summary: after a long patrol, gator finds his girlfriend in bed asleep. it's only his nature to disturb her.
tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, soft!gator, domestic fluff, grumpy x sunshine, possessive!gator, elements of casual sub/dom, gator thinks he wants a tradwife but really he wants your attitude
a/n: help me save me from the chokehold this character has me in (I'm exactly where I want to be)
---
A set of arms wrap around you, pulling you from luxurious sleep.
You make a noise of protest, drawing in a long breath. Your down comforter feels heavenly right now, and snuggled in your favorite pair of cozy socks, you’re warmer and happier than you’ve been all day. It’s just typical of your boyfriend to interrupt.
“Right where I left you,” Gator hums, arms tightening around you, nose prodding into your cheek. From the feeling of his chest pressed up against you, you can tell he’s still in his work clothes, though he’s ditched the tactical vest. He’s been patrolling later than usual lately, much to both of your dismay. Were it not for how sweet he almost always is when he gets back and the fact it usually means you can sneak in an evening nap like this one when he’s gone, you might have had to pick a fight with his boss.
You groan again, turning your head over your shoulder so he can see the frown on your face, your eyes still stubbornly shut. “‘M sleeping,” you mumble, voice thick.
Gator’s letting the cold under the covers, and he probably knows it. He relishes annoying you like this, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as he presses them into the warmth of your neck.
“So fuckin’ lazy,” he chuckles.
“Rude,” you grumble, rolling over. He laughs as you slip your arms around him, clutching him closer. In contrast to the idyllic heat of your bed, his arms are chilled from so long spent out in the Dakota snow.
“You’re wearing outside clothes,” you complain, finally opening your eyes. You blink at him, clearing them of sleep.
He’s got that smug, lazy grin painted on his face as he watches you, and his hair is loosened slightly from its gel. “So?”
“You can’t bring outside clothes into bed,” you chide him gruffly, snuggling further into his chest. Damn it, but you’ve always slept better in his arms than alone, and as much-needed as your nap today was, you’ve missed him. You breathe him in, savoring the faint scent of perspiration and that sharp cologne you’ve told him you don’t like.
“I don’t see you complainin’,” he teases, his fingertips pressing into you.
“Mmm,” you intone, already feeling sleep attempt to drag you under again. “How was work?”
“Same shit as usual,” he grumbles, tucking your head under his chin.“Rather be lazing around all day here with you, that’s for damn sure."
You tap a pattern onto his sternum with the pad of your finger. “I’ll have you know I’ve been slaving away all day,” you argue sleepily.
“Oh yeah?” he snorts. “Believe that when I see it.”
If you weren’t so comfortable cuddled against his chest, you would have glared at him. “I have. I made scones for the church picnic, and I cleaned out the laundry room cabinets–”
“Mm, sounds hard,” he mocks you.
You huff indignantly. “Sounds like you’re not getting any of my scones.”
His laughter rumbles in his chest.
“I also went to check in on Mrs. Dougherty–”
“Crazy old bat,” Gator grumbles of your eighty-two-year-old neighbor who despises him. She’s really a sweet lady– just sees too much of Roy in Gator. You go over there every now and again to pick up the house for her and attempt to smooth things over between the two of them.
“And I picked up a morning shift at the diner,” you finish stubbornly. “And nobody else competent was working.”
His sigh ruffles your hair. “Baby, what’d I tell you about picking up those extra shifts?”
You roll your eyes. “It was only four hours, Gate.”
Gator pulls back to give you a displeased look. “I wish you’d just quit working at that fuckin’ place already. Those scumbags’re runnin’ you ragged.”
“I like my job, Gator,” you tell him pointedly. And you did– as shitty as any off-the-highway diner job was, yours was just decent enough to keep. And besides, you liked your coworkers, and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to spend your hours keeping children from crying with smiley-face pancakes. It was more rewarding than what Gator did all day, that was for sure. “The people are nice. The tips are good.”
“Tips’re only good ‘cause you’ve got all those jackoffs making eyes at you,” he complains.
You fight not to roll your eyes again. “That’s not the reason.” Gator’s always been the jealous type– something you both love and hate about him. If he didn’t make it so difficult every time he came into your work or went out with you to a bar, you might have found the trait endearing. But he always made it all but impossible for you to hold a conversation with another man– interjecting and putting his hands all over you like you weren’t in public. It was no secret in town who you belonged to– Gator had made damn sure of that.
“Like hell it isn’t,” he argues. “I see ‘em every time I’m in there. Runnin’ their eyes over ya like they want a piece of ya.”
“Gator,” you cut in placatingly. “Everyone in town knows I’m with you. They know better than to try anything.” More importantly, they know Gator– know what it means when Roy Tillman’s son staked his claim. Every one of your regulars would much rather keep their eyes from wandering and their tone respectful than face the other end of a bloodied tire iron.
“They fuckin’ better,” Gator adds, already spinning himself into a bad mood. But, as if he’s caught himself on it, realized what he’s doing, that anger melts slightly, replaced with a wicked, possessive mischief. “Maybe I should just knock you up. Finally send a message to all those assholes.”
Shock and a delicious jolt of warmth travel through you, and you glare at him. You pinch his side, then pull one of your hands free and hold it in front of his face, waggling your fingers. “Or maybe you could just get a move on and put a ring on it, stud. Start there.”
“You gonna quit your job if I do?” he teased, leaning forward to nip playfully at your neck. “Stay home all day makin’ scones ‘n shit?”
“Gate,” you sigh, your hand cradling the back of his head as he attacks your neck. “You know I like having something to do with my time besides sit around and take care of you.”
“Takin’ care of you’s my job,” he insists, his voice muffled against your skin. The vibrations travel up your pulsepoint, and you fight your shiver. “Y’should let me do it better. I’m the man. S’posed to provide for you.”
“You do,” you assure him, knowing this is a pressure point for him. “I’m just better for you if I’m not going stir-crazy in this house every day.”
He sighs, finally retreating from the junction of your shoulder and neck. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn. Drives me crazy, woman.”
You press forward, locking your lips onto his. Your mouths move together, slow and luxurious. “I love you,” you mumble, eyes crinkling as you stare back at him.
“Mm,” Gator intones, holding out on you on purpose just to show he’s still not pleased. You snort, nonplussed by his pouting.
“I’m starving,” he announces, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before beginning to extract himself from the bed. “Gonna go make something to eat. You want anything?”
That reminds you– you make yourself sit up and get moving again, yawning wide. “There’s pulled pork in the slow cooker. I waited for you.”
“Why the hell’d you do that?” he asks, exasperated. He stands by the side of the bed waiting for you, which betrays the annoyed look on his face with more of that hidden sweetness.
You shrug, stretching your arms above your head. “I don’t like when we don’t have dinner together.”
“You shouldn’t have waited,” he scolds you, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s late, doll. You can’t just starve ‘cause you’re waitin’ up on me."
“What time is it?” you ask, still groggy, ignoring his chastisement as you grab his right wrist and pull it up so you can look at his watch. When you see the time, you roll your eyes. “It’s only eight-thirty, Gator.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed and let him grab your wrists, pulling you to your feet.
“You just told me you worked all day, stupid,” he reminds you, letting you lead the way out of the bedroom. “Next time, you eat without me. Got it?”
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. It’s almost endearing how fast he switches between the insults and frustration and that care you’ve come to see in him– care that’s unlike how anyone’s ever treated you before, huge and constant and limitless. Like this boy would drive to the ends of the earth for you and yell at you all the way back home for being dumb enough to strand yourself out there.
He’s got rough edges, your Gator. But there’s no denying he loves you.
When he’s standing behind you, beating you to taking the plates down from their high shelf as you stretch for them, you can feel it. When he watches you dig into your food and complains that you’re eating like you’ve been starving to death, it’s there, too. When he takes the dirty dishes from out of your hands and washes them while you sit on the counter beside him, drying them with a dishcloth, it’s impossible to ignore.
On the way back to the bedroom, Gator lands a sharp smack to your ass, and you jump, glaring over your shoulder at him. He grins at you, the expression turning him so boyish. “Gotta be my favorite part of comin’ home.”
“Hm,” you intone, flicking your hair over your shoulder as you walk. “Mine’s giving you head. But I don’t know if you’ve been nice enough tonight.”
He laughs aloud, catching up to you and gripping you around the waist, spinning you in his arms as you reach the bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind him. Ignoring your squeal, he picks you up and throws you back onto the unmade bed.
You can’t help but grin as he comes over you again, his arms caging you in.
“Careful what you wish for, pretty,” he teases, his voice a husk. “You’re lucky I love you so much. Wouldn’t take this kinda attitude from anyone else.”
Your fingers come up to clasp behind his neck, teasingly chaste. “If anyone else is offering you head, you’ve got another thing coming, Alligator.”
He leans down and kisses you, his tongue sweeping past your lips as he languishes in your taste. When you part for air, he’s smiling. “I love you,” he says begrudgingly, like he’s admitting something you can’t already tell in everything he does.
So, grinning back up at him, you only tell him, “I know.”
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a/n: wrote, edited, and posted this in like one hour which is bizarre for me so apologies for any mistakes. also my first real x reader fic...
⌁ thinking about... gator tillman coming home angry just to melt in your arms ꒱
— hihiihiihihihihi im watching fargo as we speak.. i think only tw is use of cuss words! gator x reader fluff <3 not very proofread.. but i tried my best! i hope u all enjoy and love my vision of gator as much as i do !.!.!.!.!.!.!!.!!!!!! kisses kisses
—
the door slammed so hard it shook something loose in the frame.
“fucking hell—” gator’s voice tore through the house before you even saw him. “goddamn piece a’ shit day—”
his boots hit the floor heavy, uneven, like he was ready to fight the ground itself. keys got tossed somewhere— not placed, not dropped— thrown.
“whole town’s full a’ idiots,” he kept going, louder now, pacing already. “can't do one damn thing right, swear to god— jus’ a bitch and a half from sunup to now—”
you leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching him work himself up like a storm with nowhere to go.
“hi, baby.”
“ain't nothin’ hi about it,” he snapped back instantly, dragging a hand through his hair. “got people lyin’ straight to my face, actin’ like i'm stupid— paperwork all fucked, nothin’ lines up—” he kicked at the leg of a chair on his way past, “—and don’t even get me started on that—”
he stopped.
mid-rant. mid-pace. because he finally looked at you.
“…what,” you said, raising a brow.
“nothin’,” he muttered, but he was already walking over, slower now, jaw still tight but not clenched for a fight anymore.
for you.
you didn’t move.
he got close enough to crowd your space, hands landing on your hips like he needed something solid to grab onto before he lost it again.
“still pissed?” you asked, voice light.
“yeah,” he said immediately. “i am. ‘cause it was a bitch and a half out there, and i ain’t even halfway done dealin’ with it.”
“mm.”
“and—” he exhaled sharp through his nose, thumbs digging into your sides a little harder than necessary, “—ain’t nobody listens. whole day’s jus’ people talkin’ over me, actin’ like they know better—”
you let him go, didn't interrupt. just watched the way his grip shifted— less angry, more grounding.
his forehead dipped, almost touching yours before he stopped himself.
“…jus’ wanted to come home,” he finished, quieter now.
you softened a little. “yeah?”
he shrugged like it didn’t matter. like he hadn’t just said that.
“…jus’ wanted to feel my woman’s touch,” he muttered, like it was obvious. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.
your hands slid up his arms, slow, steady. “you're unbelievable.”
“yeeah, well,” he huffed, pulling you closer anyway, stubborn about it. “ain't hearin’ you complain.”
“i am. constantly.”
“mm. not enough to stop me, though.”
theeere it was— that flicker of something smug, something softer, breaking through the pissed-off edges.
he pressed his face into your neck then, breathing heavy, like he’d been holding it in all day. still muttering under his breath—
“fuckin’ idiots… whole damn town…” —but quieter now, words getting lost against your skin.
your fingers threaded into his hair, gentle.
“better?” you asked.
he didn’t answer right away.
just tightened his hold on you, like if he let go he’d have to go back out there and deal with it all over again.
“…yeah,” he said finally, voice low, almost begrudging.
then, after a second:
“…don’t move.”
you huffed a quiet laugh against his shoulder. “wasnt planning on it.”
“good.” his grip tightened like he meant it, arms locked around you, face still buried in your neck. “stay right there.”
“gator— i have food on the stove.”
“it’ll live.”
“it wont. t'will burn.”
“yeaah, well.” he shifted just enough to drag you with him a half-step, like letting go wasn’t even an option. “then, we eat somethin’ burnt.”
you pulled back just enough to look at him. “you are unbelievable.”
“been told,” he muttered, but his hands didn’t move. not an inch.
you studied him for a second— the way his jaw had finally unclenched, the way his shoulders had dropped, how he was still holding onto you like the world might try to take you if he didn’t.
“…you’re clingy,” you said.
his head snapped up immediately. “i ain’t—” he scoffed, pulling back just enough to look offended, “—i ain’t clingy.”
“you are literally attached to me right now.”
“aint attached,” he shot back, even as his fingers flexed against your hips, keeping you exactly where you were. “jus’ standin’ here.”
“mm. against me.”
“coincidence.”
you stared at him.
he stared right back, stubborn as hell.
“…you missed me,” you said simply.
his eyes narrowed, like you’d just accused him of something serious. “i said that already.”
“aaand you meant it.”
“—i didn’t say all that.”
you tilted your head, soft smile tugging at your mouth. “you didn’t have to.”
he squinted at you harder, suspicious now. “…really?”
you paused, like you had to think about it.
“huh,” you hummed, glancing off to the side. “i dunno. let me ask my other husbands.”
silence.
dead. immediate. silence.
“…your what?” his voice dropped, slow and sharp, grip on you tightening in a way that was definitely not casual anymore.
you shrugged, way too innocent. “my other husbands. y'know, firgured they might have some insight—”
“the fuck they do,” he cut in, jaw clenching all over again, but for a very different reason now. “ain't no ‘other husbands.’”
“oh? could’ve sworn—”
“yeah? swore wrong.” his hands slid from your hips to your waist, pulling you in flush against him, like he needed to physically correct the statement. “you got one. me.”
you bit back a smile. “you sure about that?”
“yes, i'm fuckin’ sure about that,” he snapped, leaning down, eyes locked on yours like this was suddenly a matter of life and death. “who the hell else you think—”
“i mean, i don’t know,” you cut in lightly. “there’s options.”
“—there ain’t no options.” his voice dropped lower, more dangerous, but there was something else tangled in it too, something almost.. desperate. “ain't nobody else puttin’ their hands on you. ain’t nobody else comin’ in this house, eatin’ this food, lookin’ at you like—” he stopped himself, exhaling sharp.
you watched him, softer now.
“like what?” you asked gently.
“…like i do,” he muttered finally, quieter, like it slipped out before he could stop it. "..duh,"
you reached up, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “good. ‘cause i don’t want them to.”
he blinked at you. “…yeah?”
“yeah.”
Another pause.
then— “really?”
you let the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm.
then you smiled, soft and easy. “yeah, gator. really.”
he held your gaze for a second, searching your face like he didn’t fully trust it— like he needed to be sure.
“…good,” he muttered, almost to himself.
he huffed, pressing his face back into your neck, all stubborn and warm and very much not letting go.
“…ain’t funny,” he added after a second.
you smiled.
“little bit.”
he huffed at that, all annoyed again on the surface, but he didn’t let go. if anything, his arms tightened, chin hooking over your shoulder like he was settlin’ in.
“you’re startin’ shit on purpose,” he muttered.
“maybe,” you said easily.
“mm.” he shifted, nosing along your neck, quieter now. “don’t like it.”
“dont like what?”
“you talkin’ like that,” he grumbled. “like there’s—” his hand gestured vaguely behind you, frustrated, “—options.”
you couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at your lips. “you got real worked up about that.”
“yeah, well.” he pulled back just enough to look at you, brows pinched. “ain’t funny.”
“it was a little funny.”
“wasn’t.”
“you got all jealous—”
“i didn’t get jealous,” he cut in quick, immediate. “ain’t nothin’ to be jealous about.”
you just looked at him.
he stared right back, stubborn, jaw set.
“…you’re holdin’ me tighter,” you pointed out.
“…that don’t mean nothin’.”
“mmhmm.”
“don’t,” he warned, but there was no real heat behind it anymore.
you softened, hands sliding up his chest, smoothing over the fabric like you were calmmin’ something down in him that never really settled on its own.
“gator,” you said, quieter now.
he blinked at you, attention snapping right back. “what.”
“i’m not goin’ anywhere.”
he held your gaze for a second, searching, like before.
“…yeah?” he asked, softer this time.
it was always like this with gator. he made you swear down on everything you said.. in my language, that's called trust issues.
you nodded. “yeah.”
another beat.
“…really?”
“oh my god, gator,” you let out a small laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek. “really.”
something in him gave— not all at once, not obvious, but enough.
his shoulders dropped again, tension leavin’ in pieces instead of all at once. his hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his face, rough thumb dragging over your knuckles like he needed to feel it.
“good,” he murmured.
then, after a second—
“‘cause i ain’t sharin’.”
you smiled, stepping closer, if that was even possible. “i gathered.”
“yeah.” his forehead bumped yours, gentle this time, not rushed, not angry. “you’re mine.”
there was that tone again— a little rough, a little possessive— but softer underneath it. careful, almost.
you didn’t pull away, just leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “and you’re a big softie.”
he scoffed immediately. “i ain’t— i ain't soft.” he insisted, even as his hand slid to the back of your neck, keepin’ you close. “don’t know where you get that from.”
“the way you’re lookin’ at me right now?” you said.
he froze for half a second.
“…i ain’t lookin’ at you no type a’ way.”
“sure.”
“i ain’t.”
you tilted your head, smiling just a little. “gator.”
“what.”
“you’re doin’ it again.”
“doin’ what.”
“that thing.”
“there ain’t a thing,” he muttered, but his voice had gone quieter, less bite, more something he couldn’t quite cover up.
you leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.
it shut him up instantly.
for a second, he just stood there.
then his hand tightened at your neck, pulling you back in like he needed another one just to make sure that first one was real.
“—yeah,” he breathed, low, almost surprised.
you smiled against him. “softiiiieeeeee.”
“i ain’t soft,” he said again, but it came out quieter this time, less convincing. “y'so annoying— y'piss me off. badly. you don't wanna see me pissed off.”
“mm.”
he exhaled, long and slow, forehead dropping back to yours when you pulled away just enough to look at him.
“…don’t go anywhere,” he muttered.
“i’m not.”
“good.”
he stayed there a second.
“food’s probably burnt.”
you laughed. “yeah. probably.”
he didn’t move.
didn’t make any move to go check, either.
just stood there, holdin’ onto you like he’d rather deal with a burnt dinner than let go too soon.
“…we can fix it,” you said.
“yeah,” he replied, not even soundin’ worried about it.
his thumb brushed along your jaw, slow, absentminded.
I’m the number 1 Gator Tillman is a huge sub truther so I simply must request a Gator made with straight whiskey - on the rocks - with a salty rim and a spicy rim, and added chili flakes 👀
This drink would be so nasty if I actually had to drink it lol
ruin you softly
pairing: gator tillman x reader
summary: he’s crude, cocky, and never shuts up. he's a badge-wearing headache with a vape addiction and a chip on his shoulder the size of Stark County. you don’t give him the time of day beyond a few fleeting moments of playing with him. until he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, frustrated, drunk, and hard… asking why he can’t get off to anyone but you.
you didn’t mean to break him, but now you’re the only one who knows how to put him back together.
wc: 17,602 (HEHE OOPS)
order up: an enemies-to-lovers Gator fic where the reader holds the upper hand and a submissive Gator is unraveling under it. He’s possessive but vulnerable, torn between pride and need, and the tension burns through every touch.
tw: smut (explicit), mild dubcon implications (power imbalance, alcohol), emotionally repressed, praise kink, unprotected sex, dry humping, power exchange, oral (m&f receiving), sub drop themes, dirty talk, jealousy, mild obsession, internalized misogyny, soft domination, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort, body worship, power reversal
masterlist
oh anon, i had fun with this one.
