing your chin in your hand. "that's probably because i just got back to hawkins this week. i finished out the lease on my college apartment before coming back for the summer."

steve hums, a beat of excitement rushing through him. he's pleasantly surprised that the conversation is going well, and his heart thrums at the pretty smile on your face.

"my friend robin said she recognizes you from an advanced english class you took together," steve says, pointing to the book in your hand, "are you— do you read a lot?"

you nod, the same gentle grin on your face. "mhm. it's my favorite thing to do in the summer. are you a big reader?"

steve blinks, "uh... no. not really... but i think it's cool that that's your thing."

"i bet we could find something up your alley," you reply, and steve swears the butterflies in his stomach only double. "i like romance and fiction books, but there's lots of different genres and options out there for different readers."

"yeah?" steve asks, "you'd wanna help me find something to read?"

you bite your lip before nodding your head. "we could do that. have you ever been to the bookstore on main street?"

he shakes his head.

"i worked there in high school," you continue. "the owners still let me use my employee discount. we can go whenever you're off from work."

steve nods excitedly, and you grin.

"lemme— hold on, hang tight for a second, lemme find a pen so i can grab your number," steve says, quickly standing from his spot. you giggle and nod, promising not to move. suddenly, steve's scrambling, looking for his coworkers or anyone who looks like they might have a pen on them. "i need a pen! does anyone have a pen? i need a pen!"

[morninglesss]

hot hot heat

Gator Tillman x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

wc: 2.3K

It’s the middle of a long, hot summer in Stark County. You might not be coping with it, but you know a guy who’s definitely got it worse.

cw: no use of y/n, established relationship (somewhat), dirty talk, smut, fingering, sweaty unprotected sex, p in v, the damn HEAT 🔥♨️🥵☀️

For all of us in Europe and the UK dealing with this absolute insanity, stay cool, stay hydrated, stay in the shade.

The thermometer on the porch had read a hundred and four at noon and hadn’t dropped since.

You’d given up on productivity around three, taken a cold Coke from the fridge, and stripped down to the smallest bits of clothing you owned that could still technically pass as clothing - the thinnest, lightest cotton camisole and tiny briefs, like you couldn’t bear to have anything else touching your skin. You’d spread yourself on top of your bedsheets in front of the oscillating fan you’d found at a garage sale, holding a magazine you were trying to force yourself to focus on, and prayed for a break in the weather. The town outside was half-feral with the heat. You could hear it distantly - car horns, music, someone’s sprinkler along the street, kids shrieking and squealing as they ran through the spray.

You weren’t expecting anyone to come over.

You heard a truck pull up outside and didn’t think much of it. Then you heard footsteps on the path, the noise of someone lingering at the border of your small front garden, the scrape of a rock being moved, and you went still. Only one person had figured out the fake rock, your spare key hidden inside. You’d thought you were being clever - Gator had taught you otherwise.

You hadn’t told him about it but he’d spotted it that first time, spotted the way it looked different to the other rocks on the border, too matte to be natural, wrong in a way only a Stark County native could pick out. Then one evening three weeks ago you’d heard the front door swing open and your heart had hit panic mode before you’d even registered who it was and how’d he’d got himself inside without you knowing.

He hadn’t asked permission, he’d just started using the hidden key, and you hadn’t told him not to.

The front door opened, then swung shut. You heard his boots being kicked off in the hall, and then he appeared in the bedroom doorway and you got up from the bed and he looked at you and whatever he’d been about to say didn’t come out.

You became aware, quite acutely, of how little you were wearing.

He looked wrecked. Not dishevelled - Gator was never dishevelled - but stripped down to something rawer than his usual contained self. His t-shirt was dark at the collar, eyes over-bright with twelve hours of heat and restraint and god knows what else, a red mark across his forehead where his cap had been stuck to his sweaty skin. Twelve hours in a truck in a hundred and four degrees and half the town wearing next to nothing and now he was here and you were wearing pretty much nothing and his eyes moved over you once, hungry, and something in his face went from barely-controlled to not controlled at all.

“Hi,” you dared to whisper.

He crossed the room in four steps and kissed you like he was starving for it.

It wasn’t like the other times. Those had been purposeful, sure, but this was something else - urgent and desperate, one big calloused hand cupping your face and the other fisting into your camisole like he needed something to hold onto. You kissed him back and grabbed his shirt and he made a ragged groan against your mouth that you felt deep into your core.

When he finally pulled back you were both breathing hard.

