Sweet As Sunday (gator tillman x preacher’s daughter!reader)
summary: gator tillman is exactly the kind of trouble you, the preacher’s daughter, shouldn’t want—but after hearing you sing in the church choir, he can’t stop thinking about you. he needs you.
an/cw: porn with PLOT , maybe not accurate to gator’s character, very southern baptist core, lots of religious talks of shame and sin, slow burn kind of? i guess, phone sex (twice, srry) , masturbation, dom!gator (sorta), power imbalance, car sex, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, corruption kink and size kink (gator has a horse cock). as always black f!reader but no descriptors used. reader is 21. Gator is 30.
you stay behind after the funeral service, lingering in the pews with trembling hands and a mouth that still tastes like the last note you sang. the air is thick and hot, clinging to the back of your neck and the curve of your spine beneath your dress. folks are still buzzing in the vestibule, voices low and familiar. grief that has teeth.
you bend to stack the hymnals, just for something to do with your hands. that’s when you feel it—eyes on you. heavy. patient.
“i ain’t heard a voice like that in a long time.”
you look up fast. he’s leaning against the edge of a pew, hands tucked in his pockets, one boot hooked casually behind the other. no tie, no bible. just a black button down, sherrif’s badge on a chain around his neck, a half unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, and a look in his eye that doesn’t belong anywhere near a house of god.
“i—thank you,” you say, voice catching in your throat. you smooth your skirt like it matters.
he steps forward, slow, boots creaking on the old wood. “didn’t mean to startle you. just—had to say somethin’. you sing like you mean it.”
you nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps. “it’s my mama’s favorite.”
he smiles, lazy and crooked. “makes sense.”
“ ‘cause you sounded sweet as sunday.”
his eyes drop down your frame, then back up. “sweet like somethin’ you don’t forget.”
the voice cracks through the air behind you, sharp and disapproving. your father’s tone is clipped, the kind that doesn’t tolerate delay. you turn instinctively, spine straightening.
he stands a few pews back, arms folded across his chest, expression tight. his eyes aren’t on you.
“go help your sister with the bags.”
you nod, fingers curling into your skirt. “yes sir.”
as you pass him in the aisle, you swear you can still feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck. it makes your skin prickle. makes your steps go loose and strange. warm.
out in the gravel lot, the air feels heavier somehow. your father opens the car door without a word, waits until you’re both inside before he finally speaks.
“you stay away from that man,” he says, quiet but firm. “don’t let me catch you talkin’ to him again.”
you swallow. “who is he?”
he doesn’t look at you. just stares straight ahead, jaw clenched like he’s biting down on something sour.
you repeat it under your breath, tasting it.
that night, the heat doesn’t break.
it presses down heavy even after sunset, bleeding through the open windows and the thin cotton sheets, sticking to your skin. you twist in the dark, restless, half awake and already sweating. you pray like you always do, whispering the words in your head over and over until they lose their shape. until you start thinking about other things.
the way he looks at you. the sound of his voice, slow and sharp like something that bites.
but it isn’t how it was that morning. the pews stretch longer. the light is strange—gold and thick, pouring in like molasses through the stained glass. dust floats in the air, heavy as smoke. you stand alone at the altar, bare feet on cool tile, dress brushing your knees.
not walking—sliding. like something that moves without effort. without sound. like a serpent in tall grass. his eyes don’t blink. just fix on you, steady and dark.
when he reaches you, he doesn’t touch—not at first. just circles slow, boots silent, like he’s tasting the air around you. like he already knows how you’ll sound when you break.
he leans in close, breath warm at your neck.
“you ever dream of sin, sweet girl?”
you wake with a gasp, heart pounding.
the room is still dark, the fan spinning lazy overhead. you are alone. but your skin is flushed. burning.
your thighs have pressed tight together while you slept. the ache is there—low, confusing, wrong. you shift, rubbing them together just a little, breath catching at the friction. it feels—
it feels like something you’re not supposed to know.
and still, in the hush of your room, you whisper it. the name like a secret tucked under your tongue.
it had been a few days since the funeral.
long, hot days. quiet ones. the kind that stick to your skin and make your clothes feel too heavy, even when you aren’t doing much. you’ve barely seen anyone besides your family. barely left the house. you’ve tried to keep busy—laundry, dishes, sorting hymnals in the back room at church—but none of it makes that dream go away. the way he looked at you. the way he sounded, warm and dark and crawling up your spine like ivy up a brick wall.
you didn’t mean to go in.
you were just supposed to drop off the tithe envelope and pick up paper towels from the little store next door. but the heat has been choking all day, your head is swimming, and you tell yourself you’ll only sit down for a second. one iced tea. ten minutes, tops.
the diner is nearly empty anyway. the waitress barely looks up when you slide into the booth by the window, ankles crossed, hands folded on the sticky plastic menu. a fly buzzes lazy against the screen door. you can still smell fryer oil and burnt coffee from the morning rush.
and then the bell above the door rings.
you don’t have to look up. you feel him. hear him.
that same low pull in your stomach. that warm, wrong feeling that makes you sit up straighter without knowing why.
“now this’s a lucky coincidence.”
his voice—same as before, smooth and sin slick—tumbles over your shoulders. you turn, and there he is, walking toward your table like he’s been invited. like he belongs there.
you swallow. “i was just—cooling off.”
“mmhmm.” he slides into the booth across from you without asking, arms stretched along the back like he isn’t crowding you on purpose. “sure you were, angel.”
you hate how your cheeks burn when he says it like that. like it means something dirty.
“hot day,” he adds, like it’s small talk. “hotter now.”
you swallow, thighs pressed close together under the table.
your fingers twist in your lap. you glance around, but no one is looking. the waitress is deep in a crossword, and the kitchen is quiet.
he’s smiling at you, but not in a cruel way. it’s soft, almost lazy. familiar, like he already knows all the things you don’t say.
you shake your head. “no, sir.”
he smiles like he likes that. “sir. that’s cute.”
“anyway i figured not, since this’s my first time seein you in here. you ought to come around more, it’s nice seeing you.”
your cheeks burn. you look down again, but he just leans forward a little, elbow brushing the table as he peels the paper off his straw and starts twisting it, slow and neat, between his fingers.
“yeah maybe.” you keep it short, watching the way his fingers twist the paper.
“speaking of seeing you— i can’t remember if i got the chance to tell you how sweet you looked the other day, ” he says. “all that white. all them notes comin’ out your mouth. had me thinkin’ about heaven for the first time in years.”
you blink, lips parted, breath catching.
he reaches across the table and slides something toward you.
a ring—made from the twisted straw wrapper, looped and knotted.
“a gift,” he says, deadpan. then smiles. “thought you oughta have it.”
you hesitate, then reach out.
just barely. just a brush of your knuckle as he slips the paper ring onto your hand, like it means something. like you mean something. your whole body lights up under your dress.
“you got a name, sweetheart?”
“you gonna tell it to me?”
you tell him. quiet, a little breathless.
“mmm,” he hums. “pretty. suits you.”
he leans in on his elbows, voice softer now. curious. “what do you do? ‘sides church things.”
you shrug. “help out. mama. the house. teach sunday school sometimes.”
“only once,” you whisper. “for a choir competition.”
“that right?” he smiles like it’s sweet. “well, i’d’ve given you the blue ribbon just for standin’ there.”
before you can say anything else, the bell above the door jingles.
“hey,” comes a voice—your sister, hair beads clacking together, a bag of groceries in her arm. “daddy said you were takin’ too long. you okay?”
you jump, tucking your hand with the paper ring under the table.
“i’m fine. just… i got tired.”
her eyes flick to gator, who is already standing. he tips his head toward her, polite as ever.
“pleasure seein’ you songbird,” he says to you, not even sparing your sister another glance.
your sister doesn’t ask who he is. just tells you to hurry up. but as you slide out of the booth, you keep your hand closed tight around the ring. paper thin. barely anything.
and yet your skin still burns where his fingers touched you.
no one has ever spoken to you like that.
no one has ever looked at you and made you feel like maybe you were made for something else.
something you aren’t supposed to want.
the paper ring. you wear it home, tuck it under your sleeve, hide it from your sister’s nosy glances and your mama’s sharp eyes. you tell yourself you’re just keeping it safe.
but now, hours later, curled up in bed with the lights off and the bedroom fan ticking low, it’s still there.
looped around your finger.
your hand rests against your chest, right over your heart. your nightgown clings sticky to your skin. the summer heat never really lets up—not even at midnight—and yet your whole body feels flushed from the inside out.
you turn over. again. and again.
he touched you. nothing more than a brush of fingers. but it hit you all the way through. like a strike of something—heat, lightning, sin.
you swallow and squeeze your thighs together beneath the sheets. they slide sticky against each other. you don’t know what you’re doing, not really. you just… want.
want to remember the way he looked at you. the way he said angel. the way his voice went low when he asked your name.
your hand moves lower, shy and slow. rests over your belly, then dips between your legs, where your cotton underwear is already damp. you rub there—barely—and gasp.
you shouldn’t be doing this. you’ve never done it before. but your hips rock.
far down the road, past the quiet fields and the rusted signs and the long dirt driveway that leads to your house,
he sits in his patrol car in the church parking lot. lights off, engine low.
one hand on the wheel, the other curled tight around his leaky cock, working slow and mean in the dark.
his head tips back against the seat. mouth parted. breathing deep.
he doesn’t mean to end up there. just starts driving with nowhere in mind, heart too full, brain too noisy. but the church pulls him in like a ghost—those old wooden steps, the iron bell, the cracked white steeple.
and the echo of your voice, all soft and trembling and clear as crystal. a voice like glass and sugar.
he groans, low and broken.
“jesus,” he mutters. “look what you done to me, angel.”
he shouldn’t want you. not like this. not at all. you’re barely grown. raised by the book. sweet in a way he hasn’t touched in years.
but he can’t get the sight of you out of his head—the softness of your lips, the curve of your neck, the way you looked at him like you’ve never been looked at before.
he wants to ruin that look.
wants to make you say his name through tears.
his hips lift from the seat, wrist working faster, breath turning ragged. his hot sticky mess spilling out onto the dark patch of hair across his lower tummy.
and back in your bed, you gasp into the crook of your elbow, legs clenching tight around your own hand, thighs shaking. arousal drips from your sensitive core onto your cotton sheets, the feeling engulfing you is white hot. like carrying one one second longer will make you pass out.
tears brimming your eyes through it all.
the bible study had only just begun when the heavy wooden door creaks open.
boots first—dusty, loud on the floorboards—then a familiar silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. tall, broad, deputy shirt with the sleeves rolled and collar half unbuttoned like always. gator tillman.
he nods at the youth pastor like he belongs there— like he wasn’t a decade older than everyone in that room, like he hadn’t missed the first half of the scripture reading. then took a seat in the back row, stretching his arm along the pew behind him like he had every right to get comfortable.
you try not to look. try not to think about the way your skin prickled, the heat behind your ears, the way your fingers fidgeted in your lap.
it was wrong. he was wrong. and yet—
you felt steadier with him in the room. not safer. just… steadier.
like your heartbeat made more sense when it had something to race against.
you glanced up once. just once. he was already watching you.
bible study passed in a blur of red letter words, freshly baked cookies, and polite discussion. when it ended, everyone filtered out slowly, lingering in the aisles to talk weather and crops and casseroles.
you stayed behind, like always. straightening a stack of old testaments. collecting pencils. anything to make yourself useful. anything to delay going home.
and when the last voice disappears out the door, you realize he’s still there.
leaning against a pew like he’d been waiting. like he’d never planned to leave.
“didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, voice velvety smooth. “just… wasn’t ready to go yet.”
you clutch a bible tight to your chest, felt your ribs press into its edges.
“i noticed.” his smile twitches. “didn’t figure you’d mind the company.”
he steps forward, slow and easy, eyes never leaving yours.
“was hoping i’d hear you sing tonight” he hums, voice gone quiet. “the one from that funeral is still stuck in my head.”
your face burns hot. you don’t really know how to respond to him.
he moves down the aisle, trailing fingers along the pews like he was walking through a memory, not a house of god.
“you always stay late to clean up?”
“someone has to,” you said.
“you always do what you’re told?”
he stops close—too close—where you can smell the leather of his belt and the heat of his skin.
“your daddy know you’re in here all alone?”
you shake your head before you can think better of it.
he tilts his head, studying you.
“how old are you, songbird?”
“twenty-one,” you whisper.
something in his expression shifts—like he’d already known, but wanted to hear it from you. wanted to feel the way the number settled between your teeth.
and suddenly, it struck you. the way he carried himself. the lines carved faint at the edges of his eyes. the calm weight of a man who’d already seen too much. he wasn’t just older than the rest of the group—he was older than you’d let yourself realize. early thirties, maybe.
gator’s eyes light with something darker. “no one ever teach you not to talk to men like me?”
your breath comes short, your throat tight.
he reaches out, thumb brushing slow under your jaw. “no?” he murmures. “guess i’ll just have to be reeaaal gentle with you then.”
you take a step back, and he lets you.
you turn to gather your things, fumbling the keys in your hand.
“be careful, songbird,” he said, voice lazy, low. crooked smile on his face, evident in his tone— “places like this don’t keep you safe from men like me.”
everything he was doing, was working. he’d already carved himself into you.
you lock the front doors after he goes.
twist the deadbolt with trembling fingers, the heavy thunk echoing through the empty chapel like a warning. or a promise.
your heart’s still racing. cheeks hot. skin tingling where his thumb brushed your jaw. you can’t even bring yourself to sit. just pace the aisle like you’re trying to shake off something that’s already underneath your skin.
you turn toward the altar, toward the little table set off to the side. the prayer basket.
it’s part of your cleanup. empty the slips, pray over the ones that need it most, toss the rest. sometimes folks write in neat cursive. sometimes messy block letters. sometimes they don’t sign their names at all.
you pick up the first folded note absently, just to give your hands something to do.
it’s rough. thin. crinkled.
a cigarette. half smoked.
tucked inside the folded paper of the wrapper, in black ink that smudges at the curve, is a phone number.
just the number. and your breath catching in your throat.
you turn it over like it might bite you.
and on the other side, in handwriting you already recognize, it says:
“if you ever feel brave.”
your fingers close around it before you even realize.
but you don’t throw it away either.
you tuck it into the little side pocket of your purse, behind your lip balm and gum and emergency bobby pins. somewhere no one else will find it.
it takes you three days to work up the nerve.
you keep the cigarette in the inside pocket of your purse, check on it like it might’ve disappeared. like it was just a trick of your imagination. but it’s always there, smudged number and all.
you don’t let yourself think too hard about how many times you’ve taken it out. just to hold. just to trace the loop of a 6 with your thumb.
on the fourth night, you wait until the house is dark.
mama’s been asleep since the news went off. daddy’s in bed, reading scripture with a pen light and sighing at the state of the world.
you sit on the bathroom floor, legs curled up to your chest, and dig the number out of your bag.
the overhead light hums. your breath’s louder than you mean it to be.
you open your contacts. hesitate.
what do you even save him under?
“gator” feels too familiar. too simple.
you think of your older sister, the way she laughed and said, “folks call him the lizard behind his back—slippery and not to be trusted.”
it made your stomach flip then.
it makes your thumb move now.
you don’t write a name. just the emoji. like it’s safer that way. like it’s a secret only you get to keep.
you hover over the message box. type, delete, retype.
“i saw you the other day.”
nothing sounds right. nothing sounds cool. or godly. or smart.
and stare at it for a full thirty seconds.
then your thumb twitches.
your stomach drops straight to hell.
you panic, try to turn your phone off like that’ll unsend it somehow. then turn it back on two seconds later.
you sit on the floor for a long time after that, phone burning hot in your palm. heart pounding like it might give you away.
you curl tighter around your knees.
you’re stepping into the cool hush of the church foyer when your phone buzzes in your skirt pocket. you glance around—no one’s watching—then slip it out beneath the hem of your bulletin.
your breath catches. thumb hovers. it’s too early for this. too early and way too late.
you don’t reply. not during announcements, not through the first two hymns. but during the third—something soft and old—you peek down again. and he’s sent another.
🦎: you singin’ again today?
you blush so hard you feel it in your chest. your fingers shake as you type:
🦎: that’s too bad. was hoping you’d sing for me again.
your stomach flips. you feel the heat pool behind your knees.
> that song wasn’t for you.
🦎: didn’t say it was. but it got me thinkin about how pretty you sound when you let go a little.
you tuck your phone deep into your bag. you try to forget it during the sermon, try to let your daddy’s voice drown out the rush of blood behind your ears. it almost works.
until communion, when you pull it out again.
🦎: you always this shy, sweetheart?
🦎: good. wouldn’t want to push you unless you could take it.
you clench your thighs together under your sunday dress. breath catches at the base of your throat. you want to say something back. want to be clever, bold, bad.
you delete and retype the same half message three times.
and then you put the phone face down on the pew beside you.
like you’re scared what he’ll do if you say yes.
or worse—what you’ll do if he keeps talking like that.
it’d been days since you’d seen gator in person. passed him once last thursday while out running errands, but didn’t get a chance to say anything to him.
all you’ve had is texts. brief. short. shiver inducing texts.
the house is quiet—dark, settled. you’ve been lying in bed with your phone cradled to your chest, half hoping it might buzz and half hoping it won’t.
🦎: still up, pretty girl?
🦎: been thinkin’ about you.
🦎: voice in my head don’t sound half as sweet.
your stomach twists. you reread them three times, thumb hovering over the screen. there’s a beat—your heart thudding like a hymn drum—and then you’re out of bed before you can overthink it. creeping down the hallway in your socks, slipping into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
you sit down on the floor in front of the tub. the floor cold under your feet. your fingers hover. then—call.
“angel, ” he says, low and smooth. that voice slinks through the speaker like smoke. you can hear the smile in it. “didn’t think i’d actually get you.”
“i, um—i saw your messages,” you whisper.
silence pools between you. you can hear faint rustling on his end—maybe he’s in a car. maybe a motel room. something about it makes you squeeze your knees together.
“you disappeared,” you murmur, trying to sound playful, but it comes out too soft. “haven’t seen you in a while.”
his breath catches, just for a second.
“you keepin’ track of me now?” he asks. teasing. slow.
“no,” you lie. “just… noticed.”
“mm.” there’s another pause, then a low chuckle. “workin’. trying to keep the bad guys off the streets, sweetheart. ain’t all charm and good looks.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. you hate how much you’re smiling.
“so when’re you back?” you ask, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your nightgown.
he hums—pleased. like you just gave him something he’d been aching for.
“thought you weren’t keepin’ track,” he says.
“you sure?” his voice drops. “soundin’ real interested.”
you don’t say anything. he lets the silence stretch until your chest is tight.
still, you can’t say it. but you glance down and see your toes curled into the tile and you think maybe that’s answer enough.
you hear something shift—maybe the rustle of his hand, maybe the sheets. you don’t know where to look. your eyes are on the floor, but your heart’s in your throat.
“wish i could see you right now,” he says, gentler. “you curled up in that little bed of yours? lights off? what’re you wearin’, pretty thing?”
you swallow. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just waits, breathing in your silence.
“you want me to stop talkin’ like that?” he murmurs. “or you want me to keep goin’?”
you shouldn’t say it. you shouldn’t even think it.
it’s soft. breathless. like a secret.
on the other end of the line, he groans—low, drawn out, filthy.
you don’t know it yet, but he’s already got his hand wrapped around his cock. though the faint spit sound should’ve been a tell— he spreads the warm saliva down his thick rod, starting to tug himself. slow and mean.
“fuck. you don’t even know what that does to me.”
your thighs squeeze tight. your little cotton panties are already damp. the lace edge digs into the crease of your leg and it’s suddenly all you can feel.
“you like my voice, don’t you,” he mutters.
you don’t answer, but he hears it in the way your breath hitches. you can almost hear it now. the tightness in his jaw. the change in breaths. the faint stickiness of his palm as he fucks into his hand slowly.
“mm,” he hums. “yeah, you do. bet you press your pretty legs together whenever i talk to you. wonder if you even realize it.”
you whimper. it escapes before you can stop it.
he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “jesus. yeah, there it is.”
your free hand trembles in your lap. your nightgown’s bunched around your hips. you rub your thighs together and the friction makes your stomach tense. a steady pulse building up in your sex. it begins to ache. bad.
“wish i could see you,” he says again, but it’s heavier this time. “bet you’re soaked—“ his words cut by a sharp sound, the pace of his tugs faltering a bit. “leaking through those little panties.”
your whole body shivers. untouched sex pulsing almost as quickly as your heart is beating.
“that true?” he murmurs, thumbing over the thick vein that runs up the side of his thick length. “gimme a color, sweetheart. what’s wrapped around that sweet little pussy of yours right now?”
you close your eyes. whisper, “blue.. um like baby blue.”
“fuck. fuck. you’re gonna kill me.”
you hear a wet sound, slick and obscene. your hand flies to your mouth like it might stop the noise from reaching you.
he laughs—quiet, fucked out. “wanna hear you, pretty girl. talk to me.”
“i can’t,” you whisper. “they’ll hear me.”
“then be quiet about it. but touch yourself, baby. go on. make it nice for me. you know how right?”
your hand slips down. cotton damp against your knuckles. your finger brushes your clit and your hips twitch like you’ve been shocked.
“slow circles,” he says, voice raw. “you like it like that?”
“fuck. what else you like? talk to me.” he grits the words out, callous hand making rough strokes against his thick veiny cock. pre and spit starting to leak over his knuckles.
you can’t see it, but you somehow know exactly what he’s doing.
“that’s alright. we’ll figure it out.”
he grunts, breath jagged. “god, wish i could get my mouth on you. kiss and suck on that pretty pussy til you’re crying.”
your mouth drops open. your fingers move faster, three of them pressed flat against the top of your cunt. not quite on your clit, but close enough that you can feel everything. and fuck, it’s so good.
“mm. bet you’re close already, aren’t you? twitchin’ for me. i can hear it.” he was right. could hear the desperate slick sounds of your pussy. so wet and needy for him and he wasn’t even in the same state as you right now. barely even had to try.
you whimper. he hears it. his breathing gets rougher, now rutting up into his tight calloused palm. eyes squeezed tightly, imagining the look on your pretty face. the look you’ll have when you let him stretch you with his cock.
“rub harder, baby. rub like you want it. picture me there, helpin’ you through it.”
“feels—feels so good—” your voice trembles, breath quickening
“yeah it does. let it happen. c’mon, let me hear it.”
your back arches. your thighs lock around your hand. you press your face into your arm and shake through it, the kind of orgasm that leaves your ears ringing.
you don’t say a word. you couldn’t even if you wanted to, far too dazed. but your silence speaks volumes.
