Bad Medicine #2
About: You have a really, really shitty shift & Gator brings you shower beers.
WC: 6.6K
Warnings: 18+ MDNI; language, medical trauma/CPR, asshole physicians (guess I'll call it bullying?), graphic sexual content (shower sex, oral, overstimulation if you squint, p in v) 👀
You stand at the order counter next to Steve, close enough that your shoulders brush every now as you shift your weight on your aching feet. You order a matcha latte with honey and Steve gets a hot chocolate, and you both settle down in the big cushy chairs in one of the more secluded corners of the cafe.
"Okay, despite the horrible name, this place is really nice."
"See? I knew ya'd like it. Can't always judge something without seeing for yourself, Harrington. Y'know, books and covers and whatnot."
"Yeah, I'll work on it. Cause I'll be honest, Odie still scares the shit outta me. Gator, too."
You swallow dryly at the mention of Gator's name coming out of Steve's mouth, your two worlds colliding in a very strange way.
You and Gator have grown up together in the same town, K through 12 and beyond, not necessarily as close friends but you knew the goings-on of one another at the very least. Then about 8 or 9 months ago your relationship turned into...well, it turned into a mess is what it turned into.
It started pretty immediately with sex. It was right after your transport training shift; Gator had been extra flirty and you didn't need much convincing after a lengthy college dry spell. He was hot, you were horny, and you each knew it was just something you both needed. That part was pretty straightforward.
The messy bits cropped up when Gator would show up in the ED asking for you specifically to help with some bloody knuckles or needing a stitch because some guy at the bar made fun of your dad and he had to knock his lights out.
Or, when it was Gator's birthday five months ago and you were the only one who bothered to remember, surprising him at work one night with a small chocolate cupcake you had baked yourself with a little fondant alligator on top and everything.
Or, when he was openly possessive of you in front of your new coworker, who is quite literally a real life Prince Charming, when no boundaries have ever been set for this thing between you both.
"Odie is just a jolly giant, I swear. You'll see. He just really needs a cigarette, but his wife is making him quit cause they got a baby on the way. G-Gator..." You stumble over his name, not used to saying it out loud I'm casual conversation to other people, let alone to a new coworker you're kinda-sorta on a maybe-date with. "Well, yah, he can be a real prick. And I'd like to say he means well, but...I'm not sure that's always true."
The waitress interrupts you, setting your drinks on the small table between you both. Steve's hot chocolate is piled high with whipped cream and your tea comes out steaming, the warm, rounded mug nestling perfectly in your cupped hands. You nod at her with your most polite smile, silently thanking her for the drinks and the opportunity to think about what else you could say to someone to sell them on Gator Tillman...
"So, are you guys close?"
"We've known each other a long time. Grew up right alongside each other, y'know? Then we work together too, so ya can't help but get to know someone."
Your discomfort over the subject is growing apparent in the tightening of your voice, and you're hoping your vague answers are enough. Thankfully Steve just nods, eyes scanning your face before he gives you a gentle smile.
"Well, he's lucky to have a friend like you."
You huff a dry laugh. "Friends is stretching it."
It wasn't a lie. Did you care about Gator? Yes. Maybe even deeply care sometimes? Okay, sure. But was Gator your friend? No. You couldn't really explain it further than that, he just...wasn't.
Steve takes a sip of his cocoa and something outside catches his eye. His posture changes, as does the expression on his face.
"Don't look now, but your not-friend, Gator? He's here."
"What?!" You hiss, whipping your head around. Sure enough, there he was, striding across the parking lot towards the front door.
He's stripped of his medic vest, just wearing his navy polo that hugs him a size smaller than he probably needs tucked into his tactical work pants that highlight his thick, long, muscular legs. It may just be a bad habit from his days as a sheriff's deputy, but he also wears a leg rig over his right thigh that's a real eye-catcher.
As he walks through the glass doors he pushes his sunglasses up to the top of his head and immediately sets his eyes on you and Steve. He smirks and stomps over to the counter first, leaning over it on his forearms to mumble something towards the barista only she can bear. She giggles flirtatiously and bites her lower lip in response.
