buffy ⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 20s. irl sirena. full time everything. ocasional comedian. literally fiona gallagher. aquarius. ravenclaw. lover of vampires, miu miu, the moon, and men with pornstaches. puerto rican n’ venezuelan. written by kate bush. currently in paris with steve harrington and rhett abbott. has some real estate on pretty girl avenue and honeymoon avenue ִֶָ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ A/N: hello shawties, here's chapter four of sugar talkin'! so sorry this is a little late. I did celebrate my birthday recently (I am now officially unc) and had a ton going on, wrote two chapters for the book I want to self publish, did an open modeling casting call, had like 5 parties, (including gasparilla; my florida baddies know what gasparilla is) to go to (including one I should get ready for instead of uploading this lol whoops) but she's here and she's great. you do now get a little backstory as to why you had to leave your old life, which is something I know a lot of yall were curious about. I hope you guys like it! as always, reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated!
word count: 3.7k
song: isn't it midnight by fleetwood mac
masterlist for fic
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Fall was in full swing, and you were running into town for some errands. Nothing too crazy, just going in with the goal to make some pumpkin pie for the Abbott family barbeque that was coming up. Sometime in high school, you perfected your family’s recipe for pumpkin pie, and you knew Cecilia Abbott wouldn’t mind you bringing it over, since Royal still nags her about making the same kind of pie, down to the exact ingredients and measurements, each year. Rhett made it a point to mention this to you.
Fall in Wabang was almost perfect, the trees were golden brown and orange, the grass was dry, the wind was never sharp like it was in the winter, and pumpkins lined the outside of every ma and pop shop. You were at a local grocery store, one that only sold homemade honey and knitted scarves. It gave the vibe of those tiny stores inside of a cracker barrel, but less corporate, more brick and mortar.
You had this white sweater, the same one you used to go shooting with Rhett, an event that plagued your mind ever since it happened. However, with mom jeans now, pinned and rolled at the bottom with some vintage clip on earrings your mother gifted you. Flannel overcoat, even if it made you overheat just a bit.
You were focused on ingredients, but all your mind let you focus on was Rhett. Rhett Abbott and his stupid smug smile and way of doing things for you that you didn’t need to ask for. He’s a friend, right? A friend that feels nice against your body, a friend whose touch lingers in the dark corners of your mind, a friend who makes it impossible to focus at the store. You hated that you felt this way because it was Rhett, the same kid who once put gum in your hair as a prank in grade school. He farted in your face once, at a family party, when he was six. He was a funny looking kid, and now, his handsome face follows you when you least expect it.
It made you frustrated.
You were backing into one of the aisles, the smell of pumpkin and coffee filling your nostrils. You could go for one, even if it was getting late, and the sun was starting to set. Find the nutmeg, find the nutmeg and stop thinking about how your sweater still faintly smells of gun powder.
You feel your basket bump into something, and your eyes lifted to find a tall man, who didn’t even notice you running into him. You look down sheepishly. “Oh, so sorry-” your voice came out a bit strained. How could it not? With urgency and need lacing everything you do, trying to make the best pumpkin pie to impress the Abbotts as if they were your future in-laws. But the man, in a leather jacket and a blue flannel, doesn’t look up until he hears your voice.
It's Gator. His deer-like eyes light up almost instantly as a small smile comes across his face. “Oh, hey.” he said softly. “Didn’t think I'd find you here.”
You blush in embarrassment. “Hi!” you almost say out of breath. “So sorry for bumping into you-” “-don’t apologize, what’re you doing here? Thought this place was empty.” he’s light hearted, and it disarms you in a gentle way. “I-uh.” you hold up your basket. “Waited too long to make a pumpkin pie, now I'm rushing. What about you?”
Gator holds up some handmade soap. “Senstive skin.” patchouli scented, almost an unexpected scent to come from someone like Gator. “I got some mild Eczema and if I use any of the store bought shit, it makes me break out real bad. Haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, everything okay?”
You nod, the last thing you wanted to tell him was that your mind was preoccupied with flashes of Rhett Abbott. So you told him a white lie. “Work’s just been crazy, they put a new student in my class and he needs a lot of outside help. IOP plan and all, tried tutoring him after school but haven’t been successful. I suck at fractions.” you explained.
Gator chuckles a little. “Makes sense. Say um, when do you need this pumpkin pie done by? Are we talking you’re baking tonight or…?”
You shake your head. “It’s for this weekend, I got invited to the Abbott family barbeque. Royal really likes my pies, it isn’t too terribly long of a process but I don’t have time to shop for everything tomorrow. Then next week, I got tickets to go see the Rocky Horror shadowcast over in Casper-” this made Gator’s eyes widen, as a smirk tugged on his lips. “I remember you liking that in high school, guess something's never change.”
You blush, you didn’t remember him ever knowing about that. But you guessed being in a small town, liking something as campy as Rocky, with everyone being so conservative, might’ve turned some heads. Gator grabs your basket. “Let me buy you a drink, we’ll be quick. Horseshoe is just down the street.” he offers.
You nod, because it’s Gator Tillman, and the way he looks at you and remembers things about you still made that schoolgirl crush you had on him back then seem fresh. “Okay, let me just pay for these-”
“-nah, I got it.” he smiles, signaling you to walk with him to the register. You knew better than to fight back, but you did anyway. “Are you sure? I can pay for these.”
You both reach the register, Gator sets the basket down and glances over at you before pulling out a twenty dollar bill. “You work too hard, Y/N, trust me, I got you. Consider this part of the drink we’re getting.” he places the twenty down on the counter as the woman at the register rings up both of their items, before placing them in a single paper bag. “Besides, you’re gonna need that money to get enough gas just to reach Abbott ranch,” he jokes.
The woman hands the bag to Gator as he thanks her, before walking out with you to the street. The silence between the two of you feels steady, but ready to break whenever one of you decides to be brave enough to do so. Gator glances over at you, trying to stay warm as a cool breeze pulls your hair back. “Other than work, how have you been?” he asked.
“Honestly? Just stressed.” your feet hit the brick under you, causing your footsteps to echo slightly. “Rhett’s been driving me up the wall about the barbeque, students have me pulling my hair out, mama is always asking me to run out and do things, I’m starting to think she only wanted me back home so I can do her bidding.” You smile up at him. “And you?”
Gator sucks his breath through his teeth and sighs. “One of my deputies just lost his dad, hasn’t been acting right, might suspend him. Not out of like, malice or anything, but he needs a break. Working himself to the bone and is on the verge of a crash out. That’s coming from a retired one. Retired crash out, that is.” he smiles to himself.
A wavering sense of nostalgia flows into you, memories of your life back in the Twin Cities flash before you had a moment to process what it meant. Deep down, you knew it meant something more than something Gator said in passing. You nod your head. “Yeah, sounds about right.” you said softly. “Sometimes, I feel like I'm finally fitting in here, doing all of these things to think things are nice, and calm. But things are never that simple, are they?”
Gator shakes his head as you both approach the bar, he opens the door for you. “Hell nah.”
You enter the bar, the smell of cigarettes hits you like a bus, and all you want is to bum one off of someone. Gator stands next to you, and all eyes are on him. It almost feels like the music stops, like there was a record scratch, something out of a movie. Gator signals you to a high top table, setting the paper bag down next to you. “What do you wanna drink?”
You ponder for a moment, almost wanting to say a whiskey sour, before settling on something a little more you. “Vodka cranberry.”
He clicks his tongue, nodding, not even questioning your choice of drink, before going to the bar. It’s different. It’s different compared to Rhett ordering whatever he wants to drink and letting you have it. It’s not that Rhett doesn’t care, he just doesn’t notice how inconsiderate it can come across. You tried to order that drink last time, but Rhett accused you, jokingly, of still being juvenile. ‘Drink like that only belongs at house parties, bunny.’ or something along the lines of that. This change of pace was different. It felt…nice.
Gator comes back with a beer and your drink, softly setting it next to you before he hops on the bar stool across from you. A sigh leaves him. “It’s not that he’s a bad cop, you can just tell he’s about to crack. I can’t have that on my conscience.” he finishes what he was talking about, taking a sip from his beer as his eyes study you.
You shrug. “I’d argue there’s no such thing as a good cop.”
He smirks. “Touche.” he sets his drink down. “I dunno, this sheriff shit, I don’t think I’m cut out for it, y’know? It doesn’t feel right, or earned, at least.”
You knitted your eyebrows together. “What makes you say that?”
Gator stares at you for a moment, pursing his lips and leaning over the table. “I mean, everyone knows I’m not good at this. Hell, I know I’m not good at this. Doesn’t really sound like something I wanna do, just something I settled with. I don’t wanna live my life settling for things.” he expresses. “Especially settling for being a cop. I was supposed to play baseball. Now, I just do paper work and stop people from speeding. It isn’t exciting. And I’m tired because…y’know, Rhett said it best, joking about teaching the kids acab. I don’t even disagree with him. Most if not all the people I work with are bastards.”
You nod, understanding completely. “You don’t gotta be like them.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to be associated with that. If I’m gonna be a bastard, it’s not going to be tied in with something like being a cop. Rather be a bastard because I am one, not because I’m a cop. I see the shit that goes on in other places, and…I don’t want to do that.” he looks down. “I’ve been thinking of leaving, working as a private investigator, cause i like solving stuff, helping others, but don’t feel ready enough to do that yet.”
You take a sip from your drink, the bitter taste of vodka is somewhat comforting. “I get it, I do…” you stare down at the table, but your head snaps over to him. “It’s nice that you care, you seem to really care, a lot more than you did when we were in school. But don’t beat yourself up over something you can’t change.” you straighten up. “You can still do a lot of good until you’re ready to be a private investigator.” but then a laugh slips out. “Private investigator”
Gator cracks a smile. “Damn, I knew that was too obvious of a name choice.”
Laughs keep coming out of you. “I’m just saying, it’s almost kismet. I think…” you pause, trying to find the words. “You'd do a lot of good no matter what you decide to do.”
Gator stares into your eyes, you’ve never seen him be this open, so much time has passed since you’ve actually sat down and heard him. In high school, he was always chasing something, never this, so to hear this now felt mature, quietly reflective, questioning everything as we were meant to do. “You think so?”
You blushed, you can’t help but feel your heartbeat thump in your chest almost irregularly. You nodded, but there was a sense of something else. Something you haven't told anyone but your mom. That feeling from earlier, about Minneapolis, started to burst through the seams of your mind. You took another sip from your drink before your eyes fell on him again. “Can I tell you something?”
Gator looks taken aback, he clears his throat, snapping out of that moment with you as he nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”
You sigh, shifting in your seat slightly. You didn’t know if you were ready to tell him why you really left Minneapolis, yet, you couldn’t help yourself. Watching him go through the same thing you went through. A small exhale left you as you began speaking. “I worked for this marketing agency in the twin cities. It was a good job, people liked me there, so much that I got this big promotion. It was my dream position, something I worked hard for. I thought I was ready, that I could grab the bull by the horns and do the thing I thought I was meant to do.”
Gator’s expression shifted as he listened intently, you continued. “The first three weeks, I planned everything, I thought I had it under control. But the to-do list grew longer and longer. I was at the office more than I was at home. I slept there, ate from the vending machine, showered in the gym downstairs, I was still functioning, still useful. That list never got shorter. So I started skipping meals, not showering, wearing the same things, never doing my makeup. Started...feeling lost, detached, overwhelmed. Six months in, I…became severely depressed. The worst part is that the work never stopped, the deadlines never stopped rolling. I was making so much but never had time to spend any of it. No time to go out. See family. Do anything.”
Gator’s eyes softened, his hand slowly wanting to snake over to yours, but it just rested next to yours. “The company I worked for, they started this wellness initiative. All the employees under me got to take an hour break, got a subscription to this meditation app, free water bottles and yoga mats and stress balls. I was subsidizing stress balls to Mr. Shrink. One day, I was wrapping up a meeting, and I found out that those wellness workshops were mandatory. But I had no time to even participate. I asked about it and someone said “oh, we’ll send you the slides so you can see it in your free time!” and…I lost it. I started laughing, then I started crying, then yelling, and then I kicked a chair to the ground, and threw a smoothie at a window. I was quietly let go after that…said I wasn’t a good fit.”
Gator stays quiet for a minute, nodding his head,
but you couldn’t even look him in the eye towards the end of your story. All the shame came back, you found yourself wondering why you even wanted to tell him this in the first place. Then Gator speaks up. “Fuck them.”
You glared up at him. “What?”
“Fuck them.” Gator repeats, sipping on his beer. “They pushed you to that point, you were just trying to stay afloat. You didn’t fail.”
“It was humiliating.” you said, almost defensively.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat. You knew that it wasn’t your fault, but it felt like that, regardless of how many times you tried to remind yourself. Gator’s hand ghosts yours for a bit, before finally connecting with yours. Blush runs to your cheeks and your ears as he gulps. “You didn’t deserve that.” he’s soft, his hands aren’t, but he is. “And…it doesn’t make me look at you any differently.”
You squeezed his hand softly, and he squeezed back. He continues. “I know that couldn’t have been easy, saying it out loud like that-” “-it felt relevant to what you were saying, and…” an exasperated sigh left you. “I dunno, it felt easy to tell you compared to telling someone like Rhett.”
Gator bites his bottom lip, then shrugs. “Sometimes, it is.” Then he smiles. “Although, I will say, sometimes I wish I could throw a smoothie at my deputies and kick a chair down. Pretty badass of you to go out the way that you did. A lot of people wish they could do the same.”
You laugh softly. “No it’s not-”
“-you’re lying, it’s super badass. Take this strawberry banana smoothie, corporate shrill!” he chuckles softly. “I bet you’re a legend over there, I bet the person who has your old job now wishes they can stand up to them the way you did.” he grins.
You shake your head. “You make it sound so heroic.”
But Gator doesn’t stop smiling, he just shrugs. “You should take your own advice, it’s pretty good.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Don’t beat yourself up over something you can’t change.” Gator remarks, his eyes falling to your lips before reconnecting with yours. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be worried about being ashamed of that. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let you push yourself to that point ever again, just keep you in a snuggie and a face mask, put on whatever show you like to watch, let me do all the work. Wouldn’t…let that happen to you.”
You can’t stop blushing. “You’re good at that.”
“At what?”
“Sugar talking, selling an idea. You should go into marketing.” you joked.
Gator rolls his eyes playfully. “I’m serious, I…nevermind.” he shakes his head, pink tint lining his cheeks. He wanted to say more, you almost wanted to ask him to finish his sentence, tell you how serious he was about taking care of you. Instead, he looks down at her drink. “You finished your drink.”
