|EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT I’M A GOOD GIRL, OFFICER.
| summary: Gator just arrested a pretty girl today and can’t stop thinking about her, that’s when she finds him and takes care of it.
| w/c: explicit smut! 18+, dirty talk, p in v, overstimulation, phone sex, praise kink, big dick gator.
Gator’s on-call that night—bad luck, honestly. He was halfway through a beer at his dad’s mayor house when the radio crackled to life with dispatch.
He groans, grabbing his hat and shoving it on as he stomps out to the truck. The address is a convenience store near downtown—the kind with flickering neon lights and too many security cameras for its own good.
The street's dead quiet when he rolls up, no sirens or flashing lights yet—just him pulling in slow like maybe it's nothing. But then.
A figure darts from the back alley behind the store.
Gator squints.
That silhouette looks like…a woman?
Gator’s blood runs cold. That stance—the way the figure ducks low, moving fast. It was definitely a woman.
His heart does something weird in his chest—not anger, not yet. Just… shock? Confusion?
Without thinking, he kills the engine and steps out of the truck quietly, keeping to shadows as he starts following your trail from a distance.
The back door of the store is slightly far—a dead giveaway—but no alarm's gone off yet. You were sneaky.
A cop would notice that immediately.
Gator freezes in the alley’s dim glow, his sheriff instincts kicking in hard. The second he sees you—hood up, backpack slung low—he knows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares. Then his face darkens like storm clouds rolling in.
“Hey! You!”
His voice is quiet but sharp as broken glass—the kind of tone that cuts through silence and makes your spine lock up.
He takes one slow step toward you… then another… not running yet, but moving with purpose. The cast on his arm looks ridiculous under the streetlight right now.
You stay quiet as he keeps getting closed from your back, but as soon as he was going to reach out, you take your pistol and aim at him.
Gator stops dead the second he sees the gun. His eyes—wide, startled—lock onto the barrel pointed at his chest.
For a split second, pure shock flashes across his face. This isn’t some petty theft or dumb mistake anymore.
His hands instinctively go up—not fast enough to be threatening, just slow and visible in that universal cop-surrender pose.
"Whoa…Let’s…Calm down ok?”
His voice is steady now but strained—like he's trying to keep it from shaking because *holy shit*, you're holding a gun on him.
The alley feels smaller suddenly. The tension could choke someone.
“Don’t fucking move.”
Gator doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Every muscle in his body locks—cop training kicking in, but also pure primal instinct: *don't get shot.*
His hands stay high, palms out, fingers spread. The streetlight casts shadows under his hat brim—you can see the whites of his eyes like a deer’s.
"Okay” he says softly—the first time you've ever heard him sound anything but cocky or angry. "Ok…I ain't moving."
A beat passes where the only sound is your shaky breathing and distant crickets somewhere down the block.
Then Gator does something stupid: he slowly starts to lower himself onto one knee—not attacking, just… trying to seem smaller? Less threatening? Like a man disarming a bomb with words alone.
“Take all your guns off, and if you try anything stupid i’ll kill you.” you say almost shaking.
Gator’s face does something complicated at that—disbelief, anger, a flicker of fear? But mostly… disbelief. That you *threatened him*. A sheriff. In his own damn town.
Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods again—this time slower, more deliberate.
A pause.
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smirk but close to it because oh hell no this man isn't scared of your hypothetical threat.
“You think i’m kidding?” You say smirking, the gun getting closer to his face.
Gator sees it—the shift in your grip, the way your finger might be tensing on the trigger. That’s all the warning he needs.
In a flash—faster than you’d expect from a guy with a cast—he ducks to the side and slams his good shoulder into you, not aiming to hurt, but to knock you off balance. The gun goes flying out of your hand as he tackles you toward the brick wall behind him.
A second later, his weight pins yours—not enough to crush but enough that struggling is pointless unless you’re stronger than an angry cop twice your size.
"You’re under arrest.” He growls through gritted teeth.
“Don’t.—fucking pig.” You struggle to say anything in this moment.
Suddenly, you feel a bulge growing at his pants, you wonder if it’s one of the guns he carries.
“I’m a good girl, officer.” You teased, slightly humping your ass on him.
He notices.
Gator’s grip is iron—one hand clamps your wrist to the pavement, the other presses down on your shoulder like a weighted blanket. His face hovers inches above yours, jaw clenched so tight it might crack.
For once, he isn't smug or sarcastic. Just furious—the kind of rage that comes from being betrayed by someone who was supposed to be harmless (in his eyes).