“You used the key in the rock again,” you murmured against his lips, because you felt like you needed to say something and that was the first thing that came to mind.

“Yeah.” His eyes dropped to the camisole strap that had slipped off your shoulder, then back up. “That okay?”

It was so unexpected - the asking, when the rest of him was so obviously past asking about anything - that it took you a second. “Yes,” you said, leaning back to look at him. “Obviously, yes.”

He exhaled. Then his hands were moving, restless and urgent, like he’d been still for too long and couldn’t manage it anymore. He pushed the strap the rest of the way down and his mouth found your shoulder, your throat, rough and a little clumsy with it.

“Half this town,” he said against your neck, “decided today was a good day to be outside in next to nothin’, shorts and sundresses and not much else...” His hands slid under the hem of the camisole, his touch all over your body. “Twelve hours. Twelve fuckin’ hours of bein’- ” He stopped his ministrations and pulled back to look at you. His expression was almost pained. “Professional.”

You pouted. “Poor deputy.”

“Don’t.” But there was no heat in it. He looked at you, at all of you, your breast half exposed thanks to his wandering, greedy hands, and swallowed. “And then I get here and you’re -” He gestured, vaguely, at the general situation of you. “Like this.”

“I live here. It’s a hundred and four degrees.”

“I know what it is.” He reached out and his thumb traced the neckline of the camisole, light, following the thin cotton across your chest. Your breath went unsteady. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. Couldn’t stop.”

It came out rougher than he probably intended, more honest with it. You could see him realise it, the slight tightening around his eyes, but he didn’t take it back.

“Yeah?” you said, careful not to make too much of it.

“All damn day.” He said it like it had been an inconvenience. Like you’d done it to him on purpose. “It was a problem. You are a fuckin’ problem, Trouble.” He took your hand and slid it down his body, pressing it through his pants against the thick ridge of his half-hard cock, as if to emphasise the point.

You reached up and started pulling his t-shirt out from his pants and he looked down and watched your hands like he couldn’t look away, and you could feel the tension in him, coiled and barely leashed. Gator Tillman did not generally stand still and let things happen to him. You were still learning the edges of that - still learning him, all of it new enough that sometimes you caught yourself surprised by his presence in your space, the fact of him, the way he’d started appearing like this after his shifts without it ever having been agreed upon.

You pushed his shirt upward, bunching the fabric around his chest. He pulled it the rest of the way off from the back, one handed, and then his hands were back on you immediately, like the two seconds without contact had been too long.

“I’ve been good,” he said into your hair, mouthing at you blindly. “All day. I’ve been very fuckin’ good...”

“I believe you.”

“Don’t think you understand what that’s been like. How fuckin’ hard it was. I was.”

“You should have called. I could have… helped.”

“You woulda helped?”

“Mmhm. I can be very imaginative over the phone…”

“Y’should be fuckin’ imaginative in pictures, too. That’d really help.”

You laughed, a little, and felt him exhale something that was almost a laugh back, and then his hands slid down to the backs of your bare thighs and he picked you up like it was nothing and you made an undignified sound as your legs wrapped around him.

“Okay,” you gasped. “Okay, hi.”

“Hi.” He sat on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, hands moving over you with a kind of restless urgency, like he didn’t know where to settle first.

The camisole went next, pulled over your head and dropped somewhere, and he pulled back and looked at you and the expression on his face made the heat in the room feel like nothing.

“Gator,” you said.

“I know.” He didn’t move for just a second, breathing, reining something in. Then, like he’d lost the argument with himself, he just stopped holding it back.

His mouth was on your breasts, your stomach, everywhere, with a fervour that was less technique and more sheer pent-up need, and you gasped and tugged at his hair and he groaned against your skin like the sound had been pulled out of him. He was not patient. He had probably never been patient in his life and wasn’t about to start now. His hands were everywhere, urgent and sure, and he got rid of your panties with efficiency and no ceremony whatsoever and you didn’t mind even slightly. When he got his hand between your thighs and found you wet and wanting he made a low rough sound that seemed to come from somewhere involuntary.

“Christ,” he said, teasing and wild-eyed as he ran his fingers through you. “This all because of me?”

You nodded, leaning back in his lap to give him more space to move. “Yeah, Gator. All you.”

“Damn right it is. No other fucker gets you wet like this.” He pressed two fingers into you and you grabbed his arm and gasped. “Do they? Dare y’to fuckin’ tell me I’m wrong.”

“No,” you managed. “No, no one else.”