The library smells like glue sticks and hand sanitizer. Gator’s been here five minutes and already wants to smoke about three cigarettes in a row.
He’s leaning against a shelf in the back corner of the kids’ section, arms crossed, badge catching the light. Roy’s campaign flyers are still stuffed in his jacket pocket, but the sheriff himself is off shaking hands at some VFW luncheon with Karen. So Gator gets the twins.
Jessica and Maude are crisscrossed on the carpet in front of the story circle, practically vibrating with excitement, and Gator’s trying not to look like a complete piece of shit while he waits. Failing, no doubt.
Then he sees you.
You’re sitting on one of those tiny upholstered cubes, one leg tucked under you, reading The Poky Little Puppy like it’s Shakespeare. Your voice is soft, steady, singsong in a way that makes half the kids go glassy-eyed. You wear a cardigan with little sunflowers on the buttons. There’s a pin shaped like a bat on your collar. You smile when you say ‘good morning’ to the group and it punches him square in the dick.
Jesus.
Your lips move like they’ve been rehearsed. You gesture gently, like every kid in front of you is made of glass. Your skirt hits just above the knee and your legs are crossed and it’s not even sexual, not really, but his brain is already off somewhere it shouldn’t be.
He shifts his stance. Regrets it immediately.
You probably live in some little pastel-colored house with a welcome mat that says wipe your paws and a bookshelf full of weird novels with fairies on the cover. Probably bake muffins on Sundays and drink tea with actual fucking honey. You probably think he’s a dirtbag just for existing in your vicinity.
He’s not offended.
You’re right.
But still. It’s the voice.
The book ends and the twins go running to pick out stickers from the treasure box, but Gator doesn’t move. You stand and straighten your skirt, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and then your eyes catch his.
He grins.
You don’t.
He saunters over anyway.
“Hell of a story,” he says. “That dog ever find the damn dessert?”
You glance at him sideways. “It’s a classic.”
“Sure. Just think he should’ve mauled one of the other puppies, maybe. Add some stakes.”
Your expression is polite. Dismissive. You reach for the stack of books beside your chair.
“You workin’ the front desk too? Or you just hang out back here with the rugrats?”
“I’m on shift until two. Deputy Tillman, right?”
He tips his Stark County Sheriff cap, probably thinking it's funny.
You don’t smile. You barely acknowledge him. Just start shelving books without giving him the time of day.
But he watches the way your fingers move over the spines.
“Y’know,” he starts, leaning a little too close to the cart you’re pushing, “my dad and Karen- well, a couple folks downtown too- they been sayin’ you’re sneakin’ in some woke shit during storytime.”
You don’t look up.
“Stuff about identity and… communism. Sharing and shit.” He makes a face like those are dirty words. “Guess that’s got 'em real nervous.”
Your hand freezes halfway through shelving a board book. You glance over your shoulder at him.
“So… empathy?”
He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can even try.
“Inclusive language isn’t a threat, Deputy. Telling a group of five-year-olds that it’s okay to be different doesn’t mean I’m handing out Molotov cocktails with the alphabet blocks.”
He blinks.
You turn back to your cart. “But if you’d like to take it up with the Board of Trustees, I’m sure they’d love to hear your thoughts on basic human decency.”
Gator frowns. Rubs the back of his neck. His mouth works like he wants to fire back but knows he shouldn’t.
Truth is, he probably doesn’t even believe half the shit Roy spouts in closed-door meetings. He just grew up marinating in it. And lately it’s started to feel like wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit.
Still, he’s got a job to do. And, in this case, the job is making a fool of himself in front of a hot librarian.
“I like the bat pin,” he tries. “Very seasonal. You into all that spooky shit?”
“Kids like Halloween.”
“You ever do costumes?” he asks, casual as hell, leaning one arm on the book cart like he owns the place.
You don’t answer, too busy shelving a stack of paperback Berenstain Bears. He keeps going.
“Bet you’d make a real cute witch,” he says, smirking. “All black and mysterious. Pointy hat. Stockins’, if you’re into that.”
You pause.
He grins wider. “Or like… a sexy librarian. That one’s kinda on the nose, though.”
Still no reaction.
“Or a cat. With the tail. Tight little bodysuit, ears up here—” He gestures vaguely near his head, eyes sliding down your figure. “You know, slutty Halloween classic. Me-ow and all that.”
Now you straighten. Slowly. Turn to face him with the full force of your unimpressed stare. Your voice doesn’t raise, doesn’t change tone. Just slices clean.
“Deputy Tillman, I’m working.”
It goes straight down his goddamn spine.
He blinks. Smiles, wide and wolfish.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Loud and clear.”
You go back to shelving. He makes himself walk away.
He’s still grinning when Jessica runs up to grab his hand, still grinning when Maude tries to show him the glitter sticker she picked out, still grinning when the door shuts behind you and he thinks about your mouth forming his name.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
Like, legally, he really shouldn’t be doing this.
But that doesn’t stop him. Never has.
Gator’s halfway down Maple Street in the cruiser, windows cracked, radio turned low, trying to come up with some halfway believable excuse for what he’s about to pull. Something about a neighbor complaint. Suspicious music. Kids tagging garages again. He’ll come up with the details on the porch.
Truth is, he’s been thinking about you all goddamn week.
Your mouth. That little sunflower cardigan. The way your voice went all quiet and scolding when you told him you were working. Like he was some idiot teen chewing gum too loud.
He’s jerked off three times since picking up the girls on Tuesday. Not that he’s counting. Once in the shower. Once in the car on lunch break, parked behind the old grain mill. Once in his room with the lights off and your voice playing on a loop in his head saying Deputy Tillman, I’m working.
He slows when he sees the pastel yellow bungalow with the porch swing. There’s a metal watering can on the steps. A string of paper leaves taped up in the window. He checks the address like he hasn’t already done that three times today.
Heart beating like a fucking idiot, he gets out and walks up to the door.
You open it after two knocks.
You look different in jeans and a sweatshirt. Still soft. Still pretty. Hair pulled back in a way that shows your neck. He tries not to look too long.
“Deputy Tillman,” you say, eyebrows raising slightly. “Is everything okay?”
“Got a call about a noise complaint,” he lies, hands resting easy on his belt like this is official business. “Figured I’d check it out.”
Your expression doesn’t change. You tilt your head. “I was listening to a podcast. About frogs.”
“Yeah? Must’ve been real rowdy frogs.”
Silence.
Then, impossibly, you smile. Just barely.
“Well, come on in then,” you say, stepping aside.
He swallows.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon and apples. There’s a bookshelf lined with worn paperbacks. A little crocheted blanket over the back of the couch. You don’t have the heat blasting, but it’s warm anyway. Cozy in a way that makes his chest feel weird, a way his home never felt.
He follows you toward the kitchen.
“So,” you say, casual, opening a cabinet. “Who made the complaint?”
“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anonymous. Neighbor didn’t leave a name.”
You hum like you don’t believe him, but you’re still pulling down a mug. He watches as you open a tin of looseleaf tea.
“You want honey or lemon?”
He blinks. “What?”
You glance over your shoulder.
“For your tea.”
“You’re—” He clears his throat. “You’re makin’ me tea?”
“Well, you came all the way out here for a noise complaint,” you say lightly, spooning out fragrant leaves like this is the most normal thing in the world. “It’s the least I can do.”
He leans against the counter and tries to play it cool, but something about the way you move is killing him. You’re not even trying. That’s the thing. You’re not trying, and it’s working.
He watches your hands again. The way your fingers cradle the handle of the kettle. The curve of your waist when you reach for the lemon. The pink of your lip when you bite it, just briefly, focused on the steam rising from the mug.
Christ.
You got mugs that match.
You got tea that doesn’t come in a bag.
You smell like books and soap and I’m gonna blow a fuse right here in your kitchen.
You set the mug down in front of him and he doesn’t even know what to say. Just stares at the little swirl of steam and wonders what the hell he thought was gonna happen here.
You sit down across from him at the little kitchen table, resting your chin in your hand.
“So, Deputy,” you say, soft voice like honey dripping off a spoon, “are you gonna need to investigate the rest of the house?”
He looks up.
You blink at him. Sweet. Innocent. Like it’s a real question.
He swallows hard. Tries not to smile like a goddamn cartoon wolf.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back. “Might be protocol.”
You nod. Push your chair back and stand.
“Well,” you say, voice light as air, “the bedroom’s this way.”
And then you walk down the hall.
And he follows, thinking he’s finally about to be in charge of something.
You lead him down the hall like it’s no big deal, like you’re not already two steps ahead of whatever clumsy plan he’s cooked up in that badge-polished brain of his. His boots thud behind you like he’s chasing something he thinks he’s already caught.
You step inside and he follows, dumb and hopeful, eyes skating over the room like he’s casing it for more than just fantasy. He’s already got his hands halfway into his vest when the door clicks shut behind him.
He turns.
You’re standing right in front of it, arms relaxed, head tilted. Watching him.
He opens his mouth. Probably to say something cocky, something crude and stupid like he always does. But before he can get it out, you’re already moving toward him and backing him up until his spine hits the wood of the door.
It’s not even hard, just firm. Unavoidable.
Your hands skim his vest like you’re checking the fit. His breath catches.
He reaches for your waist, lips curving in that smug little grin of his, already talking.
“Yeah,” he mutters against your cheek, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d feel good. Knew you’d come around eventually. Can’t fake it forever.”
His mouth is at your jaw now, sloppy and too eager. His hands go to the hem of your sweater, like he thinks he’s already got you spread across the bed in his head. He noses at your neck like it’s something to claim, muttering half-sentences against your skin.
Then your hand slides down.
You palm him over the front of his camo cargos, slow and certain.
He stutters out a breath like it surprises him, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him with that kind of control. His hips stutter, trying to chase your grip, but you stay exactly where you are.
You lean in close. So close your lips almost brush the shell of his ear.
And then you speak in a tone that’s like you’re reading him a bedtime story.
“Take off your vest and go lie down for me.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.
Then his mouth parts a little, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out except a breathy, choked little “yeah.”
You smile. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just patient.
Like you already knew this was how it was gonna go.
Gator swallows, but his eyes are already a little wide, his pupils already blown.
He doesn't take his vest off yet, but his hands find the hem of your sweater and push up under it. You stop him immediately.
"That wasn't what I asked. Do you need help?"
You sound so calm.
He's looking at you like he wants to eat you, like he's thinking about tearing through all the layers between you. Like he doesn't understand why he's not.
So you guide him by his hand to the bed, undoing his vest as you stand in front of him. It slides off his shoulders and onto the comforter and he looks down at you like he wants to say something.
"Now, will you sit for me?"
You ask it like a question, but it isn't. He knows it. You know it.
So he sits and looks up at you expectantly.
You smile. Gently, you run your hand along his face.
"There we go," you murmur, thumb rubbing along his stubbled cheek.
He makes a little noise, not quite a whimper. Not quite. He clears his throat immediately, like he was covering up what just escaped him.
"You're awfully quiet, Deputy." You say, the same hand trailing down his chest over his black t-shirt. "Cat got your tongue?"
You can see the way he fights himself not to lean into the touch, and the fact that he doesn't is endearing.
When he speaks, it's clear he's trying to take control again.
"Just thinkin' about what's gonna happen when I get my hands on you," he says, leaning back, arms braced against the mattress.
You smile, and your fingers trace over his chest more. "But you're still following directions, aren't you, Deputy Tillman? That's very good."
The words make him swallow hard, and you can see him tense, unsure of what to say or do, clearly thrown by your response.
"I don't know what you think you're doing but-"
"You don't need to talk, Deputy. Unless you need help. Do you need help?"
He's quiet again, watching you, and it's clear he doesn't know how to respond.
"Answer me. Or I'll stop." You say it firmly, and it makes his mouth open and close like he's trying to think of a snarky response.
Your hand trails down lower to his belt, just sort of tracing the shape but not doing anything more.
"Fuck, okay, I don't, I don't need help," he grumbles, and you can feel the way he's trying not to press against your touch.
"Good boy. Thank you."
It's clear that the phrase startles him, and the way his mouth opens just slightly, eyes going a little wider, makes the whole thing even better. You start to undo his belt, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, but then he snaps it shut again.
"Now, let's see what you've been hiding," you murmur, lowering to your knees in front of him and you move to unzip his cargos next.
"Uh, what?"
"This is what you wanted, right?" You look up at him, after you unzipped his pants, your hands on his thighs.
God he could finish just from that, just from the sight of you between his legs, just from the fact that it's actually happening, after a week of jerking off to the sound of your voice in his head.
"Use your words."
His breath catches. "Yeah. Yeah, it's what I want."
"I know."
His cheeks flush, and he has the urge to hide his face like a fucking idiot, but also, the sight of you there is almost too much to take.
"Do you want me to use my mouth on you, Deputy?"
"Fuck, yeah, yeah, I want you to, I want- "
You smile up at him.
"Then ask for it."
He's looking at you like a deer in the headlights, like his brain can't even compute what's happening. You wait patiently, not breaking eye contact.
"I don't beg," he finally blurts out, desperate, and it sounds almost painful, but his eyes are on your mouth, on the way you're just sort of waiting for him to comply. He's not sure why but the fact that he's sitting there, his dick twitching under the weight of your gaze, is making him even more turned on.
"Well, then I guess you're not getting it, Deputy."
You move to stand, and the panic sets in almost immediately.
"Wait, fuck, please. I- I'll beg, please," he says quickly, his voice strained, and god it shouldn't be hot, shouldn't be, but he's not really thinking about it.
"Oh?"
"Please, please I want- I want your mouth on me," he mumbles, eyes downcast, and there's something in his voice, something soft and desperate that wasn't there before.
"That's a start," you say softly, and now you're looking at him with a fondness, and your hands are working his cargos off. "Lift your hips for me."
"Yes, ma'am."
It's automatic, the words and the action, and it's clear that he wasn't planning on saying that, based on the way his eyes flick away from you. But he complies anyway, lifting his hips off the bed.
His cargos are down, and his black boxer briefs are tight, and his erection is clear and straining against the fabric. You move to palm him through the briefs, and his breath catches.
"Fuck, please," he whimpers.
"What do you want?" You look up at him.
"Please, can you- fuck, I'm so fucking hard."
You smile. "You'll have to be more specific, Deputy."
"Can you- fuck, just suck me off already," he blurts, and he's flushed, the color rising in his cheeks and ears.
"That sounds an awful lot like a command, Deputy."
He groans. "No, fuck, it wasn't, please. Please suck me off. Please."
"I think I like the sound of you begging. Maybe you should keep going."
He huffs. "I want- I want your mouth," his voice is strained, and his cock is twitching, and his breathing is a little more labored. "Please, please can you- can you just put me in your mouth? I've been thinkin' about your lips all goddamn week. Please, please just do somethin' already."
His words are rushed, and the fact that he's actually begging makes heat rush straight between your legs.
"Well, color me surprised, I didn't think you'd actually fold that easily." You say it lightly, like his pleading isn't having any effect on you, and when you speak, his eyes meet yours, and there's a vulnerability there that wasn't there before.
You palm him gently again, and the way he groans makes you bite your lip.
"Please." His voice is soft.
"Look at you," you say, and there's something in your tone, something warm and approving, and you can see the way it hits him.
"Please."
You lean forward, and your nose grazes the outline of his cock. "Well, since you asked so nicely."
He lets out a breath through his nose and you smile, mouthing along his length through his briefs, and the way his hips jump is almost enough to make you laugh.
"Fuck," he mutters, and the word comes out choked.
You hum, and the vibration makes him let out a small moan, one that he immediately covers up.
"What was that, Deputy?"
"Nothin', nothing, I'm-"
You lick along the outline of his cock, and his breath catches, a soft, choked sound escaping him.
"Fuck, oh my god," he murmurs.
You smile, and it's a little wicked, and it's enough to make his cock twitch again.
"Do you like that, Deputy?" You're teasing him, and it's clear, and he can't help but groan, his face flushed and eyes downcast.
"Yeah, I do, fuck, please don't stop," and he's practically rambling, like his mind can't process the fact that his cock is leaking and you haven't even taken his briefs off yet.
"Hmm," you say, and then you pull his briefs down, and his erection bobs out, flushed and red and dripping precum. He's so hard and he's so desperate. God, if anyone could see him like this, he's not sure he'd survive.
"Oh, wow," you breathe, and the way you're looking at him is almost too much, and he swallows hard.
"Please," he croaks, and the desperation in his voice is obvious.
"You're so pretty, Deputy," you murmur, and then your lips are ghosting the tip, and his hips buck, and the sound he makes is high and strangled.
"Men... men aren't supposed to be pretty," he manages, and his voice is unsteady, like he's repeating something he's only heard and doesn't actually believe.
"But you are. Look at you."
You're just mouthing little kisses along his length now, and it's making him crazy.
"M'not pretty," he manages.
You hum against his shaft and it makes him jerk.
"S'true, I'm not. Men aren't, fuck, they aren't-"
"Shh, Deputy, you're okay," and your voice is soothing and gentle.
"I'm okay," he echoes.
"Mm-hm."
You take his tip in your mouth, just sucking softly, and the groan he lets out is long and needy.
"Please," he chokes, his voice cracking.
"Shh," you say, and then the hand not resting on his thigh comes up to stroke the base of his cock, and the noise he makes is desperate.
"Holy fuck, oh my god, please," his words are tumbling out, like his brain has completely shut off.
Your lips slide down lower, and your tongue moves along the underside of his shaft, and the choked moan he lets out is obscene.
He's trembling a little, and the hand not in his hair is clenching the comforter, and the sight is beautiful.
"Shh," you say, pulling away with a pop. The sound he makes is involuntary.
"Please, please, oh my god, oh my fucking god," his eyes are closed, and his brow is furrowed, and his breath is coming in shallow little pants.
"Gator."
The word comes out softly, gently, but his eyes snap open. There's a vulnerability there, something a little wide and shocked.
"I'm gonna go nice and slow, and I want you to count. Okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," and his voice is low and breathy.
You lean in again, taking him slowly, his breath catching.
"One," he manages, and his hips are trembling.
"Good boy," you murmur, pulling off, and the praise makes his breath catch.
"Two."
You move back in, sucking along his shaft, the noise he lets out is long and low.
"Thr-three."
You work him deeper, a desperate, needy groan escapes him.
"Four."
His voice is soft, like the numbers are something to hold on to.
"Five," he gasps.
Your hand reaches up to rest on his chest and the contact makes him groan again. The way his hips jerk makes you smile.
"Six."
His breaths are ragged and labored, the sight is a beautiful thing as you look up at him, your mouth full of his cock. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, just slightly, like his mind can't even process what's happening. His usually slicked back hair is slightly messy from him running his hands over it.
"Please, please, oh my god, fuck, seven, fuck," voice is a little higher, a little more unsteady, and the fact that his control is slipping is delicious.
You start to work his cock faster, and the choked moan he lets out is loud.
"Fuck, please, please, please. Eight. Nine, oh my god, nine."