You roll your eyes, sipping your tea. When you glance at Steve over the rim of your mug, he's watching you with quiet pensiveness. Neither of you notice as Gator then mozies right over as if he were invited.
"Well, mornin' lovebirds. Don't you two look real cozy?"
"Gator. Could say the same about you and Tish over there." You snip, fresh out of pleasantries for the morning. You knew exactly what this was. Probably all three of you did. "Thought ya didn't drink coffee? Ya know that's kinda what this place is for, right?"
Gator licks his teeth and folds his arms over his chest, cocking his hip sassily at you.
"Nah, I don't. But I saw Kerrington's car out front and thought I'd come say hello. Didn't realize you'd be here, too."
Oh, what a load of horse shit--
"It's uh, it's Harrington. But you can just call me Stev--"
"Sounds good, brother. Well, I'll leave ya to it. Ya back tonight?" He directs the question at you, jaw slightly clenched.
You sip your tea with a slight nod. "Yup. Three in a row. Same as always."
"Well, I'll see ya tonight then. Later, ladies." He flicks his sunglasses back down over his eyes and struts back out of the cafe, wiggling his fingers at Tish as he leaves. She starts to do so back, but when she notices you watching she shoves her hands in her apron and scurries to the back to pretend to do inventory.
"I don't know if he was just ignoring me, or calling me a lady there at the end. And I don't know which is more offensive..."
You look at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Steve. Like I said, he can be a real prick. I shoulda just told him to fuck off the second he walked in, I knew he wasn't here for a G-D latte."
"Hey, don't worry about it. I've dealt with bigger assholes. Besides, I actually don't drink coffee either..."
"You don't?? Well, why'd you ask me out for one?"
"Cause I knew you liked it. And I'm not such an idiot that I won't take a pretty girl like you out for one the second I get the chance."
He takes a long sip of his hot chocolate, eyebrows suavely bouncing once or twice, and when he brings his cup back down he has a glob of whipped cream on his nose and upper lip. A bright laugh bubbles from your lips and you automatically reach over to swipe it away from his face.
His cheeks go red moments before yours do, and you pause for a moment with your thumb over the seam of his lip before pulling your hand away.
"S-sorry."
"No, I appreciate it. Much obliged."
Your heart feels like it's going to climb out of your throat. Steve's stomach is twisting itself into knots that even he couldn't unravel, and he was an Eagle Scout.
"Are you back tonight, Steve?" You ask as casually as you are able, although you can't erase all of the hopefulness from your voice completely.
"I am. Training shift number 2. Will you be the one taking care of me?"
"I'll be there with bells on."
⚕️
"Oh, please, Steve? Pleeease."
"Nuh-uh."
"Please please please please please --"
"No."
"--please please please please please --"
"No, I'm not --"
"--PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEEEEEEEAAEEESEEE--"
"Okay! Jesus fuck--" Steve grumbles and grouchily flicks open the photo app on his phone. He scrolls past pictures of grinning faces, baseball uniforms, graduation caps, and countless happy, treasured memories. There's one you can see of a girl with bouncy hair kissing his cheek that he lingers on for a second longer than the others, and even though you have no right or reason to, you feel a pang of jealousy deep within your core.
Finally you see a flash of blue and red, and just when you lean in to let your greedy eyes get a better look he pulls the phone to his chest tightly.
"Okay, you cannot laugh."
"Steve. I would never." You cross your heart and do the locking-lips gesture.
"And like, this goes to your grave. I'm serious. This is high-level security clearance stuff."
"I'm honestly flattered, honored even, now please show me the goddamn picture."
He closes his eyes and flips the phone around, and your cheeks puff out immediately to contain the giggles that threaten to burst free; there on the screen is one of the greatest sights your eyes have ever beheld.
It's Steve, clearly younger, in a full-on electric blue sailor's suit, complete with a cap and the tiniest shorts you've ever seen on a man. He's smiling weakly in it, probably blackmailed or coerced into even taking the picture, and giving a little thumbs up to the camera with an ice cream scoop in his other hand.
"Ope."
"Shut up." He locks the phone and puts it in his pocket.