He worked you hard and fast, none of his usual measured patience - this was twelve hours of pressure looking for somewhere to go and your pussy was it, and you didn’t mind, you didn’t mind at all. You came on his lap with your hand fisted in his hair and your back bowed backwards, and he kept going, relentless, until you had to push him back by the shoulder.

“Now,” you said. “Come on, I want -”

“Yeah.” He was already moving, lifting you from his lap to the mattress, getting the rest of his uniform off with more haste than grace and fumbling with his belt in a way you’d never seen him fumble with anything, and something about that - Gator Tillman graceless and desperate - made your cunt throb in anticipation.

Then he was back, settling over you, and you reached for him and guided him into position and he pushed into you slow despite everything, like he was giving you that much at least, and the sound he made when he found himself fully sheathed inside you was raw and rough and helpless and you pulled him down closer so you could feel the full weight of him on you.

He dropped his forehead to yours, just for a second, his hazel eyes hidden from the world as he caught his breath and steadied himself.

New, you thought to yourself. Neither of us knows what we’re doing.

Then, he started moving.

Thrusting sudden, fast, deep, all that pent-up desperation finding its outlet. He was still attentive in that way he had, reading you, adjusting, going harder when your hips told him to, and the pace built fast and your whole world narrowed to the heat and weight of him and the ragged sound of his breathing against your neck. He was running his mouth against your throat, filter gone completely - “you feel so fucking good, you know that? Knew you would, been thinking about it all day, about you, couldn’t think about anything else -” rough and exposed in a way that you understood was rare, that the twelve hours had burned through whatever usually kept him contained.

“Fuckin’ mine, y’hear me? Fuckin’ - christ, y’feel so good, you’ve got no fuckin’ idea -”

You held on and moved with him and cried his name and he groaned and pressed closer and the headboard knocked rhythmically against the wall and neither of you gave a damn about the neighbour’s inevitable complaints.

It didn’t last long. Couldn’t, not with twelve hours of build up behind it. He came hard and sudden with his face pressed to your neck and your name muffled against your skin, grip borderline bruising on your hip, and you followed right after or maybe at the same time, the edges blurring.

He rolled off you quickly, acutely aware of the heat and the sweat between you, and lay on his back, breathing hard, one arm over his forehead. You lay beside him. The fan pushed its useless hot air across the wreckage of the sheets. Outside, someone’s kid was still shrieking in a sprinkler.

You both stared at the ceiling.

“Better?” you asked, when you had the breath for it.

You heard him adjust his arm over his eyes, a rough exhale following. “Yeah.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was still getting his breath back, chest rising and falling, the tension of twelve hours finally gone out of him. He looked younger like this. Softer. You didn’t think he’d thank you for noticing.

He rolled to face you and his hand found your stomach without him looking. Settled there, heavy and warm.

“You hungry?” you asked.

“Mm, in a minute.”

Neither of you moved. The light through the blinds was shifting, that bleached white afternoon glare going gold at the edges. His thumb moved. Slow, absent, like he wasn’t aware he was doing it.

“You staying?” The words were out before you’d decided to say them.

He opened his heavy eyes and looked at you. Something moved across his face that you couldn’t entirely read, and you were still learning to read him, still learning all of it.

“Got nowhere to be,” he said.

Still new, you thought. But maybe not for much longer.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” you said.

“In a minute,” he said again. “Stay.”

His hand stayed where it was. Outside, the heat finally, grudgingly, began to break.

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

🥵🥵🫦🫦

[cottoncandybrandy]

The Mask

summary: gator tillman x gf!reader. gator likes to prank you, tease you, and scare you. what happens when you think gator's just pulling another prank, but it might not be him behind the mask?

CW: 18+ MDNI, smut, vaginal fingering, handjob, unprotected p in v sex, nipple play, a little bit of spit kink kinda, creampie, established relationship, angst, hurt/no comfort, dark themes, mature themes throughout, mentions of death, kidnapping, assault, i really think that's all so plz lmk if i forgot anything

WC: 4.1k

A/N: ok so this kinda all came together very quickly, honestly im shocked that i wrote/edited this as fast as i did. i was working on this a bit a few days ago and then i got locked in on this for probably 14 hours straight and i'm just hoping it turned out as good as it seemed in my head! also my first time writing smut (i dont think im good at it). i hope y'all enjoy!! lmk your thoughts :))

part 2 coming soon...

Halloween weekend started with rain, cold freezing sheets of rain that seemed endless. Just a steady downpour that painted the streets silver and turns the world outside into a hazy watercolor. It was kind of weather that makes staying home feel less like a choice and more like a requirement. And for once, neither you nor Gator have anywhere to be. No shifts, no overtime, and no emergencies, just two days off together.