“…you there?” he pants, cock starting to twitch, creeping up on his end.
you nod, hand still pressed against your cunt. nervous to remove it, with how sensitive and used it feels now. “uh huh.”
he groans like it physically hurts him. “fucking hell. you’re gonna ruin me.”
his voice changes after that. thick. needy. breath catching like he’s barely holding on.
it makes you blush once you recognize the shift in him— the sound of his hand moving fast, rough, slick. rhythm stuttering.
“you’re all i can think about,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus christ—laying this shitty motel bed, got my cock in my hand thinking about you making a mess of yourself just— shit, just for me. ”
your breath catches, eyes closing just soaking in the sounds from him. they give you chills.
“wanna get my mouth on you so bad,” he growls. “wanna hear you whimper right against my tongue, tell me it’s mine—tell me you want it—”
he grits his teeth. lets out a quiet, broken sound. “fuck—i’m not gonna last if you don’t—baby, say my name.”
“please,” he murmurs. “just once. c’mon. gator. need to hear it. need to hear it come outta that sweet little mouth—”
he gasps. the noise that tears out of him is filthy. unhinged. he spills with a groan that’s raw and half-strangled, the kind of sound a man makes when he’s been holding it back too long.
the line goes quiet except for his ragged breathing. a rustle of sheets. the soft sound of him trying to catch his breath.
you don’t say anything. neither does he. but you both stay on the line. long past the point you should’ve hung up.
just breathing. like you need to know the other’s still there.
after it all wound down, something shifted with you two. before you became too lost in hum of the line buzzing faintly in your ear. gator’s voice piped up again, softer this time, almost hesitant. but without giving it any more thought, he started speaking. “my dad… he keeps me on a leash,” he’d admitted, a rough edge to his words. “like i’m some dog he can yank around whenever he wants. i hate it.”
you had swallowed, chest tightening, and found yourself confessing too, voice low. “i know the feeling,” you’d murmured. “my dad… he keeps me in line, like i don’t get to make my own choices. like i’m trapped under his thumb.”
there’d been a pause, a quiet weight on the line, and then gator’s voice, softer this time, almost tender. “we’re different,” he said, “but… maybe we get it. maybe that’s why we… connect.”
you’d fell asleep that night thinking about him, about yourself, about how freeing it was to finally have someone who understood. about the hours spent half awake and unloading secrets onto one another. and in the back of your mind, a small spark of fear and thrill had ignited—the kind that whispered this wasn’t going to be simple.
and when the morning light broke in, soft and slivered through your blinds, the first thing you saw was your phone still clutched in your hand.
long after the ragged sounds of breathing faded. long after you felt your cheeks cool and your limbs go soft and warm.
you’d stayed on the phone with him long after you both went quiet.
you fell asleep to his voice, low and lazy in your ear.
telling you he’d be back soon. telling you he missed you. telling you he wished he could hold you while you sleep.
a message lit the screen.
“be home in two days. thinkin’ about you already.”
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
before your brain caught up to your body.
before the guilt managed to kick its way in.
you didn’t open the message.
just pressed the phone to your chest like that could shield you from the shape of what’s forming between you.
your daddy’s voice already rang in your head, strong and sharp.
about decency. about discipline.
about keeping your heart clean and your body cleaner.
gator is not clean. not righteous. not the kind of man you introduce in the church lobby and let pray grace over your dinner.
he’s older. mean. a lizard.
he’s got a mouth like sin and hands that haven’t even touched you yet but already make you ache.
he can’t be your boyfriend. this can’t be real. what even is this?
but… he listened to you. he understood you.
he made you feel wanted. he made you feel good.
and he made you cum just from the sound of his voice.
your phone buzzes again. you don’t look. but your fingers twitch like they want to.
not that first morning when his name lights your phone.
not that night when he sends another.
not even the next day, when it buzzes against your thigh in the dressing room of the mall, your sister hollering through the curtain that she’s found a sale on jeans.
🦎: morning songbird.. dreamt about you • 7:51am
🦎: missing my girl • 11:23am
🦎: got somethin to give u when im back • 12:12pm
🦎: did i push you too hard? • 1:47pm
🦎: cmon talk to me, songbird • 6:01pm
🦎: [image] u like blue right? • 9:33pm
you read every one. but don’t reply.
you tell yourself you’re thinking. praying. that maybe a little space will help you make sense of this.
but still…you don’t delete the texts.
and you don’t stop looking at them.
across state lines, gator’s slumped in the stiff motel bed, legs spread, eyes fixed on his phone like it’s got answers for him.
he tosses the phone onto the nightstand and rubs his jaw, muttering under his breath.
“told her too much,” he says.
his reflection stares back at him from the mirror on the opposite wall—dark eyes, gel slick hair, mouth still red from chewing his lip all night. he’s been acting like a man possessed since that call, rewinding your voice in his head over and over like he can conjure you from it.
he stands. paces. talks to himself like he’s still got you listening.
“she’s mine now,” he says, pointing at his own reflection. “said she liked it. said she missed me. i’m a winner.”
he grins. wide. all teeth.
12 hours til gator gets home
you’re at the thrift store in town. your sister’s trying on boots when you see it—a little gold cross necklace hanging on a turnstile by the checkout. dainty, simple. harmless.
you pick it up. turn it over in your palm.
you imagine it against gator’s chest, glinting just above the edge of his collar. softening him. making him look nicer. less like a threat.
more like someone your daddy wouldn’t mind shaking hands with.
“who’s that for?” your sister asks, peering over your shoulder.
“just someone i know,” you say.
you buy it. tuck it deep in your bag.
and pretend it wasn’t for a man who hadn’t stopped texting you since you hung up the phone.
you finally text him back the morning he’s back in town.
> if you’re free later i can meet.
you don’t check for his reply until hours later, but he responded in minutes.
you pick the park near the rec center. the one with the picnic tables tucked under the trees, too shaded and quiet for anyone to really hang around. you tell yourself it’s just a convenient spot. halfway between both your houses. neutral ground.
you tell yourself a lot of things.
he gets there before you.
sits on the tabletop, legs spread wide, heavy boots planted on the bench below. he’s in a grey sheriff shirt again, the one that stretches tight over his shoulders, sunglasses pushed up into his slicked back hair. there’s a little stuffed bunny with blue ears sitting beside him.
“got it at some truck stop out in missouri. made me think of you. soft and kinda wide eyed.”
you’re not sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. it’s stupid. you hug it to your chest anyway.
his voice cuts you off without sounding sharp. just final.
like he did what he did and he’s not taking it back.
“i like thinkin’ about you on long drives.”
you sit beside him. not close, not touching. your leg brushes his knee by accident and he twitches like it sparked him.
you glance down at the bunny again. then dig around in your bag, pulling out the little box you bought yesterday. you hand it to him quickly, like it’ll burn you if you linger.
“i, uh. got you something too.”
the thin gold cross on a chain. just the right length to sit over his collarbone.
his thumb brushes it. he blinks, looks at you.
“this supposed to save me?”
you shrug. “i thought it might make you look nicer.”
he laughs, short and low, like it caught him off guard. like he liked that answer more than he should.
“you wanna help me put it on?” he asks.
he turns, straightens his posture up so you see the entirety of his neck. that stretch of skin—tan and freckled, scarred near the base of his skull—makes your hands a little clumsy as you fasten the clasp. your fingers graze his nape.
he turns back around slowly. he’s still too close.
you both sit there for a second. silence thick between you.
“can i kiss you?” his voice drops lower. “been wantin’ to. not gonna if you don’t want me to.”
you don’t answer right away. you shift the bunny in your lap. you feel something folding open in your chest, something hot and fragile and wanting.
he kisses like he talks: deliberate, a little greedy. one hand curling behind your neck, pulling you in. when you finally break away, he’s flushed and smiling, the necklace resting at the dip of his collarbone.
but when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that makes your throat tighten.
“you ever kiss anyone like that before?” he asks.
and then again, under his breath, not really meant for you— “good girl.”
you spend another hour like that. just sitting. talking. touching shoulders. his knee brushing yours.
you don’t want to go home. but you do.
that night, you lay in bed with the blue eared bunny tucked against your ribs.
you consider naming it— though none of the options seem good enough.
your phone buzzes at 11:13 p.m.
you grin before you can help it. type back:
three dots pop up. then disappear.
then a photo comes through.
it’s not graphic. not exactly.
just his bare chest—freckled skin and lean muscle, curly tufts of chest hair just under the necklace you gave him. the gold glinting under the glow of his bedroom lamp. he’s clearly holding the phone up with one hand, the angle slightly from above, the other hand resting low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers.
you stare at it too long.
the cross sits right in the center of his chest. ike you put it there on purpose.
🦎: look what i’ve been wearing all day.
he replies almost instantly:
🦎: course it does. you put it on me.
🦎: been thinkin’ about you all day. ’bout that kiss. you being so sweet for me.
you feel like your body’s full of bees.
you stare at the screen so long it starts to dim.
before long another picture comes in. slightly lower this time. the dip of his pelvis visible. more skin.
your thighs press together without you meaning to.
you’re quiet for too long again. of course he notices.
you chew your lip. then type, quick and stupid:
he sends another message:
🦎: wish i could see you too. really see you.
🦎: you ever send pictures before?
> i dunno. i’ve never done it… i don’t wanna look stupid.
🦎: not bein’ sweet. just honest.
he gives you a second to think, then follows up. phone buzzing with his convincingly soft words.
🦎: you don’t gotta show your face. not even a little. just… what you want me to see. just for me.
you think about it for a moment. that desire to make him happy burning deep in your belly. before you give it a second thought, you sit up in bed. take your tank top off, arms wrapping around your chest to cover you. tits pushed together to make them look a bit bigger. your fingers tremble a little as you lift the phone and snap a photo — collarbones down, your arm hugged around one side, nipples stiff in the cool air.
you send it before you can back out.
comes through a second later.
🦎: i’m gonna lose my mind over you, sweetheart.
you giggle nervously. cheeks hot. heart reacting to each message he sends.
a beat, then another text:
🦎: can i ask for one more?
you already know what he wants.
and you hate how badly you want to give it.
🦎: tell me no and i’ll drop it
you hesitate. but then you reach for the little stuffed bunny , the one he gifted you. you snap another photo—its head tucked between your thighs, panties pulled tight, a hint of the damp patch showing.
the message whooshes off before you can stop it. your whole body feels like fire.
three dots blink again. then vanish. then blink again.
before you can breathe, your screen lights up—
your stomach flips. you swipe to answer, press the phone to your ear.
you answer with shaky fingers. you don’t say anything.
he groans. “you tryin’ to kill me?”
his voice is wrecked. hoarse and tight, like he hasn’t let go of his dick since the first picture.
“you told me to,” you murmur.
without missing a beat, it’s like something shifts in gator. lost in his own pleasure.
“that little pussy’s mine, isn’t it?” he grits, low and certain.
your stomach swoops. “it’s yours.”
a sharp hiss through his teeth, like he’s gripping himself too tight. “louder.”
your thighs press together, desperate for friction, but you obey, voice trembling. “it’s yours.”
he groans—loud, guttural, unrestrained. in the background you can hear it, the slick rhythm of his hand working his cock.
“good girl,” he pants. “sweetest thing i ever heard. you don’t even know what you’re doing to me—cock so hard you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
your chest feels too tight. you can’t think, can’t breathe.
“wish i was there,” he goes on, voice cracking, desperate. “wish i had my cock in you right now, stretching you all open. wish i had you under me, taking me so deep you feel it in your tummy. fuck—are you touching yourself for me?”
your throat works, but no sound comes out.
“c’mon, angel,” he urges, voice rough with command. “do it for me. put those pretty fingers where i’d be.”
your breath stutters, heat washing over you as you slide your hand down. the moment your fingers slip into your panties— between your folds, the wet sound fills the silence between you. obscene. sticky. you know he can hear it.
