my favorite trope is the ‘we HAVE to kiss in order to keep our cover and that’s when we realize we actually have feelings for each other welp’ trope and i’ll love it every time
Note: Needless to say, there are incredible Gator fics coming out lately and they are so so good and I am super intimidated to post mine, but fuck it, right? Like that one post artist2: aw man that persons cake is way better than mine, meanwhile the consumer: hell yeah two cakes!
Anyway here's my cake.
Summary and CW: Pre season 5, in which reader is in a relationship with a narcissist and drowning her sorrows at the first bar she could find. Her spiraling thoughts are interrupted by exbf!Gator. A friendly long time no see conversation turns into a therapy session, turns into a scheme to escape the narcissist. (Reminiscing, cursing, alcohol consumption, kissing, groping, cheating, MDNI 18+smut (oral, vaginal fingering f!receiving, unprotected p in v sex), canon divergent at the end) Gator is a little out of character maybe, a bit soft. This is really self indulgent so apologies if this doesn't resonate with everyone who chooses to read it. Also read over this twice so if there are any lingering mistakes, sorry y'all
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It was remarkably slow for a Wednesday night at this bar. Three couples among the tables and booths, one man playing a game of pool by himself, two people at the bar itself with ten empty barstools between them, and one bartender. On second thought, it was league night at the bowling alley, maybe that's where the usual crowd was... Not that it mattered to you. This was simply the closest bar to home. And luckily there was an empty horseshoe booth secluded in a corner just for you.
You weren't usually a big drinker, but after the day you had, the week... Hell, if you were honest, you were surprised you didn't have a drinking problem given the life you've endured for the last eight years. Most of the time you kept your mask on: perfect, pretty, unbothered. It was easy, you had a mantra you repeated in your head: it could be worse.
But sometimes it all came crashing in at once, became too much, the mantra couldn't block out the dark thoughts, and then the dark thoughts spiraled and you end up questioning every decision you've ever made that led you to this point in your life... Then the what ifs begin: What if you'd just done one thing different in the past...? How far back would you have to go? Would you still be where you are? In misery. In a lonely, loveless relationship soon to be shackled in a lonely, loveless marriage.
All he cared about was what other people thought of him, what he looked like on social media: the guy who had it all, the guy that was winning at life. What you thought, what you did and said didn't matter to him. Why would it? You were just his trophy; truly, if he could shut you up in glass cabinet, kept on display, that would probably be his dream come true. The man he was online, how he boasted to his coworkers, friends, and family of any and all small achievements, that was a far different than the person you were engaged to, the person behind closed doors... It could be worse... It could be worse... It could be worse... But what if it could be-
You were abruptly yanked from your dark spiral by the sound of a voice, fortunately a familiar voice, because you did not have it in you to shoo away a drunken stranger hitting on you. "Well, well," the voice drawled as it drew closer. The thousand yard stare disappeared from your eyes as you turned your glance to the source, you couldn't smother your smile to save your life. There was just something about Gator Tillman, always has been, always would be. He was in his usual attire, the black cargos, the black t shirt that might've been a size too small but you sure as hell weren't complaining. His sheriff's cap was exchanged for his casual green trucker hat worn backwards; he didn't have his tactical vest, duty belt or any holsters, he was very clearly off the clock. "If it isn't Stark County's own Rodeo Princess reigning from '03 to '05."
You couldn't help but snort and scowl, your voice a bit amplified as you spoke into your glass, "Oh god, you remember that?" Then took a hearty swallow, wincing.
"'Course I remember that. S'when my crush on your started." Gator answered easily, gesturing towards you with his beer bottle.
You snorted again, but a smile crept across your mouth as you set your glass down softly. "Shut up."
When he caught your glance again he winked, muttering, "S'true." Then after a beat motioned to the other side of the booth, "Mind if I sit?"
"Go ahead."
To your surprise, instead of the opposite side he'd motioned to, he crowded in next to you. You shifted a bit further into the booth to give him more room, but he still shimmied himself closer to you so his thigh was pressed against yours. "S'my usual spot," he mumbled, "So I can see everyone, 'n all the doors."
Ah, yes, cop mentality. You nodded, an apology ready on your tongue but you swallowed it down. You wondered what it meant that you'd picked this spot, an unconscious choice, a specific choice; looking around - it did have the best view of the entire bar... A self preservation tactic you didn't even know you were doing? Or were you just used to trying to hide yourself in a dark corner, animal instinct, where it was safe? Or where you'd backed yourself into in a panic and find your demise?
Again Gator's voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts, "Long time no see."
"Gator," you muttered, waiting until he turned his gaze down to you beside him, taking a leisurely sip from his beer bottle while you deadpanned, "We both work for the sheriff's department."
He rolled his eyes, parking his beer next to your half empty glass, "Yeah, sure, but you're always tucked away at home, all remote n' shit with your work, ain't been on the beat for a few years now, since you was with DPD. See your name on paperwork that comes through, now n'again."
"Yeah?" You smirked, what an odd thing to mention, you couldn't help but respond with a joke, "Get your heart skippin' a beat?"
"Y'caught me." He winked at you again.
You own heart betrayed you, skipping a beat when he grinned down at you. You grabbed for your glass but didn't take a sip, just needed something to occupy your hands, your eyes fixed on the amount of liquid still in the glass. From beside you Gator puffed out a soft chuckle, his left hand taking his beer, while his right arm stretched around the back of the booth seat, seemingly casual.
There was a kind of warmth you didn't expect to feel from the gesture, even if his arm wasn't around you, it'd been a long time since you felt even a glimmer of affection, even if this was purely companionable. The silence stretched... Comfortably, even. You didn't feel like you were on edge, ready for some backhanded comment or intentional barb. You could almost feel yourself relaxing.
"So," Gator spoke up again, his drained bottle clanking hollowly against the table top, with a wave of his left hand and nod at the bar he had another beer bottle on its way over, "What made ya stop likin' cowboy types?"
The question was unexpected, just like the laugh that burst loudly from your throat.
"Jesus, Gator, are you serious? That was 13 years ago." When he didn't respond and just waited expectantly, you sighed and laughed again. "Okay, besides the fact that I was too old to be the rodeo princess after '05 and it was time to give another girl a turn... After my final ride, your dad offered me some ADVICE, told me men didn't like girls with loud voices and too much spirit."
Gator snorted into his beer, at some point someone had dropped off a new bottle and cleared away the empty, you didn't even notice. "Funny. When he saw me staring at you he told me you weren't the kinda girl for marryin'."
"Wow." You murmured, "What a dick... Think he also told me I was too thick in the thighs and should 'do something about that before it's too late'."
Gator groaned a curse, muttering under his breath what sounded like 'those thighs' before not so nonchalantly adjusting the crotch of his cargos with his left hand. With a quick, sharp clearing of his throat he noted, "Didn't stop you from bein' loud and spirited."
Yes, as a 13 year old girl heading into high school you couldn't give two shits what the sheriff had to say about your personality, or your body. Though he definitely did make you avoid cowboy types, and ranch boys. You had dates throughout high school but you never had a boyfriend until-
"Didn't stop you from dating me, either." Gator added.
You rolled your eyes, "We dated for three weeks. Three," you wiggled three fingers in front of his stupid handsome smirking face, "Weeks."
He shrugged one shoulder, "Long enough to lose our virginity to each other."
Your laughter was loud, louder than it had been in years, loud enough that other patrons glanced your way at the sound before going on about their own business. "Yeah fuckin' right, you had at least three notches on your bedpost before me."
Gator shook his head, "May've dated before you but I uhhh." He shrugged again, like dropping that particular truth bomb was nothing. Now, as 26 year olds in a bar booth, it didn't mean much, but as 17 year olds? When you'd let Gator climb in through your bedroom window at midnight? That shit meant everything.
Your jaw dropped, a scoff of disbelief leaving you before you muttered, "Shut up. Shut. Up. I deflowered the sheriff's football star son?"
The sip of beer in his mouth got stuck in his throat, causing him to cough a few times before he tucked his head closer to yours to mumble, "Well y'don't need t'say it like that, make it sound like you stuck somethin' up my ass."
You giggled, truly giggled. When was the last time you'd giggled? "Alright alright... But... Why didn't you ever say anything?"
He finally pulled his head away to sit back against the booth normally, yet again another shrug of his shoulders before he answered, "Never thought to? Dunno... And, y'know, y'broke up with me four days later."
You scoffed, "I was campaigning for class president, I couldn't associate myself with someone who took a tire iron to another students legs."
Gator's grin returned, shifting slightly so his leg pressed a bit more firmly against yours, "Alright, alright." He mimicked you. The comfortable silence stretched again, you could almost feel the heat coming down from where his arm sat close but not close enough to your shoulders. "That's new." He gestured with his bottle to where your hands were circled around your glass. And just like that your little moment of peace shattered. He was referring to the shiny diamond on your left ring finger.
"Yeah," you agreed quickly. Tapping the band against the glass. The clink of metal against glass was almost too solidifying. You released your glass and clasped your hands together, hiding them under the table.
"Jesus, don't sound too excited, princess."
