what they don't tell you about making friends is you gotta be a lil annoying. you gotta push past the fear of "what if they don't want to talk to me" and simply ask someone how their day is going, send a meme. you cannot connect to people if you're both just awkwardly waiting for the other to start.
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.
I really like Nick Robinson's eyes, he looks so internally tortured and sad all the time even when smiling. He really looks like he has hidden emotional depth, which I know men aren't capable of. Kudoes to him.
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