He's stuttering, his eyes closing.
Your mouth is moving, and the sounds are lewd, and the fact that you're doing this to him, the fact that you're the one who is in charge, the fact that you're the one bringing him apart is making him crazy.
You're bobbing, the hand that was stroking his base is moving lower to massage his balls, eliciting a strangled and desperate noise.
"Fuck, ten, oh my god, eleven, fuck, twelve, oh my fucking god, thirteen, fourteen," his brain is melting, and it's the prettiest thing.
Your other hand reaches up to gently run down his torso, underneath his shirt, and the contact makes his body shiver.
His cock twitches in your mouth and you moan a little around him. The sound is enough to make his eyes snap open, the noise that escapes his throat a strangled, choking sort of sob.
"Shit, fuck, fuck, oh my god, I'm, shit, twenty, oh my fucking god," and the words are a jumble, and his hips are jerking, and his thighs are trembling, and it's obvious how close he is.
When your nails scratch down his torso just a little, his back arches.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, fuck, oh my god, please." His words are rushing out as his hands clench.
You're moving faster and the wet sounds are filthy, the way his breath is catching is perfect. You look up and catch his eyes with your own, making him spill a litany of curses and prayers, his voice breaking deliciously.
You can tell he's close. You pull off just enough to say "ask me nicely," and the whine he lets out is pathetic, like the act of speaking is impossible.
His voice is broken, like he's never asked for anything before. “Please.”
"Please what, Deputy?" Your words are a purr.
"Can I- fuck, can I cum? Wanna cum so bad, wanna cum for you…”
"Eyes on me." You say softly, before sticking your tongue out and stroking him slowly.
"Yes, fuck, please, thank you, yes.” The gratitude is a little surprising, a little sweet.
He cums in hot spurts, his eyes a little wet. You have a hard time catching all of it in your mouth, so some leaks out.
"Thank you, thank you, holy shit." He looks completely wrecked.
You swallow and the way his cock twitches makes him let out a desperate whine.
"That was so good, Deputy," you murmur, wiping the corner of your mouth. "You did such a good job."
The phrase is enough to make his eyes widen a little, his chest heaving, and it's clear to you then that praise is a shock for him.
"Did a good job," he echoes, and the words are soft, like he's testing the sound of them.
"You did. You did a great job." You place a soft kiss to his now limp cock. "So good for me."
"Yeah," he manages, and it's obvious he's trying to process what's happened.
You start to get up, watching him as you do. His gaze is on you, and it's clear that the fact that you're still clothed, while he's half bare and panting, is starting to sink in.
"I think I might take a shower," you say casually, walking towards the bathroom.
"Wait, wait, are you—you're leaving?"
The way he says it is vulnerable, a little uncertain.
You turn around then.
"I think the only noise complaint was coming from your mouth, Deputy."
His eyes widen a little.
"Get yourself cleaned up. You know the way out."
"But-"
You're already stepping into the bathroom, closing the door.
There's a pause, and the silence feels heavy.
He swallows, clears his throat, runs a hand down his face. Sits there, half-naked and dumb, his mouth hanging open, his brain still fuzzy.
He doesn’t have to be here.
In fact, there’s probably some minor infraction happening across town. Like someone jaywalking, or the high school kids smoking behind the Taco Bell again. And yet, Gator’s cruiser is parked right outside the public library like he’s got a goddamn overdue research paper.
He told Roy he was “checking on a community concern.” Left it vague on purpose. It’s not even a lie, technically. The concern is that his brain hasn’t stopped replaying the sound of your voice saying “good boy” on a loop for seventy-two hours, and if he doesn’t see you again soon he might actually melt into the vinyl seat of his patrol car.
When he walks in, you're behind the main desk typing something into the computer. Sweater again, this one pale blue with little cloud buttons. Your hair’s pulled back. Glasses on.
You don’t look up when the door chimes.
You don’t flinch when he walks past the kid’s section.
You don’t even blink when he leans one elbow on the counter and says, “Afternoon.”
You glance up, totally placid. “Deputy Tillman. Everything alright?”
He swallows. Your voice is light. Polite. Absolutely fucking criminal.
“Uh, yeah. Just followin’ up on that… noise complaint.”
You blink. Tilt your head a little, a quirk he won’t admit he finds cute. “The frogs?”
“Right. Rowdy bunch.”
You nod once, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. “Well, I haven’t played any amphibian-themed podcasts at top volume lately, if that’s what you’re here about.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Community check-in, then. Public safety and such.”
“Mmm. Of course.”
You go back to typing.
He stands there like a dumbass, just watching your fingers move across the keyboard like they didn’t make him beg a few nights ago. Like you didn’t lick the tip of his cock and praise him like he was something worth praising.
The contrast is making him crazy.
You glance up again. “Did you need help with something?”
He clears his throat. “Thought maybe I’d, uh, do a walkthrough. Safety inspection.”
“Of the library?”
He nods, almost too fast. “Uh-huh. Could be… fire hazard, exposed wiring, structural…” His eyes flick to a clearly labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door behind the desk. “Mold.”
You blink once, slow. “Right. The hidden black mold epidemic in rural North Dakota.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
A beat. Then you close the lid of your laptop and gesture toward the hallway behind you.
“Well, you’re welcome to take a look around, Deputy. Just don’t get lost in the archives.”
He nods, stepping around the desk like he belongs there, like he’s not just following the smell of your perfume and the ghost of your mouth on his cock. The hall is narrow, lined with staff posters and a flickering light overhead. You’re already walking ahead of him, casual as anything, hands in the pockets of your skirt.
And then you stop in front of a half-closed door marked “STAFF WORKROOM.”
You glance over your shoulder. “This one’s usually the messiest. Just FYI.”
He swallows, heart knocking around in his chest like it wants out.
“Appreciate the warning,” he mutters, trying to sound casual, but his voice is already lower, rougher. Hungry.
You open the door.
You step inside.
He follows.
And just like that, you’re alone again.
Same silence. Same still air.
Only now there’s a copy machine humming in the corner and the scent of dust and paper and whatever lotion you’re wearing.
He turns toward you. You’re already shutting the door behind you.
The door clicks shut and the lock slides into place like a punctuation mark. Gator stands there, hands on his hips, trying not to stare but already failing. He doesn’t know what he expected. A dusty filing cabinet. Maybe an unplugged laminator.
You don’t say anything at first. Just turn around slow, eyes dragging over him like you’re measuring something. He feels like a piece of furniture.
A big, twitchy, half-hard piece of furniture.
“Deputy,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
He licks his lips. “Think so.”
You move slowly across the room, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Pale blue sweater, neat little collar poking out, sleeves pushed to the crook of your elbows. You’re not even trying to be sexy. Which makes it worse.
Gator’s eyes drag down you. The way your skirt shifts when you move. The soft curve beneath the waistband. He swallows, shifts his stance. Tries not to imagine what your tits look like without the sweater in the way. Fails immediately.
Bet they’re soft. Bet they’d fill both hands just right. Jesus. Stop. Focus.
But he doesn’t look away.
You pause, fingers absently straightening a stack of construction paper. Not a single glance in his direction. You’re letting the quiet stretch, just to see what he does with it.
And Gator? Gator’s dumb enough to fill the silence.
“You always keep the door locked on inspection tours?” he asks, voice a little rough.
You hum like you’re thinking about it. Still not looking at him. “Only when I know you’re gonna stare at my tits again.”
Gator chokes.
You finally turn.
Eyes calm. Voice sweet.
“Been catching you,” you continue, stepping toward him, “Every time you think I’m not looking.”
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
You stop in front of him, just a little too close. Close enough he can smell whatever lotion you’re wearing. Close enough he can see the edge of lace peeking from under your sweater collar. His brain drops the rest of its vocabulary.
“I don’t mind,” you say. “Just figured you should know I notice.”
Your hand lifts—gentle, light—and smooths the edge of his collar. He’s standing still now, statue-stiff, cock already heavy in his pants. It's fucking humiliating.
“But if you’re gonna gawk,” you murmur, “you might as well be useful about it.”
You’re already backing him toward the chair.
He doesn't resist, just lets himself be guided. Just like in your bedroom.
You nudge him into the seat and lean over his shoulder, voice soft against his ear.
"Don't move, Deputy."
Then you straighten, step back, and slowly unbutton your sweater, placing it neatly on a stack of books like you have all the time in the world.
The white camisole underneath is thin and sleeveless, and the fabric clings to the shape of your body, tracing the line of your bra and the dip of your waist. Gator can see the curve of your breasts and the outline of your nipples through the thin cotton.
He doesn't move, just watches, transfixed.
You step forward, one hand on the back of the chair and the other sliding across his chest, up his shoulder. You lean down, the soft fabric brushing his cheek.
"Doing okay, deputy?"
He's not.
He can't remember what words mean, or how his hands are supposed to work.
"Uh-huh," he mutters.
"You want to touch? Just a little?"
He nods, dumb as a stump, eyes locked on the way the fabric clings to your curves. You reach for the hemp of your camisole, lifting it up slowly, inch by inch. Your navel, the line of your waist, the bottom swell of your breast, the underside of your collarbone. All the way to the neckline, pulling it over your head.
You go to take your glasses off next but he touches your free hand. "No..."
"No?"
He licks his lips. "Please... leave them."
You pause. "Alright."
Gator swallows, hands hovering uselessly, palms sweaty. You lean forward and his breath catches, eyes roaming over the soft lace of your bra that barely contains the curves of your tits.
You set the camisole with your sweater, careful and precise. You straighten. Turn.
"Hands."
He obeys, setting his big palms on your waist, callused thumbs brushing the soft skin just above the skirt band.
"Good boy."
He shivers, cock jerking against his zipper.
Your fingers are gentle on his, guiding them to your breasts, pressing his hands over the lace.
His breath catches, eyes wide and mouth open, thumbs already tracing the edge of the fabric. You hum, low, approving.
"That's it," you murmur, letting him squeeze, feeling the warmth of your skin.
Your hands move, guiding his upward, slipping the straps off your shoulders, sliding the cups down until his palms brush bare skin.
Your eyes lock on his face, watch him react.
It's everything he wanted and nothing like he expected.
The weight of your tits in his hands, the way they fill his palms, the softness, the heat. He strokes the pads of his thumbs across your nipples, watching them pebble beneath his touch. You inhale, slow and deliberate, moving to straddle him in the chair. Your skirt bunches up at your hips as you hover there, not fully letting your weight settle against him yet.
His hips buck up almost involuntarily, like he's chasing the feel of you. You tut, soft and gentle. "Keep your hands here."
He nods, and you reward him by grinding down just enough for him to feel the heat of your pussy.
"That's it," you whisper, rolling against him again, slow and steady. "You're doing so well."
His fingers tighten, and he has to bite back a groan. You lean forward and press a gentle kiss against the side of his neck. "Want more? Ask nicely."
"P... please."
Your nails rake up his arms, just hard enough to leave marks. "Please what? Be specific. You can do that, can't you?"
"Let me..." he mutters, breathless, voice trailing off.
"Let you what?"
"Please... I wanna... want your nipples."
"To do what, exactly?"
"Suck 'em."
"Mmmm, good boy."
His hands shake as you guide them behind your back. He fumbles with the clasp, and when he finally manages it, his breath catches in his throat as you slip your bra off your arms.
He leans forward and his mouth is on your nipple, tongue tracing the sensitive skin, his breath hot and fast. You sigh, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.
"Just like that."
His teeth graze your skin and you arch against him, grinding down as he sucks, hands tight on your waist. He groans around your tit, muffled and hungry.
Your breath catches as his grip tightens.
"Fuck..." He releases your nipple with a pop, breathing hard, mouth open. "I... fuck, sorry, I-"
"You really like those, don't you?"
His face is red. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes.
"Yeah."
"Good. They're nice, aren't they? Soft and warm."
"Mhm."
"Why don't you kiss the other one and show me how much you like it?"
He licks his lips, glances up, and then leans forward again.
You can feel him trembling, breath ragged and desperate. His lips are soft, almost hesitant, but when he wraps his mouth around your nipple, you can't help but gasp, arching into him.
He moans, the sound muffled around the flesh in his mouth, and sucks. Hard.
One of his hands is on your waist and the other is kneading your opposite breast, pinching and rolling.
You start to grind on him again, and this time he arches up, meeting the movement. You can feel his cock through his pants, hard and hot, rubbing against panties.
He releases your nipple, and you shiver when he exhales.
"F... fuck..."
You smile, tugging his hair and guiding his head back to your breast. "Good boy. You're being so good. But I didn't say you could stop."
He doesn't, immediately returning to sucking and nipping at the flesh, making you gasp and writhe against him. He groans around you, and his hips buck up again.
The chair squeaks, and his hands are on your hips now, gripping so hard you can feel his fingers twitch and you wonder if he'd be holding onto you the same way if his belt was undone.
He's still thrusting against you, the rhythm growing unsteady, and you stroke your hand through his hair while you praise him. "Such a good boy for me, aren't you? Getting so excited you can't sit still."
He makes a desperate noise and tries to grind against you harder. You tug his hair, just enough to get his attention. "Eyes on me, Gator."
He looks up, switching to the other nipple and licking eagerly, his gaze focused on yours, the picture of obedience.
"There you go," you breathe, your own hips moving faster, seeking more friction. "So eager, so good."
He knows he's going to cum in his pants and he can't find it in him to care.
Your fingers dig into his scalp and the muscles of your legs are starting to shake, but Gator's still latched onto your tit, sucking and nipping, lost in the feel of you.
You grind down harder and he arches up, meeting the rhythm. His breath hitches, and his whole body is trembling.
"You can cum," you murmur. "It's okay. I know you want to. Cum for me, baby. Cum in your pants. I know you'll be a good boy and clean up afterward. You want to, don't you?"
His moan is muffled by your tit, but the vibration makes your pussy clench.
"That's it," you encourage, voice breathy and shaking. "That's a good boy. Let go. Cum for me. Cum all over yourself."
You can feel him shaking, feel his hips jerk and his grip tighten.
He lets go, cums so hard he can't see straight, whines like a dog when his hips stop moving.
"There you go," you whisper, still rolling against him, chasing your own orgasm. "You're so good, Gator. So good."
He moans, face buried in your tits, still shaking. Your voice is shaky, but he can tell you're trying to stay calm, stay in control. It only makes him hotter.
He's dizzy. Breathless. He feels like he's been wrung out and tossed in a heap.
You kiss his forehead before you untangle yourself from him, and the gentleness of the gesture makes his chest hurt.
You pull your bra up, putting your cami and sweater on with the same care you took taking them off. You don't speak until you're fully dressed, hair neat, and glasses straight.
"Well," you say, voice light, casual. "I'd say that was a successful inspection. Thank you, Deputy. I'll leave you to clean up after yourself. Don't forget to lock the door on the way out."
Then you walk out.
And just like that, Gator's alone in a library staff room, sticky and spent and trying to catch his breath.
His first thought is, holy shit, that just happened.
His second thought is, what the fuck does he do next?
He shifts, hissing a little at the mess in his boxers, and takes a moment to just breathe, replaying the last few minutes. Your hands, guiding his across your tits, your hips rolling against his cock, the feeling of your hands in his hair.
Fuck.
He needs to move.
Now.
He pushes himself up and grimaces at the state of his pants, sticky and uncomfortable, and he's suddenly struck with the urge to laugh. Here he is, a grown man, getting off in his work pants because some girl told him to.
The girl who is currently out there, behind the main desk, probably acting like nothing happened.
Gator shakes his head, straightens his shirt, and tugs the hem of his jacket down, trying to disguise the wet spot.
It's a lost cause, but maybe no one will notice. He's just gonna have to hope for the best. And also, probably, that none of the town gossips are lurking near the reference section today.
Because if he gets seen like this?
The rumor mill will grind him into paste.
He can hear them now, all of the old biddies at the coffee shop, sitting around the tables and sipping decaf with extra foam, talking about the state of his fly and the state of his dignity.
All he can smell is spilled vodka and cucumber melon body spray.
It assaults his nose as one of the girls is on his lap, straddling him like it’s a job (which, to be fair, it is) but she’s doing that fake moan thing in his ear like she actually gives a shit. Gator exhales through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, past the glitter and the strobe lights. His buddies are hooting and hollering in the next booth over, trying to shove bills between a brunette’s ass cheeks. Sheriff’s department morale night.
Fuckin’ great.
She’s pretty, he guesses. Long lashes. Little shorts. Tits pressed up under his chin like a goddamn buffet. She keeps asking what he wants her to do and it’s supposed to be hot, supposed to make him feel powerful, wanted.
She’s pliant. Willing. Waiting for direction.
And he’s bored out of his goddamn mind.
His cock hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t even twitched. It’s like his whole body knows something his brain doesn’t want to admit.
He shifts under her, lets her grind against him a little more. Tries to focus. Tries to pretend it’s working. She leans in and whispers something about the champagne room and he almost laughs.
He could fuck her. Right now. Right outside in his truck if he wanted.
Bet she’d let him pull her panties to the side and bend her over the hood. Probably wouldn’t even blink. Would make some fake little gasping sounds and call him daddy and let him talk dirty right into her throat.
He should want that.
Jesus, he used to want that.
He pulls on his vape instead, a bitter strawberry cloud filling his throat. She’s still moving on him and he just stares past her at the neon Bud Light sign behind the bar, wondering why the hell his skin feels too tight.
You flash through his head before he can stop it.
Your voice. Your hands. That soft cardigan with the sunflowers. The way you looked at him like you were peeling him apart one piece at a time. The way you told him to lie down like he wasn’t even in the goddamn room unless you said so.
He exhales slow, lets the vape hang between his fingers.
"You're not hard," she pouts, tilting her head like maybe that’ll change something.
"No shit," he mutters.
She blinks. Smiles again. Still trying. “We could—”
He doesn’t let her finish.
Gator plants both hands on her hips and lifts her off like she weighs nothing, setting her to the side like she’s a gym bag. Her eyebrows shoot up but he doesn’t even look at her. Just stands, adjusts his belt, and heads for the door.
One of the guys yells his name, but he waves them off. Another hits the table, laughs loud. “Tillman’s too fucked up to function!”
He doesn’t correct them.
Out in the parking lot, the wind hits him like a bucket of water. Cold. Sober-ish.
He lights a cigarette, something he hasn’t done in a while since he got this stupid strawberry thing, and smokes it down like it was nothing. Then climbs into his truck with a slam of the door. The upholstery still smells like grease and fast food. He doesn’t even turn the heat on.
His leg’s bouncing before he’s halfway out of the lot.
God, what the fuck is wrong with him?
You. That’s what.
You, standing in your kitchen acting like tea is some kind of sex drug. You, pulling your glasses down just a little to look at him. You, locking that goddamn workroom door like it was nothing.
He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter than he needs to and now he’s hard. Not when some perfect piece of ass was grinding all over him, but when he thinks about some fucking sunflower buttons on a sweater.
Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the strip club. Maybe it’s the fact that the last time he came from a woman was with your voice in his ear and his pants still on.
He sucks on the vape again. Harder.
You’re in his head like a fucking landmine.
By the time he pulls up outside your house, his palms are sweating. Lights are off except for the warm little glow from the porch. Same paper leaf garland. Same ceramic pumpkins from Target or wherever the hell people like you shop. You’re probably asleep. Probably curled up under a quilt with some weird fantasy book and a mug of herbal shit that smells like orange peel.
Gator kills the engine. Sits in the dark. Lets the silence press in tight.
His dick’s still hard and aching just from thinking about you in pajamas.