"It's not. It's not that I'm - I just- !" You began to babble, unwarranted apologies constricting your throat.
Gator took notice quickly. His arm finally dropped to land solidly along your shoulders, his hand gripping your upper arm. "S'fine."
Your pulse still hammered, fight or flight or freeze in full effect. You grabbed your glass from the table and drained it. The burn brought tears to your eyes. Once you returned the glass to the table Gator pushed it nearer to the edge.
"Y'know I only came over here t'say hi... But then I saw that haunted look on y'face, n' I wa'n't really sure if it was you. You ain't got that glow 'bout ya anymore. Hell, you look skinnier than you were in high school... Look like the kinda girl that took the sheriff's advice when she was 13... Y'okay?"
Frozen. You were frozen. He was reading you like a book. No one else saw it. Everyone else assumed you had a perfect life. You and your long time boyfriend turned fiance were a perfect couple. Living the American Dream. But Gator saw your moment of indiscretion, the lapse in your mask. Cared enough to ask if you were okay. You wanted to say yes. Yes you were fine, and you were excited to be married. You were going to go dress shopping soon and start making the invites. But... That wouldn't be true. You were dreading it.
Your gaze was fixed on the tabletop where your glass had been, when your brain finally calmed enough to come back online from being blue screened it was just to quickly plummet back into your spiral, the thoughts that brought you to the bar in the first place. You took in a deep breath and let it out slow. Who was Gator going to tell anyway? When would you see him again? Probably never since you weren't going to come to this bar ever again. Fuck it.
You met his eyes, dark, open, and warm. "D'ya mind if I vent?"
Gator nodded towards you in a 'go for it' kind of way, "Always liked listenin' to your speeches at the rodeo n' school. Somethin' 'bout your voice... You could read me the damn phone book."
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. He liked to hear you talk? Compared to the man you were to wed who always assumed you were going to tell him bad news or ask him to do something when he was already busy. So you'd reduced yourself to simply speaking when spoken to. But Gator liked to hear you talk. What the fuck?
"He didn't... He didn't really propose. Just drove us to a jewelry store and had me pick something out while he was busy on his phone. Didn't even get on one knee and ask. Just gave me the box, white cardboard not even velvet, still in the store, said, 'Here.'... Had me put it on myself and took a photo of my hand and posted on every one of his social media accounts."
"Romantic." Gator muttered.
"Yeah... I mean... When we got together it wasn't like this... Or... Or maybe it was and I just didn't notice. I'm... I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. Might've never liked me from the start, maybe just liked the idea of me... But claims every day that he loves me. And I say it back because I'm afraid of what'll happen if I don't..." You suck in a much needed breath, "All the time I'm... I'm wonderin'... Maybe if I do this, or I try that, he'll at least... At least like me again. Maybe the spark will come back... Fuck, was there ever a spark in the first place? It's been eight years and... I know... I know now that he is a narcissist. I know I need to leave but I can't... I can't do it, and I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me." A tear escaped your right eye that you wiped away quickly. You huffed out a humorless laugh, "I shouldn't be unloading this on you, this is what therapists are for."
Gator's grip on your shoulder squeezed again, anchoring, "Don't mind. Talk t'me, for free. If y'want."
You remained quiet, regaining control over your watery eyes before you continued, you certainly wouldn't be able to stop now that you've started, "I don't know how it happened, or when it happened. Obviously it was gradual. He's just been wearing me down. Twisting my words and making me question my own thoughts. I know it's wrong, this is not a normal relationship, but something in my head keeps saying it's fine, he'll come around, he'll realize he's a selfish asshole and change... But -"
"They don't change." Gator supplied.
You shook your head in agreement. "At some point we got a joint bank account, but I pay all the bills with my check... Since I got the work from home job he'll say I just sit on my ass all day while he's out doing real work... meanwhile he gets to have 'play' money, at least that's what I call it... Gonna miss the cell phone bill payment because of this little luxury of mine tonight. The bills are always on time. I do all the cooking, cleaning, the groceries, schedule the appointments, the yard work, the taxes. He's turned me into a shell of myself, a submissive little slave. I don't even know how to be who I used to be, I don't know if I could... I... I don't know what I like anymore, likes my own interests, fuckin'... Hobbies?" You gestured at nothing with your hands, flopping them into your lap in defeat. "I don't know how to be me. I don't know who the fuck I am..."
"Baby, y'can't live like that, y'want me to set this guy up for murder or somethin'?"
You absolutely could not ignore the electricity that shot up you spine when he called you baby, but his offer that followed was enough to keep your hormones in check, and warn sternly, "Gator."
"Alright alright, heard. Too close to home." You rolled your eyes again, unconsciously leaning more heavily into his embrace. Comparing injuring a high school football player in his youth to abusing his power and pull as a sheriff's deputy to frame a man for murder was not too close to home... Still made you smile a bit.
"S'that why you're here tonight? Drownin' your sorrows?"
"Oh no," you answered almost too enthusiastically, "My breaking point was when he texted me earlier telling me I should get off birth control now so by the time we get married I'll already be pregnant." Saying it out loud made your stomach roll, you felt a cold sweat behind your ears and on your neck and suddenly there was a glass of water pushed into your line of sight, you took it and sipped gingerly. "The thought of being biologically chained to him for the rest of my life... Marriage is one thing but to have kids who'll mimic the way he treats me, thinking it's fine, thinking it's normal... God forbid I give birth to a girl... Just... Being a ghostly servant in my own house... Needed something stronger than wine coolers." This time the silence that stretched wasn't comfortable. In fact you felt disgusted to be in your own skin after laying your soul bare. So you shifted from Gator's comforting one armed embrace and covered up your uneasiness with humor.
"And that's the reason why I stole your usual spot at your bar." You stated as if concluding a long winded speech.
Gator brought his right hand to the tabletop, fingers clenched into a fist while his eyes peered out among the occupancy of the bar, scanning once, twice, then after the third time he thumped his fist against the table, "Y'know what." His voice was firm and sure, you couldn't help but look at him, waiting for him to continue his thought, "You're gonna cheat on your fiance tonight."
You choked on the spit in your mouth, coughing out his name in as scolding a tone as you could manage.
"M'serious." He slunk close to you in the booth once again, arm coming around your shoulders and pulling you much closer than before, you could feel the body heat exchanging through layers of fabric. "It'll be the perfect way to get out. Word'll spread like wildfire, just like it did in high school when y'dumped me."
You let out a soft laugh, your gaze didn't move from his glittering hazel eyes while you muttered, "There's almost no one in this bar."
"Yeah, well there's two old ladies right over there that've been watchin' us the whole time. They're just itchin' to update the granny grapevine."
Another soft laugh, softer than before because when did Gator's face get so close to yours? And why aren't you pulling away to make some distance? "They have not been watching us the whole time."
"They have." He hummed, close enough now that his nose brushed against yours as he nodded. "You'd know that, but you've only had eyes f'me, princess."
You were silent, too enamoured by the color of his eyes, the scent of his cologne, his arm pulling you in closer. You found yourself nodding along before you stated just as firmly, just as sure as Gator had, "I'm gonna cheat on my fiance."
"There's my girl." You could feel his grin against your mouth, so close, making you chase him, stealing your breath. His other hand came to the hinge of your jaw, easing your face just a touch more upward.
"I need another drink." You whispered, "Before I lose my nerve." You began pulling away, ready to scramble out of the other side of the horseshoe booth and sprint to the bar but his hold was solid. Without Gator encompassing all your senses, you took a breath and realized your hands were firmly gripping his shoulders.
"Y'don't need another drink, baby." He shook his head, drawing you closer again, the arm around your shoulders shifted lower to squeeze around your waist. His lips brushed yours as he spoke, "If I remember right y'used to say you'd get drunk off my kisses."
You gasped in his every word, giving a short nod before the miniscule distance was finally closed. God, how you missed being kissed, being held, being appreciated. And god damnit Gator was right. He'd always been a good kisser, kisses that took your breath away and made you feel lightheaded... Drunk.
His plush mouth worked softly, his tongue sliding against your bottom lip and into your mouth seamlessly. His thumb brushed along your jaw, easing your mouth farther open, tilting your head every few moments to get better access, moving his lips and sweeping his tongue in just the right ways that had you whining into his mouth and totally forgetting you were in public, even if there were only ten other people occupying the bar. Your hands were desperately gripping onto his shoulders to his biceps, from his chest to his neck, "God," you breathed, your lungs frantic for air but your mind too dizzied to ignore the much more frantic thirst for Gator's lips. His teeth nipped gently against your bottom lip and you had to squeeze your eyes shut and pull away for a steadying breath, "I need you so fuckin' bad." You whispered like a confession.
Gator's lips weren't to be deterred, trailing down your chin and jaw, he hummed against the skin of throat, the hand not securely gripped against your waist grabbed one of your hands to push your open palm against the front of his cargos, an unspoken earnest agreement to your sentiment. You gasped again, feeling just how hard he was from simply kissing you, the way his hips twitched in the booth seat to try and gain more of your touch. Holy fuck, to want and be wanted in return, this felt insane.
"Y'still with me, baby?" He grumbled against your neck.