"Oh, wow. No, that was really somethin'."
"Cut it out."
"Steve. Could ya excuse me for a sec?"
He sighs deeply, waving you on. "Go on."
You turn in your chair to face away from him and blow a raspberry between your lips, hunching over with a wheeze of laughter. Steve starts chuckling in his seat too, arms crossed like he's still trying to maintain some semblance of his dignity.
"Are you done?"
"Yes, yes. I'm sorry, hon. I broke a swear." You swipe the tears from under your eyes, giggles still breaking through your words. "But to be fair you didn't really warn me there would be so much thigh exposure, and that really did me in."
"Yeah, in an ice cream shop. It was freezing all the time, and I'm running around in hoochie daddy shorts."
"Hoochie daddy?!" You shove his chair away with your foot, laughing so hard your sides hurt. You almost don't hear the double doors slide open, but you mechanically turn towards the entrance anyway like it's a sixth sense.
"Hi, welcome in. Apologies for the hootin' and hollerin', we gotta stay awake somehow in the wee hours. What can we help with?"
It's an older woman, maybe early fifties, with neatly trimmed hair and huge glasses that give her eyes as big as an owl. She has a kind, sweet face, and doesn't seem to be in any outward acute distress, so it's definitely odd for her to be strolling into an emergency department at way past three in the morning.
"Uh, yes, I'm sorry to bother you. I've just been having this stomach pain, taking half a bottle of Tums in a day, and nothing's working. Been throwing up all night, can't sleep a wink, just figured I'd come in and see if I got a bug?"
"Oh, sure. That doesn't sound fun. Ya think it could be something ya ate?"
"Well, haven't really had anything the husband or kids haven't, and they're all fine. Just don't wanna be getting anyone sick."
"Sure, that's fair. So no one else is feeling bad?"
"No ma'am."
"Okie doke, well why don't you grab a seat, I've got a couple of forms for you to fill out here, and I'll let the docs know what's up. We'll get ya back quick as we can."
"Thanks, doll." She walks into the lobby and settles into a chair in the corner, closing her eyes softly with the clipboard in her hands.
"Okay, Dr. Crisp is on tonight. I have a secret for you, Steve -- nobody likes Dr. Crisp."
He nods knowingly. He may not have dealt with Crisp specifically, but most nurses learn pretty quickly that there is always one doctor that just seems to relish in making everyone's lives a little bit more difficult for no discernable reason. Crisp was that for the Walter Mondale Care Center.
"Want me to call him?"
"Nah, wouldn't do that to a friend. Just listen in." You give Steve a wink and dial the doctor's number in your work phone. It rings twice before connecting.
"Yeah?"
"Hey Dr. Crisp. We got a lady in the lobby, indigestion and vomiting, antacids not doing the trick and no one at home is sick. Can ya come take a look at her?"
"How long has she had the pain?"
You cover the receiver end of your phone with your fingers and speak outward into the lobby.
"Ma'am? How long ya been having your stomach pains?"
She startles at the sound of your voice and thinks for a moment, then says, "Oh, um...two or three days?"
You give her a thumbs up and speak back into the phone. "Two, three days."
Dr. Crisp audibly sighs on the other end.
"And she came to the ED for this?"
"She sure did, Doc." You roll your eyes at Steve and his shoulders shake with a silent laugh.
"Alright. Get her in 2, I'll come in and tell her to keep chugging the antacid and cool it on the jalapeño poppers."
You give him your warmest, "thank you", but he hangs up the call before you get the chance.
"Wow. Crisp's a real Grinch."
You scoff, nodding and gathering admission materials for the woman.
"Yah, you could say that. Least the Grinch has a heart. I'm not so sure about Crisp. C'mon, let's go get our new friend settled in 2."
You and Steve walk together into the waiting area and find the woman dozed off again, head against the cool glass of the lobby window. Her form is only half-filled out in scrawled ink.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, we'll get ya over into room 2, okay?"
She says nothing and doesn't stir. Steve glances at the clipboard to get her name.
"Hey -- Mrs. Fitch? I know it's late, but we're ready for you."