He hits the vape again.
Then again.
Then, finally, he gets out of the truck.
You can’t sleep.
It’s almost one in the morning and the chamomile isn’t doing shit, but you make the tea anyway.
Old habits.
The house is still except for the kettle and the wind tapping against the windows. You’re in an oversized t-shirt and socks, hair tied up and glasses slipping down your nose. You figure maybe a book will help, or a walk around the living room. Maybe if you just sit with it, your mind will settle.
Then comes the knock.
Three sharp raps, straight to the center of the door. Not loud. Just confident.
You don’t jump. You just sigh.
You already know who it is.
You open the door with the mug still in your hand, steam curling into the night air.
And there he is.
Not in uniform. Not in anything even close to it.
Same camo cargos he probably rarely washes, black leather jacket, and a backwards mesh hat that makes him look about five years younger and ten times more pathetic. The porch light casts a yellow haze over his face. His eyes are bloodshot. His cheeks pink from the cold. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to fidget, like if he shifts too much you’ll see the hard-on pressing against his fly.
You raise an eyebrow. Keep your voice even.
“Deputy Tillman. What brings you by at this hour?”
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t even try to be smooth or come up with an excuse
“I’m pissed,” he blurts.
You blink. “Okay…”
“I’m fuckin’ pissed at you,” he repeats, louder now, shifting from one foot to the other like he’s trying to work something out of his system. “Can’t even jerk off without thinkin’ about your voice. Got this chick grindin’ on me for half an hour at the strip club and nothin’. Not even a twitch. She’s hot, too. Like, normal hot. Tits out, moaning in my fuckin’ ear, beggin’ me to take her in the private rooms or whatever. And I got nothin’. Zilch. Fuckin’ dead inside my own pants.”
You stare at him over the rim of your mug.
He keeps going.
“You wanna know the worst part? You didn’t even do anything last time. Just told me what to do. Like I was one of those little kids in your storytime circle. And I came so hard in my pants I thought I was gonna pass out.”
He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising with every word. You don’t say anything. You just wait.
“And now I’m fucked,” he says. “Now I’m hard all the time. Or not hard at all. I don’t even know anymore. I just know you ruined it. You got in my head with your little teacher voice and your fuckin’ soft hands and now I can’t think straight.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I think you might be having a crisis.”
He looks miserable. And furious. And still hard.
“I am havin’ a crisis,” he snaps. “And I need you to do somethin’ about it.”
You sip your tea. Hold his gaze.
Then, without a word, you open the door a little wider.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just steps past you like he belongs here, like this is where he was always meant to end up.
You shut the door behind him and start walking toward the hall. He follows without hesitation, boots heavy on the hardwood.
No words. No teasing.
You don’t need to say anything.
You just lead him to the bedroom.
Inside your bedroom, you set your mug down on the nightstand like this isn’t the end of the fucking world. Like you’re not about to peel him apart in the dark with a whisper and a fingertip.
The room smells like you- a hint of whatever perfume clings to your sweaters.
You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like you’re trying to figure something out.
He’s standing there like a goddamn idiot. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders squared too tight. Whole body is twitchy like he’s waiting for a command, like he doesn’t know what to do unless someone tells him. His dick is still hard and his throat is dry and there’s something itchy trying to crawl out of his chest.
You come to him slow.
Touch his face like he’s made of glass.
And ask, real soft, real serious, “Why do you hate this so much?”
He swallows. Tries to laugh. It doesn’t land.
“I don’t hate it,” he says, eyes flicking away from you. “That’s the problem.”
You keep looking at him.
He shifts.
“It’s just—” he starts, then stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Men are supposed to be strong. That’s what my dad always said. Like, if you give someone the reins, you’re fucked. That’s weakness. That’s—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because your mouth is at his jaw.
Just a ghost of a kiss. Barely there.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He should stop this. He should say something mean or horny or stupid just to make the feeling go away, but all he can do is stand there while you unzip his jacket. Carefully. Like it’s not even a piece of clothing, just another layer to peel back.
You drape it over the chair. Take his dumb hat off next and toss it somewhere out of sight. Your fingers graze his scalp.
He wants to say something but his voice won’t work right. There’s a burn building behind his eyes and he swallows it down like hot bile.
“Take your boots off,” you murmur.
So he does. Awkwardly. One at a time. Leaves them by the bed like a kid coming in from the cold.
You don’t ask him to sit. He just does it. Drops onto the edge of the mattress like his knees gave out.
And then you climb into his lap.
It’s slow. Sure. Like it’s just a thing you were always gonna do.
You kiss him again, this time at the curve of his neck. Up along his jaw. His hands hover at your thighs but he doesn’t grab, doesn’t grope, just holds still like he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.
And then he notices.
You haven’t kissed him.
Not on the mouth.
Not once.
And he’s not even the kind of guy who gives a shit about kissing. That’s for girls in rom-coms and teenagers with prom corsages and people who read those shitty sex advice columns in Cosmo. He’s not that guy.
But suddenly he wants it.
God, he wants it.
He shifts up toward you, just a little, like maybe you’ll meet him halfway.
You don’t.
You pull back, just enough to keep the distance.
“Kissing’s too intimate for what this is,” you say, matter-of-fact.
It hits him like a brick.
His mouth opens, shuts. He lets out a noise, part groan, part whine, something that feels embarrassing the second it leaves his chest.
“I don’t care,” he mutters.
You blink, caught off guard because he means it.
He doesn’t care if it’s too intimate or too soft or too fucking vulnerable. He wants to kiss you. He wants to be kissed. He wants to come home to you and have you make him tea and rub the knots out of his shoulders and tell him he’s good. He wants to sit on this stupid bed and let you undo him like a fucking bedtime routine.
You study him for a long moment, and something in your face makes him start talking again. Words tumble out, low and rough, like he’s afraid they’ll rot if he keeps them inside.
“I don’t wanna be like him,” he says. “My old man. With the young wives and the bruises nobody talked about. He calls it love, but it’s just noise. I can’t—” He stops, jaw tight, searching for the right piece of language that never seems to fit. “I don’t wanna grab at people just ‘cause I can.”
Your hand is still at his cheek, thumb just below his eye. He looks younger than you’ve ever seen him. Almost fragile. The words keep coming, halting but honest.
“I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know how to do the… gentle part. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—” He laughs once, humorless. “I just need to feel like I ain’t wreckin’ everything I touch.”
The air in the room feels different now, quieter. He’s still talking, softer.
“I could try,” he murmurs. “If you’d let me. I could learn. I swear I could.”
He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he’s still trying to apologize for existing. It isn’t lust anymore. It’s just raw need to be seen as something more than the badge he didn’t earn, more than his last name. More than a fuck up or a loser.
You hesitate. Long enough for his breathing to start to shake. Then you lean forward, so close that your forehead touches his. He stops talking. The silence stretches until it almost breaks.
And then, finally, you kiss him.
It's soft, and his lips are so eager for it that you want to laugh. He doesn't try to take over, he just melts under the weight of it, like he's been waiting for permission. You let your hands cup his face, and you can feel him shaking, almost imperceptibly.
"Good boy," you whisper. "You're being such a good boy for me. You're so good."
He's so responsive to praise, it makes your head swim.
You can feel his breath catch, his lips part. You keep kissing him, deep and slow.
His arms wrap around your waist, but he's not trying to move you, not trying to take. Just holding, like he's trying to convince himself he's allowed.
It's intoxicating.
The way he just leans into it, letting you lead, the way his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. You speak to him in between kisses.
"You just want to be good don't you? That's all you want. To please me, make me happy, make me proud. Don't you?"
His hands grip you tighter, a little desperate. He's nodding before you even finish, breath catching as you kiss the corner of his mouth. "Please."
It's barely audible.
"Please, yes, I wanna..."
"Shhh."
Your hands slip from his face, moving down his shoulders, tracing the planes of his chest, your fingers splayed. You press closer, feeling his erection through his pants.
He whimpers, and it's still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. You palm him through the fabric, as his eyes flutter shut. You don't know how long he's been hard for, but you know he's sensitive.
"You know..." You start, truths spilling out of you. "I'm very aware of your reputation."
He chokes out a breath, but doesn't respond, and you continue.
"Everyone in this town knows how you are. But none of them matter." You move your hand lower, tracing the outline of his cock. "I don't care how many people you've fucked or how hard you've fucked them."
You press the heel of your palm against him and he groans.
"I bet it feels so empty..." You continue. "Doesn't it? Those girls don't matter. They're nothing but a body and a warm hole to fill. They'll spread their legs for anyone with a badge and a nice truck. That's not what you want. That's not what you need."
He moans, grinding into your hand, trying to seek out friction.
"I... please... I need-"
You lean forward, pressing another kiss to his lips, and when you pull back, your eyes are locked on his.
"It's okay to want to be taken care of, Gator. Let me take care of you."
He nods, breathing harder, and you pull back, moving to unbuckle his belt.
He watches, eyes wide, as you unzip his fly, and tug his pants down. He lifts his hips, eager to comply, and the fabric slips over his ass, his thighs. You slide his boxers off next, and his cock springs free.
"Such a pretty cock. So hard for me." You wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly, watching his face. He moans, low, hips arching toward your hand. "Take your shirt off."
He doesn't hesitate. The tee joins the pile on the floor. His arms are toned, corded with muscle, and you take a moment to run your fingers over his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the freckles on his shoulders.
He's beautiful.
You stroke him a little faster, and he lets out a noise that's half moan, half whimper. He's fully naked under you and you haven't even taken off a piece of clothing.
You move up his body, straddling him, and grind against his bare cock. You're wearing cotton panties, the soft fabric rubbing against him.
"Look at me."
His eyes lock on yours.
"Are you gonna cum? From a little friction? A few strokes?"
He swallows hard. "Yes."
"Well...we can't have that." You say, easing off of him, standing in front of him as he sits there, naked and pathetic in the most gorgeous way. His big eyes stare up at you, full of need. "You showed up really late, Gator. And I can tell you've had a few drinks. And your breath tastes like cigarettes..."
He winces a little.
"So, you're gonna have to make it up to me."
You lift off your large shirt and drop it on the floor, standing there in your panties and nothing else, before letting you hair down and setting your glasses on the nightstand. You take his hand and gently pull him to stand up, putting his calloused hands on your breasts as you speak.
"Everyone knows Gator Tillman fucks fast and hard," you begin. "But they also know he isn't a giver."
You reach down and cup his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
"You're going to learn how to fuck someone properly. And you're not gonna cum until I tell you."
He nods as you turn the both of you around, taking a seat on the bed, legs spread.
"On your knees."
He wants to protest, wants to say he's not gonna lick you out like some dog or something equally as crude, but the words die before they leave his tongue. It was true, he never even thought to do it, he was too busy thinking about how to get his cock wet.
You sit, legs spread, the fabric of your panties damp. He licks his lips, looking at the wet patch, and then up at you. You smile.
"Knees."
His throat goes dry, and his body moves without his mind telling it to, sinking onto the hardwood. You guide him between your legs, his hands on your thighs.
"Take my panties off."
He doesn't speak as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband and tugs them down, slow, like he's unwrapping a gift. You raise your hips, helping him slide them off. Then you lean back on your elbows, hair falling around your shoulders.
"Gonna be bad at this," he mutters, staring at your bare pussy.
"It's okay. You'll figure it out."
He takes a breath and moves forward, his hands sliding up your thighs. His thumb finds the apex of your folds and he swipes up, slow. His voice is rough when he speaks. "You're already wet."
"Mhm. How does that make you feel?" God, your voice is so gentle, that slight condescending tone.
"I... I dunno." He lies.
"Yes you do. Tell me."
"Like you want me," he mutters. "Want me bad."
"Do I?"
"Mhm. Can't wait for me to eat your pussy."
"You sound pretty sure about that. Have you ever eaten a girl out, deputy?"
His mouth opens, but he can't think of an answer. Not a truthful one, anyway.
"That's what I thought."
Your hand is gentle on the back of his head, and you guide him forward, toward your pussy. He can feel you, wet and hot and waiting. His pulse is pounding in his ears.
He's never done this. Not really. Not even with his high school girlfriend who liked to boss him around. She didn't want his mouth anywhere near her pussy. He remembers that much.
You're not asking.
Your thighs are warm beneath his hands. He can smell the soft lotion you wear. Your fingers tighten in his hair.
"Prove that pretty mouth can do so much more than talk shit."
And his mouth is on you.
It's warm and wet and his nose is pressed against your skin, and it's not what he expected, not at all.
You're guiding his head, just a little, just enough that his stubble is scratching the inside of your thighs and the tip of his nose brushes your clit and his mouth is making these soft little noises like he's drinking straight from the tap.
He's never felt a pussy this close before. It's different. Slicker. Hotter. You're already wet, and the smell is intoxicating, sweet and musky and raw. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to look at you while his tongue darts out, but he can't keep it up for more than a few seconds before he has to close his eyes and inhale the scent of you.
"There you go," you breathe, the pressure at the back of his head relaxing, letting him explore. "Such a good boy. Don't overthink it. Just use that smart mouth."
He moans, and his cock twitches, heavy and aching between his legs.
He keeps licking, his tongue flat against the apex of your folds, the taste coating his tongue and filling his head. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know if he should try to spread you or grip your thighs, doesn't even know if he should be looking up or focusing on what he's doing, but you haven't told him to stop yet.
"You're holding back." You groan. "Don't think that's fair to me, after how good I've treated you. Don't be shy, Gator. Put your whole mouth on me. Suck and lick. I know you've wanted to taste me."
He doesn't respond. He just follows the direction, his lips wrapped around your clit. He sucks, and your breath hitches, the first sign of anything other than control. It's intoxicating, and his own dick is painfully hard, bobbing in the air, neglected.
He pulls off your clit and drags his tongue lower, feeling the wetness coat his chin. He dips his tongue into your entrance, and you moan.
"That's it," you whisper. "Just like that. So good, Gator. You're being so good for me."
Your hands are gentle, guiding his head back up to your clit, and he groans as you roll your hips, grinding against his mouth.
His hands move, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, and he can feel your body start to shake.
He sucks, hard, and his own cock aches at the way you whine. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he keeps licking, the slick wet heat making him dizzy.
You're close, he can tell. You're trembling, rolling against his mouth, and the soft noises coming from you are the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard.
He closes his eyes and sucks, trying to keep his rhythm, and then you're there.
You're gasping, body going tight, and your hand is pulling his hair so hard it hurts. But he doesn't care, he keeps sucking, licking, groaning against you, because you're grinding on his mouth and your cunt is wet and hot and perfect and you taste so fucking good he could do this forever.
You ride his face, and he's lost in the sound of you.
Your nails rake across his scalp and it makes him moan again, the sound muffled, but it's the only noise in the room, aside from the slick sounds of him eating you out.
When you're spent, you relax, legs slipping down onto the bed, and Gator pulls back, breathing hard, eyes dark, chin glistening. Once your breathing steadies, you brace yourself on your elbows, looking down at the man between your legs.
He looks a mess, panting and hard and desperate. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are flushed and his cock is leaking.
"Look at you," you coo, reaching down to run a finger along his bottom lip, collecting some of your wetness.
He shudders, eyes falling shut, and he leans in toward the touch.
"You're so pretty on your knees," you say. "I think you might be prettiest this way."
He groans, his own cock twitching between his legs, and you let your eyes trace down the lines of his chest, down to the swollen red tip, shining with pre-cum.
"You want to cum don't you? I bet you've been hard since before I took your pants off."
He doesn't answer, just nods, and you tilt his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Get on the bed baby. Lay down."
His hands grip your hips as he rises to his feet, and you can see his muscles working under his skin. He's a beautiful man, all lean muscle and strength. He's bigger than you, taller, but you don't feel intimidated. He could pick you up and toss you around, but you know he won't.
Not unless you asked.
He turns and sits, and then lays on his back. He looks so big on the mattress, all those broad shoulders and corded muscle, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the thick length of his cock jutting up, curved slightly. You can't help but admire the view.
"I could cum just from lookin' at you," he mutters.
You don't respond. Instead, you climb onto the bed and straddle his hips. You can feel him, hot and hard, and his hips buck, just a little.
"Please." He says, the word barely audible.
"Patience."
You grind against him, his cock slick from his own precum, and his jaw clenches.
"You want me to ride you?"
"Fuck."
You raise an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
"Yes. God, yes."
You rise up, just a little, and then sink down on him. The slide is slow. You're still wet from his mouth, and your breath catches when his cock pushes into you.
He groans, and his hands clench the sheets before you move them to your hips.
You take him slowly, sinking down until your ass is pressed against his thighs. You can feel him twitching inside of you, his whole body shaking.
"Look at me." You command.
His eyes lock on yours.
"I can't-"
"You're not allowed to cum. Do you understand?"
He nods, his grip on your hips tightening. You start to move, rising up and sliding back down, and his jaw is clenched.
"You look so good beneath me," you murmur.
His throat works as he swallows, and his eyes are fixed on yours.
You reach out, running a finger along his lip. He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth, letting you slip two fingers inside.
He doesn't hesitate, taking the digits in, closing his lips around the intrusion.
"I'm on the pill." You say softly, working your fingers in and out, watching his lips. "But you should ask before you cum inside me. Is that clear?"
He can't answer, not with your fingers in his mouth, and his hips buck involuntarily, making him groan.
"Is that clear?"
He nods, eyes wide, and you pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva.
"Good boy."
You keep moving, rolling your hips, the slide easy, the stretch delicious. You work him harder, riding his cock, and the sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy.
He's shaking, gripping your hips, eyes still locked on yours. He's not moving, not thrusting, just following your lead. His lips part and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, his cock throbbing inside of you.
You're so wet, the slide so smooth, the angle hitting your clit just right. You're already close, and the way he's watching you, like he's trying not to get burned, makes the pressure build.
You keep working yourself, rolling and rising and falling, and his whole body is tense, muscles straining, the tendons in his neck standing out. You're so close and you want him to cum with you, to fill you up.
"Cum," you murmur. "Cum now. Right now. Don't think about it. Just cum."
His eyes flutter closed, his hips arch up, and then he's spilling into you, his hands gripping you so tight it almost hurts.
"Yes," you breathe through your own release. "Just like that. That's it. So good."
He moans, low, his whole body shaking. He doesn't even have to think about it. Your voice is a command.
And his body responds deliciously.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, as the last of his release leaves him. "Jesus. Jesus."
You ease off him slowly, the mess of his cum spilling down your thigh. You lay on your side, placing gentle kisses down the column of this throat as his head is still thrown back, panting, his eyes squeezed shut.
"I..."
"Shhhh. Relax. Take a deep breath."
"Fuck."
"Shhhh."
He lets out a low groan and takes a deep breath, chest rising, then falling, then rising again, until his pulse steadies and his body relaxes, sinking into the bed. You lean on your elbow and run a finger across his jaw, the slight stubble scraping at your skin. His eyes open, half lidded, and his gaze fixes on yours.
"Fuck," he mutters again.
"Did you enjoy that?"
He huffs, almost a laugh, and the corner of his mouth curls up. "Mhm."
"How much?"
His eyebrows lift, but his gaze stays on the ceiling. "More than I thought possible."
"You can look at me, you know."
"Don't know if I can. Kinda afraid I'm dreamin'."
"Well, if you are, then you might as well enjoy it."
He sighs, and turns his head toward you, meeting your eyes. He doesn't speak, and neither do you, just studying his face.
His expression is almost blank, eyes dark, mouth still parted, cheeks still flushed.
"What happens now?"
The words come out quieter than he means them to, and you blink.