You could only manage a nod, acutely aware of how wet your panties were after having not felt sexual desire for who knows how many years.
Gator moved back, just enough space so you could breathe and think.
"Where d'y'live now?" He asked.
"My parents house." You slurred a bit then cleared your throat, "My mom didn't want to deal with snow anymore so she and my dad retired to Florida. They signed it over to me. Five more years of payments til it's paid off."
Gator's eyes widened a bit, the stunned silence confusing you until he clenched his jaw and started ranting a bit too loudly, "Y'gotta be shittin' me! This fuckin' guy has the most beautiful girlfriend, who does everythin' for him, lost weight she didn't need to lose, and lives in a free house? This abusive piece of shit-! Tell me somethin', talk t'me, talk me down, baby, gimme somethin' to keep me from goin' t'your house n' murderin' this guy."
A smile cracked your mouth, your hands coming to rest on either side of his neck, "Uhh, we can't have sex if you're arrested?"
With a decompressing breath, Gator nodded, "Fuck, you're so fuckin' right."
Yours and Gator's tabs were quickly paid, though it was a wonder because he couldn't keep his hands off you. Trailing behind you like a tall, dark, handsy shadow, almost crushing you against the bar, making your cheeks and neck blush hot and crimson when you could feel him pressing, still hard, against your ass. While the bartender grinned knowingly at you and went to go make change from Gator's fifty dollar bill, you were fighting for your life while he whispered against your neck, "Can't lie, missed when there was more to grab back here."
There was something to be said about misery affecting your appetite, all aspects of your appetite it seemed. Because right now you felt absolutely starved while Gator's hands roamed your thighs and ass, with absolutely no regard to the public eye, his lips ghosting against your neck so softly that it brought about goosebumps.
"Holy shit." You muttered under your breath. Forcing a pleasant smile at the bartender when he came back with Gator's change, all of which Gator tossed into the tip jar before hauling you both out of the building like it was on fire.
You tossed the engagement ring through your cracked driver's side window onto the dash in you car before Gator scooped you up like a princess and put you in the passenger side of his truck, laughing all the while.
That glow, that loudness, that spirit felt like it was coming back. Little by little, with every minute spent with Gator. Could it get better?
There was no sneaking onto the Tillman Ranch, security was posted at all hours, but getting into Gator's barndominium where there was far less security was much easier. No porch lights, no light posts, just stumbling and fumbling and muffling laughter while trying to get a key into a keyhole in the pitch blackness of midnight.
As soon as the door closed behind you, Gator flicked the lock and caged you in against it. His mouth was hot and desperate against yours, far less tame than at the bar, like he'd patiently waited eight whole years to kiss you again and nothing was going to stop him now.
While his hands were skimming over your thighs and hips, your fingers were trembling and frantic working at his belt buckle.
"How long's it been?" He asked between kisses, popping the button on your jeans and easing the zipper down.
"Uh," your mind was too foggy, too overloaded with pleasure and you haven't even got to the main event yet. "A few months, I don't know."
He didn't seem to love that answer and rephrased his question, "How long's it been since someone else made you come?"
You cursed loudly, drawing your mouth away to gasp in breath, head tilting back against the door when you felt his fingers dip into your dripping folds. "Forever." You managed to answer on a whiny moan.
"Fuck," Gator groaned at the amount of slick, two fingers sliding into you with ease. He captured your moan with his mouth. Quirking his fingers as he moved them in a steady rhythm, thumb pressing against your swollen clit. Tears spilled from the corners of your eyes unbidden as you quickly came on Gator's fingers. Legs shaking and threatening to buckle at the knee. "Fuck, so sensitive, baby. So pretty when I make you come." He murmured against your gasping mouth, your hands clinging to his shoulders for some stability before he removed his hand from your underwear and held you around the waist with both arms. "This poor neglected pussy doesn't know what she's in for tonight."
"Holy fuckin' shit, I'm think I'm gonna die in this barn." You steeled your legs enough to trust them not to collapse and moved your hands to push your jeans and panties down, kicking your shoes and socks off in the least sexiest possible way in your haste. The giggling returned for a moment as Gator too struggled to remove his boots while standing. In a scramble of half removed clothes and stumbling, you made it to a couch instead of the bed in the former hay loft. Gator made sure to make you come on his tongue, and then his mouth and fingers before he made his way up your body to occupy your panting pout with devouring kisses. You could taste yourself on his tongue, it was the most erotic thing you'd experienced outside of a smutty paperback in years. You wanted to return the favor, at least a little bit, feel the weight of him on your tongue, the thickness of him constricting your airway, the smell and taste of his musk that was all him, you were salivating at the thought. But he assured you there would be plenty of time for that later, right now he needed to take care of you, since no one else cared to over the years.
He sat on the couch, hauling you onto his lap so you could ease yourself down his shaft at your own pace. Of course you'd forgotten how big Gator was; the stretch, the fullness, fuck, you could come again from that alone. You set a leisurely pace, a bounce and a rolling rhythm that had Gator's eyes rolling back and his head tilting back so you could see the expanse of his neck, the little moles that dotted his skin, the way his throat worked as he gasped and swallowed while you worked. His hands gripping and ghosting along every available inch of your skin. When you started to lose your rhythm, growing a bit frantic, your walls sporadically clenching along his cock he rolled his head forward again, mouth agape, eyes wide and blackened with a starving desire. "There ya go," he encouraged, his hands taking their place on your hips to help guide where you lost your pace, "Am I gonna make y'come again, baby? God, fuckin' squeezin' me so tight."
"Yeah," you nodded dumbly, and continued to babble as yet another climax approached, "Yeah, you're gonna make me come, fuck... fuck, you're gonna make me come so hard again!"
"Fuck," he practically growled, jaw clenched as he watched you work towards your peak, your fluttering walls growing tighter and wetter. The clutch of your pussy coming on his cock, along with the sight of your face as you cried his name was too much. While you were still quivering from your high he gathered you in his arms to lay you across the cushions, drawing your legs up until your calves rested against his shoulders. Pistoning his hips into you like some feral animal, grunting and groaning while his sweat and hand mussed hair swayed across his forehead with his every movement.
He fucked you through your orgasm, through the overstimulation, to draw you once again to another peak, even as your muscles trembled in protest, all you could do was whine as you let the sensation climb until it enveloped you again, fingers grabbing weakly at his thighs.
"Shit," he hissed, "Shit, this pussy, fuck, she's amazin'. You're amazin', baby - god - fuck - you're so fuckin' beautiful. Fuck, I'm gonna come, where d'you want it." His hips were faltering as his orgasm approached, he was impressed with himself for having made it this far without spilling; making you come four times was good enough, and the way you looked and sounded when you whined his name wasn't making holding it off any easier.
"No!" Your weak grip on his thighs tightened slightly, with what strength you had left, "Stay inside - fuck - stay inside me! Come in me, Gator, fuck, please!" You couldn't contain your scream as you crested a final time, your muscles were burning with overworked effort, Gator shouted out a curse at the feeling of you clutching him even tighter than before. Your words, your pleading, the scream, how the fuck could he not come, his orgasm practically torn from him as you milked him for ever drop. He let your legs fall from his shoulders, collapsing on top of you, his mouth against your ear whimpering with every dissipating wave until the pleasure finally ceased. Together you were just a panting mass of limbs, glistening with sweat from the scant moonlight shining in from the loft window.
Gator kept his weight off of you once he caught his breath, but he had to wait several minutes before your breathing returned to normal, almost worried you were having an asthmatic event; because that would make for an interesting emergency room visit.
He tossed the couch blanket over you before heading to the mini fridge, grabbing two water bottles. He cracked one open and put it in your hand, tossing the other next to you before heading for his little bathroom. The water always took a long time to warm up, regardless he waited for it to become warm before putting a washcloth under the stream.
You were dead to the world after you sucked down the entirety of the water bottle, loose limbed as Gator kindly cleaned you up of your combined bodily fluids. Wrapped up in the couch blanket, he carried you up to the loft, depositing you into his bed. Once he was sure you weren't going to wake for any little sound he went about getting dressed, grabbed his work laptop and phone and parked himself back on the couch...
When you woke it was in an unfamiliar bed, but you were surrounded by a familiar scent... As well as the smell of coffee, thank fuck for that. Trying to rummage quietly, you found a pair of boxer briefs and a t shirt with 'SHERIFF' printed on the left breast pocket, that would work well enough to keep the chill of the morning away.
To be honest, you were surprised to find Gator still here. Assuming last night at the bar was just a ploy to get you into bed, assuming you'd need to find your own way home, back to your normal life. But there he was, sat on the couch, feet already back in his boots and kicked up the coffee table. Two steaming mugs of coffee sat a good distance away from said boots on the table. You crept down the stairs quietly but couldn't evade creaks on certain steps.
"Mornin'." He mumbled without looking back. His laptop was still perched on his thighs where it seemed it had stayed all night and well into the morning.
"Hi." You voice a bit roughened from sleep, and y'know the whole screaming orgasm thing from the previous night. "D'you ever go to bed?" You wondered, taking a seat next to him on the couch, leaning forward to inspect the coffees and grabbing the one that looked like it had more creamer in it.