Silence. You gently shove her shoulder, then a little harder, then you're feeling for the carotid artery in her neck to find no life thrumming beneath your fingertips.
"Christ. Code Blue! Code Blue! Steve get her down, start thumping her chest I'll get the AED and call it overhead!"
Steve doesn't waste a second, gently guiding the small woman flat onto the floor and opening her blouse to begin CPR.
You run, adrenaline flooding your veins as you slam the CODE button on the wall and grab your closest AED before going straight back to Steve. Hustling footsteps can be heard following suit from all over the department.
You kneel beside Mrs. Fitch and place the pads on her chest while Steve continues simulating the beating of her heart with his hands.
ANALYZING RHYTHM
Steve abruptly stops pumping but holds his hands at the ready to continue the moment it's needed. The seconds feel like hours. Now there are 4 nurses, 2 doctors, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, and more, all buzzing around, all preparing to jump in.
Among those faces is a very annoyed Dr. Crisp.
"I thought you said this was indigestion?"
NO SHOCK ADVISED. PLEASE CONTINUE GIVING COMPRESSIONS.
Steve does so without hesitation.
"That's what she said, we found her collapsed in the lobby in the middle of filling out her paperwork."
"Indigestion can be a sign of a heart attack in women." He said it more like an accusation rather than a teachable moment.
"Right, I just --"
"And why is your trainee the one doing CPR?"
"Steve's qualified, he's experienced, I --"
"Someone switch out with him after this round."
Crisp continues barking orders for medications, interventions, and who he wanted where. He didn't give you any instruction, so you fell into the groove of grabbing things and running labs, busying yourself just outside of the fray and trying to calm the tide of emotions threatening to crash over.
Codes were hectic. Sometimes they brought out the worst in people; anxieties and aggression and the like. You tried not to take things too personal.
Twenty minutes later, they got a pulse back. You let out a long, heavy exhale, gripping your knees to keep yourself upright in some capacity.
Odie strolls by and smacks you twice on the shoulder.
"Quick catch, boss. We'll get her stabilized and up to ICU."
"Thanks Odie, great work."
Everyone spills away as quickly as they came, the stretcher taking an intubated and fragile (but alive) Mrs. Fitch upstairs for more intensive treatment.
"And Steve, wow. You were amazing, quick and calm, I'm really impressed. And grateful."
"Hey, no, it's --"
"I'd like to speak with you." Dr Crisp cuts straight through Steve's words, and both of your eyes snap directly to him. You nod and follow obediently to the doctor's office. It's dimly lit and sparsely decorated, as cold and clinical as he was.
"She could have died in the lobby. What on earth possessed you to leave her with a trainee?"
You shake your head, a little stunned at the tone and immediate accusations.
"Steve isn't a new grad who's never seen a saline flush, Doc. He's experienced, just new to the facility. We're all CPR certified, I don't understand --"
"Listen, it's my name on the paperwork here. I'm the doctor on call. Someone dies tonight, I have to deal with the fallout. So no more playing with people's lives so your new boy toy can have a learning opportunity."
"Playing wi-- I did exactly what I would have done any other night! That was -- that was a beautiful code, if I may be so bold, Dr. Crisp. If Steve hadn't been there, I would have had to leave her to call it, or scream down the hall until someone maybe came along. I don't appreciate you questioning my motivations, and I certainly don't appreciate you insinuating anything about my coworkers and I, or that it has anything effect on my work."
"I can hear you two yacking it up from back here in my office, if you're trying to hide it you're doing a shit job."
Your ears go hot and the edges of your vision get blurry. Through the vignette, you glower at him and grit, "Talking with my coworkers did not impact Mrs. Fitch's care. You were just gonna throw Pepto down her throat. You didn't think it was a heart attack straight away, either!"
His face goes harder, if that was even possible, and the angles in his hollow cheekbones give him a daunting, devilish expression.
"I didn't say that. I would have assessed her and treated her as seriously as I would any patient."
You've always cursed the gods for blessing you with the reflex of crying when you felt anger. You felt that it made you seem weaker, a little weeping willow, when you just wanted to hold your ground and show strength. But, it couldn't be helped. You couldn't wrangle them back, and even now they welled in your eyes and choked up your voice.