You spend most of Saturday curled up on the couch in one of Gator's hoodies while he sprawls beside you in a pair of grey cargo sweatpants with his boots kicked off onto the floor. A collection of low grade horror movies is stacked on the coffee table. Some empty takeout containers already littering the floor surrounding the couch.

Gator grabs another DVD from the pile, smirks at you and wiggles his eyebrows. "This one next." You squint at the cover, it looks like it was designed by someone with a low budget, way too much fake blood, and a deep love of slasher movies from the early 2000s. The killer stands front and center on the cover, an almost comically large kitchen knife covered in what looks like red paint held above his head. "Nope, not that one." Judging by the cover, the movie is poorly made but for some reason, fear still starts to bubble low in your gut. Gator pouts at you playfully. "Gator, no. The last three movies involved people getting stabbed by some freak in a mask." He moves so that he’s laying almost entirely on top of your body, his head rubbing against your chest through your sweatshirt. "Yeah doll, that’s kinda the point." You roll your eyes at him lovingly while shaking your head. "You're impossible." As he looks up at you, a smug grin spreads on his handsome face. "Love you too."

The movie marathon continues well into the evening. At some point his hands wander under the hem of your sweatshirt and settle just above your ribs, right below the swell of your breasts. You feel goosebumps start to rise all over your body as his hands move higher, cupping your breasts in his large hands. A small, breathy sigh leaves your lips as he takes your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, rolling them until they form hard peaks. 

He looks up at you, an innocent smile gracing his lips, while tugging lightly on the hem, you nod, biting your lip and moving to take the hoodie the rest of the way off. Once your top half is bare, he looks down at you with lust filled eyes, pupils blown wide. “So perfect for me, baby” He leans down and without breaking eye contact, licks a stripe from the bottom of your breast until he reaches your nipple. Greedily, he takes it into his mouth and starts his process of sucking, biting, and licking all over, kneading the other with his hand, before switching to the other side, making sure to give both equal attention. You let out a low moan as he harshly sucks a mark onto your chest, he responds by rolling his hips into yours in a way that almost has you seeing stars.

You feel yourself growing wetter and more desperate each second that he grinds his achingly hard cock against your clothed core. He’s lets out a surprised noise when you grab his head and pull his mouth up to yours, no longer able to keep yourself from licking into his mouth. As you reach down between your bodies and begin to palm his bulge, Gator breaks away from your kiss to rasp against your lips. “I guess those scary movies got you all worked up too, that right?” You nod against his lips and move to pull your shorts and underwear off while he tears his shirt from over his head. 

Before you can reach to start pulling his pants off too, he grabs you by the jaw and forces your mouth open. You know what he wants without having to say anything else, and god, you want it just as badly. He lets a string of spit fall from his mouth into yours, and lets out a filthy groan as you swallow it without hesitation. “You like that mama?” Your hand slips under the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers to find him rock hard and leaking precum from his tip. “Yeah, but not as much as you seemed to, baby.” You start to slowly stroke him from root to tip, smearing his precum along his length as you do so. He lets out a choked sound and then chuckles breathily, nodding down at you. 

His fingers find their way to your dripping core, absolutely desperate for some friction and attention. Your cunt clenches around nothing as he slowly runs the tips of his fingers through your soaked folds. He hums against your mouth “Mmm so wet. This all for me?” Before roughly thrusting two of his fingers into your aching hole. A shaky moan is punched out of your lungs. The two of you stay like that for another minute, maybe two, just feeling each other and letting moans and sighs travel between your mouths. 

As his fingers curl inside, he hits a spot in you that causes you to gasp against his lips. “Gator, I need you” That’s all it takes for him to pull his soaked fingers from you and slurp them clean, moving to prop your thighs open. He pushes into you in a single, rolling thrust, making pornographic moans fall from both of your mouths. Your breath catches in your throat as you adjust to his thick cock splitting you open. 

The crappy slasher movie plays on, the killer finally making his big reveal, but it falls on unlistening ears and unseeing eyes. All you can see, hear, or feel is Gator above you, inside of you, murmuring filthy praises into your ear as he thrusts into you incessantly. He was right, you were so worked up that you’re reaching your end much faster than expected, and he can feel it. You wrap your legs tighter around his hips, forcing him to go in even deeper, hitting that spot that nobody and nothing else had ever reached. With each thrust, your moans and his groans are growing louder and louder, bouncing off the walls. 