“And you finished yours…”
Gator almost seems hesitant to let your hand go, he doesn’t want to, but he does. He sighs and squints his eyes a little. “Should we call it a night?” He's too respectful, and he doesn’t want the night to end, but he’s asking anyway unless you want to end this. Meanwhile you can’t help but notice how good he looks in that brown leather jacket, how it made his shoulders seem broad, and how his lips still glistened with beer before he swept his tongue on his bottom lip. You realized you were staring at his lips for too long. What if you didn’t want to call it a night? What if you wanted to go back to his place? What if that schoolgirl crush on him just never went away?
“We should, I have work in the morning.”
Gator nods and stands up. “I’ll walk you out to your car, before someone calls a tow.” he offers, grabbing the paper bag from earlier. You went with him, the night settling in, both of you walking with your hands brushing each other. You reach out to hold his hand, and he complies. His fingers delicately wrap around yours as you both walk back to each other's cars in silence. A comfortable silence as the warmth from the liquor makes you want something more.
You reach the front of the store you both were shopping at, lights off, door locked, and a sign that says closed hanging from the window. You look over at the store as he steps right in front of you, handing you the paper bag, but not letting go of your hand. “Don’t stress yourself out making this pie, you can always buy one from the store and it’ll be just as good.” he says softly.
You look down at the bag and nod. “Will do, Sheriff Tillman.”
And he stares at you, the same way he’s always stared at you, but this time it feels deeper. You can’t help but feel your cheeks heat up at the sight of him, looking at you as if you’re everything, and he’s lucky enough to be next to you. Your lips tingle with need, wanting to feel his, wanting to feel something touch you somewhere other than your hand, which he still held. You squeezed his hand softly, signaling him that it was okay, that you wanted this. You wanted him, for the first time, to kiss you. And for the first time, you can see that he wants that too, so desperately.
But instead, he pulls away. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Goodnight y/n…”
“Goodnight, Sheriff.”
He starts to walk over to his car, but you notice something. His hand flexes, shaking a little, as if he’s shaking the feeling of your touch off of him. Not out of disgust, no, not even close, not even at all. He doesn’t look back either, knowing if he does, he wouldn’t be able to walk away like this. The same way you stood there, playing back the moment in your head, before seeing him drive off. You sigh, the tension never subsiding as it kept on building. You hated that he had restraint. You hated that he wouldn't touch you like how you wanted. You wanted nothing more than to melt into him.
You entered your car, trying to shake off the pit in your stomach as you sighed. You look at the bag of groceries he bought you, before realizing something. You dig into the bag and found the bar of soap he forgot. Your fingertips glide across the label and the soap itself. You wanted to reach for your phone. Shoot him a quick text saying that he left something. You wanted him to come back, finish what he started. He played baseball, you wanted him to get a home run. You didn’t even reach first base, you were still at the pitch, gearing up to hit the ball.
But instead of grabbing the phone, you brought the bar of soap to your nose and sniffed it softly. Patchouli fills your senses the way you wish he did. And for right now, that’s all the intimacy you could handle.
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ A/N: hello shawties, here's chapter three of sugar talkin'! i ain't even gonna lie to y'all, it get's a little hot and heavy here, but of course, if it ended in smut right away, then the story won't be as interesting later, right? (literally the background music playing in the back while i was plotting this) also, i have been noticing this pattern where i keep comparing the two different pairings to musicals (??) (buffy theatre kid era) where rocky horror is out there and shameless like Rhett is and Grease is more contained and controlled like Gator is (does that make sense? idk, we rolling) it's me and my miami mint against the world! as always, reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated!
on a more serious note, i do implore y'all to check out this post (linked here) i made earlier today regarding donating to support immigrant families during this challenging time. it would mean the world to me ♡
word count: 4.1k
song: weren't for the wind by ella langley
masterlist for fic
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The week after career day was too calm.
Not in a bad way, you just expected more roadblocks, but the worst of it was over. You finally adjusted to the elementary school, bought a plant or two for your home, and even tried to participate in a crochet class at the Wabang community center. Anything to stay engaged in whatever healing you had to do to make yourself feel better. Calm. You liked calm, even if your nervous system was adjusted to chaos. New teacher friends, star students, possibly adopting a cat seems to be on the horizon, cool and collected.
The only thing that made your heart thump was the occasional back and forth texting you’ve been engaging in with Gator.
These conversations weren’t really conversations, not like the kind you had with men you met on tinder back in the city. They were casual messages. A selfie or two. A picture of someone’s lunch. One funny tik tok. Messages you look forward to daily. You even saw Gator without any gel in his hair, you liked it when he left his hair alone. Yet, no plans to meet up yet. Something you both were at fault for. It was hard to find time between sheriff duties and grading papers.
You found yourself on your way to the Abbott Ranch because the one text message you weren’t expecting today was Rhett texting you to come over. He apparently had a surprise. Two surprises in fact. If this was any other man, you would’ve declined. You knew what the typical surprises were and had way too many bad experiences, no way you were going to put yourself through all of that. But this was Rhett Abbott, and he would never do that to you, right?
Your car pulled into the ranch, a place you haven’t been at in years. It feels weird now, because Amy lives here and a teacher showing up to a student’s home like this might reflect badly. But you were Rhett’s friend first. You stepped out of your car, looking around as the wind blew your hair back into your face, having strands stick to your lip gloss. You never wear lip gloss.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Rhett walking over with his brother, Perry. Shit. Perry looks so old now. Of course, he was just a couple years older than both you and Rhett. You could see how the ranch life wore down on him. Crow’s feet lining his eyes as they land on you. And when Rhett’s eyes landed on you, a smile overcame him. One you couldn’t shake. He trotted over to you as Perry followed. “Holy shit, Bunny?” Perry’s voice croaked.
You grinned. “In the flesh.”
Perry engulfed you in a hug, the kind of hug a big brother would give you, as he pulled away. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Haven’t aged a day.” he chuckled. “Amy’s been doing amazing lately, she looks forward to class now, which is a first.” he glances over at Rhett. “The one thing she got from Rhett was hating school, but you’re breaking that spell.”
Rhett put a hand up. “Hey now, I wasn’t a bad student…I just needed to be medicated,” he confessed. “ADHD’s a bitch.”
“ADHD this, ADHD that. Every motherfucker’s got that now.” Perry waves off. “Least now you remember to wake up on time.” he jokes, before looking back at you. “We’re hosting a barbeque next weekend. You should come.” Royal and Cecilia Abbott’s barbeque? You didn’t need to be convinced any further. You nodded. “Oh, I'll be there…what’s this surprise you made me drive all the way out here for?” you inquired, gazing over at Rhett.
Rhett smiled softly as he dug into his pockets, grabbing his wallet and opening it. Two slips of paper nearly fell out as he did, catching them on time. He handed one to you. “I may or may not have gotten us tickets to Rocky Horror…” he says, almost bashful. Your stomach flutters as your hand brushes his, grabbing the ticket and seeing ‘Casper Theatre presents; The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’ your eyes go wide. “No way! Really?!” you nearly squeal like a little girl.
Rhett nods, satisfied with your reaction. “Yeah, of course I did, Bunny. That was our thing.”
Heat travels to your ears as you try to contain your excitement. “Oh I love it, thank you.” You embraced him, smelling the leather, sweat, and hay. A smell that was so uniquely Rhett. You wish you had a candle that smelled like him, even if that was a strange thing to say. You pull away, noticing Rhett glancing down at your lips before your eyes fixate on Perry. “You coming too, Perry?”
Perry clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Nah, can’t. That’s my weekend with Amy. Besides, I gotta get up early the next day anyway to help out with the ranch. Speaking of, I should get back to doing that.” he puts his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you around, Bunny?” Perry asked.
You nod. “Yep! See ya!” you smiled, waving at him as he started walking back to the house. You whip over back to Rhett. “Guess the drive here was worth it.” you quip. Rhett snickers. “Damn, woman. ‘Cus of the tickets or ‘cus of me?”
“There can be nuance.” you joke.
Rhett laughs softly. “Yeah yeah yeah…” he dispels the comment, then he sighs. “So, I was thinking.” uh oh. You purse your lips as you try to make eye contact with him, but he keeps his gaze to his boots. He does that when he’s nervous. It’s a rare sight. “At career day, when I was…provoking Gator.” he starts. “There was a point that was made, that you should have some sort of protection. I mean, your momma, bless her heart, is too old and frail to protect the home in case somethin’ happens. Never in the years of us being friends have I ever seen you learn to shoot.”
You huff a little. “You worried about me, Abbott?”
“I’m allowed to be. Beautiful woman like you, livin’ alone with her momma, can attract the wrong kind of people. You should know how to protect yourself.” Rhett clarifies. “Unless your new cop friend wants to patrol your front yard.” he says, his tone layered in bitterness.
You blush, but a scoff comes out. “Damn, you really hate Gator, don’t you?”
“Hate that motherfucker.” he laughs to himself. “What I'm tryin’ to get at is…I set up some cans, I have some guns, and...” he drags out the and. “I wanna teach you how to shoot.”
Your cheeks deepen with color, blood rushing to your face, and Rhett notices, and wants to say something to make you even more rattled. But instead, you get the first word in. “y’know what? Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
Rhett smirks. “Alright, follow me.” he signals. There’s something about the way he says that to you, wearing the kind of authority he would never grant himself. Screaming ‘I know you, I know how to protect you if you let me’ which sent chills down your spine. Part of you finds it freeing, knowing that despite it all, Rhett Abbott is there; and he’d spend his free day teaching you something you would normally never try your hand at. Maybe it’s the butterflies, or the smell of firewood burning from inside the home, rustic and familiar, but Rhett Abbott now seemed more like a man when he wants to be.
You and Rhett walk almost in silence, past pastures, hoping you don’t stain your new boots by stepping on some manure. There was something you never noticed about him before the longer and longer you both walked in silence. That he was capable of doing that with you, being comfortable with no sound other than the wind blowing on a cloudy day. From the distance, you see Royal’s old ATV – he still had that thing? It didn't matter. You saw a bag and a table of cans just a few yards away from you.
Once you both reach the ATV, Rhett reaches for the bag and pulls out protective glasses and noise cancelling headphones. Without asking, he plops the headphones against your ears. The outside world becomes muffled as his fingers lightly graze your hair, almost fondling it as he, unintentionally or not, pulls some of the strands of hair away from your lips. He’s so close to you, nearly cradling your face as he smiles warmly at you. “Take these.” he offers the glasses.
You look down at his calloused hands, they felt so rough, hardened skin against the softness of your face. You couldn’t help but get flustered. You gently take the glasses from him and place them on, adjusting your headphones and staring up at him. “I look ready?”
He hums. “Yep, like a true cowgirl.”
That comment made your stomach flip.
He then reaches for a black glock. You’ve never seen a gun in person. Ironic. You lived in Wabang for fifteen years or so before moving to the city. In rural towns like Wabang, everyone had a gun in the house. But this was the first time seeing Rhett hold one. He was so delicate with it, you had to stop staring at his hands like that. His eyes met yours. “Don’t be nervous, Bunny. It’s not loaded. Not yet, anyway.” he says before grabbing a magazine and loading it.
“Don’t you need headphones too?” you asked.
Rhett shakes his head. “Nah, I can handle not usin’ it. You on the other hand.” His lips tug a little. He jerks his head, signaling you to come with him, and you follow him like a lost puppy dog. Standing in front of the ATV, he glances over at you. “Alright, so, never point the gun at anyone, unless it’s someone you are for sure goin’ to shoot at-” “-I’m not planning on shooting anyone anytime soon, Rhett.” you sigh. He shrugs. “Innocent thing like you? Nah. but it’s still good to know.”
He then points to the gun. “You got your muzzle, and your front sight. That is what you need to look and get your aim better. Now, this thing is heavy, but the safety is on. You wanna hold it?”
You hesitated, before nodding. Rhett carefully hands you the gun, and you can nearly feel your arm being dragged down by the pure weight of it. He wasn’t lying, but you weren’t prepared for how heavy the glock actually was. You still could hold it, though. He stands next to you as a small laugh escapes you. “What’s so funny?” he smiles.
“What if I held it sideways, like how they do in the movies?”
Rhett snorts. “You ain’t Tom Cruise, sweetheart.” His smile deepens, the pet name. Something other than Bunny. It felt nice hearing it come from him. “They still makin’ Mission Impossible movies?”
You nod. “Unfortunately, same with Fast n’ Furious movies. Like let the damn franchise die. We’d be okay with five years of no action movie slop.” but that earned a shrug from Rhett. “I dunno, Bunny. I can’t go five years without seeing Vin Diesel callin’ everybody under the sun ‘familia’” he jokes.
“That’s not how you say that word.”
Rhett exhales softly. “What? Familia? I took spanish in high school, I think I got a pretty good idea on how to say things in spanish. Some might even say I’m el cabron of spanish.”
You snicker. “You know that means asshole, right?”
Rhett looks over, unamused, but confused. “It does?” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay, then how do you say familia?”
“Fa-me-lee-ya” you corrected, over pronouncing it just a little. “Not fa-mill-liah”
“Psh, now you’re just showin’ off.”
You hum. “What can I say? Living in Minneapolis teaches you a few things.”
Rhett puts his hands up. “Alright alright, city girl, don’t get all big headed on me. I’m trying to teach you how to shoot, not learn enough Spanish to understand foreign relations.” he deflects humorously. He takes his cowboy hat off and pushes his hair back before putting it back on. He does that when he’s nervous too, going two for two now.
Rhett gets behind you, not directly, but you could feel him there, his eyes studying you as he moves over and raises the gun up. The flicks the safety off, or what you assume is the safety, and positions your arms. “Nice stance.” he comments. “Now, you gotta be like a statue. Don’t be scared of the recoil, if you ain’t standing ten toes down, you’re gonna fly and land on your ass. Aim for the cans, and whenever you’re ready, shoot em.” he instructs. Why isn’t he the teacher? Would make life a lot easier for the both of you. Before, of course, remembering the disaster that was career day.
You take a deep breath before feeling Rhett back away, but you know he’s probably leaned back against the ATV, hands in his pocket, toothpick in his mouth like he’s Butch Cassidy or James Dean. you try to keep your mind off of his intense gaze, and focus more on the cans. Cans of Campbell's soup that were emptied, rusted, crushed, with a few holes in them already. They were perched on a log that had to be as long as your car. Big enough to notice, but too far to properly shoot. The wind wasn’t helping either.
You squint your eyes shut and pull the trigger. The force of the gun did make you stumble back as no cans fell to the ground. Once you opened your eyes, disappointment washed over you. You knew you weren’t going to get it on your first try, but it sucked either way.
Rhett whistled. “Wow…” he gulps. “You’re a shit shot, Bunny.”
“Man, fuck you.” you jeer playfully.
“Don’t write a check you can’t cash out.” he warns, sounding both like a threat and a promise. It made the feeling in your stomach sink deeper. “I mean, for a rookie, it ain’t too bad.” he reassures, but you know the truth. It was bad. “Wanna try again?”