"Y-yes, you did. Steve heard. This was no one's fault, doctor. These things just...happen."
"Well, you keep telling yourself that while Mrs. Fitch is upstairs getting ready for a quadruple bypass. Get out."
As you turn to leave you can hear him mutter under his breath, "Always with the hysterics", before you slam his office door so hard you hear one of the single paintings on the wall inside fall off and clatter to the floor.
Good, you thought. I hope it fucking broke.
You're not nearly as chatty the rest of the night, even as Steve tries to regale you with tales of his life back in Indiana, working at the ice cream shop or even as a radio DJ, which honestly sounded kind of cool. In spite of everything, his effervescent charm and his effortless humor, your smile never quite reached your eyes.
Your head was trapped in a self-doubting loop. Did you make the right calls? Was there anything different you could have done? Were there any loose ends? Did you miss something?
"Hey..." Steve whispers, placing a hand over yours at the main nurses desk. "You alright?"
"Fine. Just always a little tense after a crash."
"I get it. Crisp let you have it?"
Your eyes flick up to him, horrified that he may have heard the humiliating conversation.
"Did you --"
"No, no. You just looked kinda pale coming out of there, and I figured it probably wasn't from him offering you the keys to the city."
"Yah, um...kinda put some stuff on my shoulders that has me thinking -- I'm just making sure I did the best by Mrs. Fitch. You know how it goes. We're our biggest critics." You give him another melancholic smile and he nods understandingly.
The rest of the shift swirls by in a haze of overthinking and self-criticism. Charlene is your relief for the day shift, always far earlier than she needs to be. She sees the thick fog enveloping you, and after hearing what had happened she shoos you on home, telling you she can finish out the training shift with Steve for the next 45 minutes.
He nods encouragingly and you thank them both, heading out the doors and hoping the events of the night will stay behind.
⚕️
Gator pulls into the ambulance bay at 6:45 to try and catch you as you come out. At 6:55 he sees Steve walking by himself, instead. He leans out the window of his truck and whistles.
"Where's boss lady?"
Steve squints at him through the harsh orange light of the rising sun, wondering if he should even answer.
"Umm, home. Little early. Rough shift, doc was an asshole."
Gator spits a wad of tobacco-laced spit on the ground.
"Which doc?"
"Uhh...Crisp."
"Mm. 'Kay. Thanks, Herringbone."
"It's Harrington, but-- "
Gator was already peeling away, and Steve was terrified that he just put a man's life in danger.
⚕️
The bus stops about 3 blocks from your place, the rest pretty easily walkable. Typically you liked to let the stresses of the night go in stages while you walked those three blocks.
When you passed Osprey Drive, you'd forget any snide comments, rude remarks, or the little annoyances. They stopped at that stop sign. As soon as you hit Quilling Street, you'd start letting go of the tension in your muscles and shoulders, breathing in the morning air and feeling the coils loosening inside of you. By Hawthorne Avenue, you'd feel a lot more like yourself again, and you knew that by the next stop you'd be enjoying your time at home, work-related shit left stranded in the dust.
That is what you typically did. But after nights like these? Where the stress and bullshit had seeped too deep into your brain and bone, rooting and twisting its way down, wanting to stay for breakfast and mull itself over in your mind until eventually you just passed out from exhaustion? That's the kind of morning this was.
At Osprey, you felt the fresh sting of the Crisp's words. At Quilling you saw Mrs. Fitch's face, pale and slack-jawed on the floor of the lobby. By Hawthorne, you were lower than you were when you stepped out of the damn hospital.
You pass through the gates of your apartment and climb your stairwell to the third floor, but pause when you see the shadow of someone looming near your door. The lights were conveniently out in your stretch of hallway, and even though you had told the landlord about half a dozen times over the last 4 months, no one has come to fix it.
"S'just me." The familiar voice calls out when he sees your hesitation.
"Gator?"
"Ya tell em to come and fix these lights?"
Yeah, that's Gator alright.