"That's up to you."
His face shifts, brows pulling together, lips twisting in something close to a pout. It's almost comical, given who he is.
"Don't play dumb," he says. "You know what I mean."
Your hand traces up the curve of his bicep, across his collarbone, then along his cheek, fingers grazing his stubble. He sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. You study his profile, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the soft, dark hair falling loose around his ears.
"Look, I'm not askin' to date you," he mutters, like that makes it less serious. "I just—"
"You need someone," you murmur.
His throat tightens, his cheeks warm. He's not used to feeling this raw. This open. It's terrifying.
"Yeah," he admits, and the word cracks a little. "I need someone."
Your hand is soft on his chest, right above his heart.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the ceiling. The sheets are tangled, the air thick, and you’re right there, breathing slowly beside him. Your hand found his chest like you were checking to see if his heart still worked.
It does. Too much, maybe.
He turns his head a little, just enough to look at you. You’re watching him like you’re waiting to see if he’ll bolt or break.
He feels like doing both.
He wants to say something, but the words line up wrong in his throat. He thinks about what he said earlier, about not wanting to be like his dad. About needing someone. It sounds stupid now. Childish. Like something you’d hear on a late‑night call‑in radio show between country songs.
You just keep your hand where it is, fingers resting right above the spot where his pulse won’t settle.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he says quietly. “But when I’m with you, it feels like maybe I could get it right. For once.”
Your thumb brushes his skin, barely there. He exhales, slow and shaky, like the air’s been trapped in him for years.
He thinks about the noise of the strip club, the lights, the girl with too much perfume, the emptiness that followed. Then he looks at you, in this soft, dark room, and something inside him goes still.
Maybe it’s not about being in charge. Maybe it never was.
He shifts closer. Not for sex. Not for anything he can name. Just to feel the warmth of your body and the weight of his own breath starting to even out.
“Don’t know what happens now,” he murmurs, voice thick.
“Then don’t think about it,” you answer. “Just rest.”
He wants to say thank you. He wants to say don’t stop touching him. He wants to ask if this counts as love, if it could be, if maybe he didn’t fuck it all up already just by showing up at your door like some broken animal in heat.
Instead, he says the only thing he can get out.
“I don’t wanna go back to bein’ the guy I was before this.”
Your hand stills against his chest. The silence stretches before you whisper, steady as ever, “Then don’t.”
summary: Left wanting and lonely by no family and a dead husband who could have cared less while he was living. You and a mysterious stranger find yourself boarding in the same house of an old woman. He’s odd, distant, seemingly from another time. The way he talks is confusing, like scripture, the way he shows up without even seeing him move. And another thing.. he’s always got his eyes on you.
pairing: ole munch x fem!reader
warning(s): SMUT, porn with plot, slight angst (talk of abuse — your ex husband was an asshole), stalking, violence, semi religious undertones (hardly), mention of sin, voyeurism, heavy canon references, two broken people, pinv, oral (fem!receiving) fingering and finger sucking
word count: 4.4k
a/n: i had to, this man is TOO good, some moots have written for him and they are in my reblogs, they’re amazing!! also kudos to ‘lapine’ by bjorntobemild, they started this.. 🫠💗
You hadn’t been surprised in being alone.
In fact, you had been for long enough, even when the bastard was alive. Your husband that was, ex-husband. He had died mysteriously unbeknownst to you for all of two days, dead and found in a ditch after he had stormed off the one night leaving you broken and battered on the kitchen floor.
Serves him right, you had thought. Though part of you ached, not quite yet freed by the torture you were condemned to.
All he had done day after day was shove you around and order you to his dirty work. And such lonesome never came as any surprise, not when you were left with a lease on a house you could no longer tend to, and police officers urging you to find lodging. And so you did.
Comfort came in the company of an elder woman in the middle of town. The suburb was gentle, much like you had been used to as a child you’d imagined, semi-detached houses lined the street, with fences of steel and wire, hardly white picket, but families flooded every one. All of them loud, aware, loving. She had not such luck, her husband also dead, abandoned by her sons, and a ripped flyer flapping on the outside of the gate asking for help.
Simple laundry and grocery shopping help.
Company.
That’s what it really was. And you had taken it as soon as you saw it, snatching it from the wire with a trash bag full of clothes and necessities shoved in your hands, red and stiff from the biting cold.
The lady was kind, mostly quiet, but offering with a good pot of stew always left boiling on the stove, and in return of your chores, your stay was welcome in the stuffy, moth-ball smelling room just down the hall from hers.
And you were alone, together, until you weren’t.
Not until he, showed up. The boogeyman, the creature of a man who had walked in with the door unlocked, snow tracking his worn boots across the wooden floor. He didn’t claim the house, nor give either of you reason for his stay, nor did he ask to. Only few words, soft and chilling with no menace.
I live here now.
The look you and old woman shared was one startled and unsure, but you found it best not to argue, his large frame towering in the doorway between wooden beams. His clothes were something ragged and old, a dark brown and pale green kilt dragging at his knees, and a haircut you’d have imagined seen nowhere from before the early eighties.
Though after a while, you were glad you didn’t argue. He proved useful, and oddly, kind. He didn’t talk much, though when he did it was strange, broken syllables coming out drawn and long, half uttered sentences far too straightforward than you had been used to.
He settled himself into the room farthest from you and the woman, a dusty, dark room near empty with just a bed and a rocking chair. The bed, from what you could see peeked through the crack of the door, stayed made, unused. Like the man didn’t sleep. The cracking of the chair rocked like a tap dripping, shuddering the house all the way from the upstairs.
The Widow.
That’s what he called you, and that’s what you were. Simple and plain just as he was. Though it wasn’t spoken as you were titled with it, burdened as a reminder, it wasn’t something that belonged. A Spider. Something natural and intelligent and cunning. And spoken in his matter of fact terms, the low gravel of his voice and the ancient tongue of his accent, it had almost made you proud.
Proud of what you were, who you were.
Ole Munch, he told you his name was. Rather fitting, for how odd the man was. ‘Oola Moonk’ it came to be pronounced, but you preferred ‘Oola’ and he had not reminded you, or maybe not cared to correct you. He answered to it every time, the steady turn of his head with the same pull of his eyes landing on you.
His hands reached for what you couldn’t, a simple plate form the highest shelf, or the heaviness of a door getting in your way, packed from the snow. He was there, always. So much so you wondered how much he watched. And yet you were entirely unaware.
Ole studied you, from the very moment he passed in the doorway, announcing his arrival before turning right to the stairs, to every morning and night you had greeted him. Awkward and on guard still, but something poked deep within your chest. Something clinging about his presence.
And from what you could tell, he did not mind your own. When he was around of course, often slinking away into the darkness when the old woman had settled for bed and you had laid underneath your covers, listening.
Sometimes he told you he was leaving, no reason, or destination in it, other times he didn’t. But he waited, waited for the very moment all of the lights would turn off and the doors would close. A humble kindness.
He noticed the very things others did not.
“From what?” He moved behind you, chest looming few inches from your back, your breath catching a you had folded the last of laundry from the dryer. You took in the space he had not, a finger only pointed to your arm. A large scar there. Long and curved, raised by the slightest rosy and etched.
“My hus— my ex husband.” Your head turned, breathing sharply as you corrected yourself, your voice wasn’t small, only recalled as your finger traced it, his head leaning over your shoulder to get a better look. He did not ask further questions, the way your face scrunched told him all.
“A widow weaves her web, but she is more than it. It does not finish. She rebuilds.” His voice pressed over your shoulder, your eyes meeting for a fleet of second, his chin tilted high, unmoving as you ducked back. And then he was gone.
He had a habit of such things. And you had come to decode every one of his sayings, not as difficult as it first proved to be.
And just as he had noticed, he seemed similarly protective, over the house, over the old woman. Over you. Guarding, he had called it, ‘Like a dog in the yard.’ But the way he moved, slow and steady, it felt almost shielding. Neither of you had gone out much together, and you preferred to stay indoors any way, but the one time you had, was met with a young scraggly man who claimed to be the owner of the house you were staying in.
The shovel scraped hard across the pavement, leaving a trailed line from the road to the door, a makeshift path surrounded by blankets of freezing white. It had been one hell of a chore for the day, one you’d taken upon yourself in order to even get out of the house for the lady to get some groceries. A path she had walked nearly every day. And just as you turned, the buttons of your woollen coat done up tight—
“What the fuck are you doing?” A measly voice called out, your back straightened as you cocked your head, balancing against the shovel.
“I uh.. shovelling snow?” You looked around, huffing a small, obvious laugh, eyes landing back onto him. He was scrawny, long blond greasy hair tangling at his shoulders, a cigarette hung between his lips.
“Yeah, no fuckin’ shit. Who are you?” He stepped toward, striding toward you.
You opened your mouth to speak, grimacing at his rudeness, but he stopped you short.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter.. where is she?”
“Indoors.”
Your fingers planted tighter around the shovel’s handle, bones cracking lightly from the cold, a presence standing just short of your side. A familiar step crunched forward, slower, more calculated than the asshole stood in front of you.
“This is what the old crone has going on now, a freakshow and a maid?” His eyes raked over you, and the tall man beside you, his tone spitting and careless. Your fist clenched tighter at that, the insult, about the same woman who had taken you in.. and you had only guessed from then on.
Her son.
“You have no right to talk about her like that.” You spat back, feet planting harsh into the damp concrete.
“Or what?” The curve of his lips slanted smugly, taking a long drag of his cigarette, and at that you started forward. Rather, you tried, a hand clamped around your forearm, tightened and careful.
“Shut up.” You looked back at him, though his words weren’t for you. He did not look at you, eyes casted solely onto the man in front of you, stumbling back onto slightly.
“I didn’t ask you, shitbird.” He quipped.
“Shut the fuck up already.” Ole grimaced, the deep lines of his faced carved tight and red in the cold, barely bothered by the man’s empty threats.
“Oh fuck this.. ma, what is going on?” The man pushed past you both, the grip loosened on your arm, gaze piercing back into yours after it had followed him inside.
“Time should not be wasted. They take too much up themselves.” He analysed, hand falling, hovering just so in the air and flexing as you took yours to your side. There was a pause between you then, and you gave him a small nod, understanding even with the eyes rolling back into your head.
He wasn’t wrong. Even if you both knew one thing, he deserved that swing you were about to give him.
“A boarder, you holdin’ out on me ma.. how much is he paying ya?” That’s the last you heard, trudging your way back inside into the warmth after a few moments. The woman had looked past the younger man, indeed her son, to you as she smiled softly shaking her head. A look of knowing, as you gave her an apologetic one back, and you don’t want to overstep more than you were about to. You reached the stairs, climbing them just as Ole moved in after you, the door closing heavily behind him, a short glance to the back of your head before turning into the hallway toward them both.
Your back fell into the covers of the bed, swarming you in a warmth, your hands splayed over your stomach, slowly picking at the skin, tangled in attempts to keep the heat in. You listened in, their conversation muffled between floorboard and pipe, and the incessant nagging in the back of your mind.
It may have been curiosity, morbid and intrusive, or the fact that in such closeness you had grown comforted by the company around you. The older woman yes, sweet and kind as she was, she was strong, and had taught you more in the past few weeks than most had in your lifetime. But the other one, that’s what was more, it was him.
He was odd yes, peculiar in all the ways you thought seemed ancient. But part of you burned at the thought. His voice, his gaze, the coded manner of speaking that was something thoughtful. That feeling in your chest had settled elsewhere, deep in your belly, a flush that you couldn’t quite name, but it burned. And from that, you longed for it, his touch.
The man took off not long after, a scuffle of boots and an air of silence leaving him. The door only closed once, though it opened again. And you didn’t hear from her son after that.
All of you took yourself to bed early, rather the two of you that slept did. She had said goodnight to you in the hall, catching you just as you made your way to the bathroom, the soft cling of your sleep shorts a welcome comfort in contrast to the scratch of heavy itchy cotton.
—
You weren't sure how it happened. But there was an ache in you that you couldn't quite break from. Like a coil that tightened itself around you, working it's way up every inch of your body, your nerves pressed tigher with every movement and thought you attempted to push back.
Until you refused to, refused to deny yourself any longer.
Your fingers trailed down your body, taking your own time, feeling down the curve of your breasts, running along your stomach down beneath your sleep shorts. The covers twisted under you, shrugging with every rise and fall of your chest and arch into your hand as you began to fuck yourself, running your fingertips through your folds, damp and needy. You needed this. You bit back a moan as you circled your clit, tugging the coil tighter inside of you, rubbing slow at first and then harsh, testing a finger into your entrance and curling.
He was there. In your mind, igniting your body more than your touch had. And you had imagined it was his, bigger than yours, swarming your body as he ran his hands down it, gripping and grasping at your frame as he did your arm in the yard. You pushed two fingers in, thrusting them lightly as your other fingers worked at your sensitive bud, mouth falling slack as your head rocked back agaisnt the covers, knees bent up as you angled deeper. His breath breathing along your skin, tongue working along your skin, fingers pressed tight into your cunt. The thought made you salivate, wettening the back of your dry throat as you came with a strangled moan.
It was him that did undid you, even if he had not touched you. Yet.
—
It became routine after that, a nagging that never ceased. His presence was enough, stalking around every corner, watching through the windows, a hand when necessary, but never beyond it. And somehow that worked you up more, agitating you in every way that felt wrong, and right. And so you kept it quiet, attending to your tasks as well as you could, day in and day out.
Laundry, kitchen, cleaning, shovelling, repeat.
And when the house fell quiet, and night appaorched, surrounding you all in darkness. You too did the same. Your hands dipped between your legs, drawing whine and moan unkempt from your lips without resolve, your arousal coated your fingers, dripping juices from your weeping hole, and down onto the mattress.
You were lost in it, in every thought, every image that you dared not to speak aloud. It wasn’t shame, perhaps guilt, greed, of what you could not take and yet wanted to.
Wants that no other person should know about. That no one should know about. And yet they did. Eyes were on you, you felt them form every corner, burning into you from the walls and dark corners of every room. And in your lonely hour, the only seemed to sharpen.
A pair, heavy set, near black, haunted just outside of the door. The crack in it left opened, it had not been a conscious thought, nor as you had pulled yourself to the comfort of covers and warmth. Barely room for a breath between it, darkness meeting darkness, your body only silhouetted by the twinkle of moonlight creeping through the window. Worn boots scuffed across the floor in complacent strides, the sound of crusty creak of the door being pushed open just enough to move through.
Though only your moans filled your ears, muffled whimpers of desire, your own undoing as you pumped your fingers deeper, curling and prodding you flesh, pressure building enough to foracsblt snap, but nothing came of it. You worked at yourself harder, a hand cupping your breast through the thin material, swiping a finger over your swollen clit, but it was of no use.
“Temptation is not weakness, it is restraint.”
Fuck.
Your body jolted, your hands tugged from the waistband over your shorts as you moved to sit up. He stood over the bed, unmoving, the blackness of his pupils studying you all over, and you had never felt so bare. He had seen it all, the man before you, more than he had when his ears pricked up at your moans, standing entirely unaffected, the way his head tilted at you, for longer than you had realised.. longer than you imagined. The writhe of your body, the sheen of flush that marked your body in your desperation.
Your knees knocked together, shuddering at the thought, and you swallowed it down, patting the bed with red hot heat flushing your cheeks. An awkward offer, but the only one you had managed, your throat impossibly dry.
He hesitated for a moment, moving only a single stride before dipping the mattress beside you. There wasn’t any need for explanation, his body rising at least a head over yours as you sat next to one another. You had been this close before, always stepping between each other in hallways, moving about the house in rhythm, but this was different.
You wiped a hand over your face, a low exhale breathing from his nose where he was at your side, hands placed into his lap, over the cotton of his kilt. From that angle you could see how frayed it was, ripped and torn, the scuffed and scarred fingers striking the material gently. A breath sucked from your mouth, closing your eyes before opening them again, to meet his, already looking.
“Did you.. see?” You called out to him, feet dangled from the bed, meeting the floor where his crossed it.
“Yes.”
He left no time to let you down easy, to even dance around the idea, and though the flesh at the back of your neck ran colder, you hadn’t hated the idea. Somehow it eased you more, you weren’t imagining it all, those eyes on you weren’t just in your head. Like you had been told many times before. It was real, he was real, and he did not falter at it. There was no judgement, only honesty, and the flicker in his eyes through the dim light casted into the back of your heads, it told you were both one and the same.
The moonlight shadowed his face, leaving most to your imagination and how you remembered it, the scent of woodsmoke and ash filling your nostrils from the closeness. He almost looked pretty, all long limbs partially comfortable.
“The air has changed, thick now.”
You nodded, and he hummed. Hardly loud enough to even make a sound, the bed dipping once more form the release of his weight. But he didn’t leave, not yet, instead he moved to the floor. A heavy thud of his knees shoved to the wood, hands reaching the sides of the bed, where his fingers move to your shorts. You jutted your hand out, grabbing his wrist as he guided it to between your legs. He held your gaze for a moment, slowing as you did, your fingers not quite tight around his skin.
“Sweetness when her hive is stirred, but there is no nectar, only a bite.” His fingers worked methodically, different to your own, longer, slender, the rough pads of his fingers unhooking at the waistband as he had seen you push through it. He took his time, and paused, waiting, listening.
He did not ask, did not need to, but he gave you enough time yourself. To scream, to shove him off, to pull away, but you did not. It beckoned you. Another one of his metaphors muttered, one you had barely registered before the words trailed off, and you had not found it in you to speak some more.
He had made up his mind, as had you.
The material was peeled away, snaking down your legs and dropped to the floor and the tugging in your belly deepened, overcome much like the thoughts you’d had plagued yourself. And that alone that was his signal, the gentle exhale from your breath, wanting an aching.
His tongue darted out in one steady motion, testing through your folds as he parted your legs. Your body arched at the long stripe he licked up your cunt, broad and teasing without meaning to. A feat for a man who had been left without, it was sloppy and inept, with every heat of passion on his breath huffed into you. Like of a man not only starved but denied, once he may have known such a way, you’d imagined, but for now there was only remembering. And he learned quickly, dragging his tongue into you with a clumsy skill, making no other sound other than the wet pattering at your slit.
“Fuck.. there, that’s it.” You whined, breathing shakily, guiding just as he did the same, his hands shoved tight at your thighs, widening them to keep them open. Wet muscle lapped at you, tasing and devouring, tracing every curve and finding every piece that hit nerves sending you bucking into his face.
Your fingers tangled into the hair of the man before you, like one did at an alter, collecting every drop and savouring it onto his tongue from your already dampened cunt. It was messy and torturous, the unkempt work of a feral starvation, his nose pressed harsh to your clit, nudging as he sucked you down onto his mouth, fingers pressing deep into the flesh of your thighs.
He ushered you through your high, the coil, tightened from days of yearning and an edge you couldn’t quite break from, crashing over you in a wave. He licked at you, searching, like finding a missing piece, the first traces of a meal he had been without for centuries. And most likely had been.
But he remembered the feeling, every lap of sweetness, every suckle sending you the release your hand could not give you. His tongue stayed pressed to you, flicking and swirling over your sensitive bud until you shivered, your head thrown to the covers you had fell back onto. The electric shocks graced through your body, your thighs releasing and draping boneless over the bed as he stood.
Two fingers swiped back through you, sticky and cool as the air whispered back over your bare core. He brought them to your lips, arm stretching over your half naked body as he pushed them into your mouth, your tongue flattening onto his digits, tasting yourself.
“She can taste it.”
Sweet and sinful.