Before you could even respond, you hold the gun up and start shooting at the cans, but not a single can fell. You wanted to prove so badly that you could at least get one can down. Why? Doesn’t matter. Rhett was just amused by your vigor. You even held the gun sideways like –shit, not like Tom Cruise, like John Wick, but without the expertise. The gun clicked as you kept pulling the trigger. “Damn it!”
Rhett goes over. “Woah there, no need to be so hard on yourself.” he gently lowers your hand. He pulls another magazine from the pocket of his coat. “Lemme see it.”
You reluctantly handed him the gun, making sure it was pointed away, as Rhett releases the empty magazine and loads in a new one. The newfound patience he had for you was astonishing, considering that patient would be the last word you would describe Rhett. He cocks the gun. “You want me to give you some pointers?”
You sheepishly look down. “Yes please…” you said quietly.
Rhett knitted his eyebrows. “Sorry, what was that?” he was fucking with you, had to be, he just wanted you to admit that you needed his help. You huff. “Yes please.” you say more firmly.
He grins. “Okay.” he gets behind you, and suddenly, you forgot why you were so frustrated to begin with. He presses his chest against you, arms coming around the side and holding your hands as you both hold the gun. Rough and calloused, against your soft, manicured hands. You can feel his chest rising against your back, the thumping of his heart trying to stay steady as he softly breathed down your neck. The thought of him holding you like this made your skin hot. Even with it being cool outside, you can feel sweat run down your neck.
You wondered if Rhett can smell the vanilla shampoo you use, the pheromones of your sweat, or that new Ariana Grande perfume you got on sale at the Walmart that’s in the next town over. You just couldn’t remember if you got Mod Vanilla or Mod blush. Whichever one was the pink one. You wondered if he liked being this close to you too, or if he was just being nice. “Steady does it.” His voice deepens, and before you knew it, the trigger was pulled, and you stood still with Rhett supporting you.
But none of the cans fell.
Rhett sighs, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m gonna change your stance.” he declares, not giving you a second to think before he tenderly places his hands on your hips. Fuck. Maybe it was the year or two of not getting laid or the fact that these gun lessons were quietly intimate; but the way he was holding you made you anything but focused. Anything but collected and cool. Anything but calm. You gently rested your body against his as a sigh left him – was it a sigh? Of relief? Of stress? Of something more? He refused to let go of your hips, his touch lingering with which passing second as he adjusted your stance. You felt him press up against you again, tighter this time as his hands found themselves to his spot. “Just relax into it.” His tone was raspy.
You do what you’re told, relaxing into his domineering touch. “Easy...” he says, but you weren’t sure if it was to you or himself. You could see him focusing, chewing on his bottom lip before pulling the trigger. The sound of the bullet tore through the muffled air. One can down.
You gasped. “Yes!” the confidence you once lost found its way back.
“Great shot, Bunny!” he celebrates with you. “There you go.” he shifts your body over to the next can. Hands on your waist now, as if his hands were slowly climbing up your chest, how big they felt against you. “Now relax, get this next one. Lean into me if you have to.” he didn’t have to tell you twice. You did what you were told. His arms steadying yours as you pulled the trigger. Another can down.
“Shit, you’re starting to become a natural at this.” you can feel him smile, as if he was doing it against your skin. Fuck. you cannot be feeling this way for Rhett Abbott, but you did. “I have a pretty good teacher.” you commented.
He smirks. “Okay, I’m gonna let go now.” you almost don’t want him to, so you shake your head. “No, no, not ready for that yet.” you nearly pleaded. He raises an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.” again, pressed up so tightly against you, you could feel his muscled chest against your back. The smell of marlboro reds, the brim of his hat gently nudged against your head, his touch guiding you, his soft breaths – fuck fuck fuck. This time, you pull the trigger, and the final can falls. You let your arms relax, putting the gun down as a breathless laugh escaped you. “Oh god, that felt-”
“-pretty fuckin’ good, didn’t it?” he finishes your sentence, his head not leaving your shoulder as you turn yours, realizing how close you are to him now that you could actually see him. You nod. “Yeah…really fuckin’ good..” you said softly.
Rhett’s eyes flicker down to your lips, and his opens just slightly, as if he wants to say more, but he’s utterly transfixed by you. Because yes, he could smell your shampoo, your perfume, your need. He does like standing so close to you, practically having you in his arms. He liked being the one to show you this, not Gator, not anyone else for that matter. He liked having you like this; relaxed, out of breath, staring at him like he could hold the moon in his hands. And neither one of you could lean in, put each other out of your misery. Just two friends, staring at each other, almost wishing that the friend part was interchangeable.
Rhett’s phone rings.
He turns red. Rhett never blushes. Rhett never gets flustered. Never in the years of knowing him have you seen him like this. He gently pulls away and digs in his back pocket for his phone. “Gimme a second.”
Rhett steps a few paces away, like the space between you is something he has to physically force himself to create. He clears his throat once, then again, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to wipe the moment off him. The phone buzzes insistently in his palm. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he mutters, half to you, half to himself. “Yeah, I got it.”
He turns his back slightly to answer, boots crunching against the dirt as he paces. You don’t try to listen, couldn’t if you wanted to, not with the headphones still pressed tight over your ears, but you watch him anyway. The way his shoulders stay tense, the way he nods even though whoever’s on the other end can’t see him. He looks…pulled back into reality. Like the ranch reclaimed him the second that phone lit up.
You lift the headphones off slowly, the world rushing back in: wind rattling through dry grass, the distant low of cattle, Your ears ring a little from the sudden quiet, or maybe from the adrenaline that hasn’t quite drained yet. Your hands are still buzzing, phantom recoil humming up your arms.
“I’ll be there soon.” Rhett says before ending the call. stuffing the phone back into his pocket. When he turns around, his expression has shifted; still warm, still familiar, but guarded now. The kind of look he gets when responsibility reasserts itself.
“Sorry,” he says. “Dad needs help with somethin’ in the north pasture. Fence line’s fucked again.”
“That thing ever not fucked?” you ask, trying for lightness, trying not to sound like you’re disappointed.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Once. In ‘09. Briefly.” then he sighs. “Cmon, let me drive you back to your car.” he pats the ATV. but you stop him. “Can I get a picture of me? With the gun?” you’re almost shy asking him this. He snickers. “What? You gonna brag ‘bout this?”
“I hit three cans”
“With help”
“Still counts.”
He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he nods once, decisive. “We’ll do it again sometime. Keep you sharp.” and you smile weakly. “I’d like that..” he then grabs your phone, trying to open the camera before his eyes land on a text from Gator.
GATOR
You doing anything tonight?
Envy fills him, but he tries to shake it off, didn’t want to upset you over his own insecurity, because that’s all this is. Deep rooted insecurity with a need to prove himself. He gulps and pulls up the camera app and steadies himself. “Alright, pose like uh…shit, can’t name a female action hero.” he admits. You sigh. “Ellen Ripley? Uma Thurman in Kill Bill? Katniss Everdeen? Black widow?” you started listing off all the ones you knew.
Rhett sighs. “Yeah, fuck it, Charlie’s Angels.” he points the camera at you. And you pose just like Drew Berrymore and Farrah Fawcett would. He quickly snaps the photo and smiles weakly, before handing you back your phone. “Cmon, I gotta pack all this stuff up.”
You hand him the gun, your hands grazing again, before grabbing the phone and staring at the picture you took. Here you are, in your denim skirt, white sweater, cowgirl boots, posing like you were on a movie poster. Then, your eyes fall to your messages. You had a new one. Your finger dangles over the application as you open your message from gator. The same butterflies Rhett gave you fills you up again. You tap the photo and sent it to him.
Y/N
Pretty wiped, Rhett taught me how to shoot today.
Gator immediately replies.
GATOR
Look at you, what a bad ass
Love that smile on you
…the safety isn’t on?
You furrow your eyebrows.
Y/N
You can tell?
GATOR
Always
Did he teach you about the safety?
today, i want to share with you something that means a lot to me. as some of you know, i’m a latina creative. my family is from puerto rico and venezuela. my cultural identity has played a huge role in how i express myself creatively, and has helped me navigate our tumultuous time. I am so proud of my heritage. unfortunately, now more than ever, latinos like my family and I are being targeted by ICE. i am a first generation american, i’m also a gun violence survivor and a child/adult sa survivor. knowing that people are being unalived and assaulted in these camps, in the streets, etc. brings me great fear for my own safety and future, as well as the safety and future of my people.
i have always been open about my so called fabulous life; because i know, despite how self sacrificing it is to share my story with others, that it also can bring great comfort to those experiencing these issues. breaking the stigma surrounding these topics will always come before staying silent and complicit.
latinos like my family and I are terrified. all of us are citizens, but we are terrified.
i’ve attached a donation link tree to those who wish to donate and support our community during this challenging time. if you wish to donate to me directly through my ko-fi page, all proceeds will feed back into these nonprofits and communities.
support your latin brothers and sisters. your creatives, your business leaders, bankers, teachers, doctors, nurses, therapists, firefighters, service workers, etc. we are everywhere because we worked hard to be here. that’s the real punk rock.
Pairing: dad’s best friend!Rhett Abbott x f!Reader
Synopsis: Four years away from your hometown and your childhood crush on your dad’s best friend comes rushing back all at once. A single touch at a summer BBQ quickly spirals into heat, hunger, and hands that finally stop holding back.
Smut Warnings: masturbation (male), dirty talk, fingering, semi-public sex, brief anal play, daddy kink, mild praise kink, just the tip turning into full blown penetrative sex, possessive sex, mild size kink, overstimulation, rough sex, messy sex, mild breeding kink, deep penetration, unprotected piv (oopsies!), creampie (double oopsies!), squirting, eating out cum.
Fic Warnings: age gap (reader is in early 20s, Rhett is mid-40s), forbidden sexual attraction (as the pairing says: Rhett is your dad’s best friend), possessive language.
Word Count: 6.5k
A/N: I’ll be honest with you all... 4.3k of this is pure porn. 1.5k is description galore, then the other 1.6k is a hot and steady lead up to said porn. I genuinely thought this would only be 3.5k, maybe 4k maximum, but we all know I just can’t help myself lol ;)
Rhett has grown into himself in a way that feels almost unfair, like time decided to be generous with him, slow and deliberate, polishing rather than eroding. It pressed in gently rather than dragging its nails.
The grey that once felt incidental and scattered now feels deliberate and lived in, threaded through his hair at the temples and carried into his beard like a punctuation mark; it’s claimed its place, silver streaks cutting clean lines through the brunet, mirrored in the beard he keeps neatly trimmed.
His shoulders are broader now—not showy about it, just solid, like a man who has learned how to carry weight without complaint. His face tells stories without ever asking to be read; fine lines crease at the corners of his eyes when he smiles—an easy, knowing smile, practised through his years. There’s something grounding about the way he stands: feet planted, spine relaxed, like he’s comfortable occupying space. His hands look different too—bigger than you remember, calloused in a way that speaks of real work, real repetition; hands that have fixed things, steadied things, held onto moments and let others go.
What makes him devastating isn’t just his physicality, it’s also the confidence that hums just beneath the surface. He fills the room without trying to. He doesn’t rush his words—he listens. When he looks at you, it’s direct, unflinching, not hungry but curious, like he’s fully present in his own skin. It’s impossible not to feel how powerfully that pull tugs at you now.
And then there’s you.
You left this place at seventeen with your mom, half-formed and restless, all sharp edges and longing. You come back at twenty-two carrying yourself differently—your body no longer tentative, your presence no longer asking permission. You’ve grown into your own gravity. You notice it in the way people do a double take, in how the town feels smaller around you, but you really notice it when Rhett looks at you.
It’s not the polite glance adults give to kids they’ve known forever, but a pause; it’s just a second too long. His eyes linger, flick briefly away, then return as if he’s recalibrating, updating an old mental picture that no longer fits. There’s something unreadable in his expression—surprise, maybe, recognition layered with restraint. You catch him watching you when he thinks you won’t notice, his gaze thoughtful and assessing, but undeniably aware, as though he’s registering that you’re no longer a memory tied to this town, no longer someone’s kid who left with her mom.
The air shifts in those moments. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but real. You stand taller without meaning to. He straightens too, rolls his shoulders back, runs a hand through that salt-and-pepper hair like he’s suddenly conscious of it. Older looks impossibly good on him—has given him depth, gravity, heat—but what sends a quiet thrill through you is realising that he sees you differently now, too. Not as the girl you were when you left, but as the woman you’ve become.
And here you are: thrown in the mix of a late summer BBQ, the sun sitting lower but no less insistent, heavy and gold as it presses itself into everything it touches. It’s the kind of heat that doesn’t blaze so much as linger—soaks into skin, into fabric, into the slow rhythm of the afternoon. The light feels thicker now, syrupy, clinging to shoulders and collarbones, catching on glass bottles and the edge of the garden fence. The air hums with it. Warm grass underfoot, and the hiss, pop and crackle of charcoal still alive on the grill, flames licking up around food that’s halfway ready, smoke curling into the sky. Cicadas buzz somewhere unseen, their sound stretching time until each second feels unhurried, indulgent. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck, slides lazily down your spine, and you don’t bother wiping it away; the heat makes everything feel a little softer, a little more permissive.
The garden is loud with late afternoon life—the clatter of plates, your dad laughing too hard at something someone’s said. You drift through it all in your yellow floral sundress, the fabric light and familiar against your thighs, the lace at the hem catching when the breeze moves through. The back dips low, daringly so, the sun warm against bare skin you’re suddenly very aware of.
You watch the way Rhett moves—the easy roll of his shoulders, the sure grip of his hand around a beer bottle, the way his thumb rubs absently at the condensation. You see him watching you, too; quick glances that linger just past polite, a tightening of his mouth when you laugh, and slow, deliberate sweeps of his eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking.
Rhett is there before you realise he’s moved.
“Food’s ready,” he says, close enough that his voice feels meant only for you, and then his hand finds your back—not possessive, not rushed. Just a skim, a guiding pressure along the line of exposed skin, fingers warm where they settle, where they stay. The contact is casual in intent, devastating in effect. Your breath catches anyway, sharp and traitorous, as though your body has recognised him before your mind has caught up.
You walk because he guides you to, because the world hasn’t stopped even if it feels like it has. His hand doesn’t move away. If anything, it lingers, the heel of his palm resting just above your waist, thumb brushing ever so slightly as you step forward. You feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with the crowd and everything to do with him.
You turn your head. Catch his eyes.
The sunlight hits just right, glinting off the silver threaded through his hair, warming the brown of his gaze. Your lashes flutter, instinctive, and something shifts. He steps forward then, subtle and sure, placing himself between you and the glare of the afternoon. The noise dulls. The space tightens. His hand is still there, grounding, deliberate.