"Yes, I told them to come and fix these lights. No one listens to silly little ladies around here, Gator. We're probably just being hysterical." You grumble, not in the mood for his lectures. "I mean, it's not like strange men will just show up in your corridor, standing outside your door like a creep."
You fiddle with your key in the door and flip the light on in your entryway, casting a warm, yellow glow out into the darkened hall. Gator is looking at you seriously, studying the lines in your face. He holds up his hand, swaying a six-pack of your favorite beer tantalizingly.
"Thought ya could use one. Still do shower beers after a shit shift?"
You can't help but chuckle in spite of yourself. Then, to your utter dismay, the tears begin to come.
"Aw, fuck, I don't want ya to cry..."
"Well too goddamn bad, Tillman. A woman trusted me to help her tonight and I let her down. I shoulda listened harder, asked more questions. I didn't..."
Your breath hitches and you aren't able to speak coherently through the hiccuping sobs anymore. Gator reaches in past you and sets the beers down quietly on your entryway table, then with a tenderness you don't often see from him he wraps his arms around your shoulders and rests his chin atop your head.
"Hey, s'alright. C'mon, boss, ya know it's part of the job. People get sick, die even. Sometimes it's just out of our hands."
"I shoulda put my foot down...stood up for myself..."
"And fuckin' Crisp woulda nagged at ya for that and done what he wanted, anyway."
"But at least I wouldn't have laid there and took it!"
"Alright, hey, I know. I got it, I know. M'sorry. It fuckin' sucks, I'm just sorry."
You sob quietly into his shoulder for a few moments, and he doesn't move a muscle or offer any more words of "comfort". He's never been the best at that sort of thing anyway (or so he thinks). Then he feels your arms come up and snake around his waist, giving him the gentlest of squeezes.
"Thanks, Gator." Your words are muffled and garbled by the tears and his shirt, but they go straight to his heart like an arrow.
"Didn't do nothing, just gimme one of your beers and we'll be square."
Your shoulders shake once as a tiny, tearful laugh escapes, and when you pull away Gator is stunned for a moment at how vivid the color in your eyes are after you've finished having a cry.
"Wanna come have it in the shower with me?"
He smiles and leans down to press a quick peck to the tip of your reddened nose.
"Thought you'd never ask."
⚕️
Gator tucks his head into the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your skin that were somehow hotter than the steaming water that pelts you.
Most of the gel had washed free of his hair, so it freely tangled between your fingers as you raked them through it. He shudders beneath your touch and your pussy clenches wantingly around nothing. As if he can read your mind, he drags his hand along your inner thigh and through your folds, feeling the heat and slickness coming off of you.
"Christ, so wet."
"Mm-hm."
"This all for me?"
You let out a long, shaky exhale and nod, eyes closing as your head falls back against the tiles. A few strokes of his fingers later, Gator pulls away completely, taking his warmth with him. Your eyes flash open, brow furrowed in confusion.
"Why'd ya stop?"
"You're not with me. Your head's off in your bullshit. I'm doing this for you, so ya gotta come back down here."
Your mouth falls open, and you can't hide all the hurt on your face.
"Oh. Well, I don't wanna be a burden to ya, Gator."
You twist the knob and cut the water abruptly, pushing open the glass shower door and snatching your towel off the hook. You wrap it around yourself brusquely and twirl your wet hair up into a claw clip without once turning to look at your stunned guest.
"What are ya talking about? A burden?"
"I mean, yah. If you're just doing this for me, don't bother. I got a vibrator. Don't gotta waste your time, I'm fine. I'm a big girl. Thanks for the beer, you can see yourself out."
You continue to avoid looking at him as you speak and go about your bedtime routine, swiping face cream over your cheeks and chin and starting to brush your teeth. Gator sighs deeply and steps out, suddenly feeling particularly exposed with no towel.
"Hey, that's not what I meant. I just -- I want ya to relax, y'know? I'm not doing this for me, even though I can't lie and say I'm not getting something out of it, too. Y'know what I'm trying to say?"
You do look at him now, at the vulnerability in his shoulders and the way he cups his hands over his cock so it doesn't distract from what he's trying to tell you. You lean over the sink and spit your toothpaste out, rinsing the brush and letting it clink back into the glass cup.