He left then, rising to his feet like a prayer just sealed and nothing more. His eyes followed, the exhale of tense muscle at his chest just visible through the low light. And through it, a sly look of appease, at himself or you, you could not tell.
Both.
And then turned on his heel, making no other move toward you, ducking out of the room simply licking the wetness from his lips as he caught his breath. Boots stomped back along the floor and into the hallway, silent and still, your breath catching in your ears as you eased.
He had taken what he wanted, and you had been given the same. Or perhaps it was that he had found you in such a state and offered to help.
Though you didn’t find it in you to care. You were blissed and sated, a blush creeping your cheeks at the knowledge.
—
Something shifted in the house when she was killed. ‘To the wind’ he had told you, carrying her body in from the street just as dusk had settled. You had been upstairs at the time, clearing some of the clutter she had asked you to help her sort. Old pictures in broken frames, trinkets and silver candlestick holders. Nothing special, all dusted and rust covered, but you paused over them, taking your time. She had promised to help you, and you had waited for her, when she would return from her round of groceries.
That’s when you had heard it.
A round of guns, shots ringing down the street in a cascade, firelights cracking into the night. So much, for Halloween. It was said that the veil between life and death was thinnest then, and it must have been true, because whatever gang or bandit had gone after someone, it had taken her in their place.
No others came by, no police or neighbours, just silence, more than before. This time more unsteady. You had not know entirely how to grieve, but you had felt it, an emptiness inside the walls of the house, and in your chest.
And you weren’t the only one.
The tartan crimson coat she had worn, matted fluff at its collar, he had taken it upon himself to wear. He spoke to himself often, louder after that, reminiscing in sonnets and speeches, mentions of sin and revenge, of when he was a boy and the man that was. And it was the only thing other than your footsteps that had echoed the halls of the house.
And though neither of you spoke of it, you grieved together. The rocking from upstairs continued, your duties did as well, and life resumed in the days that followed, the same itch biting at you as it did before.
Desire.
Burning hot and wanting. The itch not yet scratched, not completely, only heightened. His presence followed you, even when he wasn’t there, eyes that peered through the windows late into the night after he had left, the heavy stomping behind you, his frame placed into the small, rickety chair at the table as you prepared what was left of the food on the stove.
He did not eat, and you hardly did yourself. But his gaze sharpened, and your hands trembled.
——
The lamp flickering down the hall broke you from your thoughts, a finger of whiskey from the cupboard left in the crystal glass in your hand. It was late for it to be on. Usually he would be out, or sitting eerily in the dark. You swirled the liquid in the glass before drinking it down, and smacking it to the table, the burn licking at your throat.
You did your best to stay away, not knowing where to turn, what to do, or what to say. And his presence hardly helped giving you the right signal, though one thing was known. A need.
You moved through the corridor, a warmth settling in your chest, and a wanting in your bones. Your fingers traced the bannister, steadying you through every step, the whiskey warming your stomach, and perhaps prickling your courage. Not that you were scared, only curious.
Gentle ticking, clicking to the floor. A tap, tap, tap creaking the wood came from behind the door and you already saw the image, gripping the oak to allow yourself entry. It pushed from your hands as you stepped into the room, a damp smell filling your nostrils.
He was there. A hand swamped over each arm of the rocking chair, staring into the air, only moving by the slightest dip is his knee. He noticed you before he saw you, counting the familiar steps down the hall until you had reached the door. You felt his eyes on you as you entered, glancing around the room taking in more of it as you realised you hadn’t really been in it before.
It was plain, covers till untouched as you had noted beforehand, a smell bedside table and few paintings hung at the walls. His head turned, face like stone, the golden glow illuminating his rugged features.
He looked more handsome in such a way. He was already, striking features of his pointed nose and strong jaw, the light bringing him perfectly into view as you settled before him, watching through the window. The street was quiet, lights at every house turned off and doors closed, blanketing the area into stillness.
“Why did you come here?” You asked him, eyes distant as you kept looking away, though his remained on you.
“A man walks until someone opens a door. He could ask the same.” He replied, a shrug in his voice though his shoulders did not rise. He continued rocking, less focused on the timing, and more on you.
You huffed a laugh, offering a small smile as you faced him, balancing onto your heel, “Not much different. Running from the same things I suppose from fear.”
“You are less afraid, one would notice.” Your eyes met through the thickness in the air, dust particles floating past your face through the shine of the lamp. He wasn’t wrong, and you weren’t afraid of him, far from it, and he knew it. There was a pull between you, one that even as you had gravitated, had been left unspoken.
“Not for a long time..” You countered.
He said nothing, the shuffle of his feet planting slightly wider. An invitation, with no enticement, only that.
And in your courage, the stillness of the night descending around you, the quiet tone of his voice beckoning you and the silent understanding. You stepped forward, feet padding the floorboards with every balance.
The chair still rocked as you stepped between his knees, fingers tightening just so as he took in your scent. Whiskey, want, sin.
The first crack.
His eyes didn’t leave you, not once, he didn’t even move a muscle, only the gentle rocking from his heels pressed to the floor slowing.
“You’ve decided something..”
“Maybe.” It didn’t need to be said what it is, his face stayed forward, raised by an inch of that to fully see you. Taking you in. As his gaze dropped, cataloguing. The flex of your fingers, the knock of your knees as you edged them closer, the pupils blown.
“You are taking something.” He stated plainly, etched with a ragged lilt.
“Yes..” You croaked shamelessly, though you should have felt it with him seated before you, saying next to nothing but observing. The weight of it stinging across your face as something paused between you. The rocking stopped, the rounded wooden legs of the chair creaking to a halt, the quiet thickening.
He drew heavy breath that almost deterred you, recalculating your moves, until he spoke.
“Then take it.”
He spoke with a certainty. It wasn’t a beg, or a pleading for you to take him, take what you wanted, but it was an allowance, with him at your disposal. The roughness of his voice edged then with something more, a wanting.
The breath sucking through his nostrils as you came closer, crawling up into his lap. Each of your knees planted either side of him, bone braced against the hardened wood of the chairs sides, biting the sensation that crept between your legs. His arms stayed where they were, encasing you both even as you rover above him, head tilted up against the head of the chair. There was time for contemplation, a lot of it. But you did not take it.
Your lips reached his, unhurried but eager, at first without connection, the soft plush of your lips meeting his chapped and aching. You pressed one after another, kissing at his mouth until his began to shift beneath yours. They curved into one another, tearing and swiping tenderly as your hand cupped the side of his face. You thumbed it slightly, rubbing circles, tangling up into the unwashed threads of his bangs. He shuddered at that, your tongue poking against his as he let you lick into his mouth, his tongue exploring back.
Just like his scent, he tasted of ash and smoke, like the embers stoked from a fire, a warmth pressing in between your lips and your thighs. Heat pooled into your core, slowly grinding onto him from there he sat, the tightness of the chair leaving you near no room to move, building every bit of friction through material. The belt buckle of his kilt graced the inners of your thighs, thick rough fabric rubbing on the underside of your cunt through material. your nose bumped his, grinding down onto him.
“Need this..” You mumbled against his lips, the other hand gripping at his shoulder, the heaviness of the coat that clung to his body already fallen away, leaving him just in the tightness of his shirt, long sleeves scratching your sides as you wriggled.
“Yes..”
He called back, surprisingly. It wasn’t a moan or even of the sort, only an agreement, and one you both took gladly.
His fingers traced delicately, working their way between you, sliding the silk of your thin nightgown up toward your stomach, revealing the skin of your navel. And how you had thanked yourself in that moment, less nonsense to tug with, and he had seemingly thanked you for it too, running a sharp finger along your slit, slick coating through the fabric of your underwear.
Another finger hooked at the other side, dragging up your hips, pimpling along your flesh as the fabric was shoved to the side, cool air hitting your cunt. A moan bubbled up from your chest, burning your lungs as he reached you, fingers pressing between your folds. They were cold, shocking your body as he ran them between your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading you wide.
He watched as he did in, taking in the glistening of your heat in his hand, lips just parted. In awe it would look like. But he listened, the hitch of your throat as his thumb moved to your clit, fingers pushing into your hole. He began to pump them, pulling them in and out of you as you arched into his hand, fingers gripping tighter at the barely covered flesh of his shoulders. Your mouth opened, a silent gasp escaping your lips as your eyes closed, nodding gently at the pleasure he was giving you.
It felt good, unbearably so. His fingers curled tightly inside of you, dragging up into your cunt with a wasteless desire?? He thrusted them slowly, inching you closer, drawing you to him into the palm of his hand, your head falling forward just as your lips connected back to his.
Crooked teeth gnashed against yours, fingers toying with your clit as he drew you to your high, juices spilling out of you and down onto the bend of his wrist. He swallowed your moans, tongue and teeth catching you coming undone.
You didn’t beg, you wouldn’t, and you didn’t need to. You had done your fair share over time, thoughts of your previous marriage blurring into a nothingness that was replaced by the man beneath you, and his initiative.
Just as sin worked its loving tendrils around the vulnerable and shamed, words were not necessary. Instead, it would come naturally as all things did.
His hand at your side, the one not carefully pulled from you slipped at the blemished silver buckle at his waist, clinking open in one singular swipe. You held onto him as his knees shoved up, firming you to him as he sunk down into the chair. He looked peaceful, the tension in his back softening just by a touch. Only to be broken with the fervour that he fucked you with.
A hand braced at your hip, not tightly, but enough, snaking its way around your waist. He was hard, the length of him pressed at your entrance as you sunk down onto him, the harsh pull of vein sliding into you. His teeth gritted into a hiss as your mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut at the burning stretch you enveloped him with.
He smoothed into the walls of your cunt, filling you to the brim as you pressed yourself all the way down. Your eyes met finally, chin tilted toward the ceiling as he looked at you, darkened blues finding yours, a glint in them, an unfamiliar one. Like something broken, finding home again. You moved first, moaning at the push of him inside of you, hot and heavy punching deep into you.
The pace you set was rhythmic, chasing and fulfilling with every breath that you took him with. His arm curled tighter at your back, hand pressing just over the curve of your ass, a thumb poking into the dimple, anchoring. Though he did not just observe this time, for once, it was like he was alive, and in this time. His other hands placed over the flesh of your stomach, splaying at the skin where he was inside of you.
Studying.
A heavy hand clasped underneath your thigh, just as he pressed down onto the bulge, a sudden impatience racking his body, hips driving up into you from beneath, pressure from every side pushing onto your heat. He wanted this, even if he didn’t say it, his eyes faltered and fluttered, curses in a language you didn’t recognise falling from lips through your moans. You rocked into eachother, the crack of the chair scraping the floor as you connected, cunt sucking him greedily as the flood at your core pulled at you, eating at your very skin.
“I’m gonna..” You whined, eyes meeting his as your forehead rocked, sliding next to his as your breaths mingled, a heavy rumble vibrating his chest and into yours through silk. “Fuck..” A finger, long and protruding circled over your clit, harsh and fast, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air as the dampened room scented with your sex.
You fell limbless into him, fingers curling at the skin of his neck as you rested, his cock twitching inside of you as he spilled free, neither of you bothering to move.
He did not coddle you, or hold you entirely. The arm circled around you retreating to rest back onto the arm of the chair, but he did not move you. His chest rose and fell against yours, your ear pressed into the wall of him, the steady thrumming, proof he was alive beneath you.
“We are even now.” He recognised. The pair of you taken things both, not that you owed it. There was no debt between either of you, only an understanding. You both took what you wanted.
Your senses fixated through the daze, nodding lowly. You breathed deeply once more, a familiar smell reaching you. Gunpowder, acrid like solvent. He had smelt of it before, the first time you had met him, not long after you had turned up on the same doorstep as he did.
It was a known smell, yes, but this was different. Your senses mixing with a realisation it took you back to. The same stench that had filled your home the night it was revealed your husband had died. Though he had been found in a ditch miles away. Someone had brought that smell into the house The same that was on his skin, clinging to it.
And as you had the closest look of him, chin poking into his collarbone as you looked up, he looked back down at you. It was him.
You didn’t startle, or begin to inch away. There was no fear, in fact the opposite. An understanding as always, and a heat punched into your chest. Leaving you to wonder, just how long he had watched you, followed you, chasing you to the same house you had seeked out for help.
And there in the house of a dead woman, not claimed nor owned, it left the pair of you, running from whatever it was you knew before, the washing away of sins leaving something knew.
A widow weaving her web around the very one sworn to protect it. And he would, as a man should.
Summary: During a fair organized by Sheriff Roy Tillman to celebrate the great harvest of the season, Gator patrols through the crowd. However, among the crowd, you appear and steal all of his attention, and he can't think about anything other than this girl he has never seen before.
Pairing: Gator Tillman x Fem!reader
Word count: 9.1k
Warning: smut, p in v, protected sex, power and some other kinks, doggy, cowgirl, car sex, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, spanking, pet names, no use of y/n
Note: Hey! First of all, English is not my first language, so keep that in mind as you read. Secondly, this is my first full-on smut fanfic. I was inspired to write it when I went to a kind of harvest fair in a state next to mine, saw police walking through the crowd, and, picturing Gator between them, I thought of a few things I ended up writing here for you. Hope you enjoy it!
AO3 link | Wattpad link masterlist
It’s another of Roy’s events to promote himself to get elected next year, and this one is to celebrate the great harvest from the last season, a harvest that was so gracious that some of the best are displayed around the fair.
A beautiful street fair was organized in a grand land of the Tillman’s, normally used for festivities just like that one. There are many food booths and amusement rides, with country songs playing from the booths' sound boxes, along with a lot of live music around the fair on small stages, alongside the main one.
There is a festive atmosphere in the air, with children laughing with their parents, kids running towards amusement rides like the carousel, older teens giggling at each other, couples holding hands.
Even though with the lightness of the moment, while Roy does his political thing around the fair, greeting families and elders and lecturing between concerts at the main stage, trying to buy votes and wooing some voters for his next election campaign, he designated Gator to guard the fair.
Gator has a team of deputies working with him to make the fair safe and enjoyable for everyone. They were divided into smaller groups and spread throughout the event to conduct patrols. They are in their duty clothes, usually beige or military cargo pants, a neutral shirt, a bulletproof vest over it, and some even carry a gun or a baton at their waist, as well as tasers.
Gator and a smaller group of debuties, four of them, are leaning back in a knockdown booth, looking around for any suspect moves, being from some drunk dude, or someone trying to jeopardize Roy’s election.
Gator is smoking his vape lazily while one of his feet is on the wall of the booth, looking at the crowd, scanning faces. And then his eyes land on you, finding your eyes already on him.
You pass with your two girlfriends in front of him and his men, your eyes locked on his face since you found him five minutes ago. You check him out, looking him up and down, with a smirk on your lips as you bite your lower lip.
Gator follows you with his gaze, smoking out his vape, checking you out as well, oogling you shamelessly, pushing off the wall and straightening up, not breaking eye contact until you turn your head and get lost in the crowd.
He smiles smugly to himself, lifting his chin a little bit, proud of the attention he received from you, on how you were looking at him with those malicious eyes of yours. He shakes his head slightly, adjusting himself in his cargo jeans, trying to turn back to do his job, which seems impossible now.
Around 15 minutes later, Gator and his boys walk past the crowd to their next stop, close to one of the small stages. When he is walking ahead of his team, leading his men with them forming a line behind him. Meanwhile, you are walking towards him through the crowd.
His eyes widen slightly in recognition, then get a little dark at the sight of you again. Lifting his chin again, he smirks cockily to himself while keeping his eyes glued on you; he even puffs his chest a little.
You are talking over your shoulder to one of your friends behind you, leading your little group as well, while holding her hand to guide her through the crowd. And you turn ahead of you, your gaze finds his instantly.
Gator notices how your breath hitches just a little, but quickly your mouth changes into a naughty smile, holding his gaze, your eyes showing a mischief that sends a wave of desire down his pants again.
You pass by his side again, but since there are a lot of people around, too crowded, and he would even think that you want to even if it isn’t, you pass really close to him, brushing your arm against his, your fingers touching, even hooking slightly against one of his as well, for just a fraction of a second.
Even after you pass through him, he watches you go over his shoulder. You glance once to see if he is watching you, smirking proudly when the answer is positive, turning your head ahead again.
Even if you are not looking at him anymore, he can’t seem to be able to take his eyes off you. Gator even slows his pace, making the line behind him with his workmates slow down and be called to hurry again. He shakes his head, putting his mind in place, at least mildly, and returns to his initial pace again, heading to the designated stage.
Eventually, Gator gets him and his men to their next spot at the side of a small stage. He finds his spot at the edge of the stage, he stands with his legs slightly apart, one hand at his back while he vapes with the other.
He doesn't pay much attention to the band playing, mostly bouncing his head slightly at the beat of the song. He is just looking around the crowd in front of the stage and in the surroundings when his eyes find you again.
You approach the area around the stage with your girls, giggling and smiling lightly, probably from something they must have said.
Now that he can take a proper look at you, he pays attention to what you are wearing: a brown pair of cowboy boots that go to the middle of your leg, a pair of dark blue skirt jeans that go until the middle of your thigh, and a white sleeveless vest with buttons in front of it.
When he notices you are not wearing a bra under your vest, with no sign of a lace or a bra strap, and your nipples are slightly hard against the clothing, he wets his lips and bites his bottom lip.
He watches you, the way you move your hips at the beat of the country song, your hands up in the air, excited, the way your feet do some dance moves along with your friends, making all of you laugh in delight.
Gator is not even trying to be subtle; he is no longer worrying about doing his job. The only thing he can pay attention to now is you.
After a couple of minutes, you turn fully towards the stage, clapping your hand and cheering at the band when they finish a song, and you find him beside the stage, shamelessly looking lustfully at you.
Gator catches the moment your eyes land on him, and in how you bite your lip and grin at him, making his cargo pants become slightly tight around his groin again. When the next song starts to play, you start moving, dancing, without taking your eyes from him.
Still smoking his vape, he glues his eye on you like a hawk; the need in his eyes is undeniable. You continue to look directly at him, your hands sliding up and down from your sides, following the curve of your body until up your hair.
You slide your hands up, tangling in your hair, lifting your chin slightly with your lips a little apart, eyes still locked on his. You move your hips during the process, following the rhythm of the music.
You turn your back to him, looking over your shoulder just one time to see if he is still watching you, and with your back to him, you swing your hips, twerking quietly even, shaking your ass at the beat of the song, dancing with your friends while doing this little show for him.
Gator frowns in lust and desire when you turn your back to him. His eyes go dark; he wets his lips and looks with such thirst that all the world around you becomes a blur, his attention only on you.
The way you ass move, your hands running around your side, makes him think of your hands being his. Makes him think about how it must be the sensation of his hands holding your waist while you grind against his hips. Makes him think about a lot of things he can do with you.
But when he is about to imagine these numerous and delicious scenarios, his pants get even tighter on his groin. Even so, with possibly a visible boner he doesn't care about trying to hide, a guy approaches you from your side.
His breath is taken away when the guy places his hand on your lower back and whispers something in your ear. You glance over your shoulder at Gator, and when your eyes meet for just a fraction of a second, the mischief in your eyes is enough to make Gator’s head spin.
You turn back to the guy, smiling widely, placing both of your hands over his shoulder while he pulls you to dance with him, a hand on your lower back while his other hand has a beer can, his back facing Gator.
Gator is not necessarily jealous, because how could he be? He doesn't know you; he has never seen you before tonight, but even so, something is unsettling resting on his chest. Rejection? Fear? Envy?