For a suspended moment, it’s only the two of you.
You stare at him; he stares back. No rush, no words. Just the shared understanding of standing too close, of time folding in on itself. The BBQ goes on behind you—plates clinking, voices rising—but right now, it feels like you’re the only people in the world, held in that narrow strip of shade he’s made just for you.
For a beat longer than it should last, neither of you moves.
Then something in him tightens—jaw, shoulders, resolve—and he finally pulls his hand away, the sudden absence almost louder than the noise of the garden. You notice the way he shifts his weight, the way his jeans sit differently now, strained in a way that makes heat rush low in your belly before you can stop it. His reaction is unmistakable even without being named; it’s there in the careful distance he puts between you, in the control he’s forcing back into place.
Rhett drags a hand down his face, palm scraping over beard and mouth like he’s trying to wipe the moment away. He keeps looking at you while he does it—eyes dark, conflicted, held on yours as if turning away might be harder than staying. When he finally does break the stare, it’s abrupt and deliberate.
He turns and walks off without a word.
You watch him cross the garden, shoulders set, disappearing through the back door like he needs walls around him, like he needs to be anywhere you are not. A second later you see him at the foot of the stairs through the open doorway, taking them two at a time toward the bathroom at the top.
No one else notices. They’re too busy crowding the table now, laughing, reaching for plates, relief blooming that the food is finally ready. The moment swallows the distraction whole. You slip away just as easily, unnoticed, following the same path he took—heart hammering, sundress brushing your knees—quiet as you pass through the back door and into the house, where the air feels tighter, charged, like it knows exactly what you’re doing.
The key hooks by the stairs are a collection of heavy, forgotten iron. You don’t hesitate. Your fingers find the small brass key for the spare bathroom, the one that hasn’t turned in years. The metal is cool, a shock against your fevered palm.
The stairs are a gauntlet. Each step groans under your weight, a betrayal of your stealth. At the top, the narrow hallway feels narrower. The afternoon light from the window at the far end barely reaches here, leaving the air dim and close. The door to the main bathroom is shut.
You press your back against the wall beside it. Silence at first, then not.
A low, stifled sound. A choked off groan, the kind a man makes when he’s trying to keep the world from hearing. It’s followed by a hiss, sharp and pained with pleasure. Then the sound of skin on skin, a rhythmic, wet, slick noise—faster now, urgent. A sound you know, a sound that pulls an answering heat low and liquid inside you.
And then your name. Not spoken, not called, called, but a snarl, torn from the throat, raw and frustrated and full of a want so potent it vibrates through the wood of the door.
It solidifies everything—your resolve, your curiosity, the reckless momentum that’s carried you up here—and the key slides into the lock with a quiet and quiet noise. You turn it, push the door open, and slip inside in one fluid motion.
The bathroom is small, all white tile and chrome. The window is cracked, letting in a thin ribbon of golden air and the distant hum of the party. Rhett is braced against the sink, one broad hand flat on the porcelain, the other wrapped around himself.
He’s big. Thick. The shaft is a flushed, ruddy curve in his fist, the head a swollen, darker crest, glistening. Veins stand in stark relief under the skin. His knuckles are white where he grips himself. He’s fully dressed, jeans and belt open, pushed down just enough.
He freezes.
His eyes, wide and shocked, lock onto yours in the mirror. For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He looks exactly like a man caught in headlights, every muscle locked, his face a mask of naked shock and something else—shame, maybe, but beneath it, a flare of something hotter.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, the words ragged. His hand doesn’t move from himself. He just stares at your reflection, his chest rising and falling too fast.
You don’t leave. You push the door shut behind you. The click of the latch is deafening in the small space.
“I heard ya,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.
He closes his eyes, a long, slow blink, as if trying to reset the scene. When they open again, the shock is receding, burned away by a darker, more controlled heat. His gaze drops from your face in the mirror, travels down the reflection of your body in the yellow sundress, then back up. The hunger in his look is no longer hidden; it’s laid bare, acknowledged.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, but his voice is gravel, lacking any real force. His thumb moves, an involuntary stroke over the slick head of his cock. A drop of fluid pearls, clings, then falls. You watch its path.
“Y’said my name.”
He lets out a rough breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t look away.
The air in the room is thick, humid with his scent—soap, clean sweat, and something muskier, sharper. Your own breathing feels shallow. You take a step forward. The tile is cool under your bare feet.
“Why did y’run?”
“Y’know why.” His jaw works. His fist tightens, then relaxes, a slow pump that makes your stomach clench. “Look at ya. Look at… this.” He gestures weakly with his chin, at himself, at the space between you. “I’m twenty years older than ya, kid. I used to fix y’bike.”
“I’m not a kid on a bike anymore.”
“No.” The word is heavy, final. His eyes drink you in again, and this time, they don’t shy away from the low cut of your dress, the way the fabric drapes over your hips. “Y’really not.”
Another step. You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the fine tremor in the arm braced against the sink. You reach out, not for him, but for the faucet. You turn it on, let cool water run over your fingers. The mundane sound is absurd, electric.
“What were ya thinking ‘bout?” You ask, watching the water spiral down the drain.
He’s silent for so long you think he won’t answer. Then, his voice is low, stripped raw. “Y’back. That dress. The way the sun caught on y’skin where my hand was. The sound y’made when I touched ya. Like a—like a gasp y’were tryin’ to swallow.” His hand moves again, a long, slow pull from base to tip. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout how y’skin would feel under my mouth right there… how you’d taste. How you’d arch into it.”
Every word is a physical touch. Your knees feel weak. You turn off the water and face him, leaning your hip against the sink counter, mirroring his stance. The space between you is maybe two feet. It feels like nothing. It feels like a canyon.
“And what else?”
His eyes blaze. “Y’want the whole fantasy?”
“Yes.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I was thinking ‘bout turnin’ you round right there in the garden. Pushin’ that pretty yellow dress up ‘round your waist, seein’ if you were as bare and smooth as you looked. Holdin’ you still while I… while I just looked. While I touched. Until you were shakin’.”
A shudder runs through you, undeniable. Your nipples tighten against the thin cotton of your dress. He sees it. His nostrils flare.
“Y’killin’ me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. He starts to move his hand again, a slow, torturous rhythm. “Y’should go back to the party.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know, kid.” He sounds resigned, agonised. “That’s the problem.”
You watch the motion of his hand, the way his foreskin slides, the wet gleam of his arousal. Your own body is responding, a throbbing ache building between your legs, a slick heat you can feel gathering. You want to touch him. You want him to touch you.
“Let me,” you say, the words out before you can stop them.
His rhythm stutters. “Let you what?”
“Help.”
He shakes his head, a sharp, pained movement. “No. This is—this is bad enough. You seein’ this. Me bein’… like this because of ya.”
“Because of me,” you repeat, and it’s not a question—it’s a claiming. You move then, closing the last of the distance. You don’t reach for his cock. Instead, you place your hand over his on the sink. His skin is hot, the bones of his knuckles prominent under your palm. You lean in, your lips beside his ear. “Then let me be part of it.”
You feel the full body tremor that goes through him. A low groan rumbles in his chest. His free hand comes up, cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. Not pushing you away. Holding you there.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. The blue is almost black, his pupils blown wide. The silver in his beard glints in the low light. There’s no more conflict there, just a desperate, burning want.
“Y’sure?” The question is gritted out, each word strained.
In answer, you guide his hand from the sink, bringing it between you. You press his palm flat against your lower belly, over the soft yellow cotton. His hand is huge, warm, heavy. You hold it there, letting him feel the heat of you, the quick rise and fall of your breath.
A sound escapes him—part surrender, part triumph. His other hand, the one still wrapped around himself, goes still. He releases himself, and his now-free hand comes up to frame your face. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, a touch so tender it makes your throat tighten.
“Okay,” he breathes, and it’s the only permission you need.
He kisses you.
It’s not gentle. It’s a collision. His mouth is hot and demanding, his beard a rough, delicious friction against your skin. He tastes of beer and summer and a darker, more essential flavour that is just him. You open for him immediately, a moan trapped in your throat as his tongue slides against yours. The kiss is deep, consuming, a claiming that’s been pent up for years. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, angling your head to take more of him, while the other slides from your belly to your lower back, pulling you flush against him.
You feel the hard, hot length of him press against your stomach, separated only by thin layers of fabric. The shock of it—the reality of his size, his arousal—sends a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling low in your belly. You whimper into his mouth, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. The cotton of his shirt is soft under your fingers, but the muscle beneath is iron-hard.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. “Fuck,” he whispers, the word ragged. “I’ve thought about that. So many times.”
“Me too,” you gasp.
His hands move to the thin straps of your sundress. He hooks a finger under one, then the other, and slides them down your arms. The top of the dress loosens, the bodice gaping. He doesn’t pull it down, not yet. He just looks, his gaze dropping to the swells of your breasts above the line of your dress, to the hint of lace from your bra.
“Pretty li’l thing,” he murmurs. He leans down, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat. He kisses the spot, then licks a slow, hot path up the column of your neck. Your head falls back, giving him better access. His teeth graze your pulse point, and you cry out, a short, sharp sound.
“Shh,” he soothes against your skin, but there’s no real caution in it. He’s unravelling you, and he knows it.
His hands find the zipper at the side of your dress. He pulls it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosens. He pushes it down over your shoulders, letting it pool at your waist, held up by your hips. You’re standing in your bra and panties now, the afternoon light from the high window painting your skin in gold.
He just looks. His gaze is a physical weight, travelling over every inch of you—the curve of your breasts in the lace cup, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. His expression is one of pure, reverent hunger.
“Jesus,” he breathes again. He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. He doesn’t unhook it. He just strokes the satin trim, his touch feather light, making your skin prickle with goosebumps.
Then his hands settle on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the line of your panties. “These are a problem,” he says, his voice thick.
“They are?”
“They’re in my way.”
He hooks his thumbs into the lace waistband. He doesn’t pull them down. He just holds them, his gaze locked on yours, asking a silent question. You nod, a quick, desperate movement.
Slowly, so slowly, he slides the lace down your hips, over your thighs, letting them fall to the floor around your ankles. The cool air of the bathroom kisses your exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his look.
He steps back, just half a step, his eyes drinking in the sight of you completely bare from the waist down. His breath leaves him in a rush. “Look at ya,” he says, almost to himself.
You feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly aroused. A flush spreads across your chest, climbs your neck. You want to cover yourself, but you also want him to look forever.
He drops to his knees.
The sight is almost too much. Rhett, this solid, steady man, on his knees on the white bathroom tile in front of you. He places his hands on your bare hips, his touch firm, anchoring. He leans forward, and for one heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to put his mouth on you. But he doesn’t. He presses his forehead against your lower belly, right above the neat thatch of hair. He just stays there, breathing you in, his warm breath fanning over your most sensitive skin.
A helpless sound escapes you. Your hands come down to his head, your fingers sinking into the thick, silver-streaked hair. It’s softer than you imagined.
“Rhett,” you whisper.
He lifts his head. His eyes are glazed, his lips parted. “I want to taste ya,” he says, the words raw and honest. “I want to feel ya come on my tongue. But if I start, I ain’t gonna stop…”
The denial is a physical ache. You nod, understanding, even as your body screams in protest.
“Then touch me,” you plead. “Please.”
A groan rips from him. He nods, once. He leans in again, but this time, he turns his head, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. His beard is a rough, incredible scratch against the tender skin. He places an open-mouthed kiss high on your inner thigh, his lips hot. Then another, closer. His breath is so close to where you need him.
One of his hands leaves your hip. You feel his fingers brush through your curls, a gentle, exploring touch. Then a single, broad fingertip strokes down your centre, through your slick folds.
You jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat. You’re soaked, drenched for him, and the proof is on his finger. He brings it to his lips, his eyes holding yours, and sucks it clean. His eyes flutter closed for a second, a look of pure pleasure crossing his face.
“Sweet,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ sweet f’me.”
He returns his hand to you, this time with purpose. He parts you with two fingers, exposing the swollen, needy flesh beneath. You can feel the cool air on your most intimate parts, a shocking contrast to the heat building inside. He just looks, his gaze intense, studying you.
“So pretty here,” he says, his voice rough with wonder. “All pink and swollen f’me.” His thumb finds your clit, circling the hard, sensitive nub once, lightly. A bolt of pure pleasure shoots through you, making your legs buckle. His hands on your hips steady you.
“Easy, girl,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice now, a dark, possessive pleasure.
He begins to touch you in earnest then, his touch both expert and reverent. His thumb rubs slow, firm circles over your clit, while two fingers of his other hand slide through your slickness, gathering your arousal, spreading it, teasing your entrance. He doesn’t push inside. He just plays, exploring the shape of you, the give of your outer lips, the flutter of your inner ones, the hard pearl of your clit under his thumb.
“Y’so responsive,” he murmurs, watching your face. “Every little touch… I can see it on ya.”
You can’t speak. Your world has narrowed to the points of contact: his hands on you, the tile cold under your feet, the ragged sound of both your breathing. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rocking into his touch, seeking more pressure, more friction.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a low rumble. “Take what y’need from me.”
His fingers slide lower, through your slick heat, and press against your perineum, the sensitive patch of skin between your entrance and your back hole. The pressure there, combined with the relentless circles on your clit, sends sparks shooting up your spine. Your moans are coming freely now, little broken sounds you don’t try to stifle.
“I can feel y’getting tighter,” he says, his own breathing growing ragged. “Are y’close? Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see y’come.”
The endearment, the rough command in his voice, is what pushes you over. The coil in your belly snaps. Pleasure erupts, not in a wave but in a sharp, stunning burst, radiating out from your core, turning your limbs to liquid fire. You cry out, your hands clenching in his hair, your back arching as the sensations rip through you.
He keeps his thumb moving, gentling the pressure as you pulse around nothing, your inner muscles clenching and releasing in empty, aching waves. He guides you through it, his touch unwavering, until the last shudder passes and you sag, boneless, against the sink counter.
He stands up slowly, his knees cracking. He’s still painfully hard, his cock hanging out in the sweat-slick air, ruddy and leaking at the tip. He pulls you against him, your bare skin meeting the rough denim of his jeans. He holds you as you tremble, his face buried in your hair.
“Okay?” He asks, his voice muffled.
You can only nod against his chest.
He holds you for a long moment, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet bathroom. The sounds of the BBQ are still a distant murmur. Finally, he pulls back, his hands cupping your face. He kisses you again, softer this time, a slow, dragging kiss that tastes of you and him and shared secrets.
Your hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, slides down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach covered by his thin white t-shirt. You don't look away from his eyes as your fingers trail lower through the coarse hair until you find the thick, hot length of him. You wrap your hand around his cock, your fingers not quite meeting around his girth, and he stands perfectly still, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. His eyes lock on yours, dark and blazing. The skin is like hot velvet over steel, the prominent vein along the underside pulsing against your palm. You give him an experimental pump, your hand sliding easily through the slickness already gathered there.