"Nah." He answered, pausing in his reading and scrolling on the computer to stretch his arms over his head, his shirt drawing up to show skin up to his belly button. You appreciated the sight as you sipped your coffee. "Been busy."
"Busy doin' what?" You asked, puzzled. Was Gator on duty already?
He leaned forward to grab the other coffee, taking a leisurely sip before he nodded towards his laptop, "Restraining order is active. Your ex's bein' supervised while he packs all his shit up from your house. And cuz I'm fuckin' nice - just about finished with the final details of his transfer order to Billings PD... Oh, n' I called y'out sick from work. Figured you'd need some recovery time after... All that... The sex, I mean... And you prob'ly need to go to the bank n' get that shit fixed."
You stared, blinked, then cleared your throat, "Shit, you really were busy." Then occupied your mouth with another sip from your mug.
"I fuckin' hate paperwork and askin' favors." He stated with a lopsided grin; with his hair still loose he looked younger, less stern like his photos in local news articles usually were. Closing his laptop with finality, he sighed before adding, "But if it means helpin' you, I'll do it ev'ry fuckin' day."
You didn't have words. The woman was too stunned to speak. This all seemed rather out of nowhere. Were you just supposed to believe Gator Tillman had been pining for you for all these years? And now he was using (possibly abusing) his power as a deputy to give you the kickstart you needed to get your life back on track?
"Listen." And he was really good at interrupting your spirals. "Las'night don't have t'mean anythin' if y'don't want it to... It could just be fun, celebratin' escapin' a narcissist."
You shifted, bringing your legs beneath you as you faced him fully, squinting slightly but enough so that he was raising a curious eyebrow at you. "Did you really have a crush on me since we were 13?"
His face smoothed out into a grin, a blush tinting his ears red, "11."
"Huh?"
"Since we were 11." He clarified.
You bit your lips together to resist a smile. That was so sickly sweet you could honestly barf.
"I know that, uhh, you might need some time on your own to figure yourself out, figure out who you are after all the bullshit y'been through, but I'll be here, if y'need - well, if y'want me."
You scoffed, setting down your mug before reaching over to take his from his hand and the computer on his lap, depositing them on the table as well before sliding yourself over to straddle his thighs. He jostled you a bit when he planted his feet on the floor, this legs spreading a bit while your fingers laced together behind his neck, thumbs absentmindedly stroking against his nape. His hands settled on your hips, giving a small squeeze as he looked up at you, waiting. "'Course I want you around. You made me come five times and then I slept the best sleep I've had in years."
His hands fell away from your hips as he rolled his eyes.
"Hey, I'm kiddin'." You remedied, snatching his hands to put them back on your hips. You restarted, making sure you had his eyes before you spoke sincerely. "Last night. Before all the orgasms and making out in a bar booth, when we were talking... Just talking... And you made me laugh... It was the first time I felt like myself in years. You make me feel like me... So I'm gonna need you around to keep, y'know, finding myself. Y'know, if y'want."
"Oh, I want." He nodded enthusiastically, his fingers flexing on you and pulling down, his own hips rising to grind against your core. "But I think y'need to be more hydrated... And eat somethin', before we fuck again."
You nodded, "Valid. I could eat."
Hardly two seconds passed before you found yourself moved out of his lap and he was striding to the little kitchenette with the mini fridge sat on the countertop. "Only got a hot plate n' one cast iron pan, so fried eggs and toast, or toast and fried eggs?"
You laughed, and Gator's own smile widened at the sound. "Toast and fried eggs sounds good."
You went back to sipping your coffee while Gator slowly but surely fixed breakfast. "Looks good on ya, y'know?" Gator said, for the first time not drawing you from your spiraling thoughts. Your mind feeling clear, unburdened for the first time in years.
"What?" You looked down at the shirt, "Your clothes?"
"Nah," he said as he strolled over to grab his mug off the coffee table, gesturing with his free hand to his left chest, then yours, "Title."
You couldn't help but snort loudly, "If you think Roy Tillman is gonna deputize a woman, I'm gonna have to take you to the hospital to have your head checked for sex induced psychosis."
He nodded but then continued, "I mean, you're really good at rallyin' a crowd. Always have been."
"Yeah. Maybe back in high school on the debate team."
"Still could, I bet. You're funny, pretty, friendly. Young enough to get the younger folks vote, charm the old bastards for their vote."
You narrowed your eyes in his direction, setting down your now empty mug. "What're you getting at..?"
"Campaign for Sheriff."
You scoffed, drawn to stand at such fucking insane idea. "Are you fucking joking? Are you trying to get me killed? Your dad would literally kill me, literally. Without a second thought."
"Nah," he said, as if that should settle your anxiety, which, strangely, it did. "He needs to be taken down... You're the one to do it."
"Gator, c'mon."
"I believe in you." He said it so easily, so sincerely, over the sound of silverware clanking on plates. He walked over with two plates, handing you one as he sat, and you followed beside him. The warmth you felt in your heart spread throughout your limbs, heating your skin to a pink blush as you murmured a soft thank you. "Election's not for six months, maybe in that time you might find who you are, what you wanna do, who you wanna be. 13 year old you who gave no shits what the sheriff thought of her would believe in you, you should too."
Two Little Words - Gator Tillman x Reader - One Shot
Gator decides he needs to figure out what sort of nickname “gets you going” - so what happens when you turn the tables on him?
a/n don’t ask why or how this entered my brain . doesn’t matter.
TW/CW: pet names but no use of y/n, fingering, grinding, softer Gator (ish)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The television droned on in the background, some reality show you weren’t actually watching, but it was good noise to fill the apartment. Gator Tillman was sprawled on your couch, boots kicked up onto the coffee table despite the glare you’d shot him earlier. He was fidgeting, bouncing his leg, tossing your phone up and catching it repeatedly.
The two of you were still in that grey area - the "sort of dating" phase where you spent most nights together but hadn't truly had the "what are we" talk. He was decent company. When he wasn't being a pain in the ass.
"Would you quit that?" You didn’t bother to look up from the book you were trying to read on the opposite end of the couch. "You're gonna break my phone.”
"Can't help it," Gator drawled, tossing it onto a cushion. He turned his head, studying you with that intense, slightly manic stare. "I’m thinkin'."
"Awe, be careful. I’d hate to see you hurt yourself."
"Ha ha." He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. "No, seriously. I was thinkin' about us. About how we do all this couple stuff." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "But we ain't got the lingo down just yet."
You sighed, marking your page and looking at him. "What lingo?"
"Names," he said simply. "Ain't that what couples do? Give each other cringe-ass nicknames that make everyone else wanna gag?"
You stared at him. "You wanna give me a nickname?"
"I think it’s required." He stood up, cracking his neck. "Yeah. Gotta figure it out. The right one."
"You can just call me by my name, Gator."
"Nah. That’s borin’. That’s for strangers. Not someone who’s already seen you naked." He started pacing the small living room area. "I gotta find one that sticks. Somethin’ that fits you."
You rolled your eyes and went back to your book, deciding to ignore him. It was usually the best strategy with Gator when he got like this - wired and looking for entertainment. If you didn't engage beyond an occasional nod, he’d eventually get bored and sit back down.
But he didn't.
You felt him walk behind the couch, leaning over your shoulder. His breath was hot against your ear, smelling of gum and the faint, lingering scent of leather and gun oil from work
"Hey, baby," he whispered. The word was low, gravelly at the edges.
You stiffened slightly, turning the page even though you hadn't read a word of it. "Stop it."
"Sure thing, little lady," he tried again, moving to the other side of the couch so he was leaning over the arm rest to whisper into your other ear. "Kinda sounds like you should be on a horse or somethin’, huh?"
"Gator, knock it off," you said, swatting a hand out to push him away. He dodged it easily, laughing as you stood and retreated to the arm chair.
"What about… Princess?” He murmured, ignoring your hand. "Think you’re a princess? Certainly got the attitude for it, goddamn.”
He moved towards you with a restless, buzzing energy radiating off of him. It was like he was hunting something. If you knew one thing about Gator Tillman, it was that he was like a damn dog with a bone. Once he latched onto something, there was almost nothing you could do to get him to let it go.
"Sugar'," Gator whispered, kneeling down next to the chair, his fingers trailing over the back of your neck. A shiver went down your spine that you tried to suppress. “Ooh, you like that?”
“Shut up.”
"Okay, sweetheart." He was in front of you now, crouching down so his face was level with yours, invading your personal space. "That one's real classic. My old man uses it.”
You looked at him, exasperated. "Are you done yet?"
"Nope." He grinned, showing teeth. "None of 'em feel right yet. I need data."
"Data?" You almost laughed out loud at how seriously he was taking this.
"Yeah. Physical evidence." He stood up abruptly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you out of the chair. You stumbled, dropping your book onto the floor.
"Hey! What the fu-“
Gator didn't let go, steering you backward with surprising strength until your back hit the living room wall with a dull thud. He boxed you in, one hand by your head, the other resting on your hip, his body pressing close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Gator," you warned, though your voice lacked the bite you wanted it to have. Your heart was pounding a little harder now, adrenaline spiking.