He swallows drily while watching with his full attention as you spin and laugh with the guy speaking too close to your ear, saying some shit to make you giggle like that. Though your laughs are for the guy, your eyes never leave Gator; your eyes have been locked on his since he first approached you.
Gator looks suspiciously at you for some seconds, his face becoming a scowl, his wrinkles between his eyebrows so deep, and his nostrils so wide, that it is noticeable how pissed he might be.
But then he notices something, putting his vape, way back, forgotten between his fingers, away in his front pocket, to watch the show with full attention and curiosity, using his investigative skills to read the situation.
You start to dance as you did before, but now your hands are replaced by the guy’s hands, dancing along with you. You are facing Gator again, your back barely brushing the guy’s chest. Your eyes locked on Gator’s.
Your gaze from before intensifies, darkening a little, and then it clicks. You are dancing to Gator, seducing him, doing in a minor intensity with the guy what you are willing to do with Gator.
His hands hover over your body, your curves, brushing slightly along your arm, his lips brushing slightly at the hair at the side of your head.
Every time the guy tries to be too smart, touching in places close to where you are needy for Gator, or even gripping you, you slap the guy’s hand away.
The only person allowed to touch you like that tonight is Gator, and no one else, and Gator notices it just by the way you part your lips slightly, looking directly at him, biting them with lust and need.
Eventually, you turn your back to Gator again, your hands resting lazily on the guy's shoulders. Gator has had his eyes locked on you since the beginning, but now, with a different feeling inside of him, there is no doubt that he will have you for himself tonight.
When you glance over your shoulder to see if he is still watching you, you smile widely and slyly to yourself when the answer is positive. When you face the guy in front of you again, he leans in to kiss you. You dodge, pulling back from him, smiling politely at him, and shaking your head in denial.
Gator notices the rejection hits the guy, and, with an angry look on his face, he starts talking back to you as you are about to leave.
He grabs your forearm, spinning you to face him again. But before Gator could step in, you punched the guy hard and straight in the nose, and he instantly starts to bleed and groan in pain.
This all happened so quickly, in less than five seconds.
Besides his father, who thinks women must be submissive and men should be the ones to protect, Gator always had a soft spot for and huge respect for women who know how to throw a punch.
So when he sees you defending yourself since he can’t at the moment, his dick gets so hard that it's painful.
You glance at Gator after you punched the guy, and he mouths to you to leave, firmly. When you nod in response, taking his order, already grabbing your friends by their wrists, you get lost in the crowd again.
Gator lets you vanish, then points to the punched guy and announces to his team that he is going to see what happened there, taking the quest to resolve it.
Gator walks lazily towards the guy, grabbing his vape from his front pocket again while his thumb from his free hand is tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Something’s wrong here, big guy?” he asks, uninterested, blowing smoke at the corner of his mouth, looking away at the guy with scorn.
“That bitch just punched me in the face!” The guy exclaims, his hand under his nose, still whining a little from before, blood starting to dry beneath his touch.
When the guy calls you that, Gator freezes, his vape lifting halfway through his mouth. He turns his head slowly back to the guy, chuckling bitterly at him. Gator straightens up, not caring that the guy is taller than him; he is not letting him call you that.
He looks dead at the guy, putting the vape away in his front pocket again while his other hand rests threateningly at the holster where his gun is at his thigh. “I saw you, fucking piece of shit, grabbing her arm because you couldn’t handle a no from a lady,” Gator says menacingly, hissing through his teeth.
“So don’t be a little baby crying about receiving what you deserve,” he takes a step closer to the guy, who widens his eyes in fear, “and I better not find you again tonight, or I’ll take you to a five-star hotel to watch the sun rise behind bars, you hear me?”
The guy doesn’t even say a word, just nods and steps away slowly, getting lost in the crowd just like you did earlier. When he loses sight of the guy, Gator returns to his team. “C’mon, let’s do another route,” he instructs, already heading away, his men following him behind.
After a couple of minutes walking through the ground, heading towards the Ferris wheel, Gator catches you in the crowd again, some meters ahead of him. You are in a table along with your friends drinking a beer, when your eyes find him as well.
You grin widely at him, then you turn to your friends, leaning over the table to whisper to them. Gator sees your friend glancing towards him, then turning back to you with a knowing look, taking a lipstick and a little notebook from her bag, and giving them to you.
Gator looks at the scene with curiosity. You write something down, ripping the paper off the notebook, and giving the lipstick back to your friend. You stand up, fixing your skirt, and start to walk towards him. Just like before, you pass by his side, but now you place the note on his hand when you walk past him.
Gator grabs the paper from your hand and takes his chance to lace his finger around yours for just a second before letting go. He tucks his hand into his front pocket, heading to the Ferris Wheel, glancing over his shoulder to find you doing the same, winking at him with a laugh leaving from your lips.
Gator smiles to himself, looking ahead again, puffing his chest again. He and the boys arrive at the wheel, staying at the side. After a minute there, he turns to his boy beside him, “I'm going to take a shit, man, something I must have eaten something bad, might take a while,” he lies, patting his colleague’s shoulder while already walking away before his deputy could say something.
When he is far enough from the Ferris wheel, he grabs the note from his pocket, opens it, reads it, and finds your handwriting in red lipstick: “meet me at your car ♡ ”.
“How the fuck this girl knows my car?” he murmurs to himself, shrugging just afterward, putting the note in his back pocket, and heading to the parking lot, a smug and excited smile on his lips.
About five minutes later, outside the fair, walking in the parking lot, at the back and dark part of it, his Jeep comes into view, and a gorgeous girl is sitting on the hood of it: you, scrolling through your phone.
You lift your head from your phone when you hear footsteps approaching. You grin widely, and you see Gator coming towards you, so you put your phone away in your back pocket. You straighten your posture, your elbow resting on your knees, your legs on the car's bumper.
“Took you long enough, officer,” you tease, watching him get closer, stopping just a couple of steps in front of you.
Gator has his thumbs tucked into his waistband, looking down at you, admiring you as you sit on the hood of his car, a mischievous smile on his lips.
“It’s deputy, ma’am,” he corrects you, taking a step closer, resting his hands on your knees, not taking his eyes off you.
You raise your eyebrow, smirking, “Oh, so you are the kind of guy who likes the titles you have, deputy?” You chuckle, oogling him, wetting your lips slightly, parting your legs to receive him between them.
“I like to call things the name they owe, actually,” he says suggestively, taking another step forward, your knees brushing just above his waistband around his hips, his hands sliding up from your knees to your thighs.
“Is that so?” you smirk, chuckling, hooking your finger under his belt buckle and pulling him properly between your legs, his knees touching the front of his car, your faces just apart enough to look at each other, “so which one is for me?” you whisper seductively, looking from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes.
Leaning over you, whispering against your mouth, his hot breath brushing against your lips, "for now?” Gator chuckles, “You're mine,” and crashes his lips against yours.
He places one hand at the lower part of your back, pulling you at the edge of the hood, your legs instinctively wrapping around his legs, pressing his hip against yours. His other hand tangles in your hair while you hold him by the straps around his sheriff vest, pressing his body to yours.
Gator groans at the back of his throat, tilting your head by gripping a little harder at the roots of your hair to deepen the kiss. You gasp against his lips, making him smirk cockily against your lips.
“You like that, huh?” he holds your hair tighter, pulling your head back, your lips parting, desire in your eyes, no words needed to confirm his statement.
His eyes go darker, and a wider and sly smile appears on his lips. His other hand goes to your hip, his thumb grabbing the front while the others spread above the curve of your ass. He notices your phone there, grabs it, and tucks it into the back of his pants, then returns to hold you.
Gator holds you firmly while grinding against you, looking at you. You moan when his erection brushes against your panties, rolling your eyes back.
“Fuck,” he murmurs painfully, continuing to grind you, “you're so responsive,” he says breathlessly, then crashes your mouths again, open just like yours from your moans, both tongues crushing and rubbing inside each other's mouths.
You hum into his mouth with need, sending warmth waves directly to his cock. You hook your fingers on both sides of his cargo pants at the belt loops there, pulling him impossibly closer, willing to feel his hardness against your damp panties.
Gator bites your lower lip when he feels your heat through his pants, kissing you harder, cradling the back of your neck while deepening the kiss.
He slides his hand slowly from your hip to your thigh, his big hand sliding until the hem of your skirt, then going up beneath it, his hand running up to the waistband of your panties.
You moan into his mouth, pressing against him. Gator smirks against your lips, kissing down from your mouth to your cheekbone, jaw, until getting to your neck.
He pulls your head back by your hair, sucking, nipping, and kissing your neck open-mouthed and wet, his tongue spread wide while sucking.
You bite your lips, squeezing your eyes while moaning sweetly against his ear, making him thrust against you instinctively, taking a gasp from you.
While devouring your neck, leaving sucks marks all over your neck, marking you down, he hooks two fingers around the waistband of your panties.
“Can I?” he whispers while breathing against your ear, sending a jolt of desire through your core. You can't respond properly, too dizzy, just nodding back at his question.
“Use your words, baby girl,” he commands against your neck, sucking a little harder, making you gasp, squeezing your eyes even more, your grip on his vest tightening.
“Yes, please,” you plead in a whine, making him chuckle against your ear again, making you shiver down your spine just from his breath against it.
“Good girl,” he praises you, licking with his tongue spread wide at the column of your neck from your collarbone to your ear. He pulls the panties down your hips slowly, you lifting your hips to help him.
Gator pulls back from your neck, looking at you while he slides your panties to your knees. You open your eyes, breathless, seeing blurry, with him being the only thing in focus in your gaze.
He let go of the back of your neck, grabbing the other side of your panties to slide them off, stepping back. Without breaking eye contact with you, he kneels on the grass under his feet, pulling your panties down through your leg, passing through your boots, until he takes them off.
Still looking at you, he brings your panties to his face, shutting his eyes when he inhales your smell while groaning at the back of his throat, his eyes full with lust when he opens them and looks up at you again.
“If you smell like this,” Gator takes your panties and tucks them in his back pocket, “I can't wait to see how you taste, doll.” he grabs the hem of your skirt, pulling it over your hip, exposing your pussy to him.
“Oh Lord, you are dripping,” he whimpers painfully when he looks down at you, at your shining pussy so wet with your arousal, your own breath getting heavier just by seeing him looking at you like this.
Gator grabs both your legs, resting them over his shoulders. He pulls the hem of your skirt up until your waist, holding your thighs firmly. He locks his eyes with yours, kissing up from your knee to the inside of your thigh.
You throw your head back, your mouth apart, moaning sweetly at the feeling of his hot lips against your thigh, getting closer to where you need him the most. You pull yourself up in one hand against the hood while the other tangles into Gator's hair.
You look down on him with half-lidded eyes, biting your lower lip with desire, “You always fuck random girls at the hood of your car in dark parking lots?” You tease, chuckling weakly, feeling too dizzy to react with anything other than that.
Gator chuckles against your groin, feeling the heat radiating from your pussy on his cheek, still not breaking eye contact with you, “No, just the dirty ones,” he smirks to you just before diving on your pussy.
You throw your head back, shutting your eyes and crying out at the feeling of his mouth down on you. He licks your folds from your entrance to your clit, humming against your core, vibrating through your body, and sending shivers down your spine.
Gator savors you, his nose deep on your pubis, sliding his tongue inside of you now and then, rolling his eyes back just by the taste of you on his tongue.
After tasting you and getting drunk on your arousal, he sucks and licks your clit, his tongue spread against it, rubbing it.
He can't take his eyes off you, not only because he wants to see you writhing because of his mouth, but also to study you, to learn about you.
He watches how you react with different pressures of his tongue on your clit, and where and how you like it the most. He watches the way you tighten the grip on his hair when he licks you just right, drooling all over your pussy.
Shamelessly, you moan loudly, looking down and finding him looking with such attention towards you. You bite your lips at the sight of this man in a deputy uniform, on his knees, devouring you.
Gator grinds once against the bumper of his car to try to get some friction to his painful cock, trying to get some relief for himself.
One of his hands holds tighter on your hip while he releases the other from it. Still with his eyes on you, he takes his hand with two of his fingers sliding slowly inside you so easily from how wet you are for him.
“Ooooh fuuuck,” you whimper, buckling your hips towards his fingers and mouth, but he holds you down with one hand on your hip, pinning you against the hood of the car.
Gator curls his finger when he feels your spongy spot inside of you, pressing it, massaging deliciously, making your legs press against his head from the pleasure.
“That's it,” he praises against your core when he senses your walls clenching around his fingers, feeling your thighs getting tenser around his head, your breath hitching, your eyes squeezing shut, the grip on his hair tightening, “I got you, come for me, gorgeous.”
You feel the heat spreading from your core, up from your back to all over your body. Your body tenses fully, a strangled moan at the beginning of the release, becoming louder and guttural while you continue to come against his mouth.
Your hand on his hair is holding tighter, making him wince slightly from the pain, but this just adds more pleasure to him, while he still rides you off from your high, rubbing inside of you and your clit just slightly and slowly.
When your legs start to get shaky from overstimulation, and your breath follows with a high-pitched whine, Gator pulls back his mouth and slowly pulls his fingers from your core. You whimper slightly, from the overstimulation, but also from missing him inside of you already.
You almost cry out from the view of him between your legs, his nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin shining from his saliva and your arousal. You are wrecked, but he is just as wrecked as you.
Gator carefully takes your legs off his shoulder. He brings his fingers to his mouth, eyes still on you, while sucking your arousal off them.
You bite your lips, whining just by seeing him humming around his fingers, you press your thighs together, feeling another wave of desire rushing inside of you.
He stands up from the ground, a smirk on his face when his eyes drop to your shaky legs pressed together. Gator looks up at you again, one hand coming between your legs, spreading them for him to get closer to you again, while his other hand cradles the back of your neck.
He pulls you into a hungry kiss, you tasting you in his tongue that curls against yours. You groan against his mouth when you taste yourself, your hands going to his belt, starting to unbuckle it.
Gator chuckles against your mouth by the sound of the metal of his belt and the rubbing of your hands against his pants. He slides his free hand on your ass, squeezing it, making you gasp between kisses.
Without breaking the kiss, he palms your ass fully, pulling you off the hood of the car, standing you up. Gator presses you against the bumper of the car, his hand squeezing all your ass, moaning painfully against your lips. You feel the cold of the core in the parts you are bare, gasping slightly.
Gator pulls back, both of his hands going to your waist, where your skirt is lifted. You move your head forward, searching for his lips by reflex when he pulls away. Before you could protest, he spins you, making you face his car.
Gator grabs both of your wrists with one of his hands, holding you in place with them at your back. He presses your body against the bumper, pressing your back against his chest, pushing his boner against your ass, his free hand holding your hip firmly.
“See how hard I am for you, sugar?” He murmurs against the shell of your ear, biting your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine.
Gator kisses your neck, sucking and biting it, with his tongue out, savoring all he can of you, taking his time with you, thrusting at you, looking for some friction for himself.
“I saw you punching that guy, how you can take care of yourself," he confesses while, with his free hand, he finishes the work you started, “so I was wondering…”
Gator finishes unbuckling his belt, now zipping down his pants, “if I can take care of a good girl like you.”
You press your ass against his hips, feeling the cold of a part of the zipper of his pants but also the warmth at his lower belly and the fabric of his briefs against you, “I've been thinking about it since the first time I saw you,” you confess, looking over your shoulder at his eyes.
Gator chuckles, leaning to bite your earlobe one last time, soothing just after sucking a little, until with the hand on his pants, he pins you down against the hood of his car, your hands still locked with his on your back, your ass on full display for him.
You gasp at the movement, your cheek pressed against the hood of the car while looking back at him over your shoulder. Without releasing your wrists, you see him grab his wallet and take a condom out of it.
When he finds you looking at him, he smirks, dropping the wallet on the floor while putting the condom right above your butt cheek.
Without breaking eye contact, with one hand, he takes off his pants and briefs just enough to release himself, just a little above his knee. You can't see, but you feel his dick slapping your ass when he takes his boxers off.
You roll your eyes back, biting your lips while humming in desire. Gator's eyes go darker at your reaction, holding his cock by the base and rubbing the head against your butt cheek.
You feel the wet sensation of his pre cum at your skin, making you whine, “Seems like you're dripping as well, deputy,” you say breathless and need, shutting your eyes.
Gator smirks mischievously, letting go of his dick, now resting against your ass, and two of his fingers sliding between your folds. He moans gutturally, his eyebrows furrow, and his mouth forms an o.
“Jesus Christ, sugar,” he says in awe. The wet sound from your pussy, showing how wet you are for him, fills the air around you. You moan sweetly at the sensation of his fingers on you again, your head spinning.
He slides two fingers easily inside of you, moving his hand up and down inside of you, the wet sounds becoming louder just like your moans.
“You are so ready for me again,” he fucks you with his finger for some more seconds until taking them out, making you whimper from the absence, but before you could properly protest, he smacks your ass, making you bounce against the car and gasp in surprise and need.
Gator smirks proudly to himself at your reaction. He tightens the grip around your wrists, while looking back at you, he grabs the condom with his free hand, ripping it with his teeth. He spits the plastic away, placing the condom at the head and sliding it down his cock.
“I always wondered if men like you have a kink for arrest play,” you tease, chuckling, watching his arm move in a stroking motion to wrap the condom around his dick. “Guess I'm right.”
Gator raises an eyebrow at you, chuckling with amusement, finishing to put the condom on and looking back at you, “I like to put naughty girls in their place,” he smirks wider, rubbing the head of his dick through your folds, moving his hips slightly, making both of you moan at the sensation.
“God, you look so hot like that,” he palms your ass, squeezing it, spreading it apart, and then smacking it again, squeezing again just afterward, his hand rubbing against your ass, soothing it.
You gasp and moan when he hits you again, you sliding against his dick, seeking some release from your pleasure, throwing your hip back against his hips, feeling brushing your butt against his pubis.
“I wish I had my cuffs with me,” he admits, leaning towards you, pressing your butt against him while sliding his hands beneath your vest. He runs his nails against your back beneath your vest, leaving weak red paths along the way down your spine, “but I'll still teach you a lesson either way.”
Gator hums in approval, smacking your ass again, making an o with his lips again, biting his lower lip, appreciating the view of your ass like this to him. You bounce against his car, his dick sliding lazily between your wet, dripping folds, while seeing you move along with him.
“You are all talk and no real action, deputy,” You tease, smirking, still looking at him, humming slightly at his dick sliding between the lips of your pussy, “I'm starting to think I misjudged- ooooh fuck!”
Before you could even finish your sentence, looking in disbelief with a smug smile on his face while you accuse him with such dirty words, Gator holds the base of his cock, placing him at your entrance, and slides into you all at once easily, balls deep.
“What were you saying, princess?” He teases back, rubbing your ass, chuckling cockily at you while letting you adjust to him, while also gripping harder on your wrists.
You can't think straight, you half moan and half whine at the fulfillment you are feeling with him inside of you. Your walls take him so well, you are so wet that he slides into you so effortlessly, even though you notice he is not a small guy.
“You are always this cocky?” You can't help yourself by teasing back. And you receive back him pulling back just enough to thrust hard but not fast into you again. You roll your eyes back just before squeezing your eyes shut, your lips parted from the moan that just left your lips.
“Just when I know I’m doing a fucking great job,” he answers while thrusting you again. It's not fast, not exactly rough either, but he thrusts hard. The sound of your hips clapping along with the filthy sounds of your wet pussy makes you feel dizzy.
Gator looks at his dick disappearing inside of you over and over again in awe. He holds you by your ass, holding your wrists at your back still.