“Christ,” he groans, his head dropping forward to rest against yours.
You tilt your hips forward, letting the swollen, slick head of his cock slide against your sensitive, swollen clit. The contact is immediate and overwhelming—a jolt of sensation that is almost too much after the intensity of your release. You let out a quick, choked moan at the slight overstimulation.
Rhett grits his teeth and hisses low between them, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Yeah,” he chokes out, the word strained. “That’s it. Touch my cock, y’sweet li’l thing.”
You pump him, your fist moving in a slow, tight rhythm. His pre-cum is already a steady stream, coating your hand, making your movements slick and loud. It drips from your knuckles onto the white tile floor, some trickling onto the laced hem of your skirt. You watch his face as you work him—the clench of his jaw, the flutter of his eyelids, the way his mouth falls open on ragged breaths.
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slip under your thighs. In one smooth, effortless motion, he hikes you up onto the edge of the sink counter. The porcelain is cold against your bare skin. He fits himself between your spread thighs, his body crowding you back against the mirror.
Now he’s pressed up against you, his cock sliding easily through your drenched folds, the broad, smooth head catching and dragging over you with every slight shift of his hips. The tip of him bumps against your entrance—not pushing, just teasing; a maddening, perfect pressure.
You buck your hips forward, seeking more, and he slips in.
Just the tip. Just that first, thick, stretching inch. But it was enough—enough to make you cry out, a sound of shock and sheer, overwhelming sensation. It’s a deep, filling pressure you didn’t even known you needed. You flutter wildly around the head of his cock, trying to sick him in. Rhett freezes, and a low, guttural sound tears from his chest. His hands tighten on your thighs, his fingers biting into your flesh. His eyes are squeezed shut, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Jesus, kid,” he huffs out, the words shattered. “Y’feel… God, y’feel…”
He doesn’t finish; he doesn’t have to. You can see it on his face—the agonizing pleasure, the battle for control. You’re stretched around him, so full already from the tip; you can feel the throb of his heartbeat in the part of him buried inside you.
Slowly, so slowly it’s torture, he pulls back, the slick length of him dragging against your inner walls. The head of his cock pops free, and you both gasp at the loss. He presses forward again, just that same inch, seating himself once more inside of you.
“Just—just there,” he pants, his forehead damp with sweat. “Christ, just like that.”
He begins a shallow, rocking motion, sliding that first thick inch in and out of you. Each tiny retreat is a sweet loss; each return is a shock of filling pressure. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Your hips rise to meet each minuscule thrust, your body begging for more even as your mind swims with how delirious Rhett is making you.
The air in the small room is thick with the scent of sex—your arousal, his musk, the clean, sharp smell of his sweat. The only sounds are the wet, slick slide of his cock against your folds, the ragged symphony of your breathing, and the soft, helpless sounds you can barely hold back.
“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough.
You force your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze, feral and possessive. He holds it as he rocks into you, that shallow, maddening rhythm never speeding up, never deepening.
“This is mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a soft, slick push. “This heat. This tight, sweet li’l—fuck—this is all f’me. Isn’t it?”
You can’t speak. You can only nod, your vision blurring at the edges.
“Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp out, “all yours, Rhett.”
He lets out a quiet, disappointed noise, tutting at you. “That ain’t what y’call me at night, ain’t it?” A slightly deeper thrust has you arching your back so sharply that you hit the back of your head against the mirror. “When y’got those fingers in this tight cunt, thinkin’ ‘bout me when y’come—what do y’call me, sweet thing?”
Your eyes roll back, jaw dropping open, a shudder running through your body. You clench tight around his cock, your slick dripping onto the counter below, the sounds obscene as Rhett starts pushing deeper and deeper inside you.
“Daddy—” You’re cut off as Rhett bottoms out, pressed in to the hilt inside of you, his balls slick against your ass and his thick, coarse hair catching on your clit. “All yours, daddy. It’s all yours. Ain’t nobody else I want in me.”
A ragged groan is his only answer. The shallow, teasing rocks are gone. Now, he pulls back, almost all the way out, until just the flared head remains, stretching your entrance. Then he pushes back in, a slow, relentless piston.
Each thrust is a deliberate, measured conquest. He sinks into you with a force that punches the air from your lungs, replacing it with a whip sharp whine you don’t recognise as your own voice. Your back is pressed against the mirror, your hands flat against the cool glass for purchase that isn’t there. Your breasts, still confined in your summer dress, bounce with the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body against yours.
There is no gentleness in this; it’s a claiming. Each drive of his hips grinds the hard plane of his pelvis against your clit, sending shock waves of blunt, building pleasure radiating outwards. You can feel every inch of him—the slight upward curve of his shaft rubbing a blissful, internal path, the swollen crown nudging a deep, sweet spot that makes you see stars. Your inner walls cling to him, gripping and releasing with each retreat, as if trying to keep him buried inside you forever.
“That’s it,” he grunts, his voice strained, sweat now plastering his shirt to the broad expanse of his back. “Take it. Take all of it. F’me.”
You’re babbling, a stream of broken pleas and affirmations. “Daddy, yes… please, more…” The words mean nothing and everything. Your legs, hooked around his hips, your heels digging into the muscle of his thighs, begin to shake. A coil of unbearable tension winds tighter and tighter in your core, a spring compressed to its breaking point. The visual of it is seared into your mind—the way his powerful hips work, the flex of his ass under denim, the glimpse of your joined bodies, slick and moving as one.
The orgasm doesn’t crest; it detonates.
It starts as a deep, internal clench, a ripple that becomes a quake. Your vision bleaches out, pure white static. A choked scream is locked in your throat as your body bows, taut like a bowline, held only by his iron grip on you. You feel a warm, sudden gush—not much, just a hint of release that slicks his next thrust—mixing with the wetness already there.
Your legs are trembling violently, your entire body twitching with the aftershocks. You go limp, your forehead dropping to his sweat damp shoulder, your breaths coming in ragged, wet sobs against his neck. You are boneless, spent, floating in a haze of shattered sensation.
Rhett pumps into you two, three more times, his rhythm faltering, his control utterly gone. On the fourth, he pushes in until the tip of him is pressed so deep inside you that you lose the boundary between your bodies; you don’t know where you end and he begins. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, a raw, animal sound tearing from him, teeth at the hinge of your jaw.
You feel it, the hot, sudden pulse deep inside, a thick spurt of heat that makes you gasp against his skin. His cock jerks and twitches within you, each violent throb accompanied by another scalding rush. It goes on and on, until you feel impossibly full, until the combined juices of your orgasm and his own begin to seep around his thick cock still buried within you, a warm trickle down your sensitive flesh onto the counter beneath you.
For a long moment he stays there, lodged inside you, his weight heavy and comforting, his breaths hot and ragged against your throat. The only sound is the drip of the faucet and the slowing hammer of his heart against your chest.
Then, with infinite care, he pulls out.
The sensation is a slow and slick, an empty drag that leaves you feeling hollowed out and profoundly used. You whimper at the loss, at the cool air hitting your overheated, soaked skin.
Rhett doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sinks back down, his knees hitting the tile floor with a soft thud. His hands, still rough but impossibly gentle now, spread your thighs wider where they dangle off the counter. His eyes, dark and sated but still blazing with a possessive fire, lock onto the mess he’s made of you.
You can’t look away. You watch, mesmerised, as he lowers his head.
His tongue, broad and hot, swipes through the mingled fluids leaking from you. A low, appreciative hum vibrates against you. He licks with a focused, thorough intensity, cleaning the streaks from your inner thighs, lapping up the combined taste of you and him from your swollen, puffy lips. Each pass of his tongue is both soothing and shockingly erotic, a tender reverence that contrasts violently with the pounding possession of moments before. He nudges his tongue against your still throbbing entrance, drinking deeply, until you’re quivering again, until you’re slick only with his spit.
He pulls back, his chin glistening. His gaze meets yours, and a slow, utterly satisfied smile touches his lips—a rare, unguarded expression that makes your heart clench.
“Mine,” he says again, his voice a hoarse whisper, as if tasting the truth of it.
“Yeah. All yours.” You breathe out, skin flushed with heat and sweat. Slowly, the noise and bustle of the BBQ outside trickles back in, and Rhett stands once more. He leans in to kiss you. It’s short and sweet, somewhat shy where he wasn’t not even a minute ago.
When he breaks the kiss, his expression is serious, conflicted again. “We can’t stay in here.”
You know he’s right. The world is right outside the door. You nod, stepping back shakily. You bend to retrieve your panties, your movements clumsy. He watches you dress, his eyes dark, his own need a palpable presence in the small room.
You straighten your dress, your fingers fumbling with the zipper. He reaches out and does it for you, his hands steady and sure, his knuckles brushing your spine. The touch sends a fresh shiver through you.
He tucks himself back into his jeans, doing up the fly with a wince. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to restore some order.
You look at each other in the mirror. You’re both flushed, dishevelled, marked by what just happened. The woman staring back at you looks different—softer around the edges, her eyes brighter, her lips swollen.
Rhett reaches past you, turns on the cold water, and splashes his face. He grabs a hand towel, dries off, then offers it to you. You press the cool cloth to your own heated skin.
“We go out separate,” he says, his voice back to its normal, low timbre, though it’s still rough around the edges. “Y’go first. I’ll clean up here, then I’ll come on down.”
You nod. It feels clandestine, dangerous. Exciting.
He steps close to you one last time, his hand on your arm. “This ain’t over,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a promise.
You believe him. You turn, your hand on the doorknob, and look back. He’s leaning against the sink again, but now he looks more in control, the storm inside him banked for now. His eyes meet yours.
“Go on,” he says, a faint, almost-smile touching his lips. “‘Fore I change my mind about lettin’ y’leave.”
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ A/N: hello shawties, here's chapter two of sugar talkin'! this episode is greatly inspired by the fact that I was a teacher for like three years and I also have been binging Abbott Elementary (pun intended?) this chapter is chaotic but the more i wrote, the more it came together. flowkenuinely, this is a bottle episode. no smut, just comedy vibes, but also romantic vibes? maybe the vibes were the friends we made along the way! as always, reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated!
word count: 3.0k
song: you're no good by linda ronstadt
masterlist for fic
. °˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆𐚁
The smell of crayons and chalkdust filled the room as you scrambled to make your classroom look presentable. Today was career day at the school, and you got a text from Rhett this morning asking if it was okay to bring a goat for career day. Seriously, this is worst case scenario. In fact, you didn’t even know he signed up for career day, since the Tillerson ranch usually covers the farming aspect of the day. Nope, he signed up last night apparently, and said he’d go before Gator.
You didn’t have time to decode Rhett. Instead, you were rushing to clean your room after some scientist from the University of Wyoming spilled ooblek on the carpet. (you know, ooblek! The science experiment you did in the fourth grade that only consisted of water and cornstarch?) Anyways, the kids were playing outside for recess when a soft knock echoed in your classroom. You had on this long plaid skirt; something you would never be caught dead in if you still lived in the twin cities, and a white cardigan that was buttoned up and tucked in. Add bowling shoes and a gelled back pony tail and someone would’ve confused you for Sandy from Grease. But no, you had sneakers and your hair was down.
And there was Travolta…well, actually, it was Gator. His eyes nearly pierced through your soul when they met yours. He was a bit of an asshole in high school, but you remembered asking yourself why since he had such kind eyes. A small smile came across his face as he stood by the door. “Hey.” he cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He saunters in, whistling slowly as he looks around the room, hair held together by gel, hands tucked in his pockets. Fuckin’ Danny Zuko over here. “Nice.” he said to himself before reaching you. “Haven’t been speeding down any backroads lately, huh? Been hoping to see you drive by.” he chewed on his bottom lip.
You just shrug. “What happens on state road 50 stays on state road 50.”
A soft chuckle left him. “Yeah, yeah.” he looked down at your outfit, then back up at your eyes. “I wanted to talk to you more but you seemed busy, not busy now though, right?” What's it to you? You could see right through Gator and instead of standing your ground, it made you blush. You glance up at him. “No, will say though, Rhett was fuming over the ticket you gave him.”
Gator clicked his tongue. “I was just enforcing the law.”
You could feel your cheeks hurting from smiling, you don’t remember Gator being this charming. Rhett, you knew, was a charmer. A loud one at that. Gator was much more subtle. “Still, though. Wish I had more time to catch up with you. Caught me off guard the other day. Never happens to me here with how small Wabang is.” he sits down on the desk in front of you, as you lean back on yours slightly. “You never struck me as a teacher.”
“You never struck me as a cop.”
“Shit happens.” he shrugs. “Tore my ACL pretty bad my first year of college, lost my baseball scholarship, moved back home, joined the force…I only like it ‘cus I can run red lights and give assholes like Rhett Abbott a ticket every now and then.” he smiles to himself. “He ain’t that fond of me, I know that.”
You shrugged, not confirming or denying. “Then why are you a cop?” Gator takes a deep breath and throws his hands up. “Why are you a teacher?” he answered back.
“Touche.” you got up from your desk and sat down at your seat. Gator gets up and clears his throat again. “Well, I should get Shiloh ready. I don’t got much experience with kids but I know they love a good K-9-” you cut him off. “-wait, you brought a dog?” you raised an eyebrow. Gator slowly nodded. “Yeah, the Wabang police department always uses the same old dog for career day. The kids go fuckin’ crazy for Shiloh.”
You reach for the stress ball in the corner of your desk. “That's great.” you squeezed the ball. “That’s so great. There’s gonna be a…petting zoo in my classroom.”
Gator puts his hand out and knits his eyebrows. “Hold on, if you’re not cool with Shiloh comin’ in, we can always do my part outside. I don’t mind accommodating for you-” “-no, no. it’s not that. Don’t worry about it.” you sighed. “It just sucks being a first year teacher, the others don’t tell you shit.” you spoke quietly.
Gator hums. “Yeah, I understand. Like I said, don’t want a pretty thing like you worrying about your classroom being a mess, students being unruly, all that.” you want to respond to him, you want to talk about the annoying aspects of this job. But all you could zero in on was that pet name, how it rolled off his tongue like honey. Before you could respond the bell rings, and kids flood into your room, packing in like sardines.
You shoot up from your desk. “Shit, that really flew by. Rhett was supposed to be here already.” you said to yourself.
“It’s okay. I gotta go back outside anyway to get the dog. I can text you if I see him.”
“But I don’t have your-” Gator doesn’t hesitate, he grabs a notepad off your desk and scribbles his number before handing it to you. “Just text this, I’ll let you know if I see him.”
Your heart thumps as you glanced at him. “Oh-okay.” you stumble, unable to compose yourself as he leaves the classroom. The chattering of students grew louder and louder as you pulled out your phone and started texting Rhett.