"M'sorry, Gator. I'm still on edge. Can ya just...for me, right now...could ya be a little soft? I need soft."
His cheeks and ears go redder and he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably and glancing down at his rigid length still tucked under his hands. His obvious discomfort makes you laugh, which is the first remotely positive emotion since the end of your shift.
"I don't mean physically soft, Gator. Just...talk to me a little softer?"
"I don't really..."
"Oh, please. Ya can't think of anything sweet to say to me? Can't even make something up to get into my pants?"
He scoffs incredulously. "I'm not trying just to get in your pants for the hell of it, lady. I...like being around ya. Think you're funny, and...ya smell nice."
You nod, genuinely impressed.
"Wow, Gator. Two compliments at once? Ya feeling alright after all that? Didn't strain yourself?"
"God, fine. You're nice. You're nice to me, no one is nice to me. You're smart, tough -- you're a good person. And I've always got your back. Y'know that, right?"
His voice drops low and he maintains intense eye contact the entire time he speaks. Your jaw hangs open slightly, the sweetness and honesty behind his words making your heart skip a beat in your chest. You tip your head, gesturing him to come closer. He obliges immediately, standing in front of you in just two long strides.
"Thanks, Gator."
You cup his cheeks in your hands and pull him down to slot your lips against his. He tenderly circles his fingers around your wrists, stroking the skin there with his thumbs. No slapping. No gripping or groping. You wanted soft Gator, so he would give you the softest Gator he could muster.
"Tell me what ya want, then. Details. Wanna make ya feel better." He punctuates each thought with another small kiss against your now smiling lips.
"Take me to the bed?"
Without another word, without even breaking your lips apart, he reaches behind your legs and hoists you up to wrap them around his waist. Shuffling together to the bedroom, he reaches the bed and bends forward, laying you carefully back against your pillows. He peels your towel open, exposing you to him once more, then hovers above you and waits.
He raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Whaddya want me to tell ya everything?"
He shrugs. "Yah, pretty much. Talk me through it, boss lady."
He kisses under your jaw so softly it's almost just a close breath. It makes you shudder and clutch at his shoulders.
"Mm-okay. That's always good. Maybe...kiss me all the way...down?"
You can feel the smirk on his mouth as he nods and starts trailing his lips over your collarbone and between the valley of your breasts. His eyes look up to watch your face as he takes a nipple between his lips and sucks it lightly, releasing it with a small pop. He moves to the other one and simply swirls his tongue around it in small circles before nipping it gently and continuing his southward advances. His hands grip your waist as he buries his face in your tummy, kissing and laving over the soft skin there before finally lowering himself onto his stomach between your legs.
He softly presses his lips over your clit and when you jolt at the touch with a sharp gasp his cock twitches against the mattress. You're so responsive right now; was it this slow and steady stuff that has you so hot and bothered? Cause he might have to pull out soft Gator more often if it got this kind of reaction from you.
You were soaked, too. He could smell your arousal, taste it on his lips. His tongue flicks out to slowly and softly circle the small, sensitive bud.
"Gator? M-more?"
"More what? Whaddya want, pretty thing?"
His voice was husky and almost just a whisper, the vibrations warm and teasing against your core.
"Um...can ya...can I have your fingers? Please?"
"Jeez, so polite. How could I say no?"
He runs the fingers of his right hand through your slit, gathering some of your arousal to help him ease two through your hole. You're so needy that you practically suck them in, and Gator hisses at the feel of how badly you're wanting this.
"That's a girl. You still want my mouth, too?"
You nod vigorously, head lolling back as he gently sucks on your clit and scissors his fingers in a steady, rhythmic pace.
"Oh, fuck Gator. That -- that feels so good, baby."
Baby?!
He nearly cums in your sheets. You've never once, not a single time in all your times together, used the pet name baby. You were probably just a little high on the moment, lost in the feeling, but goddamnit if it didn't make his heart race a little. His focus centers on keeping up this motion, the one making your back arch and your fingers tug gently at his hair. He can feel how tightly you're squeezing his fingers, your walls beginning to flutter, and with a final cry of his name you come up onto your elbows and clench your thighs over his ears.