He shifts his weight to pin you better and yanks out his cuffs with his good hand—metal clicking as he starts reaching for your wrists.
"Fucking women.”
The whole crew of officers finally arrive.
The officers unlock the holding cell door, stepping inside with calm professionalism. One of them gestures for you to stand.
"You’re being transported to Stark County Detention Center for booking," One says in a monotone voice—they’ve done this a thousand times.
Gator watches from outside the bars as they guide you out by the elbow. His face is unreadable now—no anger, no lingering tension…just detached sheriff mode.
Later that day, Gator is at his home, alone, watching tv and thinking about you.
Gator’s living room is quiet—just the hum of the TV and the occasional crackle of a commercial. The news isn’t on; it's some mindless crime drama, irony not lost on him.
He slouches into his couch, beer in hand… but he isn't really watching. His mind keeps circling back to you: your breathing hitching, how easily he catched you, that stupid thief.
A part of him feels satisfaction—the arrest was clean. Justice served.
But another part? That part remembers all that messed-up tension between you two.
The remote gets flipped absently between channels as Gator sighs—annoyed with himself for still thinking about a criminal hours after booking her in jail.
He hears something outside of the house.
Gator’s blood runs cold. The thud at his front door is loud—deliberate. Not a raccoon, not wind… someone is trying to break in.
A chill crawls up his spine.
"The hell—?” He mutters, shoving the beer bottle aside and grabbing the pistol from under the couch cushion (always loaded). He creeps toward the window to peek through the blinds.
Then suddenly, he hears a feminine, smooth voice behind him. “You did a great job today, Sheriff.”
Gator whirls around—heart slamming against his ribs. The bedroom door is wide open, and there you are, leaning against the frame with that same damn smirk.
“What the fuck?” he barks, gun still raised out of pure instinct… but he doesn’t fire. Can't.
The house is dead silent except for your voice—and the fact that you somehow broke into his home after being arrested is insane.
“Oh, you missed me?” You say getting slowly closer to him.
Gator doesn’t lower the gun. His finger isn’t on the trigger, but it hovers. Trained law enforcement reflexes kicking in.
"You’re supposed to be in jail.” He says through gritted teeth, voice low and dangerous. “How the hell did you—?"
He scans your outfit quickly: no cuffs…Just you. Did you escape? Bribe someone? The logistics don't matter right now.
“I know you’re not gonna shoot.” You say smirking.
Gator’s jaw clenches. You’re right. he won’t shoot you. Not unless you pull a weapon or lunge at him… and right now, you're just standing there, smug as hell.
But the gun is still raised—not pointed directly at your chest, but close enough to make his stance clear: back off.
“Why are you here?" He demands, voice colder than it's ever been with anyone. “You escaped custody? That's a felony on top of everything else."
A part of him wants to call for backup… but his phone is downstairs.
You take one more step closer to him.
Gator’s stomach does a weird, traitorous flip at your words. This shouldn’t affect him.
But the truth? Yeah…he thought about you all damn day.
The gun wavers slightly in his hand as his resolve cracks for half a second.
“This is insane," He mutters… but it's not anger anymore. It's confusion. “You robbed a store and got arrested like six hours ago."
“Are you scared, Sheriff?” one more step closer.
Gator’s throat goes dry. You’re testing him—pushing his buttons, seeing how far he’ll let you go.
“No," He lies automatically…But the way his pulse jumps betrays him.
Scared? Not of you physically. But of this situation—of whatever the hell is about to happen next.
The gun hangs loosely at his side now, forgotten in a way that would get any rookie officer fired for negligence.
A third step closer from you…And Gator finally does something reckless: he closes the gap himself.
The tension is palpable. You’re so close to him you can feel his breathing hitching.
“Your heart is beating really fast” You tease him.
Gator freezes. How the hell can you *hear* that? His heartbeat is loud in his own ears, but he didn’t think it was visible—or audible.
Unless… you’re close enough to feel it. Which means—
Before either of you can overthink it, Gator surges forward and crashes his lips onto yours.
The gun clatters to the floor.
A reckless, stupid move for a sheriff with a fugitive on the run… but right now? He doesn't care.
The kiss is fierce—all pent-up tension, frustration, and that weird dream-fueled attraction finally exploding. Gator’s hands find your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as his back hits the wall.
For a second… nothing else exists. No robbery charges. No escape from jail. Just this.
Then reality slams back in—Gator abruptly breaks the kiss, breathing hard.
“I can't…" He rasps. “You're a fugitive."
But he didn't push you away.