Y/N
Rhett
What the fuck
Where are you?
It didn’t take long for him to respond.
RHETT
Nipples was loose in the parking lot
Y/N
I’m sorry, what?
RHETT
Fucking auto correct
Don’t worry about it
Omw!
You sigh and look at the notepad with Gator’s number. It wouldn’t hurt to shoot him a quick text. You fumble the piece of paper as you typed his number; sending him a ‘hey! It’s y/n’ before you put your phone down. You started clapping your hands, getting everyone’s attention, and walked in front of your desk. “Class! Um…we have another presenter for career day, who is running late-”
“-I’m here! I’m here!” Rhett’s voice booms from the hallway, holding a baby goat in his hands as he reaches the doorway, nearly tripping over himself while doing so. The students all turned around, and loud ‘awh’s escaped their tiny bodies as Rhett smiles at you. A sigh of relief left you as you gestured to him to come up front. Rhett doesn’t hesitate, going to the front and taking a deep breath.
“Hello, children.” he said, almost unsure. You can tell he’s had no practice before this. Now he was getting stage freight in front of a class of fourth graders. “My name is Rhett Abbott. I work at the Abbott Ranch. I’m actually Amy’s uncle-” you can see Amy sliding down her chair cringing at Rhett. “-and I’m a Rancher. Uh, what do Ranchers do? Well, we, um, take care of cattle.”
Just dead stares, nothing behind these kids' eyes.
Rhett cleared his throat. “This is nibbles.” he shows off the goat. “We call him that because he…nibbles.” he was flat at the end, realizing this was a bust. “Any questions?” Rhett’s smile faltered when the silence stretched a beat too long. One kid in the back coughed. Another leaned over and whispered something that made their friend snort. Nibbles chose that exact moment to bleat; loud, indignant, and try to chew on Rhett’s sleeve.
“Hey-hey, no, buddy,” Rhett laughed nervously, adjusting his grip as the goat wriggled. “He gets excited around new people.” He glanced at you like a man looking for a lifeline.
You cleared your throat and stepped in beside him. “Nibbles is a baby goat,” you said, projecting your teacher voice, the one you reserved for assemblies and fire drills. “Does anyone know what baby goats are called?”
A few hands shot up. Thank God.
“Kids,” someone yelled.
“Yep.” you smiled. “They’re called kids, yes. And ranchers like Rhett help take care of them. They make sure they’re fed, healthy, and safe.” Rhett nodded enthusiastically, relieved. “Yeah, yeah, that. Exactly. Safe.” He looked down at Nibbles. “Real safe.”
Nibbles, then, promptly tries to headbutt his chest.
A ripple of laughter spread across the room. The tension broke. Rhett, finally, relaxed. Shoulders loosening as he leaned into it, crouching slightly so the kids could see the goat better. “Okay, rule number one on a ranch,” he said, warming up now. “Animals don’t listen. Ever. You gotta work around ‘em, not the other way ‘round.”
That earned him a few giggles. Even Amy peeked up from behind her hands, less mortified now, watching her uncle with reluctant pride. Rhett smiles. “Rule number two-”
Before Rhett could finish his sentence, the sound of a dog panting enters the room. The children turned their heads around, but you didn’t have to look to see that it was Gator. The kids clamoured at the sight of the elderly german shepard, who’s seen better days, but was just as lovable and sweet looking. The room erupted with “dog!” “can we pet him” “awh, how cute!” as Gator walked to the front of the class.
Rhett shot you a look. “You’ve got to be kidding me-” he grumbled under his breath.
You leaned in closer to him, side by side as you whispered. “You signed up to be first, and you were late.” which earned a sigh from Rhett as Gator tipped his head to you. “Told you, Shiloh’s popular.” Then, Gator’s eyes flickered to the goat in Rhett’s hands. “You brought livestock into a school building, Abbott. How ambitious of you.”
“Yeah? well you brought a cop dog.” Rhett shot back. “This is a place of learning.”
A few dispersed giggles filled the room as you put your hands up. “Alright,” you said, clapping once. “Everyone calm down. We’re very lucky today, we get to learn about two very different careers.”
Gator’s gaze slid back to you, amused. “Different’s one word for it.” he straightened up as he looked at the crowd of kids, all of them wishing they could reach for Shiloh’s shiny coat. “Alright, as many of you know, my name is Sheriff Tillman. I work for the Wabang Police Department. And just like the avengers, and batman, and superman, I love catching bad guys!” you watched him move. Calm. Confident. Comfortable in his skin. The kids hung onto every word, eyes wide as Shiloh demonstrated a perfect sit and stay.
Gator kept on talking. “There’s two very important things about policing, one is making sure the right people are brought to justice. You will get in trouble if the wrong person is behind bars. The second thing that’s important about policing is making sure the community is safe for everyone, not just one kind of person. If you do that, and learn basic arms training, you’re pretty much set to spend the rest of the day eating donuts and hanging with K-9’s like Shiloh.”
Rhett looked over at Gator before Gator pulled out Sheriff badge stickers and started passing them out to the kids-Jesus, why didn’t he think of that?! And the doting look on your face filled Rhett with envy. “Any questions?” Gator asked, as a sea of hands were raised as he started picking which questions to ask. “Yeah, you with the buzzcut.”
“Did you have to go to college to be a police officer?”
Gator shrugged. “You can, but it’s not required. It should be though, right?” Then he picked on another hand. The little boy spoke up. “Is it scary to be a policeman?” and Gator pondered that question for a bit, before nodding. “Yeah, it can be. But not always. Sometimes, you just have to protect yourself.” he said, then pointed to a little girl in the front.
“My mommy says you’re only sheriff because your daddy was mayor.”
Rhett snorted. Gator’s eyes widened as he nodded his head. “Yeah…your mommy is right. That’s called nepotism.” he sighed. “Big word for Elmo.” Then, he pointed to Amy Abbott. Amy looked at her uncle, then back at Gator before pointing to his belt. “Is that a gun?”
Gator nodded. “Yes, but only I can use it.”
Rhett turned to him. “Can we see your gun?”
A deep breath left Gator, keeping his eyes on the kids. “No.”
Rhett scoffed slightly. “Cmon, the kids want to see the gun. My niece wants to see the gun. Look at her, she’s excited. She wants to hold it.”
“Abbott, I’m not pulling out a firearm in a classroom for no reason.”
“So you think women can’t have guns?”
Oh my god. You softly slap Rhett’s forearm, shooting him a ‘please shut the fuck up please’ look as Gator throws his hands up. “No, there are plenty of great police women who have their own guns and if your…” he waves his hand around. “niece decides to become a cop, she will have her own. When she’s grown.” Gator clarifies.
The same little girl from earlier speaks up again. “My mommy says Ms. L/N should have a gun in case there’s a bad guy at school.”
For a second there, all three of you had the same expression. Rhett pursed his lips to hold back a smile as Gator pinched the bridge of his nose. You catch your breath as you stare at your student. “Maybe your mommy shouldn’t be talking to you about that.”
The bell rings, and your day unwinds slowly as each student leaves the class. Amy knows to wait for Rhett outside as the class finally empties. A soft sigh left you as both men stared at you. Holding their animals. Looking ridiculous. You wipe the sweat off your brow as your eyes fall on Rhett. Who tried to hold back a smirk but failed to do so anyway. “Next career day, we should teach them to say acab.” he suggested.
Gator rolled his eyes. “Gee thanks, Abbott. For the record, I think you did pretty okay too.” then the sheriff turns to you. “I guess I’ll see you around, Y/N?” The way Gator said your name. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying it on, made your stomach flip in a way you absolutely did not have time for. Not now. Not with a sheriff, a rancher, a goat, and a police dog all standing in your classroom like the punchline to a bad joke.
“Yeah,” you said, brushing invisible chalk dust off your skirt. “I mean, yeah. Probably. This is Wabang. And thank you for coming. The kids love Shiloh.”
Gator smiled at that, small and knowing, like he understood exactly what that meant. You watched him leave, heart still thumping, classroom suddenly too quiet. Too still. Before turning to Rhett and softly slapping his arm again. “Hey! What’s that for?!”
“So you think women can’t have guns?” you mocked him.
Rhett can’t hold back the laughter anymore, he snorted and put his hands up to defend himself. “In my defense, it looked like that, didn’t it?” he shrugged as he tried to hold back laughter. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry that I tried to be funny at your job, Bunny. I did do that on purpose to ragebait him, I won’t do it again.” He's earnest. At least now he is, you won’t know until later if he really means it or not. “Cmon, it’s Gator Tillman. He’ll survive.”
you shake your head. "you're no good, Rhett."
Before he could respond. Amy poked her head back into the room. “Uncle Rhett?” she stage-whispered. “Grandma says you’re blocking traffic with your truck. And the goat.” Rhett sighs softly. “Jesus Christ.” He looked at you apologetically. “I’ll walk her out, Bunny. Try not to miss me too much.” he smirks.
Blush creeps onto your face as you waved him off. “Go, before nibbles eats through a kid’s backpack.” you laugh softly. “And thank you for coming, as chaotic as it was.”
Rhett salutes to you with two fingers before walking Amy and the goat out. So corny. When the door finally closed for good, you sank down into your chair. Your classroom looked like a tornado had passed through. badge stickers stuck to desks, a faint smell of hay lingering in the air, chalk smeared where a kid had dragged their sleeve across the board. You understood why the older teachers drank every night before bed. Before you could take a deep breath, your phone buzzed.
GATOR
Career day survivor?
You stared at the screen for a second, then smiled despite yourself.
Y/N
Barely. Your dog upstaged a goat.
GATOR
He has that effect on people.
You glanced around the empty room, at the sunlight slanting through the windows, at the life you’d built in this tiny town you swore you’d never come back to. It was hard not to think about how chaotic things have been since you got back, now that you had a moment alone.
Y/N
Thanks for earlier. For…everything.
A pause. Then:
GATOR
Anytime. Maybe next time we catch up somewhere without livestock.
You always wanted to be a teacher?
Hi I'd love to actually talk about this whole situation again since you clearly misunderstood something. I was passive aggressive towards the end of our conversation, I will own up to that because I believe in accountability. But I don't believe in you saying that I'm insecure and accused you of things in bad faith with no evidence to start drama. Also, implying that I pressured you to delete your writing is just plain wrong. I clearly stated the opposite during our exchange. I also mentioned not wanting to start drama and avoiding tags to keep it semi private. You're also leaving out the context of me being unable to handle things over DMs at first because of your blogs settings. Again, my messages are always open, I want to deal with this once and for all so I can post my fic without worrying about all of this <3
hello.
no, i don't think i'm misunderstanding anything.
and now i'm cornered into responding to you because you keep overstepping my boundaries.
i entered our chat to bring forth an actual solution to something you misunderstood. here's some food for thought; how would I have been able to see your post if it only reached your mutuals, when I didn't know who you were until like 72 hours ago? we have no history of following each other. where did I say you 'pressured' me to take down my writing, because that's not what I said. I said I won't be pressured by ANYONE to take down a post. I don't just post my writing, I post announcements as well. you know, the announcement I made asking others to send me the supposed idea you claimed that I stole? maybe that's why the tags were used? using vague language to dance around what you actually want to say so you can have plausible deniability, is not the same as taking accountability for being rude and disrespectful. you wanted me to take down that post so your bad behavior wouldn't be tied to you. you did so under the guise of fixing the problem and when i did fix it, because I was the one actually willing to fix it, you turned around and, quite frankly, treated me like garbage. saying "I'm so glad we got this settled even though my stance is still the same <3" "I just wanted to make sure everything was closed up" and, of course, "thank you for your dishonesty"
i did recently changed my blog settings so others can now message me (which i have now turned off). in fact, you should've just done that instead of sending me an ask. but you knew if i found out your other blog I would just block you again. if you cared about accountability, you wouldn't be anonymous. but that would require you to take public accountability for your actions, and you don't want anyone to know how you really treat others.
and it was never about the idea you had, because you don't own these characters or the concept of a love triangle. it was about optics and visibility and you're big mad that I didn't play your game. you put yourself in this situation, you were the aggressor. I don't know why you're looking to resolve it now other than to not have a guilty conscious because you know what you did was wrong. this has been over for me since you lied about blocking me. which resulted in me making the public post you were so upset about, where i was asking others to find the work you claimed existed. Sadie, you don't have anything out for me to give credit to. you haven't written anything. Talking about a concept to mutuals is not the same as me actually doing the work, writing the prose, and publishing it for an audience. You don't get to claim 'ownership' over a trope you never actually wrote. It's not my fault I used the platform and tags correctly, it's not my fault that people actually saw what I wrote, and yes, it was a genuine coincidence we wanted to write the same thing.
four years on tumblr and I never argued with anyone until now. i don't think i'm the problem or the reason this all went down the way it did. I mean, I blocked you, so you used a whole other blog to contact me? asking me to not use tags like #steveharrington in your last ask as a way to police me so people wouldn't see my fic? take the hint? stop interacting with me. all this for a fic I was unsure about writing but thank god i did. turns out, being baselessly accused was a great motivator to actually want to write this fic. You should've left it alone.
i mean, if you want, we can look over those messages you sent again. I documented everything.
so sure, tell yourself whatever you need to make yourself feel better but leave me out of it. you're not here to apologize, you're here to end things on your terms. you're clearly acting out of your ego and out of insecurity and I won't tolerate it. Do not use another blog to bypass my boundaries again. This is the last time I will acknowledge you.
hi my loves, thank you sm sm sm for 800 followers ⭑.ᐟ I wasn't expecting to hit 800 today but regardless, i'm so grateful. i'm also so happy everyone is enjoying Sugar Talkin' and some of my previous work ⋆˚✿˖° really means the world to me. Sugar Talkin' will have another update by tomorrow night and I will be posting a Bob Reynolds one shot sometime this next week ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
REVISED BOUNDARIES ⋆˚꩜｡
hello my loves! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
i’ve updated my boundaries and rules to make sure this space stays fun, respectful, and drama-free.
i post and write in good faith, and i’m here to share ideas and stories, not to argue or litigate. i don’t entertain accusations, passive aggression, bad behavior/insecurity, or pressure to remove my posts. please interact accordingly
if you have a concern, approach me kindly and privately. if not, please don’t interact. i’m happy to block and move on to protect my peace.
thank you to everyone who’s been kind, supportive, and here for the writing. that’s who this space is for ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
hi! could you stop using the wrong tags for your fics? you probably think it increases your visibility and audience, but i promise you it only makes it worse bc many ppl will block you for wrong tagging (including me). steve harrington for example had nothing to do with that fic you just posted. thanks!
hello!
never in my four years of using tumblr have i ever heard of this unspoken rule where i cannot use different tags within my posts. i used that tag since joe plays both characters, and it can be used to introduce others to that character, which is, actually, how i found out about other characters that i eventually ended up writing for. i didn’t use it for no reason. i understand that can be frustrating even if i feel it borders on policing how others use tags or express their work. i will keep it in mind for next time. have a nice day!