His thrusts start to grow faster and slightly erratic, and before you can do it, one of his hands reaches down and starts rubbing fast circles against your clit. “Come on baby, I want to see you cum on my cock.” His dirty words are the final push you needed to fall apart, as your walls clench and pulse around him you can feel him fighting off his orgasm. You reach up and take his face in your hands, your voice comes out breathy and broken up by moans as he helps you continue to ride out your orgasm. “Please Gator, I need you to fill me up baby” He lets out a ragged moan, kisses you roughly and immediately buries himself deep as your cunt milks his cock. 

The two of you lay just like that a while, lazily kissing each other and basking in the afterglow. You break the kiss to look into his eyes. “I love you, Gator” He’s smiling down at you with that lovestruck look he gets sometimes, just in complete awe of you. “I love you with all I got. How’d a screw up like me get someone as perfect as you, huh?” You just shook your head at him with a soft smile and gave him one last kiss to his lips before he moved to pull out and settle behind you on the couch. 

You feel completely content, you’re safe, happy, naked and warm in the arms of the man you love. Which is exactly why Gator decides to become a menace. The first prank happens around midnight. You pull Gator’s baggy sweatshirt back on and leave the living room to grab another drink.

When you return with a glass of water for yourself and a beer for Gator, all the lights are off. The television has gone dark, the house is utterly silent and still. "Very funny," you call out sarcastically. There’s no response.

You narrow your eyes in the darkness, but all you can make out is the empty couch with the blanket crumpled by the armrest and your clothes still scattered on the floor. "Gator." You drawl out his name in a warning tone, as a way to tell him ‘enough, I'm not playing this game’. But there’s still nothing. The hairs on the back of your neck raise as you feel a chill flow over your body. You know he's just messing with you. You know it. But the darkness still feels wrong, the stark silence feels wrong. You carefully step into the room, tiptoeing as if that will keep everything from slipping into chaos.

"Gator?" A hand reaches out and grabs your ankle from beneath the couch. You scream so loudly your own ears ring, your whole body jerks and somehow you manage not to spill either of the drinks in your hands. Gator bursts into a gasping, howling laughter. You immediately kick him, hard. "OW!" He shimmies out from under the couch, clad in his black boxers and socks. "You asshole!" He continues laughing while clutching his shoulder. "Oh my God, you should see your face." You glare at him with glassy eyes, still shaking from his little jumpscare. "I seriously hate you." He looks at you with a nearly sympathetic smile, still finding some humor in how scared you were. "You absolutely do not." And unfortunately, he's right. That only encourages him.

Over the next two weeks, Gator becomes increasingly creative and, in your opinion, very annoying. First a large plastic spider in your lunch bag, then a fake severed hand in the bathroom sink, complete with enough fake blood to fill the bathtub. The motion-activated skeleton hidden inside the closet scared you so badly, you swore your heart stopped in your chest. And every time you think you've survived the worst of it, another prank appears. You threaten murder, and he finds that hilarious.

One evening you come home after a grueling twelve-hour shift to discover a figure standing motionless in the hallway. You nearly have a heart attack, but then the figure begins laughing, and Gator removes the cheap Halloween mask. You throw a pillow at him, groaning in annoyance. "You fucker! What if I actually died?" He chuckles lowly at your wide eyed panic. "You didn't." If looks could kill, Gator would be six-feet under because of the glare you had fixed on him. "What if I did?" He shrugs, pulling off the mask fully and tossing it onto the table in the hall. "Then I'd feel real bad." You cross your arms over your chest and keep your glare fixed on his eyes. He pulls you against him and his laughter softens. "You'd haunt me." He plants a firm kiss to the crown of your head as you lean into his chest. "Damn right."

You meant it as a joke, but neither of you realize just how much those words will bother him later. By the second week of November, the pranks have become a little routine. It would almost be endearing if you didn’t find them so annoying and predictable. But you know Gator, you know the way he thinks and moves, and how he can’t stop himself from laughing before he can fully pull off the prank. You know every one of his stupid tricks, all of his ridiculous scare tactics. You’ve already seen every exaggerated attempt to make you scream.

So when the night arrives, your first instinct isn't fear, it's irritation. The double shift nearly kills you. The emergency department at Stark County Memorial Hospital is overflowing. You're already short-staffed, then someone calls out sick. Just when your night is starting to feel like it can’t get worse, a trauma patient arrives twenty minutes before your shift ends. Then another, then somehow another. By the time you've finally clocked out, the exhaustion has settled in you bone deep, like someone injected wet cement into your veins.