"Pay attention," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, pupils blown wide. "Need to see which one works."
"Works for what?"
"Which one gets you goin'." Gator’s expression was devious at his hand slid from your hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.
You inhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist to stop him, but he didn't pause. He just pushed his hand down, rough and demanding, sliding past the fabric of your panties until his fingers were pressed against you, right where you were already starting to warm up under his scrutiny and touch.
"Fucking Christ," you breathed, your grip on his wrist tightening, but you didn't pull him away. Not really.
"Relax," he teased, his voice dropping an octave. "Just testing a hypothesis."
“Pretty big word for a guy like you.”
“Think I’m stupid?”
“Just thought you mostly did monosyllables.”
His fingers moved, dragging through your folds, and he hummed in satisfaction when he felt how slick you were. "Well, well. Wouldja look at that. All ‘a this is doin’ somethin’ for you. "
You flushed, your face heating up. "Shut up."
"No, no, this is good." He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your cheek. "Let's try again."
Gator slid a finger inside you, curling it just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat. He watched your face intently.
"Baby girl," he whispered, the words slow and deliberate. He pumped his finger once, twice, watching your eyelids flutter. "Yeah? You like that one?"
You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body betrayed you. Your hips tilted toward his hand instinctively, seeking more friction.
"M’kay. That’s a maybe," he continued, his voice a rough rasp against your ear.
“It’s not anything.”
"Quit lyin’," Gator withdrew his hand slightly, circling your clit with a maddening lightness that made your knees weak. "My sweet girl knows better than to lie to me, right?"
You let out a shaky breath, your head falling back against the wall. "Gator..."
"Say it," he demanded, pressing his thumb harder against you. "Which one?"
"I don't know," you gasped, your resolve crumbling under the steady rhythm of his hand.
"Liars get punished," he said, though there was no true malice in it, just a dark, playfulness. He added a second finger, stretching you, the sudden fullness drawing a low moan from your throat. "Come on. What one made you all like this for me? Or do you just like bein’ told what to do?”
You looked up at him, seeing the smug satisfaction written all over his face. He knew he had you. You felt exposed, pinned against the wall by his hips and his hand, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying part was that you liked it.
"I think," you managed to get out, your voice breathless, "I think you're enjoying this way too much."
"Damn right I am," Gator grinned, leaning in to bite gently at your pulse point. "Now hold still. If you ain’t gonna tell me, I’m gonna find out.”
He didn't give you a chance to recover, his wrist twisting so his palm cupped you possessively, grinding against you in a way that made your vision blur at the edges. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine that made your knees threaten to buckle.
"You're trembling," he observed, his voice dropping to that low, insinuating rasp he used when he was about to do something reckless. He leaned his weight into you, pinning you harder against the plaster so you couldn't escape the rhythm of his hand. "Means it's working. But which one did it, huh? Was it sweet girl? Or are you just a slut for being manhandled?"
You opened your mouth to snap at him, tell him to get off his fucking high horse, but all that came out was a broken, pathetic moan when he curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot that made your toes curl in your socks. His grin widened, sharp and predatory, like a wolf that had cornered its prey and realized it didn't even need to chase.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he taunted, pressing his forehead against yours, forcing you to hold his gaze. You could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he was cataloging every gasp and flutter. He didn’t even seem like he was looking for a pet name anymore. "Look at you. Tryin’ to act all tough and independent. Then the second I get my hands on you, you turn into a fuckin’ puddle. It's cute. Or pathetic. Dunno, haven’t decided yet."
"Fuck you, Gator," you gasped, trying to find purchase to push him away, but your hands lacked conviction. Instead of shoving him, you were clinging to his flannel shirt, grounding yourself as he worked you over with ruthless efficiency.
"Language," he chided, though his tone was anything but disapproving. He pulled his fingers back, teasing you with the loss of fullness before sliding them back in, deeper this time, harder. "Think you can talk to me like that when I'm fuckin’ wrist-deep in you? Doesn't seem like you're in a position to negotiate, does it, babydoll?"
He punctuated the question with a rough thrust of his hand, the wet, obscene sound of his movements filling the small apartment. You felt heat flood your face, a mix of embarrassment and arousal that was dizzying. He was right, and you hated it. You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the wall by your own traitorous body.
"Wanna try another one?” Gator murmured, ignoring your frustrated glare. He moved his mouth to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to sting.
“No -“
"Darlin'," he drawled out the nickname, letting it hang in the air, thick with mockery. "Sounds real southern. Real gentlemanly. Does it make you feel special? What about honey? Nah, never mind. I don’t like that one.”
Gator didn't wait for a coherent response. He shifted his angle, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizing slowness. Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the wall with a thud as you squeezed your eyes shut. The pleasure was building rapidly, a tight coil in your stomach that was winding tighter with every pass of his fingers.
"Open your damn eyes," he commanded sharply.
You forced your eyes open, vision swimming. He was watching you with an intensity that was almost frightening, like he was dissecting you.
"There she is," he said softly, though the smugness in his voice remained. "Damn, are you actually gonna let me get you off just by talkin’ to you?" He laughed, a breathy sound against your neck. "That’s fuckin' hilarious."
"Shut up," you whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of that friction, more of that pressure that was threatening to send you over the edge. You didn't care about his taunts anymore; you just needed him to keep going.
"Make me," he challenged, pulling his hand away slightly, denying you what you most wanted.
You let out a frustrated cry, hand flying out to grab his wrist, trying to force him back, but he was too strong. He held his ground, his fingers hovering at a cruel, teasing distance.
"Ask nicely," he said, his eyes dancing with mischief.
"No."
"Guess we're done here." He started to pull his hand out of your pants, the loss of warmth making you shiver.
"Wait," you blurted out, hating yourself for giving in. He stopped, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting.
"Go on," he prompted, his fingers twitching against your skin.
"Please," you gritted out, the word tasting like defeat.
"Please what?" He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Or please call you my little princess?"
Gator emphasized the last word, his tone dripping with sarcasm, but as he said it, his hand was already effortlessly back into place and resuming that devastating pace. You groaned, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder, unable to hold yourself up anymore as the pleasure washed over you.
"Yeah, that's it," he crooned, his voice almost gentle now, though the undercurrent of mockery was still there. "Take it. Doin’ so good for me."
Gator’s free hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head back so he could look at you again. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with his own arousal, but the triumph in them was unmistakable. He owned you in this moment, and he knew it.
"You're so desperate," he whispered, his gaze dropping to watch his hand moving inside your sweats. "You really are my sweet girl, aren'tcha? So fuckin’ needy for me."
The combination of his voice in your ear, the grip on your jaw, and the relentless movement of his fingers was too much. The coil in your stomach snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You cried out, your body arching off the wall. Gator worked you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking, your breath ragged. When you finally slumped against him, spent, he didn't pull away immediately. He kept his hand where it was, feeling the aftershocks rippling through you, a smug satisfaction radiating off him.
"Well," he said, pulling his hand out slowly a few minutes later, the movement deliberate and lingering. He held your gaze as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, tasting you. "Think we found a winner."
You stared at him, your chest heaving and face burning. "You're an asshole, Gator."
"Yeah," he agreed, wiping his hand on his jeans with a casual disregard that made your flush deepen. "But I'm your asshole. And you know you loved it."
He leaned in, pressing a quick, hard kiss to your lips, stealing your breath before you could formulate a retort.
"So, sweet girl it is?" Gator asked, backing away with a grin that said he already knew the answer.
"Go to hell," you muttered, sliding down the wall until your ass hit the floor, your legs feeling like jelly.
"Awe, boo-hoo. I'll pick you up later," he winked, stepping over your discarded book and heading back to the couch like nothing had happened. "We ain't done watching the show."
You sat on the floor for a minute, letting your heart rate settle while Gator reclaimed his spot, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He kicked his legs up on the coffee table once more, exuding a cocky confidence that made your blood boil - in the best way, but still. He thought he’d won. He thought he was the one in control here.
Pushing yourself off the floor, you smoothed down your sweatpants, wincing slightly at the lingering sensitivity. You walked over to the couch and stood right in front of the TV, blocking his view.
"Move it," he complained. "You make a better door than a window."
You ignored him, straddling his lap before he could react. He grunted in surprise, his hands automatically coming to rest on your hips, but you caught his wrists, wrenching them away from your body and pinning them against the back of the couch.
"Whoa there,” he laughed, looking up at you with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "What's this? Round two?"
"Something like that," you murmured, leaning down so your face was only an inch or two from his. "You played your game, Gator. Now we're playing mine."
"Oh?" He challenged, though you felt his muscles tense under your grip. He wasn't used to being on this side of the pin. "What’dya want?"
"Remember how you said couples need nicknames?" You traced the line of his jaw with one hand, your touch light and teasing. "I think we need to find one for you, too."
Gator scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I ain't the sweetheart type."
"Didn't think you were," you agreed. You shifted your hips, grinding down against him experimentally as you released his writers. His breath hitched, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But everyone has a button, Gator. And I’m gonna find yours."
"Yeah, good luck with that," he smirked, trying to regain his composure, though you could feel him twitching beneath you. "I'm a simple man."