“goddamn,” he groans, the noise punched out of him. “can hear how wet you are. fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?”
your eyes flutter shut as your fingers circle your clit, then sink down, pushing into your tight hole. the stretch makes you whimper, makes your walls clench down around your knuckles as you fuck yourself slow.
“jesus christ,” gator snarls, his voice shaking. “i can hear it—can hear those fingers playing with that sweet little hole. you’re killing me, angel.”
your back arches, sticky arousal dripping down your thighs, every thrust louder than the last, wet and obscene.
“faster,” he orders, voice breaking. “fuck yourself harder. let me hear you open up for me.”
you bite down on a cry but do as he says, fingers driving in and out, messy and desperate. you angle your wrist, pressing the heel of your palm against your clit, and start humping your own hand—rocking your hips down hard, using yourself the way you imagine you’d use him. the lewd smack of your wet cunt against your palm is shameless, filthy, loud enough to make him groan ragged into the receiver.
“fuck, baby, i’m close,” he grits out. “you’re gonna make me cum if you just say my name. need to hear it. need you begging for me. tell me who’s makin’ you feel good.”
your toes curl, body trembling as you rut against your hand, soaking yourself, chasing it. “gator,” you whimper, voice broken. “feels so good—god, i want you so bad. wish it was you, wish it was you inside me, stretching me open, making me feel good.”
he lets out a noise—half growl, half moan—that sounds like he’s tearing himself apart. “fucking hell, angel. you keep begging like that, i’m gonna lose it—gonna cum just thinkin’ about you makin’ a mess all over my big fucking cock.”
your body jerks, thighs squeezing tight around your own wrist, grinding down frantically. you’re whining now, messy and high-pitched, rocking against your slippery hand like you’ll die if you stop.
“gator—please.. need you, need it—, i’m gonna—”
“that’s my girl. my angel. nobody else gets you like this, you hear me? nobody. you’re mine.”
you gasp, choking on the wave building in your body. his rough, filthy voice drives you over the edge, and you’re trembling, cunt clenching around nothing as you come. your own release crashes through you in dizzying waves that leave you clawing at the sheets.
for a moment, all you hear is the ragged sound of him breathing. you can almost picture him—sweat on his chest, fist still wrapped around himself, eyes blown wide.
“fuck,” he finally murmurs, voice soft, worn. “you’re mine, angel. mine.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. your throat is tight, your chest aching, your thighs still trembling.
there’s silence on the line for a moment—just the shared sound of two bodies wrecked, trying to come back down. then his voice again, softer this time, like he’s curling into something.
“wish i was holding you,” he admits. “wish you were right here. i’d keep you safe.”
your eyes are heavy, body slack, but your heart lurches at the words. too sweet. too much.
it slips out before you can stop it, quiet and breathless: “are you… are you my boyfriend now?”
there’s a pause. his breath catches.
then a low chuckle, tired and warm, though it doesn’t quite answer. “go to sleep, angel. i’ll stay on the phone.”
your chest aches at the way he sidesteps it. but he keeps talking, voice low and steady, coaxing. “just close those eyes. don’t worry about nothing. i got you.”
and you do. you fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, the sound of his breathing the last thing you hear.
by the time you wake— your body’s still tingling from last night, your mind spinning with the memory of him in every sharp, soft, claiming way. the way he had evaded your question about being your boyfriend, the way he’d told you to sleep, that he’d stay on the line.
and now the morning sun makes everything too real. your phone is silent. no texts. no “morning” messages. nothing. part of you hopes maybe last night was a dream.
you shuffle downstairs, coffee and normalcy in mind. after a few tired good mornings and a kiss to your daddy’s cheek— you take your seat at the breakfast table.
the creak of the screen door makes your fork pause halfway to your mouth. your head turns, slow and disbelieving.
he’s there. standing on the other side of the flimsy mesh door like some shadow you accidentally conjured.
his hair is slicked back with gel, a pair of sunglasses sitting backwards on his ears. sunlight hits the gun holster strapped tight against his thigh, black leather against worn camo. one big hand rests lazy on the doorframe, knuckles grazing the mesh, the other tucked casually into his pocket like he has all the time in the world.
his grin blooms slow, sharp, dangerous. “hey, angel,” he drawls, casual as if he hasn’t just set your stomach twisting into knots.
your body locks up, fork clinking against the plate. heat floods your face, your chest tightening with a cocktail of panic and shame. he’s here.
your sisters are the first to break the silence. perched at the counter with their cereal bowls, they look at you, then at him, then back again—smirks blooming wide like they’ve been waiting for this.
“wow,” one whispers, her tone dripping with glee. “didn’t know you had friends.”
the other snorts into her spoon, stifling a laugh.
your mama moves fast, spatula in hand, stepping into the tense gap between him and the kitchen table. her voice is careful, measured, but you can hear the caution threaded through it. “may I help you?”
your daddy sets his mug down, eyes narrowing. his voice is a low rumble. “Gator Tillman.” His jaw tightens. “I know who you are. Roy’s boy.”
gator shrugs, still grinning. “yeah, that’s me. figured I’d stop by—was on patrol in the neighborhood, thought I’d see how that one’s doing.”
the room tilts. unease settles like a weight in your chest. your daddy’s jaw is rigid. your mama tenses, every instinct wary of the reputation that precedes him. your sisters can’t stop smirking. they sense it too—the dangerous, almost forbidden pull of him, and the fact that he is Roy Tillman’s son.
gator’s eyes never leave yours, that grin a silent claim, his presence rewriting the morning, making it impossible to breathe normally.
your mama hesitates, lips parting, then—because good manners can be armor—she steps aside. “well… don’t stand out there. come in, have a seat.”
the door squeaks open. his boots cross the linoleum with an unhurried confidence, each step a claim. he drags out a chair beside you at the table, the metal legs screeching across the floor, and sinks into it like he belongs.
you want to vanish, to melt into the floor. to pretend you’ve never met him. last night wasn’t supposed to exist outside of your bedroom. and yet… here he is, as if he has a right to invade your morning, invading the space you thought was safe.
gator leans back, one boot swinging lazily. “you look… surprised.” his tone is soft, teasing, and it makes your pulse spike. “you okay?”
you barely nod, words stuck in your throat. how do you explain last night without revealing everything?
your daddy clears his throat, voice low and deliberate. “i don’t like surprises. not from you, and not from him.”
“understandable,” gator replies smoothly, almost reverently. his eyes flick to you, almost daring you to answer.
your mama finally finds her voice. “well… breakfast is just got done— have you eaten, son?” she says, trying to fill the room with normalcy, but her hand trembles slightly around the spatula. every instinct is shouting caution.
your sisters lean toward each other, whispering, muffling giggles. “he’s… intense,” one murmurs. “look at her face.”
your shame twists tighter. every eye in the room is on you, every glance heavy with expectation, curiosity, wariness. you want to disappear, but you also want him—want him to stay, even though your entire body knows it’s reckless.
gator’s gaze flickers between you and your dad, a silent challenge there, daring yet careful. “i’ll just hang out a minute,” he says. “didn’t mean to intrude.” but the way he says it, like he could stay indefinitely if he wanted, makes it clear this isn’t just a casual drop-in.
you swallow, nerves raw, hands shaking slightly. your body betrays you, remembering every bit of him from last night, every memory that your brain insists is forbidden in this kitchen, under the glare of parental authority and sisters’ smug amusement.
and yet… you want him there. desperately, impossibly.
the smell of his cologne lingers, sharp and masculine, cutting through the warm kitchen air.
your pulse stutters when the leather of his holster brushes your bare leg under the table. it’s nothing—just a shift of his thigh, careless—but it jolts you upright, shoulders stiff. you can’t tell if he did it on purpose. then, slow as a secret, his hand drifts under the table, fingertips grazing your knee before resting heavy on your thigh.
you want to move. you can’t.
your daddy notices the way you sit ramrod straight, suspicion already sharpening his eyes. “how do you know my daughter?”
you scramble for an answer, cheeks hot. “he, um—he comes to bible study sometimes.”
gator’s mouth curves, messy and knowing. “she’s real generous, your girl,” he drawls, giving your thigh a squeeze under the table like a warning. with his other hand, he tugs the chain at his throat, gold cross catching the morning light. your necklace. “even gave me this.”
the room tilts. your sisters nearly choke on their juice, whispering furiously into each other’s ears. your daddy’s jaw ticks. your mama’s expression twitches briefly.
“we’re good friends,” gator adds smoothly, like he’s offering a safe explanation. but his eyes flick to you, heavy, daring. “she’s real kind to me.”
the word friends burns, confusing and sharp, especially with his palm burning into your thigh like he owns you.
your mama, tight voiced, slides a mug of coffee in front of him. “here,” she says politely, though her eyes are watchful.
“thank you, ma’am.” gator takes it with one hand, like he knows how to play the role, his smile bright and polite.
your sisters won’t stop giggling until your mama snaps: “go on, take your breakfast in the other room.”
they shuffle off with smug looks, leaving you pinned between your daddy’s suspicion and gator’s casual dominance. he sips his coffee, boots stretched long under the table, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh like it’s nothing, like no one can see.
you feel like you’re going to come apart. every squeeze sends your heartbeat racing higher, every stroke of his thumb a reminder that last night didn’t stay buried where it belonged.
your daddy leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. his voice is low, deliberate. “so i take it, you are a man of faith?”
your throat closes. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
gator doesn’t hesitate. “wasn’t always— but she’s been opening me up to it all.” his tone is reverent, almost soft—like it’s a confession. like it’s something sacred.
your daddy’s stare sharpens. “that so?”
you want the floor to swallow you.
gator takes a sip of coffee, casual as sin, then sets the mug down with a soft clink. “yes sir. something about hearing her sing at that funeral a few weeks back just put a lot into perspective. the good word means a lot, comin’ from her.” his boot nudges yours under the table, deliberate.
there’s a beat of silence that’s almost painful. then:
your daddy leans forward, forearms braced against the table. “listen, son,” he says evenly, “i know your daddy. don’t want no trouble from his boy.”
gator’s hand tightens on your thigh under the table, a warning, a promise. his grin is slow, dangerous. “no trouble, sir. wouldn’t dream of it.” his voice softens, almost earnest. “just thought i’d stop in. was already in the neighborhood, like i said.”
the excuse is flimsy, and everyone knows it. but he says it like gospel truth, and it hangs there in the air, daring anyone to challenge him.
your mama’s lips press tight, attempting to ease the heaviness in the air she pipes. “coffee’s getting cold, nothin’ worse than that.” her eyes flick between you and him, suspicion flickering with something else—worry.
gator leans back, casual, his hand still a brand against your thigh. “yes, ma’am.”
every second at the table feels like a trap, like the whole family is watching you unravel, and the worst part is—he knows it.
the clink of silverware fills the silence for a moment, but your daddy doesn’t let it stretch too long. he clears his throat, fixes his gaze on gator across the table.