It is nearly midnight when you leave the hospital and make your way into the parking deck next door. Everyone on your shift had already left, making the section of the parking garage almost completely empty. Concrete pillars stretch into the shadows, and the flickering fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Your footsteps echo loudly through the desolate concrete structure, you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. All you want is sleep, food, and your big, warm boyfriend’s arms around you. Preferably all of those things, but not necessarily in that order.

Your car is parked on the fourth level of the parking deck. As you step off the elevator and walk in the direction of your car, you root through your purse to grab your keys, trying to make the process of getting home as fast as possible.

When you look up you stop walking, because a figure stands beside your vehicle. Motionless and waiting. Your eyes immediately narrow. "Oh come on, you've got to be kidding me." The figure doesn't move a muscle. The familiar black-and-white mask gleams beneath the overhead lights. Jack Skellington. The same stupid mask Gator bought weeks ago, the same mask he wore to scare you twice already. You bark out a sarcastic laugh, not because it's funny, but because it's ridiculous.

You pull out your phone and the figure remains completely still. The screen reflects your tired face as you go to call Gator, he answers on the second ring. "Hey, baby." You can hear the smile on his face, you roll your eyes and snort. "Real funny." There’s a long pause. "What?" Gator sounds confused and maybe just as tired as you are. "Seriously?" You’re growing annoyed and a little impatient. "What are you talking about?" He sounds even more lost than before. 

You start walking toward your car, toward the figure. "You really followed me to work for this?" He sounds almost dumb in his confusion, like he really doesn't have a clue what you’re talking about. "Followed you?" Irritation seeps through your tone. "You know what? This isn't even scary anymore." He makes a dejected noise before scoffing confused into the phone. But the figure remains silent, completely still and watching. Your irritation grows. "I'm serious, Gator. That's creepy as fuck."

Gator sounds almost annoyed when he asks, "What is?"

"Take off that mask or I swear I'm not touching you for a week." Several seconds pass between the two of you. Then: "...What mask?" You come to a complete stop. Something about his tone feels wrong. Not playful or teasing, like he’s really genuinely confused. You laugh again, less confidently, nerves starting to seep in and cloud your mind. "Okay, enough."

Concern immediately fills the space that confusion was taking up in his voice. "Baby, what's going on?" You stare at the figure. The figure stares back. "You're in that damn Jack Skellington mask standing by my car." Silence, just a heavy, terrible silence. Then you hear Gator inhale sharply. "Baby..." The irritation immediately drains from your body, a strange chill replaces it. "Gator?" You can hear him sit up straighter in the seat of his patrol car. "That isn't me." You don't respond yet, you can’t, your body is paralyzed with fear.

The figure still hasn't moved, still hasn't spoken. Your pulse begins climbing and your mind begins racing. If that isn’t Gator by your car… "Gator?" His tone is deep and authoritative when he answers. "Go back inside the hospital." For a second, you think you’re imagining all of this, that somehow Gator’s pranks have reached your subconscious and this is all a bad dream you need to be woken up from. "What?" You can hear the sirens from his patrol car coming through the phone, the rev of his engine as he speeds to get to you. "Go. Now." A knot forms in your stomach, your blood runs cold in your veins. "What are you talking about?"

"Get back inside." His voice sounds different, it’s sharper, scared. "Gator–"

"Do not go near your car." The figure tilts its head, very slowly, like a predator locking in on its prey just before the hunt begins. The movement is unnatural, curious and animalistic. Every instinct in your body suddenly screams. Run, you need to run, you need to move. "Gator..."

"Listen to me." The panic in his voice is unmistakable now. "Go back into the hospital and don't leave until I come inside to get you." You slowly take a step backward. The figure takes one forward, matching the pace you’ve set. Your heart stops in your chest, your voice comes out small and afraid. "Gator–" A tear runs down your cheek before you can even register that you’ve started crying. "Run."

The figure lunges forward aggressively. Everything happens at once. You scream as the hand grabs your arm so tightly you’re sure there will be fingerprints left behind. You twist violently in the hold, managing to slip your arm through your sleeve. Concrete rushes beneath your feet. The scream of his name tears from your lungs violently. "GATOR!" His voice explodes back through the speaker. "BABY?!"