"We'll see." You leaned in, brushing your lips against his neck, right over the rapid pulse point. "How about... Cowboy?" You whispered, letting the word hang in the air.
He groaned, but it was a sound of annoyance rather than pleasure. "Don't start that shit. My old man called me that as a kid. Kills the mood."
"Noted." You moved lower, nipping at his collarbone. "How about... Handsome?"
"What am I, goin’ to my first communion? Are you my grandma?”
"Okay big guy?" You felt his stomach muscles contract as you laughed softly against his skin. "Tough guy?"
"You're runnin’ out of steam, sweetheart," he taunted, though his grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer. "Just admit it, you can't fluster me."
You pulled back to look him in the eye, a slow smile spreading across your face. You could see the challenge in his brown eyes, the arrogance that made you want to wipe that smug look right off his face. You leaned in close, your lips ghosting over his ear, taking your time. You felt him tense up, waiting for the strike.
"Bad boy?"
He let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your waist. "That's a given. Try harder."
You shifted again, deliberately rolling your hips against the growing hardness in his jeans. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch cushion. You had him now; you just had to find the right key.
"Daddy?" you suggested, dragging the word out.
"Absolutely not," he choked out, his eyes flying open. "Christ. Don't ever fuckin' say that again. Weirds me out."
"Okay, okay," you soothed, secretly relieved because you didn’t want to have to call him that.
You ran your hands down his chest, feeling the way his heart was beating against his ribs. He was affected, more than he wanted to admit. He liked the chase, but he wasn't used to being the prey.
Then, a thought struck you. All the times you'd seen him with his dad, the way he sought approval, the way he bristled at authority but secretly craved some direction. You thought about the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted you to tell him what to do. He talked a big game, but you knew he’d secretly do anything to see a trace of happiness from you.
"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to think. "You try so hard, don't you? Always acting out, always making noise." You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. "But I know what you really are."
"Yeah?" he rasped, his voice rough and husky. "And what's that?"
You moved your mouth to his other ear, tugging at his earlobe lightly with your teeth before your voice dropped to a whisper that was barely audible.
"My good boy."
The reaction was instantaneous. Gator froze, his entire body going rigid beneath you. A sound tore from his throat - half-groan, half-whimper - and his eyes squeezed shut as if he’d been struck with dizziness. You felt him twitch violently against your core, his hardness pressing up against you, undeniable and sudden.
"Awe, you alright there, Gator?" You pulled back to see his face. He was flushed - lips parted and chest heaving. When he opened his eyes, the pupils were blown so wide the chocolatey color was just a thin rim. He looked utterly wrecked, and it delighted you.
"Say it again," he breathed, voice cracking.
You whispered the words once more, watching him shiver.
"Fuck," he hissed, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he pressed several kisses against you.
"Oh, you like that?" you teased, though you were secretly thrilled by how easily he’d crumbled. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his nails lightly against his scalp, and he practically purred. "You like being my good boy?"
"Y-yeah," he admitted, the word muffled against your neck. He was practically nuzzling into you, seeking friction, completely abandoning his earlier bravado. "I like it."
"That's because you are, aren't you?" you cooed, tightening your grip in his hair and pulling his head back so he had to look at you. "Deep down. All that attitude. Your gun and badge... But you just want to be told you're doing good, dontcha?”
He stared up at you, his eyes wide and glassy, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate, pleading need that made your stomach flip. The power rush was intoxicating. You’d never seen him like this - pliable, eager, submissive. It was like finding a secret weapon.
"I am," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm good. I'll be so good for you."
His hands scrambled for purchase on your hips, his grip bruising as he tried to pull you down harder, but you held back, keeping the pace maddeningly slow.
"Please," he whimpered, actually whimpered. The sound went straight to your core. "Please let me..."
"Let you what?" You asked, enjoying the way he was squirming beneath you.
"Touch you," he gasped. "Fuck you. Don’t care. Anythin’. Just... Say it again."
You leaned down, kissing him deeply, swallowing his moan. When you pulled back, you brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead.
"Good boy," you whispered.
He broke. With a guttural groan, he surged up, flipping you over so your back hit the couch cushions. He settled between your legs, his weight heavy and grounding, kissing you with a frantic intensity that bordered on desperation. You wrapped your legs around his waist, laughing softly against his mouth as you realized you had him exactly where you wanted him - putty in your hands, all because of two little words.
I’ll just post this again separately—maybe it’ll get some engagement? Haha. Anyway, this is my GTA AU, I guess. I’ll keep developing it as much as I can.
In which you ask Steve if he wants to trade places and be the stay at home parent. Fluff. Just fluff I thought about today. Only read over this once so I'm sure there are numerous mistakes.
You met your husband thanks to Nancy Wheeler.
Shortly after the military finally left Hawkins. The town returned to... Whatever constituted as normal for a strange place like Hawkins. Alot of people that were kept out of Hawkins didn't care to return, and a good amount left as soon as they could. The small town becoming even smaller in terms of population. There were plenty of jobs that needed doing with much less bodies to fill those positions.
So you were working two jobs. One at the elementary school with 1st graders, and one at the hospital, assisting nurses.
It was during a rotation of caring for Mr and Mrs Wheeler when you met Nancy, she appreciated the quality of care you were giving to her parents. Becoming quick friends, even going so far as to divulge onto you the true cause of her parents extensive injuries and the reason the military had infiltrated your little nowhere Indiana town. You'd had an inkling since Will Byers 'death' and unexplained resurrection that something was amiss but never took the deep dive to figure it out.
Nancy was due to leave for college out of state, while her parents still needed hospital grade care, but she was sure they'd be fine as long as you were caring for them. She promised to stay in touch, but she had to try her hand at match maker, making a very obvious effort to introduce you to Steve Harrington before she left.
You were a smart kid in highschool, busy with your studies and academic clubs, so of course you weren't on Steve's radar back then. Now though, with puberty having done a significant number on you, Steve was hooked. Had someone told you in highschool that Steve 'King Steve: The Hair' Harrington would fall head over heels in love with you within a month of dating and ask you to marry him after another month of being exclusive, you would've laughed in their face, loud, ugly, stomach cramp inducing laughter. But here you were at the courthouse, three days after the wedding, signing paperwork that would change your last name to Harrington, with just a barely there bump concealed beneath your blouse.
The Harrington family grew quickly, not really planning it out just letting whatever happened happen. Luckily you were both on board with having multiple children, and especially after seeing Steve hold your firstborn daughter for the first time, the tears he couldn't hold back, the wonder, the awe, the instant love in his eyes when he looked from her to you and back again. Being a mom was natural, easy, but seeing Steve fully embrace being a dad? You know it wasn't possible but it made the eggs in your damn ovaries flutter.
By the time you saw Nancy again, at her brother's graduation, Steve had your six month old daughter sat in his lap, and you were quickly round with the second.
Your two jobs reduced to one: stay at home parent. Steve kept you afloat as the Sex Ed teacher and baseball coach. Never voicing a complaint because he had none, his dreams were coming true. Now the only thing needed to complete the dream was the camper, the cross country road trips, but with only one income that might take a while. Again, not that he was complaining because he loved you, all of you, he loved that he was outnumbered by his girls.
It was spring break. Steve was face down on the bed, the five year old, Janie, was trying her best to treat him to a spa day, pretending to file and paint his nails on the hand that was hanging off the bed, the three and a half year old, Barbie, was busy playing with his hair, and the one year old, Edie, was splayed across his back, poised to fall asleep any second. It was 7:45 in the morning, Steve very well could've still been asleep from the nonsensical chattering happening around him, but then you spoke up from where you were perched on the other side of the bed. Because an idea had been rattling around in your brain when Steve came home yesterday and he said he wished he could spend more time with his girls, he missed them so much during the day. He said that almost every day but this time an idea hatched.
"Hey Steve?"
A muffled grunt came in reply, his face turning towards you with sleepy eyes and a sweet smile.
"What would you say..." You began, but apparently Steve's anxiety had to interrupt, not loving the sound of that arrangement of words.
"Please don't say you're done having babies."
"What?" You laughed, you couldn't help it, of course that was the only thing on his mind, "No. Of course not. Growing humans in my body? 10 out of 10, aside from the nausea and vomiting and sometimes constipation, rad experience, love it, super fun. And it goes without saying that making the baby? Ugh, can't get enough of it."
"Glad to hear I've still got it."
"Five stars, babe."
"Thank you, honey. Now you were saying...?"
"Oh yeah, I was saying, what would you say to being the stay at home parent?" Your prepared speech started to tumble from your mouth without seeing the truly gobsmacked expression shifting Steve's face. "I mean, the school year's nearly over. You could take a year off, see how you like staying home, I'm sure I can get a job at one of the schools, Janie's going to start kindergarten this year, so you'd really just have the two to handle -"
Your words came to a halt when a chorus of tiny voices screeched and giggled in delight as they were all jostled when Steve abruptly shifted to crawl on his hands and knees across the bed towards you.
"I love you." Steve murmured against your mouth before tugging you down, your torso lay on the mattress while your hips and legs were dangling off the bed.
You squeaked at the odd position. The sudden affection? Common, that would never startle you. Steve was a lover after all.