“so,” he says, voice even but edged, “how long you been runnin’ patrols round here?”
gator doesn’t miss a beat. he sets down his coffee, leans back in his chair with that careless sprawl. “few months now. shift me around where they need me. figure it keeps things… interesting.”
your daddy hums, slow and deliberate. “interestin’ ain’t always good. neighborhood’s been quiet. don’t see the sense in stirrin’ it up.”
gator’s grin flickers, something sharper beneath it. “wasn’t lookin’ to stir nothin’, sir. just thought i’d check in. say good mornin’.” his hand squeezes your thigh once under the table before pulling away, deliberate, like a secret parting shot.
your mama sets down her fork a little too quickly. “well, it’s kind of you to stop by,” she says, her voice thin, polite in that way that means she’d prefer he didn’t.
your daddy studies him a long moment, then nods once. “kind’s one word for it.”
your appetite’s gone, every bite of food turning to dust in your mouth. when the silence stretches too tight, you blurt, “i’ll walk him out.”
your mama looks relieved, your daddy skeptical. but he doesn’t stop you.
outside, the morning air is cool against your skin, dew from the grass cold against your bare feet. a relief after the heat of the kitchen. gator walks beside you, boots crunching over gravel, that smug, dangerous grin tugging at his mouth. his patrol truck gleams in the driveway, the sheriff’s emblem bright in the sunlight.
“was real nice of your mama to feed me,” he says casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a live wire in the middle of your breakfast table.
you hug your arms tight over your chest, glancing toward the window where you know your daddy’s watching. “you shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.
gator’s laugh is low, warm, curling around you like smoke. “didn’t hear you tell me to leave.”
he stops by the car, one hand resting easy on the roof, the other reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his thumb lingers, slow and deliberate against your cheek.
you lean forward a touch, heart thudding, so close you can smell the sharp tang of his cologne, the faint bite of coffee on his breath.
“you looked real pretty sittin’ there at that table,” he murmurs, voice honey sweet, meant for you alone. “all mine, even with your daddy right there. had me thinkin’ about last night the whole damn time.”
your cheeks burn, pulse fluttering wild. you want to pull back, to run, to deny the way the words settle deep in your stomach—but you don’t move.
“don’t look so spooked, angel,” he murmurs. “i’ll see you soon.”
the words are sweet as sugar, poisonous as arsenic. you can’t breathe around them.
your pulse stutters, the weight of him heavy in your chest, your daddy’s shadow stretching long in the kitchen window.
and then gator slides into the driver’s seat, boots and holster first, grin flashing through the open window. “be good, now.”
the patrol car rumbles to life, rolling away slow. you’re left bent halfway down, breathless and trembling, shame and want tangled so tight you can’t tell one from the other.
when you step back into the kitchen, the air feels heavier, thicker. your mama’s already cleared gator’s empty mug, her lips pressed into a thin line. your sisters are still gone—thank god— and daddy’s is standing tall. displeasure smeared across his face. he stands at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking you like a hawk.
you sink into your chair, hands twisting in your lap, stomach still churning with the ghost of gator’s touch.
“what was that?” your daddy asks finally. his voice isn’t raised, but it’s sharp enough to cut.
you swallow hard. “nothin’. he just stopped by.”
“he ain’t the type to just stop by,” he says, jaw tightening. “and he sure as hell ain’t the type I want sittin’ at my kitchen table.”
your chest constricts. “you don’t know him,” you blurt out, the words tumbling before you can catch them. “he’s not—he’s not like his daddy.”
your mama sits down across from you, her eyes soft but worried. “sweetheart, it’s not that simple. his name carries weight. people see him with you, they’re gonna talk. and not kindly.”
heat floods your face. shame, anger, longing—all knotted together. “we’re just friends,” you insist, though the words taste like ash. last night’s breathless moans echo in your head, the way his voice had broken when he claimed you. “he comes to bible study sometimes. he—he’s different with me.”
your daddy’s brow furrows, suspicion written in every line of his face. “friends don’t look at each other like that.”
your heart stutters. “you don’t know him like I do,” you whisper, too quiet, but they both hear it.
silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. your mama reaches across, fingers brushing your hand. “we’re not tryin’ to trap you, baby. we just want you safe. and with him…” her voice falters, breaking off. “with him, I’m not sure you will be.”
you want to argue, to scream, to tell them they’re wrong—but the words stick. because deep down, you’re not sure either.
and still, you feel his voice in your ear, the soft rasp that had left you weak kneed in the driveway. i’ll see you soon.
after this morning— you’ve spent all day avoiding your parents, skirting the kitchen, ducking out of the living room, staying holed up in your room where the walls feel safer than their eyes. every glance, every sigh from downstairs has you stewing in the confusion of their displeasure. you even prayed on it, hoping for some clarity, some sign that you weren’t completely insane for feeling pulled toward him despite all the warnings.
the sun sinks lower, shadows stretching long across your floor, when your phone buzzes. one word. come.
your pulse spikes, chest tightening. you slip into your shoes, heart hammering against your ribs. you tell gator to park halfway up the street—just far enough so the truck won’t give you away—and then you’re out the door, moving quickly, quietly. the night air wraps around you, cool and electric, as you run toward him, every step fueled by reckless longing and the ache of knowing you shouldn’t.
he’s leaning against the hood of his patrol car, boots scuffed, one hand lazily resting on the roof, hair messy in that careless way that somehow looks deliberate. when he sees you, that grin spreads—half dangerous, half sweet—and your chest tightens, the flutter in your stomach answering before your brain can.
“you made it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “good girl.”
“i… i couldn’t not,” you whisper, moving closer, sweating a little from the night heat—and from the way he’s looking at you.
he pushes off the truck bed, standing close enough that the warmth radiates against your arms. “you still mad at me?” he asks, tone cautious.
“no,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “just… surprised. it was a shock, seeing you at breakfast like that. but… it felt good, seeing you in person.”
he grins, that dangerous, teasing grin tugging at his lips. “good,” he says softly. “you looked… perfect sitting there, even with your whole family watching.”
you glance down the empty street, feeling a little flutter in your stomach. “my little sisters… they think you’re cute.”
he chuckles low, warm. “doesn’t surprise me. i’m hard to resist.” his grin softens, and he steps closer, brushing a stray hair from your face. “you weren’t mad though, right?”
“not mad,” you insist, looking up at him. “just… startled. and a little proud, maybe. proud you came.”
he tilts his head, studying you, thumb brushing lightly along your arm. “good. that’s all i wanted—just you. no awkward breakfast table, no questions, just… us, even for a little bit.”
the two of you walk into town together, side by side, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement. he lets you pick the spot, leaning into you casually, fingers brushing against yours every now and then. every touch makes your heart jump.
at the little ice cream shop, he holds the door open for you, flashes a grin at the clerk, then turns to you. “you pick first, angel,” he says, voice soft.
you stare at the array of treats, overwhelmed, but he’s patient, leaning back on the counter, casual, but every glance flicks to you. finally, you pick cookie dough ice cream in a waffle cone—and he chuckles, muttering, “perfect choice.”
he orders something for himself, and you find a little corner outside, sitting on the low curb. he nudges the cone toward you with his elbow, just enough for a playful touch. “here,” he says, smile soft. “don’t eat it all in one bite.”
you giggle, tasting the ice cream, the flavor almost sweeter than the moment itself. he watches you like it’s the only thing that matters, that grin that makes your stomach flip.
there’s a beat of silence before he breaks it.
“you’re quiet,” he says, voice teasing, but gentle. “thinking about somethin’?”
you shrug, “just… how weird it is. being out here with you. like… sneaking around. and… after this morning.”
“after breakfast?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, a soft laugh in his tone.
“yeah,” you admit, biting your lip. “seeing you at the house… it was kind of a lot. but… it felt nice too.”
he grins, and your chest tightens. “good,” he murmurs.
you sit together, eating ice cream in comfortable silence, the night stretching around you. small touches, shared smiles, quiet laughter—the kind of stolen, reckless sweetness that makes your chest ache with longing and delight.
after some time, it all winds down and you slide into the truck beside him, the coolness of the leather seat hitting your legs.
“thanks for coming to get me— i had fun.” you hum, sinking down into the leather.
he grins, that crooked, dangerous grin. “good. figured i’d make a morning mess of things, might as well end the night sweet.” his eyes flick to yours, the streetlight catching the glint in them.
he shifts in the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting near your knee. the engine hums softly, headlights painting long shadows across the cab. you brush your hand along his thigh, careful, letting your fingers linger. he doesn’t flinch. instead, his thumb finds yours, brushing lightly, teasing.
“gator…” you murmur, voice small in the quiet hum of the truck. he hums softly in acknowledgment, leaning just a touch closer. “what do you… what do you think about… us?”
he tilts his head, studying you with that crooked, dangerous grin. “us?” he echoes, voice low, careful, like he’s weighing every word.
“yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “i mean… tonight’s been… nice. i just… wanna know what you think.”
he chuckles, slow and low, that sound that makes your chest flutter. “reckon i like it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along the back of your hand again. “like… being with you. having you close. don’t need a name, don’t need rules. just you.”
you feel a tiny sting in your chest—wanting more than “just you”—but you tuck it away, forcing a soft smile. “me too,” you whisper.
“my girl,” he murmurs against your hair, kissing the top of your head, voice soft, southern, a little rough. “missed you more than i thought i would.”
you giggle, breath hitching. “i… might’ve missed you a little.”
he smirks, leaning back just enough so he can pull you towards him. strong arming you over his thighs so you can straddle his lap, chest pressed against his, arms still draped around his neck. “little, huh?” he teases, thumb brushing your side, careful, teasing, almost reverent. “might have to remedy that.”
your stomach flutters, and your face warms. the night air in the truck feels charged.
he leans closer, eyes dark and intent. “tell me you want me,” he murmurs, voice low, just enough to make your stomach twist.
you bite your lip, cheeks heating. “i… i do,” you whisper, barely audible, trembling just a little.
his grin quirks, dangerous and soft all at once. “say it like you mean it,” he urges, hand brushing along your side, gentle but insistent.
“gator— i want you,” you murmur, heart hammering, hands reaching for the back of his neck.
he hums, low and satisfied, before tipping his head and pressing his half chapped lips to yours. the kiss starts slow, teasing, as if he’s savoring the moment, but quickly deepens. his hands cup your waist, thumbs brushing along the curve above your hips, steadying you as you shift on his lap.
your fingers dig into his cotton covered shoulders and he groans softly, pressing closer, tongue teasing yours. you gasp into the kiss, knees pressing against his thighs, his chest vibrating with a low hum that makes your stomach flutter.
“shit,” he breathes against your mouth when he pulls back just a fraction, forehead resting against yours. “you’re perfect.”
you shiver against him, the hum of the truck around you fading as the world narrows down to his lips, his hands, the way he makes you feel… wanted, safe, and impossibly alive all at once.
your chest stays pressed against his, the hum of the truck around you. gator’s hand rests on your side, warm and steady, fingers brushing lightly, teasing, asking for permission without words.
“gator…” you murmur, breath hitching, not totally sure where the sentence is leading.
he tilts his head, lips just brushing yours, a slow, deliberate press. “told you i’ll be gentle with you” he murmurs, low and rough. “you just gotta let me.”
you bite your lip, cheeks flaming. “i want you to—” you whisper, soft but sure, and he grins, easing into a deeper, careful kiss. that familiar fiery ache building in the pit of your tummy. similar to that of those few calls.
his other hand slide under your shirt at your waist, thumbs tracing along your sides, careful and teasing. you sigh into the kiss, nervous but eager. his teeth graze your lower lip, a little daring, and you gasp, heart thundering. spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his tongue lazily licking into your mouth.
the taste of ice cream and his vape mixing between the two of you.
“that’s it… that’s my girl,” he hums against your mouth, voice heavy, southern rough, making your knees weak.
your breath hitches when you shift in his lap, thighs tightening around him. the hard line of his cock presses up against you through his jeans and you can feel the twitch of him underneath, the way his hands grip tighter at your waist like he’s holding himself back.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice ragged. “you feel that, angel? that’s what you do to me.”
your face burns, but you can’t stop the way your hips roll forward, dragging across his lap. the thick ridge of him grinds right where you’re aching, pressure against your soaked panties, and you gasp into his mouth. the sound makes him groan, deep and guttural, his chest vibrating against yours.