You fight, at least you try to. Your instincts takes over, trying to do anything to free yourself and get out of this situation. There aren’t many thoughts going through your mind just pure survival instincts. You drive your elbow backward, it connects with something solid. The figure grunts, it’s not a monster, not a ghost, just a person, a real person. Terror floods through your body alongside adrenaline. You manage to rip free and start running like your life depends on it, because it does. Footsteps thunder behind you, gaining on you, getting closer every second, faster with every breath that escapes you.

Your shoe catches on a patch of uneven concrete, and you stumble hard, ankle twisting unnaturally in the process. Pain erupts through your foot and your phone falls from your hand onto the concrete beneath you, it skids a few feet away. Your steps falter for just a second but it’s enough, a hand grabs your the back of your scrub shirt.

You scream again, a deep, desperate sound that echoes in the space around you. Somewhere through the chaos you hear Gator’s muffled voice shouting your name through the phone. Then nothing, the line dies. All you can hear are your own desperate sobs and the heavy breathing of the person attacking you from behind the mask. And your world suddenly goes dark.

Gator breaks nearly every traffic law on the way to the hospital. The drive feels like hours even if it was probably only five minutes, maybe even less. Every slow-moving vehicle becomes an obstacle, every turn becomes a setback.

He calls your phone repeatedly, but there’s no answer. Again. No answer. Again. Nothing.

The fear building inside him is unlike anything he has ever experienced. And Gator knows fear, he's spent his entire life around violence, surrounded by threats, surrounded by people who disappear, and people who can make other people disappear. But this is different, this is you, Gator’s girl. The person who somehow became the center of his universe, his everything. The person who turned a house into a home. The person who taught him what peace felt like. But now you're gone, whoever took you away from him took his peace, and it won’t come back until you’re safe in his arms again.

By the time he reaches the parking garage, his hands are shaking violently. He speeds through the floors so quickly that he nearly crashes into parked cars and concrete pillars. Level one. Level two. Level three. Level four. Then he sees it.

Your phone, completely shattered. Parts lying crushed across the concrete. For one terrible second his brain refuses to process what he's looking at. Until he sees your purse. The contents are scattered everywhere. Your keys, wallet, lip balm, even your hospital badge with your cute little smiling face in the center. All thrown haphazardly across the ground.

"GOD DAMMIT!" His voice echoes through the empty garage. There is no response and no movement. Nothing but his own voice bouncing back at him like a cruel taunt.

Then he notices something else, in his stupor he hadn’t seen it before. One shoe, lying on its side, your shoe. Sitting several feet away, abandoned. Like evidence, proof, or the remnants of something awful happening to the woman he loves. The sight nearly destroys him. He picks it up with trembling fingers and the parking garage suddenly feels enormous, endless, a silent void. It feels like there are threats looming in the shadows, every corner feeling like someone in lurking just behind it waiting to trap him. His chest tightens. Not because he doesn't know what happened to you, but because he does. Someone made a plan, watched, waited, and then took you from him. And now you're gone.

The realization settles like poison. Gator stares at your shoe. His jaw clenches. His breathing becomes erratic and uneven, starting to quickly spiral into a full blown panic.

Then he notices something painted on one of the concrete pillars nearby. A small black symbol, nearly hidden and drawn in fresh paint. It’s crooked smiling face. Jack Skellington. For a moment his entire world stops, because Gator knows that mask. What he had been treating as dumb jokes, little things to scare you. Someone had been watching the two of you, someone knew your routine.

A cold pang of horror and dread shoots down his spine. He knows the timing, knows the weeks of stupid pranks. This wasn't random at all, it wasn’t some insane coincidence. The sicko waiting for you by your car had chosen that mask on purpose, they wanted you to think it was just your boyfriend. They wanted you to lower your guard, come in closer, make it easier to capture you. It had worked, and it was all Gator’s fault. Gator feels sick, the guilt hits harder than fear. Harder than the anger. Because if he hadn't spent two weeks turning everything into a joke, scaring you just to have you jump into his arms for comfort afterwards…

If he hadn't made the masks and jump scares normal– Maybe you would have run immediately. Maybe you would have recognized the danger sooner. The thought nearly crushes him. "No." His voice is raw and broken. "No." 

He closes his eyes.

For one brief second he sees your smile, hears your laugh, feels your hand slipping into his. And as quickly as the comfort of you came, the image disappears, and he’s back to the hellscape that is his new reality. Your sweet laughter is replaced by silence, your hand holding his is replaced by the emptiness between his clenched fingers, the image of you and the love he has for you is replaced by the unbearable emptiness of not knowing where you are.