"So-" you tried to speak between kisses, "Is that - a yes - it's a - a good idea?"
"It's the best idea. You're a genius, honey. You really are the brains, beauty and brawn of the relationship."
"Well, I do do a lot of body building." You snarked, and before Steve could roll his eyes at your joke you both groaned when you were dog piled by your three daughters.
The conversation was paused when Janie reminded them of Steve's promise to take the girls to a park every day during spring break, Barbie and Edie loudly voicing their agreement.
"While, yes, I did promise that, ladies, I did not take into account the unreliability of Indiana weather because it is actually supposed to snow today." Steve realized his folly in hindsight, wincing before the girls all chorused. "SNOOOOOOW!"
You could only chuckle as the girls hounded their helpless father, because the girls would always get their way, he was a total pushover for his girls.
"Alright, alright!" Steve crowed above the chaos, gathering the three girls in his arms and making his way out of the bedroom calling over their raucous giggles, "Honey, perfect idea. I love it. I love you. I'm quitting tomorrow. Now let's go make some of Daddy's famous not burnt pancakes!"
His and the girls voices quickly grew distant as he rushed down the hall and toward the stairs.
"Wait! What?! No! Steve! You've gotta finish out the school year!" You called after him.
Gator x you, gator x stripper!reader, honestly more fluff than smut
"Hey cutie."
That greeting, from day one, had become routine.
Much in the way that Gator's evening patrols on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays routinely ended in the western most part of the micropolitan area of Dickinson where the Rusty Rose sat. The business wasn't subtle in the slightest with it's enormous neon sign bracketed by a giant pink rose and an outline of a scantily clad cowgirl flickering left to right on a pole.
The Rusty Rose was the largest gentleman's club in the county, the parking lot was always packed any day of the week, the bouncers were huge, and the owner was an older woman who, they say, would offer 'private dances' if one knew how to ask right.
But Gator wasn't there for a private dance, or about shady dealings he pretended he did or did not hear of whilst still in uniform. Honestly, curiosity got the best of him, he meant to stroll in, scope it out, and leave, curiosity sated. But when he walked in, the timing must've been perfect. He expected his ears to assaulted by some trying-too-hard-to-be-sexy country rap bullshit or even some Top 40 pop song he wasn't familiar with, but the speakers were blasting out rock music. Like... heavy metal... So he had to stay to see what girl had chosen a song he actually recognized for her set.
If there was one girl, miraculously one, in this (godforsaken) country music loving county that chose to dance to metal, he had to know what she looked like. Of course, classic rock anthems were the usual for when the girls were just strutting across the stage, no choreography needed. But this girl; you. This was his kind of music, and you were a fantasy brought to life. After the short set he saw he quickly became obsessed. The Rusty Rose was suddenly a part of his routine so he could get a glimpse of you.
Always dark lingerie, always chains, sometimes spikes, usually doing some Cirque du Soleil level acrobatics on the pole that truly deserved more than the $1 and $5 being thrown at you while drunken men howled and pawed at your heels.
The first time he stayed for the show, he lingered in the parking lot til closing just to be sure you made it to your car without any trouble. Then, surprise surprise, it became routine. He learned your schedule: Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday. As long as he was scheduled night shift, he'd finish patrol and arrive in time for your first set, stayed to see the rest until closing, nursing just one whiskey the whole time because what kind of example would he be if he drove drunk?
It was after the second week of this unspoken routine when you paused on the way to your car, the last one in the back lot, and turned to his cruiser. You were fully clothed with a long thick coat on, boots crunching on the pavement. A plume of vape smoke left the open window as you approached, the air briefly scented like cotton candy until the smoke dissipated completely.
"Hey cutie," you murmured, stopping before his side mirror and leaning your hip against the Stark County Sheriff cruiser. He liked to think he couldn't be caught off guard so easily, but then you chose to break the ice with that 'hey cutie' and he froze, just for a few seconds. Cutie? Really? He couldn't remember the last time anyone, flirting or familial, had called him cute. "The girls have really been appreciating you lingering til closing. Cop car keeps the creeps away. So thanks."
"Don' mention it." Gator grumbled, taking another pull from the cart to keep his mouth busy.
You smirked, shoving your hip off the vehicle and turning to head to your car but you paused again, turned back to him, "What's your name, Deputy?"
Cotton candy filled the air again, smoke still spilling from his mouth as he answered, "Off duty, ma'am... S'just Gator."
Your smirk had yet to leave your mouth, in fact it widened after you told him your name. Biting your lip before you jerked your head slightly in the direction of your car, "Wanna follow me to my place, Cutie?"
.
The only word that could accurately describe the sort of lover Gator was: worshipful. Yes, at first he'd tried to take control, tried to be a real man. But your praises, your compliments, your nicknames wore him down like nothing else ever could.
All the way at the edge of Dickinson in a 2 bed 1 bath unit on the ground floor of a fairly newer apartment complex, for at least a couple hours, he could let the mask drop, let his guard down; he didn't have to worry about the other deputies, didn't have to worry about his father judging the way he was not so secretly falling hard and fast for you; didn't have to worry about anything associated with the Tillman name.
You were careful with the tactical vest but he definitely heard and felt a seam rip somewhere when you tore his shirt off. Giving no room for protests when your mouth met his again, your pretty black manicured nails lightly scratching down his chest, hands adoringly caressing the softness of his stomach. He'd never felt anything like it but quickly found himself craving more of it. He moved his hands to his belt, hastily undone along with the fastenings of his cargos, then you stopped him. Without a hint of shame you batted your lashes and asked him to keep the pants and leg holster on. He must've broken a speed record with how fast unholstered the gun, released the mag to clank loudly to the floor and emptied the chamber sending a single round clinking and rolling under your bed before putting it back in the holster.
"Boy howdy, safety's never been so sexy." You commented, earning a scoffing laugh and roll of his eyes from Gator.
You didn't get to spend as much time on your knees as you wanted, your hands lazily crawling along his strong thighs, tugging on the strap of the holster, fingers walking across his gun, trailing up his solid stomach just to scratch your nails down and do it again all while humming up and down his stupidly huge cock. Gator insisted he didn't want to finish in your perfect pretty mouth. He drew you up from the floor to stand, staring up at you from where he was seated on the edge of the bed like you were some kind of angel. You climbed astride his lap, savoring the dig of the gun and holster against your left thigh, wasting no time taking him in to the hilt. The matching gasps from you both mingled between your mouths as you quickly set a rolling rhythm of your hips that had him gripping the fat of your thighs like he was scared you'd float away or he'd wake from a dream. "I'm not going anywhere." You whispered, holding his face, cradling his jaw with both hands. It wasn't too long after that he came quite quickly, embarrassed and begging to eat you out or finger you until you came twice to make up for his sexual blunder.
He was hard again by the time you were shaking from your first orgasm, he was trying to work through the waves of your first to get you to your second but he just couldn't resist being inside you again. This time it was slow, this time his big, sad brown eyes didn't look away from you for a single moment. You were crying out his name with your second orgasm, pulsing and clutching around his cock but he wasn't near done worshipping.
.
Sleep came quickly at some point, it was noon when you woke, pleased to find Gator was still sprawled across the right side of your bed.
"Pussy put his ass to sleep, now he calling me NyQuil." You mumbled once you saw him begin to stir. You got out of bed heading for the bathroom.
"Mm," he groaned and with a sleep graveled voice mumbled back, "Shut up." Then quickly added, "Sorry I fell asleep."
"Don't mention it," you repeated his words from last night with a cheeky wink while you lingered against the bathroom doorframe. You walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower, projecting your voice louder over the stream of water, "Glad you didn't sneak away, gotta get your number before you go."
Gator froze again, but melted quickly, especially when he was tangled in your bedsheets that smelled so good despite the hours of filthy activities on it. "Y'want m'number?"
"Well yeah, how else am I supposed to get to know you?"
He couldn't fathom it, someone who wanted to get to know him, someone that liked him? As a person? One night stands came and went and he thought it would be much the same here but again you've thrown him for a loop. The sound of the shower curtain pulled closed, Gator got up and stalked to the bathroom, pulling the curtain halfway open, "Y'wanna g'ta know me?"
His incredulous tone made you snort as you scrubbed shampoo into your scalp, "Yes? Is that weird?"
"Kinda." He answered immediately.
"I don't know what to tell you," you shrugged as you stepped into the water stream to rinse the shampoo from your hair, "I know you're interested in me, I know you're protective, and I know you're good at fucking and kissing, now I wanna know if we could be friends that also bang sometimes."
Gator stared at you, but you being you didn't wither under his stare - since it was your literal job to be half to almost fully nude in front people. He scoffed again, shaking his head, muttering, "Y're a fuckin' trip." Then stepped into the small shower to crowd against you under the stream, hissing a bit at the heat of it. "Y'normally crank it t' hellfire?"
You laughed, cradling his jaw in your palms, "You'll acclimate."
"So..." He began, arms sliding around your full hips, hands folded together and resting comfortably against the small of your back as you went about lathering his hair. He refrained as best he could from sobbing at the perfect feeling of your nails dragging along his scalp. "Whad'ya wanna know?"