“gator—” you whisper, breathless, fingers clutching at the hair at the back of his neck.
“shhh,” he soothes, though his tone is tight, rough with restraint. “i got you. just lemme take care of you.”
his hand slides lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt, calloused palm dragging over your thigh. the heat of him is dizzying, and when his fingers finally press against the damp cotton of your panties, you jolt, a broken whimper falling from your lips.
“jesus christ,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across the soaked fabric. the friction is obscene, your slick squelching under his touch. “you’re dripping already. been sitting here like this for me?”
humiliation and need twist together in your gut. your voice comes out thin, desperate. “…yeah.”
he groans like the confession wrecks him, forehead pressing to yours. “look at me,” he demands, low and steady. you force your eyes open, his gaze burning into you, dark and reverent. “good girl. ain’t nothin’ to be shy about—means you want me bad as i want you.”
his thumb pushes harder, dragging against your swelling clit through the soaked fabric, and you rock down against his hand helplessly. the wet squish of it fills the cab of the truck, shameful and loud, your panties sticking to your folds with every grind.
“that’s it,” he breathes, mouth messy against yours, spit wetting your chin. “hump my hand, angel. wanna hear how sloppy that little pussy gets for me.”
your hips move without thought, rutting against him, your slick soaking through cotton until it’s sticky and translucent under his fingers. you moan into his mouth, wet and whiny, thighs trembling as you grind down harder.
he presses two fingers beneath the edge of your panties, slipping them against your swollen folds, and the squelch of your arousal makes him groan out loud. “fuck me—soaked all the way through. my messy little thing.”
your eyes squeeze shut as his fingers glide through the mess, catching on your entrance. when he pushes in, the stretch of his thick fingers makes your breath break, your walls clamping down tight, sucking him in with an obscene sound.
“ohhh, there it is,” he grits, watching your face. “tight little hole squeezin’ me like it’s hungry for my cock already. fuck, angel—listen to that.”
the lewd sound of your cunt milking his fingers fills the truck, sticky and filthy, your slick dripping down his knuckles as you grind against his hand, chasing it.
“gator,” you whimper, rocking down shamelessly, your panties shoved aside, his palm grinding your clit as his fingers pump inside you. “feels so good—need you so bad. want your cock, want it so bad.”
he snarls, low and ruined, his cock straining hard beneath you. “keep beggin’, baby. beggin’ all sloppy on my fingers like that—fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it.”
his fingers drive into you, knuckles deep, every thrust wet and messy, the slap of his palm against your swollen clit making your whole body quake. your walls clamp down tight, sucking at him greedily, slick pouring out around his hand, soaking his wrist, dripping down onto his jeans.
“fuck, angel,” he groans, his forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking. “you’re squeezin’ me so hard—gonna cum all over my hand, aren’t you? filthy little thing.”
your thighs tremble, your breath coming sharp and broken, your belly twisting up tight. you can feel it—right there, right under the surface, your body begging to break.
but just before the coil snaps, you whine, desperate, pulling up off his hand. his soaked fingers slip free with a lewd squelch, strings of slick clinging as you scramble against his chest.
“gator—” you gasp, voice raw. “need more—need you.”
your hands fumble at his waist, tugging at the thick leather of his belt. your fingers shake, clumsy, slick still coating them, making the buckle slip. you whimper in frustration, rutting helplessly against his thigh as you paw at it. some part of you feeling the need to rush as if you don’t have all the time in the world.
he catches your wrists, stilling you, his chest heaving. amazed by this sudden shorten in you— his eyes are wild in the dim light, pupils blown wide. “slow down, angel. breathe.” his thumb strokes your pulse point, rough but steady. “you want my cock?”
you nod so fast it makes you dizzy. “yes—please, gator, i want it, want you inside me.”
his groan is low and feral, like he’s barely holding himself together. “goddamn,” he mutters, thick fingers working his own belt loose with practiced ease. the clink of the buckle echoes in the truck’s cab, sharp and heavy, making your stomach flip.
he shoves his jeans down enough to free himself, and your breath catches hard.
he’s huge. thick and heavy, veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed and slick, precum already pearling at the tip. dark hair curls at the base, damp with sweat, his cock slapping up against his stomach when he pulls it free.
your thighs clench instinctively, empty hole quivering around nothing. “oh my god…” you whisper, dazed, your mouth parting at the sight.
he grins, feral and crooked, gripping himself at the base, giving you a slow stroke that makes his whole body shudder. “too much for you, songbird?” he teases, voice hoarse. “gonna stretch you wide open.”
you stare breathless, eyes fixed on him. you whine, needy and trembling, grinding against his thigh. “please—gator, i need it.”
he watches you squirm in his lap for a moment longer, then shakes his head with a low laugh, like he can’t believe you. “nah, can’t have you ridin’ me all crooked in this seat,” he mutters, already shifting you off his thighs.
before you can protest, his big hands grip your waist and guide you down across the bench seat, laying you out flat. the cracked leather is cool under your back, but he shrugs off his jacket and bunches it under your head, careful, like he can’t stand the thought of you being uncomfortable.
“there,” he says, voice rough but steady, gaze raking over you. “look at you. laid out all pretty for me.”
your thighs fall open automatically, skirt hiked up, panties shoved to the side and clinging to your slick folds. his breath hitches at the sight, cock twitching against his stomach.
he crawls over you, bracing a hand by your head, the other still wrapped around the thick base of his cock. “gotta get it wet first,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the heavy length down against your pussy.
the head catches on your swollen clit, smearing precum and slick across your folds. you gasp, whole body arching, nails digging into the seat as he grinds slow, deliberate, the weight of him sliding through the mess between your thighs.
“fuck—” he hisses, jaw tight, cock dragging through your wetness with every roll of his hips. the sound is obscene, slick squelching, your pussy lips parting around the veiny shaft as he ruts against you.
“gator—” you whine, hips jerking up, chasing the friction.
he presses harder, grinding his cockhead against your clit until your eyes roll back, your thighs trembling. “jesus, listen to you,” he groans, eyes half-lidded, sweat beading on his brow. “you hear that?” the wet slap echoes in the cramped cab, filthy and lewd.
you nod frantically, lips parted, a whimper spilling out. “feels so good,” you gasp, voice high and broken. “please—please put it in.”
he just grins, sharp and merciless, rutting against your folds with another slow drag that makes your whole body quake. “not yet, angel. lemme savor you.”
you can’t take it anymore. the steady grind of his cock through your folds has you trembling, your clit aching from the heavy drag of his head. you reach between you, fingers fumbling, desperate to guide him where you need him most.
“please, gator,” you beg, voice broken, shaky. “need you—inside, please—”
his hand closes over yours, steady and firm, and he guides himself down, cockhead nudging a trail of slick at your entrance. the blunt tip nudges, pushing just enough to make you gasp.
“shhh,” he soothes, thumb brushing your cheek, though his own voice is rough, wrecked. “lemme in nice and easy, yeah? nice n’ slow. don’t fight me.”
the pressure makes your eyes flutter shut. you whimper, back arching, your pussy already clenching down before he’s even inside.
“look at that,” he groans, easing forward, the fat head splitting you open. “barely in and you’re squeezin’ me like a fist.”
your mouth falls open. “ohmygod—ohmygod, it’s too—”
“no, baby. you got it. you can take it.” his words are gravelly encouragement, his hand stroking your side, grounding you as he inches deeper. “breathe. let me stretch you.”
the stretch is unreal, every ridge and vein dragging against your walls, your slick coating him as he slowly feeds you more. you babble nonsense against his neck, fingernails biting into his shoulders, overwhelmed by just how big he is.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses, hips stalling to let you adjust. “never had anything this big, huh?”
he knows the answer to that.
you shake your head frantically, tears prickling at your lashes. “s’too much—but feels—oh, god, gator—it feels so good.”
he presses another inch in, groaning at the way your body clenches to pull him deeper. “that’s it. just like that. takin’ me so pretty. don’t stop now, angel—let me all the way in.”
inch by inch, he pushes forward, the thick stretch burning and perfect until your body finally swallows him whole, your pussy quivering around the fat base.
“there we go,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading on his brow. “took every damn inch.”
you’re wrecked beneath him, gasping, trembling, still twitching around his cock like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“so full,” you whimper, lips brushing his jaw. “gator—it’s so much, can feel you everywhere.”
he groans at your words, holding himself still inside you, jaw clenched tight. “jesus christ, babygirl… you’re gonna ruin me.”
he pulls back just a little,then rolls his hips forward again—slow, deliberate, the thick drag of his cock pulling a strangled moan out of you.
“fuck, listen to that,” he grits, the wet suck of your pussy obscene in the small cab. “you were made for this cock.”
your thighs twitch, hips jerking up to meet him instinctively. “gator—oh my god—”
he bends down, catching your mouth in a messy kiss, spit-slick and desperate, before trailing lower, lips hot against your jaw, your throat, then down to your chest. he noses your shirt up, hungry, and drags his tongue over one peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
you cry out, arching into him, walls fluttering around his cock at the wet pull of his lips on your skin. “feels—feels so good, oh god, please don’t stop—”
he groans against your breast, teeth catching the sensitive bud before releasing it with a wet pop. “fuck, you taste sweet everywhere, baby. can’t get enough of you.”
then he rocks his hips again, deeper this time, and the careful restraint he held at first snaps. his thrusts start to pick up, steady, harder, making the whole truck creak with the force.
“shit—look at you,” he rasps, eyes darting down to where your pussy’s stretched around him, wetness coating the thick base. “squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move. takin’ it all the way like my perfect little thing.”
your head tips back against the jacket, moans spilling from your throat, tears pricking at your lashes with the overwhelming stretch and fullness. “gator—please—faster,”
his mouth is everywhere—sucking marks into your chest, dragging over your collarbone, biting lightly at your throat as his hips pound into you harder. the sound of his balls slapping your ass mixes with the wet squelch of your pussy, filthy and loud in the small space.
“can’t be gentle with you, baby,” he growls against your skin, breath ragged. “not when you’re fuckin’ milking my cock like this. feels too good—jesus christ.”
you babble beneath him, incoherent pleas spilling out with every deep plunge into the base of your tummy. “oh god, yes, yes—so full, so deep—fuck, gator—i can’t, i can’t—”
he grips your thigh, pushing it up higher so he can rut into you deeper, harder, splitting you open with every stroke.
“you can. you’re mine,” he pants, teeth dragging your earlobe, voice rough and thick with lust. “gonna fuck you till you’re cryin’ on my cock, angel. take every inch and beg me for more.”
your nails rake down his back, blunt and desperate, your whole body trembling under the steady force of his thrusts. the wet slap of him driving into you fills the cab, the truck rocking faintly with every push.
“gator—ohmygod… feels—too much..” your voice cracks on the edge of it, breath hitching as that coil inside you winds impossibly tight.
he presses his forehead to yours, teeth gritted, hips grinding deep before pulling back to slam in again. “don’t you fuckin’ hold it—cum for me, angel. wanna feel you come undone on my cock.”
his thumb slides down between you, rough pad finding your clit, rubbing circles just hard enough to make you see stars. you choke on a cry, back arching off the seat.