Gator opens his eyes again. Something has changed within him, the panic and fear remains, but beneath it sits something colder, something much sharper, much more dangerous. Determination. The person who took you made one mistake, they left you alive long enough to fight, long enough to scream, long enough to leave evidence for Gator.

And that means they must still be out there. Still breathing your air somewhere, still walking around thinking they might have gotten away with it. They are wrong. Gator stares into the darkness of the parking garage and his grip tightens around your shoe. For the first time all night, his expression becomes completely emotionless. The kind of expression people fear instinctually, it’s the kind of expression that appears when something inside him shuts off.

"Please be okay."

His words are a desperate plea to the universe and the words disappear into the darkness and no answer comes back. Only the buzzing of the flickering fluorescent lights overhead, only empty concrete, only that heavy silence.

But somewhere beyond the garage walls, beyond the city lights, beyond the reach of anyone searching for you, someone is holding their breath. Because they have no idea what they've just started. Gator would go to hell and back to have you safe in his arms again.

part 2 coming soon...

[entrenoussir]

i just know Keys would be like so sweet & tender if his partner had like intimacy issues or previous trauma idk like he just gives me the vibe of like “hey we don’t have to rush anything! im not going anywhere!”

do u feel me

[frootybb]

needy!gator

A/N: yeah, I think I’ll be okay with being his mommy…

———————————· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·———————————-

·✶· needy!gator who is touch-starved from the start. The second you give him any softness, running your fingers through his hair, letting him rest his head in your lap, he latches on like he’s scared you’ll disappear. Arms wrapped tight around your waist, face pressed into your stomach while he mumbles how much he needs you, how no one’s ever touched him like this.

·✶· needy!gator who begs constantly. “Please, baby… just a little more,” he whines when you tease him, hips bucking up desperately into your hand or mouth. His voice cracks, eyes glassy, because he’s so used to being rough with everyone else but falls apart completely for you. He’ll say “I’ll be good, I swear, just let me feel you.”

·✶· needy!gator who turns every cuddle into grinding. You try to watch a movie and he’s already halfway in your lap, nuzzling your neck with shaky breaths. Five minutes later he’s rutting against your thigh like a desperate puppy, whimpering “Can’t help it… you’re so warm… need you so bad.”

·✶· needy!gator who throbs and leaks like a desperate mess the second he gets hard for you. His cock weeps pre-cum in thick beads, soaking his boxers and dripping down his shaft.

·✶· needy!gator who loses it the moment he’s inside you. He buries his face in your neck or between your tits, moaning and panting against your skin. His thrusts are messy and frantic, chasing the feeling of being completely wrapped up in you. “Don’t let go… please don’t let go of me,” he gasps, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

·✶· needy!gator who cries when he cums every single time. His eyes squeeze shut, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks as his whole body shudders. You cup his face, kiss the tears away while he sobs into your mouth, cock pulsing deep inside you, whispering broken “I love you… fuck, I love you so much” between gasps.

·✶· needy!gator who needs aftercare more than anything. He won’t let you move for at least twenty minutes, clinging to you, still buried inside if you’ll let him, sniffling softly while you stroke his back and tell him how good he was. He gets embarrassed about the crying, but melts when you coo at him and call him your sweet boy.

·✶· needy!gator who gets jealous and clingy as hell. If another guy even looks at you too long, he’s immediately in your space, arm around your waist, face in your neck, whispering “He doesn’t get to look at what’s mine.” Later he needs you to remind him with your mouth and hands that he’s the only one, riding him slow while he whimpers and cries again.

·✶· needy!gator who loves morning sex more than anything. He wakes up hard and needy, already rutting against your ass with soft little sounds. “Baby… please… I had a dream about you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. He loves when you ride him lazy and slow, watching those pretty tears build up and spill over right as he finishes.

·✶· needy!gator who says “I need you” more than “I love you,” because for him they’re the same thing. You’re his safe place, his softness, the only person who sees him cry and still wants him.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

Taglist: @stydiaforeverbitchezz @keerygirlie98 @exooojongdaeee @stoneyggirl @gatorgirlie @soggycerealtbh @whispersoflost @louisbelongstome28 @needylittlebabyintherain @silkscreams @ulalalauwu @lacywithdrawal @stoneyggirl2 @sanctumdemunson @luminousdoomsellsword @kristywidget97 @shecleansup @maaaachiii @sespe08 @lookalivesunshine-x

[oohooheeheehaaheeheeh]

This what I'm talking about, people!!

Gator Tillman is canonically a pathetic mess!!