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ A/N: hello everyone! welcome to the first chapter of sugar talkin'. the amount of people i got who were interested in this being a fic was great, but i almost* didn't make it happen cus I wanted to focus on some of my more personal projects. but something happened recently that made me say "fuck it, I should write this" so i wrote this chapter in like one sitting. it's super different than the rest of the content on my blog. no smut this chapter, just a lot of rom-com like vibes. i'm kinda proud of this. as always, reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated!
word count: 3.3k
song: found out about you by gin blossoms
masterlist for fic
. °˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆𐚁
Wabang was just like every small town along the midwest bible belt. A one stop light town that had its heyday back in the sixties. Where the mountains scraped the sky. Where dairy farms and ranches spread across acres and acres of stolen land. Where everyone, unfortunately, knows everyone.
You swore to yourself that you’d never move back here.
Until you had to, until the money in the twin cities ran out and everyone’s back faced against you as if you had a say in the matter. No problem, there was always Wabang. Plain, thankless, and dull. As a child, you had more fun watching paint dry than engaging with anything going on here. In high school, a boy asked you out to go cow-tipping, and you went, but never spoke to him again. That’s all this town was; purgatory. The silver lining is that purgatory too is a stepping stone to the next place you were meant to be. Whether it was heaven or hell didn’t matter to you. You just knew that already, you wanted out of Wabang.
Your mother, who owned a plot of land, begged you to come back. She hated that you were so far from her, hated that you were struggling out with all the other city girls. You were a city girl. Now, you taught elementary school. Elementary school. Teacher. It wasn’t too long ago you were in a condo, talking about marketing tactics and earning over 100k a year. Now you made 50k and hate lesson planning with a passion. But you don’t hate the teaching gig; the kids are sweet and don’t give you grief every time you swear under your breath over outdated textbooks and broken pieces of chalk. Textbooks that haven't been updated since the turn of the millennia and classroom maps that still have Yugoslavia on them. Some kids didn’t even know what the pandemic was and it was fairly recent.
At least you had Amy Abbott in your class. Which led to you reconnecting with your childhood best friend, Rhett Abbott.
Rhett just waltzed in, jaw practically hitting the floor when he realized you were Amy’s new teacher, and barked something about you “not having the gall to even call him to let him know you moved back.” as if Rhett ever made the effort to call you in the city, or when you were in college, or tried to keep contact with you after high school. Didn’t matter, a friendly face was a friendly face, and you were at least relieved that someone was happy you were home that wasn’t your mother. Catching up was natural, catching up over a drink at the Horseshoe was ritual.
You had work the next day too, but that’s the thing about Rhett Abbott and the effect he had on everyone; he was like a drug. Like those disposable pens where each hit feels like a hug. Comfort. He even had this effect on others as a child. Despite his irresponsible nature, others opened up to him so quickly, even if he didn’t return the favor. You unraveled for him so quickly as he kept his composure; so rugged now. His voice was rough, probably from all the Marlboro Reds he smokes. The boy who once struggled to lasso cattle from his father’s ranch had grown into a true gunslinger, and the girl who used to fall over laughing at his attempt to lasso was now laughing with him.
Even with you unraveling so quickly, you couldn’t talk about how badly you fumbled your chances at the twin cities. Luckily, it never came up.
But Rhett couldn’t stop poking fun at the Minnesotan twang in your voice, which layered over the Wyoming dialect you once sported. Rhett always seems to forget that you’re not from either Minnesota or Wyoming. You were from Florida. Deep south Florida where everyone owned an airboat and loved Billy Ray Cyrus. Moving to Wabang at five didn’t soften the blow of leaving Florida; you could’ve been in Miami and Tampa by now. Instead, you were stuck with a slightly inebriated Rhett humming out soft “oh yeahs.” and “you betchas.” at the Horseshoe.
Between whisky sours and funny stories about college boys and bull riding, your phone buzzed and the time was apparent. It was nearly midnight. You were sober enough to stumble out of your seat with Rhett following behind you. The air was cooler than what it was when you first arrived at the bar. The sun peaked through the orange and purple clouds, cascading over the mountains as the sky started to turn dark. Rhett flipped his hat on his head and glanced over at you. “Bunny, you live close by?” he asked.
Bunny. Bunny was a nickname given to you by Royal Abbott because when you were seven, you hyperfixated over rabbits. Even tried to save them while Royal and Perry went hunting. The nickname caught on. Your mother called you Bunny, your peers sometimes called you Bunny, Rhett called you Bunny. You shook your head. “Nah, I live a little ways away.” You huffed. “Cmon, i’ll drive you to the ranch. I’m sure your mama would be very happy to see me.”
“You kiddin’?” Rhett chuckled, tossing his keys to his truck over to you. “Mama used to think we should’ve gotten married. She’d lose her shit if she knew you moved back.”
You scoff. “Please, even if that was a possibility, we were in two totally different worlds by senior year. You were head over heels for that Maria girl-” “-hey! Maria broke my heart.” he chuckled as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Left me to go to some big fancy college to be a banker.”
“Good for her.” you started the engine, stealing a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. Rhett leaned back, arms crossed, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips, and for a second, it was like he hadn’t changed at all. Except now, he wasn’t a boy. “Yeah…hey, you still like Rocky Horror?” he gazes at you as you pull out of the bar.
You try to hold back a smile. “I wasn’t the only one into it. Perry was too.”
“Yeah, dad thought he was queer for a year ‘cus of that.” he chuckled. “I’ll never forget how we all snuck out to see a shadowcast show in Casper that one halloween. Pops nearly killed us once we got back. Grounded for a month.” he snickers. “How does that one song go? Y’know, it’s, a, science fiction, bum bum bum, double feature.” he starts to sing a little drunkenly. “Doctor X, bum bum bum, will build a creature.”
You sigh and start singing with him. “See androids fighting-”
“-and fuckin’, and suckin’ on-Brad and Janet!” he starts to laugh.
You snorted and smiled. “You know damn well that’s not how it goes-” “-in the back row-fuck the back row!” he cuts you off with another laugh. “Cmon Bunny, now that you’re in town and Halloween is soon, we should go see a show. We don’t even gotta sneak out this time.” he stares at you almost intently. “Invite Perry, he can bring Amy-” “-you cannot bring a child to that show, Rhett.” you laughed.
“Why? We were kids when we snuck out to see it.”
“We were sixteen.”
Rhett looks back at the road. “Yeah…yeah, we were.” he smiles warmly. “I’m glad you’re back, Bunny. Didn’t realize I was missin’ you so much. I…coulda called more.” he confessed. “Life picked up though, I got a niece I gotta take care of, a ranch I'm probably gonna look after, bullridin’ career…seein’ you here, though, we fell back into it like nothin’s changed.” but you shake your head, because this pit opened up in your stomach if you thought too hard about all the people who were supposed to call you. “It’s fine, Rhett-”
“No it ain’t.” he mumbled. “You know it ain’t.”
There’s this silence that fills the truck, taking out the fact that Rhett’s engine roared like a steam engine and the radio was playing some Blake Shelton song on low volume. But then Rhett shoots you this look, and his lips tug to the side as he sits up. “Remember when we were sixteen and…” he crosses his arms. “You said you could kick my ass racin’ down the back roads? And I said you couldn’t, but then you did.”
A small smile formed on your face. “Oh, you mean the time I kicked your ass? You betcha.” you almost internally cringe from the Minnesotan in you slipping out. Years of living there and it still makes you gag over how it sounds on your tongue. “Why you asking?”
“I want a rematch.”
“Shut the fuck up.” you giggle as you start to turn into a back road. Out here, in Wabang, all roads were back roads. This one was just the closest. “No, I'm serious. I’m so fuckin’ serious, Bunny. I want a rematch. It was…downright emasculatin’ for a sixteen year old me to lose to a girl who went by Bunny. You do realize that, right? I’ve been drivin’ since I was twelve and lost. I need this” he expresses, and as annoying of an excuse it was as to why he needed to race with you so badly, you felt it too. You wanted a rematch too.
So you nod and grip the steering wheel. “Well i’m going first-” “why-?” “-because you still need to sober up. Not letting you operate machinery three whisky sours in,” you hummed. Switching the gears and looking at him. “Tighten your seatbelt. Don’t want your head hitting the roof again.” she recalls.
Rhett scoffed. “My head did not-”
Before he could finish his sentence, you started to peel rubber as the smell oozed around your car. The tires squealed as the car jerked ever so slightly, sending both you and Rhett shooting fast down the street. Rhett clumsily held onto the bar above his seat and his hat. He rode bulls for a living but let a woman drive and see how tightly he held on. A laugh rips through the air as you go from forty miles per hour to sixty, to eighty, to a hundred in just a span of a few minutes. Your hair almost flying back with the windows rolled down and no street light in sight.
Rhett glanced over at you. “Don’t wreck my truck!” he joked before you hit a bump, causing Rhett to fly up in his seat and hit his head. “Shit!” he yelped, but another laugh-no, a cackle, slipped out of you as you looked over at him. “I told you to tighten your seatbelt!” “I did!” he smiles at you. That smile, you haven't seen him smile like that in years. Well, you also haven't seen him in years but this look was different. You almost can’t look away from how happy he was to see you, recklessly driving his truck as if he would have it any other way. How part of you feels your heart thump at the idea of Rhett looking at you like this all the time.
And before you could look back to the road, red and blue flashing lights flashed on both of your faces. Rhett groaned as he turned to you. “Fuck, was so sure there wouldn’t be anyone here. Let alone a fuckin’ pig.” he sighs. You start to slow the truck down. “It’s okay, I’m just gonna pull over, hope they don’t breathalyze us or whatever.”
“God damn it.” Rhett looked over. “That’s right, you were drinking too.” he realizes, as he watches you dig in your purse for gum, chewing fast like it could erase the smell of whiskey and bad decisions.
Rhett dragged a hand down his face. “This is bad. This is real bad.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Rhett.” you spoke, seeing a silhouette get out of the car, holding a small box and puffing smoke out. Boots hit the ground. Slow. Unhurried. He slowly reached the window. “Besides, it could always be worse. We could’ve crashed and burned. I ain’t down to be barbeque right now.” you tried to make it just a bit better for him, but it was written all over Rhett’s face, he hated that this was happening right now.
The cop tapped the glass softly, he was so tall, even standing by the window, it was impossible to see his face. A flashlight swept through the truck as you rolled down the window. Vape smoke disappeared behind him as you were blinded by the flashlight. “License and regis…” the cop stops, and your body knows that voice from somewhere, you just couldn’t pinpoint it until a flat and disbelieving “no fuckin’ way.” came out of him.
Your eyes adjusted to the light before seeing a mess of gel hair and deep set brown eyes and shit, it’s Gator Tillman, Gator Tillman, who sat next to you in biology and talked you through dissecting a frog. Gator Tillman, who wanted to play in the big leagues since he played baseball in high school. Gator Tillman, who’s dad was mayor of Wabang at some point before retiring. Same broad shoulders. Same heavy stance like the ground owed him rent. A little more worn around the eyes, maybe. A little sharper, too. His hand rested on his belt, thumb hooked casually, like he wasn’t standing on a pitch-black back road with two idiots doing triple digits. His eyes flickered to Rhett, then back at you.
“Y/N…?” he said almost quietly, as if he was testing the name. He never called you Bunny. Not even when you were in school.
A soft sigh left you. “...Hi Gator.” your stomach could fall through the truck’s floorboard. Gator Tillman became a cop. Unsurprising, but still. Rhett, on the other hand, just breathed out through his nostrils and tried to avoid the sinking feeling he got from watching you interact with Gator.
Gator huffed a short laugh through his nose. “Been a long time.” His gaze didn’t leave you. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”
You swallowed. “Didn’t think I would either.”
Something unreadable crossed his face, gone as fast as it came. Professional mask sliding back into place. He tipped his chin toward the speedometer. “You got any idea how fast you were goin’?” You opened your mouth, because you knew that this road had to have a forty five mile per hour speed limit, and you were going forty, maybe fifty over.
Rhett beat you to it. “She kidnapped me. At gunpoint.”
Gator’s eyes finally cut to him. Flat. Unamused. “Step outta the vehicle, Rhett.”
“Oh come on-”
“Out.”
Rhett shot you a look that screamed ‘help me’ grumbling under his breath but obeying anyway. You didn’t know it, but Rhett wasn’t above verbally sparring with and fighting a cop. He just wouldn’t do it in front of you. Gator watched him step out of the car for a split second before turning back to you. “Had anything to drink-?” Gator asks, but Rhett Interjects. “She’s sober.” lie. Gator knows it and keeps his eyes on you.
You met his gaze, not looking away. “Just one or two.”
Gator’s eyebrows ticked up as he nodded. “Mhm.” He leaned down slightly, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and night air and something clean underneath it. Soap, maybe. His flashlight angled away from your face, deliberate. “You don’t look drunk,” he said, almost to himself.
Your heart kicked hard. “Is that a compliment?”
That did it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. “Careful.”
Then he straightened up, taking Rhett’s license and registration before walking to his cruiser, vaping on his way back as Rhett glanced at you. He hated this. He hated the way Gator’s mouth jerked that way at your joke. Hated the way he invaded your space just to blind you again with the flashlight. Hated him. Rhett hated Gator. The worst part? Gator was taking his sweet time getting everything situated with Rhett’s license and registration. You could see it in Rhett’s face, he knew Gator was going to do something ridiculous like make him walk in a line or say the alphabet backwards.
What felt like an hour was actually just five minutes. Gator came back, tucking his vape in his belt before kneeling behind Rhett’s truck. Rhett sighed. “What now?”
Gator gestured to him to come over, and begrudgingly, Rhett did. He dragged his feet a little, coming over and seeing the busted brake light. “...you can’t be serious.” Rhett said to himself.
Gator got up and started writing a ticket. “Oh, I’m serious.” Gator stood, his pen writing fast. “Truck’s registered to you. Ticket’s yours.”
Rhett stared at the clipboard like it had personally betrayed him. “She was drivin’!”
“And?” Gator said mildly. “Your truck. Your responsibility.” but Rhett just wouldn’t let up. “It was working just fine yesterday,” he expressed. Gator ripped the ticket from the clipboard and handed it to him. “It ain’t yesterday, Abbott,” he said. You had to catch yourself from smiling, because Rhett could be such a sore loser. Gator catches you pursing your lips as he goes up to your window, tapping the edge of it. The way his eyes warmed up when he saw you left you feeling soft. “You gonna make it home safe?” he asked.
You nodded. “I don’t live far from here. I got to work in the morning and everything.”