“that’s it—let go for me, my girl. my sweet fuckin’ girl.”
it hits all at once, blinding, every nerve sparking as you clamp down around him, pussy spasming in hot, needy pulses. the world narrows to the stretch of him inside you and the white hot snap of pleasure tearing through your body.
you sob into his shoulder, legs trembling, walls fluttering around his cock as if you’ll never let him go. “oh god—gator—gator—”
his thrusts grow sloppy, rough, chasing his own end through the vise of your climax. “fuck, that’s it—jesus, you’re milkin’ me. can’t hold it—”
he buries himself to the hilt, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick, flooding you with every twitch of his cock.
his hand grips your jaw, forcing your tear-streaked gaze up to his, eyes burning into yours. “say it,” he growls, voice wrecked. “promise me—your pussy’s mine. all of you’s mine.”
you nod frantically, babbling through the aftershocks. “yours—yours, ’m yours, gator”
he groans at your words, grinding one last time, making sure you take every drop. “that’s right,” he pants, collapsing against you, lips dragging over your cheek, your temple, anywhere he can reach. “my girl. my fuckin’ girl.”
the cab fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint creak of the leather seat, the sticky wet mess between your thighs. you’re trembling beneath him, but he strokes your hair, your side, grounding you even as his cock twitches inside your oversensitive walls.
“ruined me for anyone else,” he murmurs, almost tender now, mouth brushing yours. “and i ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”
the space smells like sex and sweat and him, thick and heady in the warm night air. your body feels wrung out, boneless under his weight, every nerve buzzing with the aftershocks. gator kisses your temple, your damp hair sticking to your forehead.
“easy now,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentling, the way he always shifts with you. he presses one last kiss to your mouth before pulling out slow, careful, both of you hissing at the sticky drag.
he shoves a hand under the seat, rummaging, until he comes up with an old, soft t-shirt. you barely have the strength to lift your head, but he props you back on the seat and crouches over you, folding the fabric.
“just lemme get you cleaned up, angel.”
the first swipe between your thighs makes you jolt, flinching at the burn of oversensitivity. a little whimper spills out, thighs twitching.
“shh, i know,” he soothes, thumbing your hip, slowing down, wiping more carefully this time. “hurts a little when you’re fucked out like this, huh? almost done.”
he cleans himself with a quick pass, tossing the shirt aside, then shrugs out of his jacket. he balls it up, slides it behind your head like a makeshift pillow.
“lay back, babygirl.” his palm strokes your belly as he eases you down across the seat, tugging you against his chest until you’re tucked in the curve of him.
your cheek presses to his sternum, ear catching the steady thud of his heart. he wraps one strong arm around your back, the other hand threading gently through your hair, slow and steady until your eyelids start to droop.
the night hums outside the truck, crickets and cicadas fading under the soft rise and fall of his chest.
“gator…” your voice is drowsy, almost slurred, too tired to keep from spilling the truth. “feels safe here.”
he kisses the crown of your head, squeezing you closer. “good. ‘cause you’re mine now. safe’s all you’ll ever be with me.”
his chest rumbles with the low drawl, vibrating under your cheek, and before long you’re drifting, lulled by his warmth and the steady cradle of his arms, falling asleep wrapped up in gator tillman— the rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and the gentle weight of his arm keeping you close, until sleep pulls you under, quiet and inevitable, in the truck idling softly at the far end of your driveway.
sunlight filters weakly through the truck’s windshield, the faint hum of early sunday morning still in the air. your chest rises and falls steadily against gator’s, his arm draped lazily across your shoulders. the night’s warmth lingers, tangled with the faint scent of his cologne and the memory of soft kisses pressed to your hair.
suddenly, a sharp banging on the driver’s side window jerks you awake. you blink up groggily at the familiar, thunderous face of your daddy, frowning and red faced, knuckles pounding against the glass.
“get. out. of. that. truck!” he bellows, voice raw with righteous fury.
your eyes widen, heart flipping. you stir slightly against gator’s chest, whispering a panicked, “oh fuck…”
gator stirs, lifting his head just enough to squint at your dad through the glass, a lazy arrogant grin tugging at his mouth. “mornin’, sir,” he drawls, voice still thick with sleep. “sleepin’ in’s a crime?”
your daddy’s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “i don’t care about sleepin’ in! you’re—” he stops, eyes narrowing as they land fully on you, curled up in gator’s lap, half-buried in his chest, hair messy, his deputy jacket crumpled around you.
you tug at gator’s shirt, cheeks flaming, whispering, “i… i didn’t think he’d be up this early…”
gator hums low, thumb brushing gently along your arm, that crooked grin softening just a touch. “relax, angel. he’ll calm down.”
your daddy’s knuckles rattle the glass again, furious but speechless for a beat, just staring. your stomach twists—equal parts embarrassment, panic, and something else you can’t quite name—as gator murmurs in your ear, quiet and teasing, “don’t worry, darlin’. we’ll handle it.”
you push gently against gator’s chest, sitting up straighter. “i… i should go,” you murmur, cheeks flaming, voice small but firm. “don’t follow me.”
he hums low, a little teasing, a little stubborn. “sure, angel… if that’s what you want.” yet, almost immediately, he swings his legs over the side of the truck and follows, boots crunching against the driveway gravel.
your daddy’s voice cuts through the morning air, sharp and commanding. “hey! y’all—almost late! get inside and clean up, now!”
you straighten quickly, fumbling with your jacket, murmuring, “yes, sir…”
gator falls a step behind, hands in his pockets, grin still in place but a flicker of something more intense in his eyes.
“gator,” you say, tone firmer, “i said don’t follow me.”
he stops, tilts his head, that crooked grin teasing. “i’m just making sure my girl gets in safe, that’s all.”
“i can get in safe myself,” you insist, meeting his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse races.
he leans just a touch closer, and for a heartbeat, the air between you feels charged—like it could spark. you press your palms against his chest, feeling the heat through his shirt. “don’t… don’t push it,” you whisper.
he smirks, but the tension is clear. “ain’t pushin’, just… holdin’ on a second longer,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth.
your daddy steps up from the porch, towering over you, facing gator, finger poking hard into his chest. “buzz off, Tillman,” he growls, tone sharp enough to cut through the morning chill. “my daughter’s going inside, and you stay put.”
gator freezes, then slowly leans back a hair, still close enough that you can feel his warmth. his grin softens, just a little, and he mutters, “yes, sir.”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body still humming with tension. gator lingers a moment longer, gaze on you, then steps back, letting your daddy shepherd you inside.
once you’re through the door, you lean against the frame, heart hammering, feeling the aftermath of the almost clash. gator’s still out there, boots on the porch, grin faint but eyes boring holes through the oak, a silent promise that this isn’t over.
you stand with your back against the stained glass front door, until you hear his engine rumbling low and dangerous. you hear him go, chest tight, stomach fluttering, a mix of longing and relief.
inside, your daddy’s voice booms through the hallway, harsh and edged with righteous anger. “you got somethin’ to tell me, girl? about last night?”
finally heading into your bathroom— you freeze, hands hovering over the sink as you start washing your face, trying to keep your voice calm. “n-no, sir… nothing, i swear. we’re just… friends.”
he strides into the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. “friends don’t sit in a man’s lap like that. friends don’t let themselves get… defiled. it’s shameful. it’s not right. you hear me?”
your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. “he’s… he’s respectful. i promise. i—i don’t—i mean, it’s nothing like that.” your voice trembles despite your effort, eyes stinging. “we just… talked, that’s all. just talked.”
your daddy steps closer, looming like a mountain, voice lowering but still sharp. “don’t let this slide, little girl. you’re a preacher’s daughter for christ’s sake. you behave like one. can’t be lettin’ some Tillman boy—” he stops, takes a breath, shaking his head, “…you know what i mean. keep your heart and your body sacred.”
you swallow hard, nodding, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. “i… i understand, l. we’re just… friends. really.”
he glares a moment longer, then finally shakes his head, muttering, “don’t make me have to preach to you about this again.”
your hands grip the sink as your chest rises and falls rapidly. you feel the sting of near tears, not from shame alone, but from the ache of missing gator, the pull of last night’s warmth, and the suffocating weight of your father’s words.
after a beat, you take a shaky breath, splash water on your face, and murmur softly to yourself, “we’re just friends… just friends.”
your heart is still racing, and even as you tidy yourself and pull on your Sunday dress, a small part of you aches for the crooked grin and low, southern voice that had made last night impossible to forget.
you step out of the house, nerves still raw, the morning sun harsh against your eyes. the crisp Sunday air does little to cool the heat in your cheeks. your daddy’s parting words echo in your head: just friends… keep your heart and your body sacred. you repeat it over and over, like a mantra, willing yourself to breathe steady.
the drive to church is quiet, the streets almost empty, the hum of distant traffic the only sound. your mind spins with last night, with gator, with the tension at home—but you tell yourself firmly: just friends. that’s all.
when you push open the heavy doors of the sanctuary, your stomach lurches. he’s there. front row of the pews, boots planted wide, arms crossed, that crooked, dangerous grin still tugging at his lips. he leans back, casual, smug—like he’s been waiting just to see you step in. his eyes catch yours almost immediately, sharp and hungry, and he gives a small nod, just enough to make your pulse spike.
“gator…” you murmur under your breath, trying to keep your voice calm, but your stomach flips. he doesn’t answer, just watches, patient and teasing, like he’s claiming every inch of your attention without touching you.
you move toward the choir loft, adjusting your dress, forcing your shoulders back, chanting silently: just friends… just friends…
he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink fast. just leans back in the pew, boots tapping lightly against the floor, eyes never leaving you. a slow smirk curls his mouth when you meet his gaze, and your chest twists with that familiar mix of thrill and unease.
as the music starts, and the organ hum fills the room, you take your place. every note you sing, every vibration from your chest, feels magnified under his watchful eyes. you can feel him there, waiting, enjoying the show, smug and sure, like he’s the only audience that matters—and like he knows exactly how it affects you.
and you can’t help it. your voice falters slightly on the first line, not from nerves but from the knowledge of him just a few pews away, quiet and predatory, a smoldering reminder of last night.
as gator leans back in the pew, watching you sing, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. he thinks of those late night calls—the confessions, the shared frustration of being trapped under someone else’s rules—and he knows, just knows, that’s why he can’t stay away. he’s drawn to you because you understand him in ways no one else ever could.
even as the sermon begins to bleed into the background, your heart beats fast with both pride and a little guilty thrill, knowing gator’s there—front row, watching, waiting, making your chest tighten in ways you aren’t supposed to admit, even silently, to yourself.
the song dies down as the congregation bows their heads for the opening prayer, you lower yours, hands clasped tightly, trying to center yourself. the familiar words feel heavier than usual, a rhythm meant to steady you, but your ears pick up the faint scrape of boots on the floor. your chest tightens.
gator doesn’t bow. his head stays up, eyes locked on you, unwavering, the corners of his mouth tugged just so in that crooked grin. the heat of his gaze presses against your skin in a way that makes your stomach twist, a delicious, nervous flutter that leaves you almost lightheaded. your hands curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing into your palms as your voice wavers through the first hymn.
you catch your daddy’s eye from the pulpit, sharp and simmering. he notices you noticing gator, notices gator noticing you, and his jaw tightens. for a fraction of a second, the preacher’s face flickers with frustration, a flash of how dare you, before he smooths it into calm authority and continues, head raised, keeping the congregation none the wiser.
as the sermon begins, he shifts slightly, changing his tone and direction. the words now circle temptation, desire, the battle of heart and flesh. “we are tested every day,” he intones, voice steady but firm, “and it is not always the fire we see that burns the brightest. it is often the quiet glance, the soft word, the presence of someone who pulls at the soul, who tempts our hearts to stray from the path we’ve sworn to walk.”