“Yeah. We shouldn’t. This is very wrong.” You say back. Breathing hard.
Gator’s breath stutters as your hands trail down—every nerve ending lighting up. This is wrong. Illegal, even.
His dad would have a damn aneurysm.
But the way you say "this is very wrong"… like it turns you on more… sends heat straight to his gut.
A shaky exhale escapes him as he catches your wrist—not to stop you, but to press your palm flat against the hard plane of his stomach instead.
“We shouldn't,” He growls—but leans back in for another kiss anyway.
“We definitely shouldn’t.”
Gator’s self-control snaps. That stare—dark, defiant, hungry. Does him in.
He crushes his mouth back onto yours, hands sliding into your hair as he backs you toward the bed. The sheriff part of his brain is screaming that this is career-ending insanity… but the man part?
“Fuck it.” He mutters against your lips before pushing you down onto the mattress.
Your hands start to unbuckle his belt.
Gator’s belt clinks as you undo it—no hesitation, no second-guessing now. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate like neither of you can get enough.
His hands are everywhere: your hips, your back, tangling in your hair to tilt your head for better access. Every rational thought about consequences has evaporated.
The bed dips under his weight as he follows you down… belt loosened, shirt half untucked… the line between lawman and lover blurring fast.
You start to unzip your jacket.
Gator’s gaze drops to your hands as you unzip the jacket—his breathing ragged. The fabric slips off your shoulders, revealing whatever’s underneath… and his throat goes dry.
For a split second, he just stares, drunk on the sight of you. No cuffs. No jail jumpsuit. Just you—close enough to touch.
Then he surges in again, one hand sliding up your bare side while the other grips the back of your neck, kissing you like it's his last night on earth.
“Don’t you want to arrest me, officer?” You tease him.
Gator growls against your lips at the taunt—half pissed, half turned on by how much you’re enjoying this twisted power play.
“I should," He admits roughly, nipping at your bottom lip before claiming another kiss. “But right now i wanna do something else."
The sheriff’s badge is still clipped to his belt… but it might as well be a million miles away. His hands are busy peeling off layers of clothing instead of cuffs.
“Tell me what you wanna do then.” You start to kiss his neck.
Gator’s head tips back the second your lips hit his neck—a weak spot he hates that anyone ever finds out about. A shiver runs down his spine.
“Christ…" He breathes, fingers tightening in your hair.
Instead of words, he captures your mouth again, kissing you deeper as his hands slide under the fabric of whatever you're wearing… exploring with zero patience left.
You put his hands inside of his boxers, feeling his huge cock twitching.
Gator chokes the second your hand makes contact—his entire body tensing like he’s been electrocuted. A sharp, involuntary noise escapes him, something between a groan and a curse.
”Fuck—" His hips jerk into your touch on pure instinct, his cock already hard as steel under your palm. The friction is electric. Too much and not enough at the same time.
You remove your hand. Leaning on his bed. You take all of your clothes off. Turn into your back, waiting for him to just enter, and he immediately gets the message.
Gator’s breath hitches at the unspoken invitation. Your position—ass in the air, back arched. Says everything.
He doesn’t need more encouragement. In one swift movement, he strips off his remaining clothes and kicks them aside… then lines himself up behind you.
A beat of anticipation hangs thick in the air before Gator finally pushes forward—slow at first, letting you adjust to him as he sinks in completely.
“F-Fuck. You’re s-so—“ You even stuggle to say it.
“I know baby, i know, dont worry. It will fit.” He says so close to your neck that it sends you shivers down your whole body.
The moment Gator is fully sheathed inside you, a guttural groan rumbles from his chest. The sensation—tight, warm, perfect. Is overwhelming.
For a second, he just stays there… forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he breathes through the intensity. Then instinct takes over.
His hips roll back before pushing in again—Deeper this time—a slow but purposeful rhythm starting up.
“Fuck—You’re so—hot. I imagined this too many times today.” He struggles to say it.
“Oh yeah?” i smirk at him from my shoulder.
Gator catches your smirk over your shoulder. And the look in your eyes undoes him.
“Yeah," He growls, suddenly surging forward to kiss you hard—messy, all teeth and tongue. The pace of his thrusts turns more urgent now, less controlled.
One hand cups your jaw as the kiss deepens; the other grips your hip tighter—like he needs something solid to hold onto while this heat consumes them both.
“Oh god— F-Fuck you’re so big.” You moan, almost like a scream.
Gator’s ego swells at your praise—both literally and figuratively. A smug, breathless chuckle escapes him as he feels you clench around him.