The dirtiness of the scene: your skirt pulled up to your waist, your bare ass on display, his dick deep in you, the red mark of his hand on your ass, your hands behind your back… if he died now, he would not complain at all; he would go happily.
Gator finds a comfortable pace and speeds up a little, thrusting harder as before. You and he moan with pleasure, your ass hitting against his hip, when he also smacks your ass.
“Fuck, doll,” he moans, strangled, glancing from your ass to your face, his vision getting blurry from the desire, “you squeeze my dick just fine,” he moans, letting go of your wrists, gripping your hips by both sides, fucking you hard.
Released from his grip, the car bouncing beneath your body, you lift on your arms, your back arched at Gator, looking over your shoulder, moaning filthily at him, now having a great view of him fucking you from behind, and just by seeing it, you moan even more.
He looks up at you, locking his eyes with yours. You both moan at each other, being the other one the only thing in focus, the only thing you can both sense, hear, and smell.
“I saw you dancing with that bastard,” he starts, fucking you harder, a little faster, smirking just by seeing your eyes shaking from pleasure along with your moans, “this was what you were imagining?” he asks between moans, smacking your butt again, “me fucking you like that? Touching you like that?”
“Yeah, fuck,” you whine loudly, glancing from him to where your bodies meet, your vision blurry, becoming cock drunk. You drop your head, moaning loudly, gripping the air at the hood of the car.
Gator can't see your face properly, so he notices he really wants to see your face, how he wants to see how you break because of him. “I have an idea,” he announces, pulling you to his chest.
He holds your hips firmly, kissing your neck, hearing your breath heavily, while he painfully slides off of you, both of you whining and whimpering from the absence of one another.
He lets go of your hips, pulling his pants and briefs just enough for him to walk properly. With your legs a little shaky, you rest your hands on the hood.
Gator wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you by his side to steady you, walking towards the back seat of this car while searching for his car keys in his front pocket.
He beeps the car open, unlocking it and opening the door for you. “Such a gentleman,” you tease, chuckling, crawling into the car while he enters just behind, kicking his boots off, and sliding his pants all the way down as well.
While taking off his clothes, he sits in the middle seat at the back, grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap. “Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle, taking his hands away from you.
While confusion starts to appear on his face, you get down from the seat to kneel on the car floor, tucking your legs beneath the passenger and driver's seat, your hands over his thighs with his hard dick just a few inches from you.
“Now it's my turn to take good care of you, deputy,” you say sweetly to him, grabbing him and pumping him above the condom, working him up, feeling him pulsing under your touch, “you have another with you?” you refer to the condom.
Gator, biting his lips while humming with need, nods. Without taking his eyes from you, he grabs one from a secret spot he has at the back seat, grabs the new condom from there, and places it beside him on the seat.
“Good boy,” you smirk, taking the condom off him and dropping it on the floor beside your knee, and stroking him again, now skin to skin, feeling his veins on the palm of your hand while you slide up to his head until his base.
Gator whines and curses under his breath at the praise and the way you are playing with him, his hand coming to the roots of your hair while the other one places at the back of the seat beside him, gripping it tightly, his knuckles turning white. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips part from the sweet sounds he is making.
You lock your eyes on him when you lick from the base to the head, your tongue spread wide along his length. You feel his grip on your hair tighten, and you smile to yourself, your eyes glued to his face, and you can tell how lost he is in you already.
You lick the head with the tip of your tongue, licking his pre cum, swirling your tongue around it. Gator throws his head back, moaning breathlessly, gripping harder at the back of the seat to not hold your hair too tight, hurting you, but little does he know you like it a little rough.
You chuckle against him at his reaction, “Eyes on me, deputy,” you call for his attention. His eyes fall back on you, his eyes barely open, his face wrecked just by the movement of your tongue around him. And when he looks back at you, you sink into him.
You wrap your lips around his tip, going down on him, your gaze locked on his, humming around him, vibrating through his body.
Gator holds your hair tighter and moans in a whine as if he is in pain, feeling your warm mouth taking him. He sees you sucking your cheek into your mouth, continuing to suck him down, moaning more fiercely around him every time his grip tightens on your hair.
He notices your jaw relaxing and sinking more into him, until your nose hits his pubes, the tip of his dick hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes water, gagging a little.
“Oh, baby girl,” he whimpers, cradling the back of your neck, holding you while you go up and down on him. “Oh fuck,” he moans sweetly, getting lost in the feeling of your mouth around him, your warm mouth, the vision of your eyes getting watery because of his cock.
You moan against his dick, your eyes rolling back from the pleasure of having his disck pulsing inside of your mouth. You love the way he, just slightly, jerks towards your mouth, making you gag just enough to send a shiver down your spine, and small tears rolling down your cheek.
“Such a good girl taking me like that,” he praises you when you start to drool around his cock, dripping into his lap, humming with approval, his hand following your head's movements while he wipes the tears off your face with his thumb.
You grab the condom beside him, ripping the plastic around it while still sucking Gator. You take your mouth out of him slowly, making him whimper from missing your warmth around him. You grab his base and slide the condom down until it reaches your hand.
“Now it's my time to fuck you, deputy,” you declare while climbing on top of him, straddling him, one leg on each side of his hips, your knees resting at the seat of the car.
You grab his dick and place it at your entrance with one hand, while the other one holds his shoulder, with him holding you by your hips with both hands to help you.
Gator pulls back, breathless, sweat accumulating at his hairline, willing to look at you. Your eyes lock while you sit into him slowly, doing your best not to roll your eyes back to keep them on him, placing your now-free hand at the back of the seat behind him.
You both part your lips in a strangled moan, and when you take him fully, balls deep in you, you both become breathless. You adjust to him with your eyes shut while he rubs your hips to soothe you, and you breathe deeply.
“You okay, gorgeous?” He asks softly, the first time you've heard him speak like that since the beginning of it, one hand coming to your face, rubbing your cheekbone, a little concern in his eyes.
“Yeah,” you chuckle breathlessly, leaning into his touch, opening your eyes even if dizzily, “just getting used to you,” you chuckle weakly, “I feel you everywhere,” you confess, chuckling, cock drunk.
Gator smirks, between an amused chuckle, holding your jaw with his thumb, tilting your head, “good, because I couldn't take you out of my mind all night,” he confesses, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb, looking at how heavy your breath is.
“Good, because I have you in my mind for a couple of weeks already,” you whisper weakly, looking at him while taking his thumb into your mouth. Meanwhile, you start to move your hip slowly against him, rolling your eyes back while moaning around him.
Gator moans a little louder at the view in front of him, along with you riding him. He presses his thumb against your tongue while holding your hip tighter, guiding you.
“Fuuuuck,” his breath hitches when you begin to suck his thumb, moaning around it while moving against you, your eyes rolling back at the double stimulation.
Eventually, you open your eyes and start going up and down on him slowly. He takes his thumb off your mouth with a wet pop and grabs both sides of your hips, looking up at you, moaning as you sink on him in that delicious speed.
He gets lost in you for a while, both your hands grabbing the back of the seat beside his head, while his hands help you go up and down on him.
Gator dives into the feeling of you around him, you being the only thing he can process, how your pussy takes him, how you get him balls deep on you every time you sink into him again and again.
He loves how you moan sweetly, tilting your head to the side without taking your eyes off him, your lips parted, drooling a little even, that he quickly captures with a wet kiss at the corner of your mouth.
He loves the way you whine slightly every time the tip of his dick hits deeper on you, some tears accumulating at the corner of your eye, that he carefully brushes away with his thumb.
Both of you get lost in each other for a while, unable to think straight or of anything else besides one another. On how his hands burn against your skin, on how his brows furrow when he feels something intense while riding him, making you both chuckle at it.
After a while, Gator looks down at your chest and sees your breasts bouncing beneath your vest. You notice his interest in your chest, smiling brrsthalessly, leaning your body back a little to give him better access to take it off.
He looks up at you, receiving a nod and a malicious smile from you in return. Gator smiles deliciously, landing his eues on your chest again.
You sit on his lap, moving slightly, weak sounds leaving both of you, while he unbuttons your vest, starting at the bottom. He glues his eyes on you while opening your vest slowly, both breathless, until he unbuttons the last button on your vest.
When Gator takes his hand off your clothes, your vest covers just enough to cover your nipples, letting your cleavage on display.
He whines in pain, holding your ribs just below the curve of your breasts, leaning into the valley between them while rubbing the soft skin under them. With his tongue spread, he licks from the bottom to the top of your cleavage, licking and kissing open-mouthed all the way up.
Gator slowly takes your vest off your shoulders, dropping it at the seat behind him. Then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer to him, your chest pressing against his bulletproof vest.
You throw your head back, your hands tangling into his hair with sweet moans leaving your mouth. You kiss the top of his head while he continues to savor you, going from your collarbone to your back to your neck, his fingernails running down your spine more freely now, making you moan.
Eventually, Gator slides down from your collarbone to your nipple. His eyes up to you now, he swirls your hardened nipple around his tongue, sucking it sweetly while one of his hands cups your other breast, rubbing your nipple under his thumb.
“Fuck,” you whine, rolling your hips by reflex because of the feeling of his warm mouth on you again, making him gasp against your breast.
He is speeding up to invite you to match his pace, and when you get it, you match his energy, holding your half top still while rolling on his lap while he enjoys your breasts.
“What’s your name?” you ask breathlessly, your head thrown back, “I realized now I don’t know it yet,” you confess between a moan, holding his hair tighter, pressing your mouth parted at the top of his head, rolling fast on him, getting intoxicated by him.
“Gator,” he answers breathless, a little muffled against your nipple. He pulls back, still rubbing your other nipple, looking up at you, “What about yours, princess?”
You say your name in a whine, your knees growing weak from riding him that long. Gator notices you getting tired, moaning your name sweetly while pinning his feet on the floor, holding your hip a little up while thrusting into you.
“Oh, Gator,” you moan loudly when he thrusts deep and hard into you. Your hands are cradling his head, your mouth parted, just like his. He holds you in space while fucking you, your foreheads pressed together, moaning into each other.
Gator moans your name in a gruttual moan. You both lock eyes with each other, pulling back just enough for that, moaning each other's names, and getting closer to your climax.
His breath starts to hitch while a heat starts to bloom from your lower belly up to your chest by the constant friction of your clit against his pelvis. Your walls clench around his cock meanwhile he starts to pulse inside of you.
“Don't stop,” you beg, whining loudly, your body tensing up, your orgasm building up.
“I won't,” he groans in response, “Come for me,” he cries out your name, his thrusts becoming erratic, “fuck, come for me, gorgeous”
Your moan becomes strangled, your eyes locked on his, then you come for the second time tonight. Your eyes roll back, and you shut your eyes just afterward, moaning loudly, your walls clenching hard around him, your grip on his hair tightening.
Gator thrusts two, three more times, lost at the sight of you unraveling in front of him, looking at you with awe. His thrusts fumble until he comes just after you, riding you off your high until he hits his.
His stomach tenses, his hips lifted from the seat, deep in you while he comes, the grip on you tightening, probably leaving marks of his fingers. He moans a little strangled, your name leaving his lips like it's something divine, seeing stars, his head spinning from his release, and you clenching around him.
You both slowly come down from your high. He sits back in his seat, wrapping his arms around you while you crash and lean against him, his head pressing against the shell of your breasts, breathing in your smell, a mix of sex, sweat, and your perfume, while hearing the fast beat of your heart against his ear.
Your arms wrap around his neck while you rest your cheek against the top of his head. Both of you are breathless, hair damp with sweat, clinging to each other, calming each other's nervous systems just by breathing in each other.
After long minutes, you both pull back to look at each other. You run your fingers through his scalp while his hands slide down your hips, doing idle patterns with his thumb against it.
You look at each other for a second before leaning forward to kiss, this time slowly, properly savoring one another. Your lips move softly against the other, you cradle the back of his neck while he widens his hands across your back, pressing you even closer against his chest.
Your lips move lazily together, humming weakly and gladly at the feeling of you touching like that. It’s a calm kiss, no rush, either hungry, just savoring the other after an intense moment between you two.
You rest your foreheads together after a while, breathing weakly against each other's mouths. “I should get back to my guys,” Gator says just above a whisper, breathing heavily.
“And I should get back to my girls,” you add just as weakly. You both pull back, calmer now, you rub his scalp while he rubs your back up and down with his fingertips, making you smile slightly at the sensation against your skin.
“Give me your phone,” he says quietly, sliding one hand up to rub the apple of your cheek with his knuckles.
You chuckle at the request and the gesture, leaning into his touch, “I'm not from here, actually. I'm from Minnesota, I'm on a trip with my friends for a month,” you say quietly, adding just after.
“We can make a deal,” you suggest, grinning, enjoying the game you are planning, “if you see me around town until I leave at the end of the month,” your eyes shine with the idea, “I'll give you my phone.”
“Is that so?” He laughs beamingly, amused by the suggestions, enjoying this pursuing journey. Gator rubs your cheek again, with his thumb now, cupping your face and pulling you to a kiss, pressing his lips softly against your lips to give you a little peck.
“I'm in, I like the idea of hunting you down,” he laughs with mischief, pinching your side, making you squirm on his lap, giggling.
“I'm not easy to find, deputy,” you say slyly, but grinning widely, rubbing his hair at the nape of his neck.
“And I don't quit easily either, gorgeous,” he says in a whisper, leaning closer to your mouth again, “I'm a winner, and I'll get your number as my prize,” he declares, pressing your lips together again, sealing the promise.
wounded
(slight angst, mention of gunshot wounds, eventual fluff)
gator tillman is the kind of guy you wished you didn’t care about.
but you do.
unfortunately.
you ran into him a lot. him being the deputy sheriff and you being a nurse meant it was kind of inevitable.
he was at the hospital on a weekly basis—to take statements from witnesses. to arrest suspects after they had been treated. to waste time drinking the shitty coffee. to annoy you.
gator tillman had made his interest in you abundantly clear from the get go. you had rejected him every single time. still—it didn’t deter him. he persisted. you continued to deny him.
but you also didn’t tell him to stop. you liked the chase. he knew you did.
and so when you turn up to work one day to find out that the patient who had been admitted with a gunshot wound was gator? you falter. for the first time in your professional career, you wonder if you could handle it. not because of the blood or the severity of the wound. but because it was gator.
your find yourself pacing outside of the room you knew doctors were treating him in. the wound wasn’t severe enough for surgery—thank god—but they still needed to stem the bleeding and close up the entrance and exit wounds.
your hands shook and your heart hammered in your chest as you waited. you hated the feeling of worry that had settled in your chest. the feeling that was seeping into every pore, every nook and cranny in your body. making you feel restless.
you should be attending to other patients. you knew that. but your colleagues—all of whom seem to know that you cared about gator tillman more than you cared to admit—held the fort. they steered patients away from you. they didn’t ask you to return to work. they just looked at you with sympathetic eyes.
it took the doctors nearly forty minutes to stitch up the wounds. apparently gator kept complaining. was incredibly fidgety. kept asking for you. that’s what one of the doctors told you.
your face had burned at that comment. your stomach had turned. your heart doing stupid things in your chest that scientifically didn’t make sense.
“thank you,” you murmured to the doctor before you slipped into the room.
gator didn’t immediately look up. too busy scowling at the plate of food he had been given.
“you gotta eat,” you say by way of announcing yourself. your voice shaky when you finally use it.
gator looks up then—his expression shifting the second he sees you. you see it for a split second—how relieved he looked. how there was a flicker of vulnerability in his big brown eyes. how he looked like a scared child for the briefest of seconds.
but then his face shifts again—back to his usual self. even if he was shirtless with a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.
“fancy seeing you here, sweetheart,” he greets you—a smile stretching across his lips despite the clear pain he was in.
“i work here,” you remind him when you approach him—your eyes on the bandage. trying not to look at the dark smattering of coarse hair across his chest.
“no shit,” he hums.
“want my attention that bad?” you ask in an attempt at a joke. trying to ignore the tightest in your chest at the small specks of blood—his blood—on the sheet beneath him.
“i’d take ten more bullets for you if you keep looking at me like that.”
it was meant to be joke—you knew it was. but it made your eyes sting.
“don’t say things like that,” you mutter, eyes flickering up to meet his.
gator then does something he rarely did—he listens. he stills. studies your expression for a long moment before he glances back at the tray of food on his bedside.
“you don’t happen to know if they do steak here?” he asks. you knew he had seen your tears and you were grateful that he hadn’t commented on them.
“no,” you tell him quietly, sniffling a little as you blink away your tears. “just chicken and vegetables for you.”
gator scoffs, eyes flickering from you over to the plate of roast chicken, potatoes and broccoli. “maybe if you feed it to me, i’ll eat it.”
the idea makes the corners of your mouth twitch. gator notices. makes the pain in his shoulder feel pretty insignificant in comparison to making you smile.
“the doctor told me you were asking for me,” you say after a few moments.
gator doesn’t falter, he smirks a little.
“yeah—i asked her where the hottest nurse in all of stark county was,” he says without missing a beat.
if he wasn’t injured—you might have slapped his chest playfully the way you usually did. instead—you crack a smile and gator swears it was better than any painful relief he had been given so far.
“you gonna take care of me now, sweetheart?” he asks you, still smirking in that annoying way he did. but now—it seemed softer. less arrogant, more—something that made you feel warm inside. “because you touch me in that little uniform of yours, i might lose it.”
you snort out a laugh but your face feels warm. you hope he doesn’t notice. but of course he does.
“maybe a little,” you tell him before you turn and head towards the cupboard where fresh sheets were kept.
you feel gator’s eyes on you the entire time—not because he was checking you out.
okay—maybe he was checking you out a little bit.
but because he didn’t want you to leave him alone.
“you’re coming back, right?” he calls after you—despite the fact you were only on the other side of the room.
"yes, gator," you say gently. "i'm coming back. just going to change your sheets. there's blood on them."
"good," he grunts as he tries to move his shoulder a little. pain cuts through him but he manages to hide it with your back turned. "fancy changing my hospital gown while you're at it? pretty sure i got blood on that too. though, i will worn you—i've got nothing on underneath."
you return to his bedside and for a split second—your eyes flicker down. your face warms. gator notices.
"careful," you tell him gently as you help him sit on the edge of the bed so you could change the sheets. gator grumbles but he lets you touch him—guide him. not like how he had swore blind at the doctor who had stitched him up. or how he had glared at the first doctor who had assessed his wound. how he had muttered threats of violence under his breath.
"were you worried about me?" he asks once you gently help him lay back down against the bed. your hands on his skin making him feel grateful he was alive.
your eyes meet his and there isn't a doubt in his mind that you had been worried. but he doesn't press you further about it. just silently reaches to grab the hand that had been resting on his chest and brings it up to his lips to kiss your palm. you let him—heart hammering against your chest.
"quit worrying," he tells you in that gruff voice of his that did nothing to distract you from the gentleness of his touch. "m'right here, sweetheart."
"i know," you whisper, squeezing his hand once before you let go. your face undeniably warmer than before. "just don't go making a habit of getting shot, okay?"
gator smiles up at you. "i'll not try to sweetheart."
dividers by @zclhs
💌 day thriteeen of the 1k followers special!! last day tomorrow 🥹 crazy because i am nearly at 1.6k followers 😳
💚 also gator is back 🥹 second time writing for him and forgot how much i loved him! more to come for gator TRUST! also please let it be known that I have ZERO medical knowledge. especially gun shot wounds so let’s just ignore all the (likely) very incorrect medical stuff going on here. okay? okay.