your chest tightens further, and your lips press together. gator doesn’t flinch. he leans back just enough to look impossibly casual, but every detail of him—the angle of his head, the glint in his eyes—screams you, and only you. a tiny, involuntary shiver runs down your spine.
your daddy’s words, aimed at the congregation, feel pointed, layered. and though he maintains his composure, his usual preacher’s flourish carries a subtle edge, a warning, a boundary clearly meant for you to recognize. you straighten slightly, trying to refocus on the sermon, to sing through the prayers and hymns without letting your pulse betray you.
but even as your voice rises, soft and steady, you can feel gator’s gaze like a weight pressing against you, thrilling and unsettling in equal measure. it’s all consuming, and you bite your lip, holding back a breathy laugh—or maybe a sigh—as the preacher’s voice mixes with the quiet hum of gator watching you, front row, smug and unyielding.
your heart races, your palms sweat, and even the careful control you’ve built through years of church discipline feels like it’s slipping just a little, all under the watchful, dangerous charm of gator tillman.
the final hymn fades, the congregation rises, murmuring quietly as pews scrape against the floor. you follow the usual rhythm, hands clasped, voice soft, carrying the last notes just long enough to feel complete. the preacher offers a brief benediction, words of peace and blessing, and then the crowd begins to disperse.
you linger, as always, sweeping the hymn book holders, straightening hymnals, wiping down the edges of the pews with a practiced hand. your movements are methodical, almost automatic—years of routine—but tonight they feel hollow, the warmth of gator’s gaze still pressing behind your eyes.
you glance toward the front row, half-expecting him to still be there, but the seat is empty. the smug assurance, the dangerous charm—it’s gone. vanished the moment the congregation’s chatter filled the aisles, leaving you with the soft ache of disappointment tucked deep in your chest.
your hands pause over a hymnal, lingering longer than necessary. the truck, the night, the way he watched you sing… all of it clings to you. a small, frustrated sigh escapes, and you shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand.
daddy lingers in the church vestibule after the service, fussing with loaner bibles and muttering about straightening chairs. you know it’s not about order. it’s about keeping you here. keeping you close. keeping you away.
the door creaks, warm afternoon air spilling in. you glance up—your stomach drops. gator’s there.
he looks a little too casual, leaning against the doorway. your breath stutters.
“afternoon, sir.” his voice is polite, smooth as honey but thick with grit. he nods toward your daddy. “ figured the two of us could talk.”
your father stiffens. his hand stills on the pew. “i have no words for you”
gator’s eyes flick to yours, quick and soft, before settling back on him. “respectfully, sir… i have some things you oughta hear.”
your heart lurches. your fingers twist into your skirt.
daddy steps forward, broad frame blocking you, voice sharp. “boy, you best just head home. we’ve seen and heard enough from you.”
gator swallows, jaw tight, but his voice stays steady. “ain’t tryna cause no disrespect. i just—” he breathes out hard, runs a hand over his hair. “i love her. i’m not here to hide it.”
the words slam into you. your chest seizes. daddy’s face darkens.
“love,” he repeats, slow, heavy. “that what you call it? draggin’ her into sin? temptin’ her away from god’s will?”
gator shakes his head, takes a half-step closer. not threatening, but sure. “no, sir. what i feel for her— it’s real. i’ll treat her right. better than right. i’ll take care of her.”
daddy scoffs, bitter. “you ain’t got nothin’ to offer her but ruin.”
gator’s eyes flash, but he reins it in, voice low. “maybe you don’t believe me. maybe you never will. but i ain’t lyin’ about this—” his gaze finally locks on yours again, raw and unwavering. “i love her. and i don’t want nobody else.”
your breath shudders out. your daddy looks between you, suspicion flaring. his mouth pulls tight, voice like gravel. “you stay away from my girl. the lord sees the truth, even when men lie with their tongues.”
gator nods, slow, like he’ll take the blow. but his last words stick, sure and stubborn. “not lyin, sir. not about her. never about her.”
the silence after feels like lightning, every nerve in your body screaming with the weight of what just happened.
your chest is tight, like there’s not enough air in the church to breathe. your daddy’s shoulders are squared, his jaw locked, the same way it gets before he scolds the congregation, and gator—gator’s not backing down. not this time.
“you’ll stay away from her,” daddy spits, taking a step forward.
gator’s chin lifts. “can’t do that, sir.”
it’s the sound of your father’s boots scraping on the wooden floor that makes something snap in you. before you can think, before fear can hold you, you’re moving. your feet carry you fast, heart pounding, and you wedge yourself between them.
“stop.” your voice is thin, shaking, but it rings in the empty sanctuary. “both of you—stop.”
daddy’s eyes widen, like you’ve betrayed him just by speaking. gator’s hand hovers near your back, steady but not touching, his presence like a shield behind you.
“baby girl,” your father warns, his voice low, dangerous, “you don’t know what you’re doin’.”
“i do.” your throat burns, tears hot in your eyes, but you don’t move. you stand tall, as tall as you can with your knees trembling. “i know what i want. and i want him.”
your daddy’s face twists, fury and hurt tangled together. “he’s gonna drag you to hell.”
“no,” you choke out, the words tumbling fast now, raw. “he loves me. i feel it. i know it’s real. you can’t tell me it’s not—” your voice breaks, “you can’t keep me caged here forever.”
the air is heavy, buzzing. your father shakes his head, muttering scripture under his breath like it’s armor, like it’ll keep him from hearing you.
behind you, gator finally speaks, voice deep, sure, unshakable. “she ain’t alone, sir. not anymore.”
you feel it—the weight of him standing tall at your back, his heat, his strength. your daddy looks past you, eyes narrowing, and for a second you think he might swing. your body tenses, braced for it, but you don’t move. you stay right where you are, your chest pressed to gator’s, his presence like a wall at your spine.
“please,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the strain. “just let me choose.”
your daddy’s hand snaps out, rough fingers curling around your arm. it’s not the first time he’s held you too tight, but it still makes your stomach drop. his voice is sharp, final.
“you don’t know what you’re sayin’. i won’t let you shame this family. i won’t let you shame me.”
“stop!” you cry, trying to wrench your arm free, the sting of his grip making your eyes blur.
before you can even stumble back, gator’s hand closes around your waist, steadying you, pulling you just out of reach. his other hand clamps around your father’s wrist, grip like iron.
“don’t,” gator growls, low and dangerous. “you don’t put your hands on her.”
the heat in his voice makes your whole body quake. your father jerks, tries to yank his hand free, but gator doesn’t budge. for a moment, it’s pure tension—two men locked in a battle of wills, your pulse a drum in your throat.
“you think you’re a man?” your father snarls, spit flying. “you’re nothin’. filth. a goddamn lizard. and i’ll be damned if i let filth lay claim to my daughter.”
gator steps forward, dragging you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his height towering over your daddy. his eyes blaze, jaw flexing.
“she ain’t yours to keep,” he bites out. “she’s her own. and she’s mine if she wants to be.”
your heart lurches at the words—mine if she wants to be—your body pressed so close you can feel every inch of his promise.
“gator—” you whisper, your voice trembling, and finally your daddy’s eyes flick to you.
“i’m not a child anymore, daddy. you can’t scare me into stayin’. you can’t scare me out of lovin’ him.”
your voice cracks, but the words are steady, the first time you’ve ever said them out loud. it feels like a dam breaking, spilling years of silence into the open.
your daddy’s face twists, red creeping up his neck. “you don’t know what love is. he’s filled your head with lies, with sin. he’ll drag you down to hell with him.”
behind you, gator bristles, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your hair. “ain’t no lie in me wanting her. nothing sinful bout the way i take care of her.”
“take care of her?” your daddy spits, stepping forward, shoulders squared. “you’re a coward. a sinner. you think you can stand in my house—my church—and lay claim to what’s mine?”
gator’s laugh is humorless, sharp. “she ain’t yours. never was. you just been keeping her locked up like property.” he shifts his stance, towering, muscles coiled tight. “you want a fight, old man? i’ll give you one.”
“stop!” you cry, your hands clutching gator’s arm, tears streaming hot and fast. “please, both of you, stop—”
but neither man breaks their stare. it’s a standoff, fire meeting fire, and you can feel the world tilting, about to split wide open.
then your daddy’s voice cuts low, cold as stone. “you want him so bad? then choose.”
your breath leaves you in a rush, the words slamming into you like a blow. choose. your heart races, your chest heaves, your tears blur both of them into shapes of rage and desperation.
gator’s hand finds yours, warm and trembling, and that’s all it takes. your choice has already been made.
“fine,” you sob, squeezing his hand tight, voice breaking. “then i choose him. i choose gator.”
your father’s face goes slack, shock and fury warring in his eyes, but you don’t wait to see which wins. gator’s already pulling you with him, his grip sure and unyielding as he drags you down the aisle.
your shoes skid against the worn wood floors, your tears still falling, but you don’t look back. not when the church doors slam behind you, not when the cool air rushes your face, not when gator throws open the door to his truck.
“c’mon, angel,” he mutters, voice thick, shaking as he helps you inside. “we’re getting outta here. we’re gone.”
the door clicks shut behind you, and gator slides in beside you, boots thudding softly against the floor. his hand finds yours again, fingers curling tight around yours like a lifeline. your chest heaves, and the heat of tears still lingers on your cheeks, but there’s relief now, too. a fierce, fluttering kind of relief.
you fumble for your phone, going to text your mama— thumbs trembling as you type,
> i love you so much… please don’t be mad
you hit send before second-guessing yourself. the little vibration against your palm feels like a lifeline. your eyes sting, the tears threatening to spill, and you press your forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to steady your racing heart.
gator leans over, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. “hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “don’t let it get you. it’s okay to feel all that, angel.”
you sniffle, trying to blink away the hot streaks, and he shifts closer, draping an arm across your shoulders, pulling you into him. you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the low hum of the truck around you. it’s grounding, safe, like the world has shrunk to just this moment.
“we can go wherever we want,” he whispers, lips brushing the top of your head, voice rough with that lazy southern drawl. “don’t gotta look back. don’t gotta worry about anyone else. just us, okay?”
you tilt your head up slightly, letting a small, shaky laugh escape through your tears. “okay,” you murmur, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. the brief pinch of doubt fades, replaced by the thrill of freedom, choice, and the knowledge that you made it.
gator’s grin is crooked, eyes softening. “that’s my girl,” he says, squeezing your hand. “we’ll figure it out. wherever you wanna go… we’ll go.”
you pull back just a little from his chest, blinking up at him, still shaky but smiling through the lingering tears. “i… i’ve never been to the beach,” you admit quietly, voice small, almost sheepish.
gator’s grin widens, eyes lighting up with that mischievous glint. “never been to the beach, huh? well… then beach it is,” he says, voice low and teasing, like it’s a promise.
you bite your lip, looking out the window as the sun catches the edges of the trees passing by. “but… we don’t have anything—no towels, no swimsuits, not even a toothbrush. nothing.”
he shrugs, casual, almost like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “ain’t a problem, angel. i’m sure california’s got stores too. we’ll figure it out.” his hand drifts to your thigh, warm and reassuring, and your stomach flutters.
“i can’t believe we’re doing this,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him.
“believe it,” he says, voice warm, confident, full of that calm you to your bones energy. “just us. miles of road. and whatever we want at the end.”
you exhale, feeling the tension loosen, your chest rising and falling in tandem with his steady heartbeat. the world outside the truck fades to nothing, and for the first time in hours, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. safe, wanted, and alive with the decision you made.
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
theartofmadeline
titsay
2087