Gator talked as little as possible about himself, but you weren't deterred.
Getting clean and chatting until the water ran cold he learned you were from a small nowhere town in Indiana that claimed it was cursed, which you didn't believe but you also didn't want to stick around to find out if it was true after learning about the freak events that took the lives of hundreds of citizens between 1983 and 1987. He learned when your grandmother died and everyone was squabbling over inheritance, you took the only thing you wanted: her cook book. You yapped and yapped as the conversation continued from getting dressed to the kitchen to find something breakfast worthy. You gave him plenty of room to take over and tell his own stories but he was far too enthralled to interrupt. Breakfast passed and suddenly you were flipping through your grandmother's cookbook with flour and butter encrusted fingers trying to find the right biscuit recipe for strawberry shortcake.
Gator was fucked, he never wanted to leave. He couldn't recall a time before when he felt so completely comfortable, at ease enough to be himself.
It was while he was helping to tidy up the kitchen while the biscuits baked when he finally asked if he needed to leave so you could get ready for work to which you shook your head, "So y'really only work three days a week?" He asked.
"Yeah," you shrugged one shoulder, "s'enough to live comfortably."
"Holy shit," he grumbled, finding himself feeling more impressed than jealous.
"Mhm." You smirked, shooing him away to the kitchen adjacent living room, "I could take care of you. You could be my cute little house husband."
A genuine laugh burst from him, startling you both, and causing a blush to creep up Gator's neck and tint his ears red, "Yeah fuckin right." He sprawled along the couch so he could still see you, hands folded behind his head, without a pound of product in his hair, strands fluttered around to frame his face. He looked boyish, he looked happy... Real.
"I would though..." You said as you opened the oven door and bent down to pull out perfectly golden brown biscuits. The biscuits sat on the tray, needing to cool, you turned off the oven and strolled and over to the living room, taking hold of his ankles to situate yourself on the couch and plop his legs on your lap, "I'd take care of you."
The sincerity in your voice, in your eyes, in the way your fingers absentmindedly rubbed along his calves, it almost scared him. It took him a few moments before he shook his head, "Y'don't wanna be part of my life, believe me."
You knew enough about his life even without him telling you much. The first night he came to the Rose, when he was close enough you saw the surname on his tactical vest. You knew enough stories from others, of what sort of man Roy Tillman pretended to be and what sort of man Roy Tillman truly was.
"Then..." You started softly, though your hands clutched him a little harder, "Be a part of mine?" You offered. Gator looked from your hands on his calves to your face, your open, earnest eyes, glittering with hope. "Forget all your shit, at least while you're with me..."
Gator didn't have to think twice as he swiftly pulled you on top of him, sealing the deal with a kiss...
.
Weeks went by, the routine stayed the same, only now the days began with good morning texts and ended with goodnight texts from Gator. You texted throughout the night on your off days, selfies doing laundry, a photo of the recipe from your cookbook, a selfie or even a video at the gym because those dancing muscles didn't just maintain themselves.
You sent selfies of your makeup for the night before heading into work. At some point you'd somehow convinced the DJ to have 'Sound of da Police' by KRS-One queued up every night Gator entered the Rusty Rose; playing just enough for Gator to hear, not enough for the rest of the patrons to catch wise. He'd roll his eyes but it secretly made him feel special in a dumb tummy swoopy kind of way he'd never, ever admit out loud.
Gator learned you weren't just naturally a pretty face and body, you worked hard for it. You preferred staying in to cook over going out to eat, you preferred meals over snacks. Though there were times Gator was able to convince you to go to a greasy spoon diner just for fries with a thick ass chocolate shake.
He knew your closet was separated into work clothes and casual wear, work clothes took up 75% of the real estate in your closet, everything organized by sets and color, it was the vast collection of platform heels that really stunned him. Somehow he'd also learned the meticulous way you did laundry, the different detergents and fabric softeners, endless garment bags to keep your lingerie from getting tangled together or around the agitator.
Gator loved the familiarity of it. He loved the way that no one from the Sheriff's office knew about you; you were just for him, something special and all his own. Though, given the way he was raised, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to lose interest... But you never did. You always had a smile for him, you always cradled his face in your palms like your truly cherished him. If you didn't see him during the day you always sent a text and a picture, sometimes you'd text him to pick up the leftovers in the fridge because they were specifically for him, and he'd find a sticky note with your lip print on it with whatever dark lipstick you were wearing that evening. Again, no one would ever know about that stupid swoopy tummy feeling he got, or that he had a collection of your sticky notes accumulating on his sun visor kept in place with paperclips.
Months passed. His schedule would change from nights to days but he'd still find a way to see you, or let you know he was thinking of you. Sometimes there was takeout in the fridge with a clumsily scribbled 'eat before you sleep - Gator ' on a sticky note. Sometimes he'd accidentally leave one of his hoodies on your bed so you could at least have his scent to sleep next to. Sometimes he'd send a text message with an image of his hand pulling something familiar and lacy from his pocket; the pocket on his right side, of course, because that was the side with the thigh holster. And you'd send back several drooling emoji faces.
It didn't have a label. It was unspoken. You were his girl. He was your guy. You were content with what it was. In the quiet early morning hours after work or during a day off, with sleep just out of reach, you wondered how you could sweep Gator off his feet and away from his shitty father. Going so far as to considering going back to your Indiana hometown... Gator wouldn't fit in at all, neither would you, in fact, but it might be... Nice? Maybe the coast? Had Gator ever been to a beach? Shit, when was the last time you went to a beach? What about passports? Then you'd get frustrated at the domesticity creeping in and grab your phone to flick through the numerous photos you'd saved of Gator and rub one out until sleep finally took you...
Then came the chill of winter, and with it, the weeks of strange silence. Weeks of short, cryptic responses, or worse, no answer at all, when you texted:
Hey Cutie, visiting the Rose 🌹 tonight?
Hey Cutie, wanna come over? Miss you 🐊
Hey Cutie!! Happy Halloween 🎃 you missed a helluva show at the Rose (Image attached: a group mirror pic of you dressed as a sexy Jack Skellington in the center and six other girls dressed as various other sexy versions of Nightmare Before Christmas characters)
Hey Cutie, dinner?
Hey Cutie, miss you, wanna have a sleep over?
Then your final attempt, seated on your couch, your fork pushing food around your plate, disinterested, Gator's hoodie was starting to lose its smell but you still wore it for warmth and comfort:
Hey Cutie, you're kinda freaking me out, you okay?
Where the fuck was he if he wasn't with you? Was it clingy? Maybe a bit. But it had become routine. Your routine. You sighed, giving up on dinner, scraping the contents of your plate into the trash bin, putting the plate into the dishwasher.
But you got a reply. A ping from your phone you tried not to get too excited about, though you legitimately sprinted back to the couch to unlock your phone screen, stomach dropping again when it was a short, weird reply:
Hey baby. I'm fine. Sorry bout all this.
And that was the last you heard of him til you got a call from a goddamn FBI agent. At first you didn't believe it, who would these days? Scammers and all? But the whole story was revealed to you, the whole life Gator had when he wasn't with you, the terror, the horror. With the extent of his injuries, they asked you if would open your home to him for his house arrest. The details weren't ironed out yet, he had a lot of healing and recovery in the hospital before court dates, but the FBI was working to get a lighter sentence, hopefully landing on house arrest.
You couldn't help but ask why you? You hadn't heard from him since that last text, hadn't seen him in weeks.
The agent then explained that in Gator's phone you were the most recent message, a draft that didn't send: I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't say it sooner. I love you baby.
You were stunned. Justifiably so. Stunned enough that the agent thought the call was dropped so you hastily replied that you were still there... Just what the fuck were you supposed to say...?
.
.
.
It was spring time when Gator Tillman was released from the hospital, his plea deal accepted, and he was headed in for five years of house arrest.
He was blind now, what the fuck did he care? He only cooperated with the feds because that's what Roy deserved, the full extent of the law. He was probably headed for a group home of other disabled criminals, since Tillman Ranch, as a whole, was evidence in Roy's still open case. What a fucking joke. He doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't ask for anyone's help. He only accepts the home health nurse's arm because he has no idea where he's going.
"One step." The nurse warns while a door opens on a squeaking hinge.
His other senses truly had heightened. The squeaky door hinge would need to be fixed, that's for damn sure. He's guided into the home, and the smell suddenly hits him: a recently home cooked meal, the fresh linen scent of clean laundry, a vanilla candle that never seemed to lose wax or wick despite being burnt all year round.
He hadn't smelled that specific scent in so long, too long. The scent that instantly softened his stiff posture, the scent that helped him remove his mask off, the scent that held his jaw in gentle, careful, trembling hands... "Hey cutie, welcome home."
A/n: I just needed to pretend he's okay after all that shit 🫠 also posted on ao3
Okay, that's a really good sentence. Typo. Typo. Huh, did I write this? It's actually not bad. Typo. Hm, I would cut out that part now, but it kind of works. TYPO. Oh, this part is really good. That is the wrong word, wtf? I'm enjoying this more than I thought I would. ANOTHER TYPO? FFS.
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