He slowly spreads them apart, licking you through the crash of your orgasm until you whimper, "okay, okay." He makes his way back up to you, kissing your forehead first then gently on the mouth, letting your tongue swipe over his lips so you can taste yourself on him.
"Alrighty, thanks Gator." You pant, patting him on the bicep. "See ya tonight?"
Hurt flashes across his eyes, and he actually starts to pull away until you burst into a fit of giggles and tug him right back down on top of you.
"I'm kidding, ya idiot. Could you imagine?"
"God, you're such a bitch sometimes."
"Hey! Soft Gator. We had a deal."
He mumbles under his breath, flipping you over to straddle his hips, "Yeah, I'll show ya soft."
He puts his arms behind his head and watches you, admiring the curves and dips of your body. You lean up to steady his straining cock at your entrance and start to ease yourself down onto him. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, completely enraptured at the sight of you swallowing him up.
As your ass settles onto his thighs, his dick fully buried inside of you, he groans, "Use me, take whatcha want."
Your walls give him a gentle hug and his eyes roll back a little at the feeling.
"You -- what?"
"M'not gonna do a thing. I'm soft Gator. I'm just your little fuck toy, so fuck me. Make yourself feel good. I'll watch."
"Are you gonna like that?"
He arches a brow at you and looks as if he didn't quite hear you correctly.
"Uh, yah. Yah, I gotta pretty lady fucking herself on my cock, I think I'll be alright."
You laugh, still a little breathless, and Gator feels the vibration of it in your soft, velvety walls. You start a slow roll of your hips, testing what is going to work the very best for you. The angle suddenly hits you, dizzying pleasure spreading a pool of warmth through your belly and thighs. You cry out, repeating the exact motion -- leaning slightly forward, hands clawing into Gator's chest, scooping your hips in deep, languid thrusts. Your clit brushes against his curls and pelvis every time, making everything ten times more intense.
It's taking every ounce of Gator's resolve not to rut or pound into you. He thinks he might earn himself a medal when this is over. Or maybe that other thing he's been asking you about for awhile now...
"God, Gator, I'm -- I'm gonna cum again. I can feel ya in my fucking ribcage."
You start a heartier bounce, sliding up and down his cock more frantically and letting his tip slam into your g-spot repeatedly.
"Grab my tits, please. Play with em?"
You don't even finish your sentence before his rough hands are doing just as you asked, kneading and flicking your nipples with his thumbs.
"Yes, baby, yesyesyes --"
There it fucking is again -- baby. Gator's cock pulses, he feels his sack tighten, and he's painting your insides with his hot cum. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood...
...And he doesn't say a fucking word, because you're not done using him. Every slam of your pussy onto his spent cock is blisteringly sensitive. His eyes flutter shut, head falls back into the pillow, and the veins in his neck are bulging out with the strain of trying not to scream your name.
Then you cum for the second time with his name sweetly rolling off your tongue, and that along with the grip of your cunt is enough to destroy his resolve.
"Fu-u-uck!" He draws in a sharp inhale, squeezing your hips and gently but firmly slowing your movements.
As you roll to the side you can see something white and sticky at his base and across your thighs. You touch it, and when you bring it to your mouth and lick it Gator whimpers beside you.
"When did you cum?"
He groans, chest heaving. "Like five minutes ago?"
"Christ, sorry. I woulda slowed down --"
"Why'd ya think I didn't say anything?" He winks at you, that old familiar sideways grin creeping up his lips.
You nestle into the crook of his arm, both of you laying on your backs and looking up at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment.
"Hey, Gator?"
"Yah, boss?"
"...You're a really good friend."
You both laugh at that, though you can't really explain why it's funny.
A/N: Hello my loves, hope you enjoyed our next shift. ❤️ I planned some Gator-centric ones, some Steve-centric ones, some Tillington bonding, etc. so I could expand and not cram everything into one. This was clearly a Gator-heavy 'sode, so I'll try and let our sweet boy Steve have his time to shine in the next one. 💋
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