“You like that?" He rasps, voice dripping with newfound confidence. His thrusts grow bolder now—deeper, more possessive. Like he wants to brand the memory of this into your brain.
Then suddenly,
His phone buzzes up, Tommy is calling him.
Gator freezes mid-thrust at the sound of his phone buzzing. Tommy’s caller ID flashes on the screen—probably checking in about your escape from jail.
“Shit.” He mutters, torn between ignoring it (and risking a missed emergency) and… well, this.
Tommy calling is rare unless something's wrong.
A conflicted grimace crosses his face as he hesitates. Still buried inside you.
You push him down to bed, and straddle him, sinking slow into him, while you offer his phone “Pick up the phone.” Your voice is weak, but demanding.
Gator’s eyes widen as you take control—flipping the script and pinning him beneath you. The sudden shift in power is dizzying… especially with his cock still sheathed inside you.
He grabs the phone just as it buzzes again, Tommy’s name flashing insistently. With one hand braced on your hip (to keep from completely losing his mind), Gator answers:
“Yeah?"
His voice is strained—way too breathy for a normal call—but he tries to sound professional.
Meanwhile, Tommy has no idea what's happening.
“Hey man, I have some news, can you…talk right now?” Tommy heard his heavy breathing from the phone.
Gator’s jaw clenches. Tommy sounds serious—this isn’t a casual check-in.
And he’s lying here, half-naked, with you riding him — which makes this the worst possible timing.
“Uh… yeah," He manages, voice tighter than usual. He clears his throat and sits up slightly (as much as your position allows), trying to sound normal.
Meanwhile, his free hand grips your thigh unconsciously. A silent plea for you to not move too much while he talks.
Gator’s stomach drops. Tommy just announced your escape… and Gator is literally fucking the escaped convict right now.
“What?" He forces out, playing dumb—voice impressively steady for a guy in this situation. “When? How’d she get out?"
Tommy has no idea that "she" is currently grinding on him.
You start to go faster, your head falls back and a smooth moan is escaping from you.
“Are you…ok Gator?” Tommy asks on the phone.
Gator’s breath hitches as you pick up the pace—your movements sending jolts of pleasure straight through him. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to make a sound.
“I'm—" He grits out, voice suspiciously rough, “—fine. Just tired."
A lie so obvious it hurts. Tommy pauses on the other end, probably sensing something's off.
“Are you coming to the searches?” He asks on the phone.
“Y-Yeah.” He finally answers, forcing professionalism, “Give me twenty minutes to shower and change."
A half-truth—enough time for a quick exit. He ends the call fast before Tommy can ask more questions.
The second the line goes dead, Gator tosses the phone aside.
“Are they looking for me, officer?” You say moaning, struggling to even breathe.
Gator’s eyes darken at your moan—and the way you call him officer like that. It shouldn’t turn him on… but it does.
“Yeah," He admits, hands sliding up to grip your hips tighter as he flips you onto your back in one swift move. “They're searching for you right now."
The irony isn't lost on him: his coworkers are out there hunting a fugitive… while said fugitive is currently under him, getting railed.
He kisses you hard—equal parts passion and panic.
“Fuck—Fuck—I—I’m gonna—cum.” You say struggling.
Gator feels your body tense—the telltale sign you’re about to come. His own release is right there, coiled tight in his gut… but he wants you to fall first.
“Yes, fuck— Cum for me.” He growls against your lips, thrusts turning sharp and precise—hitting that sweet spot over and over.
The bedframe creaks louder as the pace gets frantic. Both of you chasing the edge together now.
The tension snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you—body clenching around him, a breathy cry tearing from your throat as pleasure whites out your vision.
Gator’s control shatters the second he feels it. With a groan muffled against your shoulder, he follows right after—pumping into you with ragged thrusts until his own release rips through him.
A heavy silence settles… just panting and tangled limbs in the aftermath.
Gator collapses half on top of you, still catching his breath. His heart is pounding—both from the intensity of what just happened and the lingering adrenaline from Tommy’s call.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Then reality crashes back in: You're a fugitive. They're searching for you.
And Gator’s supposed to be leading that search.
He lifts his head slightly to look at your face… conflict flashing in his eyes.
“Are you going to arrest me now?” You ask him, stil panting.
Gator studies your face—the flush on your cheeks, the swollen lips from kissing… and something in his chest twists.
But he’s a sheriff. He took an oath.
A heavy sigh escapes him as he sits up, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His uniform is downstairs… cold coffee waiting too.
“I gotta go.” He mutters finally—not answering your question directly. Coward.