Gator listened intently. “Oh? Where you working now?” he questioned. You don’t break the gaze you both are pulled into. Even if you wanted to, you could not pull back from his eyes. “I’m the new school teacher. I’m actually Rhett’s niece’s teacher. I teach fourth grade”
“Nice, guess you’ll see me at career day next week.” shit, that’s right. You did have to get all settled in before career day. Your classroom is almost half done, kind of. You all get assigned a person per room as the classes switch, talk about a totally unproductive day. You smiled. “Okay.”
“Good.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Slow it down, Y/N. and uh…welcome home” that name again, your real name. Soft, familiar, warm. Slipping out of his mouth as if fit always belonged in here. You nodded. “Yes, Sheriff.” You couldn’t look away from him as he smiled back.
Rhett scoffed. “It’s a fuckin’ set up, unbelievable.” he mumbled to himself. Gator walked back him, leaving you with a smile but turning stone cold and serious as he pulled out his vape. “Get that light fixed, Abbott.” he said passively. Going over to the cruiser and hoping in. Rhett threw his arms up. “Can I at least hit your vape?!” he raised his voice at him.
Gator couldn’t be bothered, he let his siren play for a bit, before pulling out from the side of the road and driving down the street, leaving Rhett out on the street. He huffed again before going back into the passenger seat of the truck, tucking the ticket into his pocket as he looked down at his lap. “I hate him, hate that motherfucker, always have.” he spat.
You watched the road where the red and blue had been, your pulse still humming over the glances Gator was giving you, the small talk, how you just totally avoided getting a ticket because Rhett just happened to have a busted brake light. Your stomach swirls with the idea of Gator being at career day, even if you aren't entirely sure what it really meant. You just sat there with Rhett, who was seething, who was ready to punch Gator if he was alone with him. Yet, instead, your mind drifts off to the police officer who was nice enough to let you go without a ticket.
.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆𐚁
SUGAR TALKIN' ⋆˚࿔
a Rhett Abbott and Gator Tillman fic
After a fall from grace in the big city, a teacher moves back to her hometown where old nicknames, unresolved feelings, and two very different men make it hard to tell the truth from sweet talk. a steady sheriff who’s always loved her and a reckless rancher who never stopped wanting her; both men remind her exactly why she left, and why she might stay.
warning: this will be more slow burn love triangle than it is anything else, but there will be smut (p n v and more, minors stay out!) fem!reader. y/n fic with themes of substance abuse, strong language, toxic relationships/friendships, and mental health. this story exists outside the canon of both Outer Range and Fargo, but will take place in Wabang (Outer Range) for consistency purposes. will at times be comedic and heartwarming more than it will be angsty or smutty. trying something new here.
Sugar Talkin' sountrack ꩜ .ᐟ with hits from artists like SABRINA CARPENTER, PET SHOP BOYS, FLEETWOOD MAC, DAISY JONES AND THE SIX, LINDA RONSTADT, AND MORE!
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅
☆ chapter one - found out about you
☆ chapter two - you're no good
☆ chapter three - weren't for the wind
☆ chapter four - isn't it midnight?
I just want to say that I LOVE how you write and how excited I am for another Marcus Lopez fic
thank you :,) ⭑.ᐟ
writing, to me, has always been special. growing up, I had a writing teacher who treated me pretty bad. she gave me my first ever F at nine years old. I wanted to spite her so bad that I practiced and practiced until i fell in love with writing again.
I know i'm writing smutty fan fiction of random fictional men, but it's still so exciting to weave a whole world around a single concept. I'm studying to be a sex and relationship counselor. so writing about sex; either physical sex or just the erotic tension, layers, and dynamics surrounding sex has always intrigued me. both writing and sex play a huge role in my creative expression.
i don't know if I have any ideas for Marcus any time soon, but if I do, you'll be the first to know ♡
𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ gator tillman and rhett abbott fighting over you.
rhett abbott and you speeding down a backroad at night and gator tillman lets you go but gives rhett a ticket. rhett abbott teaches you how to shoot a gun, behind you with his voice low, just for fun, but gator tillman teaches you where the safety is and shows you how to protect yourself. rhett abbott’s at the rodeo and after he expects to see you, but he sees you talking to gator tillman and gets jealous. gator gets jealous when he sees you and rhett abbott getting a drink together. rhett thinks it’s disrespectful that gator vapes around you, gator thinks it’s disrespectful for rhett to spit out chewing tobacco around you. rhett calls you by some nickname that everyone calls you, gator calls you by your real name. you’ve known rhett since you were children, you’ve known gator since high school. both men are deeply enamored by you and sometimes argue about it; but if you called them and told them you needed help, they would rush and work together just to make you happy.
or idk maybe i just need to do my fav juno position with joe and lewis and call it a day! or maybe write a fic about it?
.·:*¨༺ nothing on (but the radio). ♱ steve harrington ༻¨*:·.
SUMMARY: in which you and Steve Harrington have nothing on but the radio.
SHIP: afab!reader x steve harrington
WARNINGS: SEASON 5 HEAVY! spoiler warning ahead of time. explicit content (minors stay out), unprotected p n v, sub!reader, breeding kink, this oneshot is me pretty much saying "steve harrington get behind me" and defending this man vicariously through you, dear reader. there's jonathan hate (sorry jonathan fans but it had to be said) but reader loves nancy, is just conflicted. your vecna song is already picked out for you #it'sfortheplot. car sex #beepbeepletsride. yes the title of this one shot is based off of an addison rae song, sue me. speaking of, every song mentioned in the one shot has a meaning! if you love puzzles or are a swiftie or whatever i'd play easter egg hunt with these songs. psychology theory jumpscare? rocky horror mention! (science fiction OOOoooOOO) steve harrington hero concept. you're sticking up for him when no one else would. i love my man, yes, he's my man. also you're a smoker cus I'm a smoker.
WORD COUNT: 7K (you're being fed, say thank you)
SONG: let's go to bed by The Cure. "I don't care if you don't, and i don't feel if you don't. I don't want it if you don't! I wont say it if you don't say it first!"
A/N: hello sexies, (what's up you tube tube tube tube) it's me. I've returned with some insatiable Steve Harrington smut that I wrote in under twenty four hours. peak ovulation post!!! Ineedhimineedhimineedhim. speaking of men I need, my boyfriend is flying out to see me soon because i'm graduating! and i'm applying to grad school. I've had this tumblr and have been posting off and on since i started my undergrad degree, so if you've been here since the beginning, thank you for all the love/donations/whatnots! yes, I will write smut in grad school to keep me sane. but I have to like, get in first. no one told me that grad applications would be this stressful. what's everyone Vecna's song? I want to go eighties and say I Heard A Rumor by Bananarama or Dress You Up by Madonna, but my heart is screaming CUNTISSIMO by MARINA. as always, reblogs, comments, likes, and shares are greatly appreciated!
.·:*¨༺♱༻¨*:·.
It was the night before a crawl, and you were ecstatic to be involved in stopping Vecna. You weren't around since the beginning of everything, but you remember what it was like when Will went missing, and you remember StarCourt catching fire. You worked at the LoveLace Lingerie store across from Scoops Ahoy, where you quickly befriended Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington. You were closing up late the night StarCourt ‘caught on fire’ and the person to save you from the MindFlayer was none other than Steve. Since then, you both have been tied to the hip. Two peas in a pod, completely unaware of anyone else once you two were put in a room together.
You almost died when Vecna tried to reach for you, discard you, Steve was the one to pull you out of his trance as well. And nothing else came to mind when you questioned Steve's intentions or what he wanted from you, when all he said and did came from a place of kindness. He saw you for who you truly were, so you considered him your best friend. Through rants about where to eat or which movies were the best (you were a big John Hughes fan, but Steve being Steve, loved Steven Spielberg), you both smiled through each agreement and disagreement and compromised. Robin says that if you weren’t so emotionally unavailable sometimes, you and Steve would be a match made in heaven.
The one thing you disagreed on was Nancy Wheeler.
You didn’t hate Nancy, no, quite the opposite, you were friends as well with her; but it filled you with envy whenever you caught Steve and Nancy exchanging looks at each other. You hated when Steve would do things for her, even if there were no ulterior motives. You might’ve been the jealous type, yet, you wished Steve would notice you the same way he fawned over Nancy; whether he knew he was swooning or not. Nevermind that, You and Steve Harrington ever happening sounded like a fever dream. At least you weren’t alone, Jonathan hated the way Steve and Nancy would get with each other, but for entirely different reasons.
To be fair, Nancy cheated on Steve with Jonathan, and now Jonathan’s worried she’s going to flip flop back to Steve? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, I guess.
It was the night before a crawl, and Steve was teaching you how to move the radio satellite on top of the WSQK van, since Dustin was going to, mysteriously, not be there tomorrow. He didn’t know how to move it and use it as well, not as well as Dustin, but it was courteous of him to try. He came ways away from the douchebag high schooler you remember him being; now all he cared about was Dustin, Boppers, and crawls. Which is what he was ranting about as you played with the wheel of the satellite. “Fucking Henderson, man.” Steve huffed. “I am so tired of everyone coddling him like that.”
You raised an eyebrow and took off one side of the overhead earphones. “Well, Steve, he’s grieving. “ you reminded. “Eddie was his world at one point. Could you imagine losing your best friend like that? Your role model?”
Steve’s face crumbled slightly. “Oh, you mean someone like me?” he said sarcastically. You shot him a look as he raised his hands slightly. “Alright, alright, sorry…” he huffed. “You see what I mean though, right? I mean, Eddie’s been gone for 18 months now and I was kind and understanding for a whole year and now it’s just…” Steve looks utterly lost. “I’m worried,” he expressed. “He’s putting himself in so much danger just to prove a dead guy’s point, and I feel like I'm constantly being pitted against Eddie. It’s a losing battle. I can’t win that unless I die too or whatever.”
“You’re not dying any time soon, Harrington.” you murmured. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what? The truth?” Steve glanced over at you. “No matter how nice or mean I am to the kid, my point never gets across. He doesn’t see how what he’s doing is hurting everyone else around him. Everyone is coddling him and I'm the only one calling him out because I don’t want to see him get hurt more than he already is because it…hurts me.”
You soften at the last thing he said, and take the headphones off fully. “Hey, I know you’re worried about him, but there’s nothing you can do to help Dustin out. He’s gotta go through the motions of whatever he’s dealing with. Don’t beat yourself up for not being able to help him.” you said softly, putting your hand on his shoulder as Steve looked down solemnly. “Do you even know where he’s going to be tomorrow? He never misses a crawl, Y/N.” he sighed. “Don’t want the kid hurting himself.” That was genuine concern he was having, and you knew it was giving him anxiety. It must be so hard to care for someone who doesn’t care about themselves.
You shrug. “I wish I could tell you, but he’s a pretty closed book.” so unlike him, but you weren’t going to kill yourself trying to fix Dustin, not the way Steve was attempting. “But hey! You got me, and I think I'm starting to understand this radio shit a lot better than him anyway. Remember when Dustin nearly lost Hopper in the upside down? Because he was on the wrong channel?” you laugh softly to yourself, seeing a small smile spread on Steve’s face. He nods. “Yeah, I remember that, he gave me such a hard time over that.” he chuckled.
Then he sighs. “I’m just glad I have the Squawk, and Robin, and you. You guys are like…my rock, and don’t even know it.” he confesses. You smile softly. “Duh, what else would you be doing during the end of the world besides teaching me left from right.” Steve chuckles loudly. “Crazy that you don’t know your left from right-” “-i’m directionally dyslexic, be kind to me.” you joked.
Steve smiled softly, his eyes glancing down at your lips for the slightest second before turning back to the radio. You almost want to question it, but instead, you watch his fingers as they play with the knobs, softly grabbing the headphones by your side as he watches the decibels on the small screen slowly rise to 90db. “See that, y/n?” he asked, taking off the headphones. “That’s where you gotta stay, that’s the sweet spot. We’ll be able to reach Hop that way. If it ever drops below that, you gotta find the signal and tell me where it’s coming from so we can keep it. Makes sense, right?” he explains.
You nod slowly. “Yeah, still don’t know why you had to drive me all the way out to Skull Rock to show me how this works-” “-you kidding? Lovers lake, Y/N. It's one of the gates.” right, how could you forget. You nod some more as you grab cigarettes from your back pocket and bring one to your lips. “Fair.” you mumbled as your hand reached for the front of the car, digging around for a lighter as Steve watched intently. “Can’t you do that outside?”
You smirk at him. “God, you need this more than me, Harrington.” you toss him the pack, and he doesn’t necessarily refuse the pack, seeing him reluctantly take a cigarette from the box and grabbing a lighter from his backpocket. “Can we at least do this outside? Last thing I want is Jonathan getting mad at me for smoking in the van-” “-man, fuck him.” you spat. “He smokes at WSQK all the time, especially when Nancy isn’t there. He’s the last person to judge.” you explain as you puff smoke.
“Touche” Steve hums as the cigarette dangles from his lips, then he smirks at you. “I got a dumb question.”
“Shoot.”
“You remember when Vecna showed Nancy Hawkins all destroyed? And we were all scrambling around like chickens with our heads cut off ‘cus we didn’t know her favorite song?” You remember that clear as day, the stress of digging through cassettes of Metallica just to find something Nancy moderately enjoys. “Yeah? What about it?” you questioned. His eyes met yours. “Well, I almost recommended After All by Jimmy Osmond–corny, I know, but Nancy played it one time while I was helping her study back when we were a thing. Then it hit me, I don't know what Nancy actually likes to listen to now. She’s a completely different person now, and what if I don’t know what you actually like.” Steve explains. “If we all get hypnotized again, it’s unlikely that Vecna will take you or me at the same time.”
You saw where this was going. “You want to know what song would break me out of a trance?”
Steve nods. “Think of it like a safe word, y'know? I trust you to remember it a lot better than Robin. It’s in one ear out the other with her.” It makes perfect sense, because it also literally makes no sense for Venca to take the both of you out, so if one of you had the other’s song, you’d both could make it out. Of course, it was all hypothetical, but it wasn’t a dumb question to ask. You hated when Steve said anything he was doing or asking was dumb.
You shrug as smoke fills the van, staying still as music softly plays in the back. “Well, what comes to mind when you think of me, Steve?” you asked. You could see blood rushing to Steve’s face as he scratched the back of his neck. “Uhh…well, the first time I met you, Easy Lover was playing over the speakers at Starcourt so maybe that song?”
“The Phil Collins song?” you furrowed your eyebrows.
“Hey, it’s not a bad pick.” Steve said. “Do you even remember the first time we met? You accused Mike of stealing from the makeup section because he had, and I quote, ‘a bitchboy vibe’, and he said I was his brother or something.” Steve chuckled. “Embarrassing having to go into that store and exonerate him, but then that little shit did steal something.” you smile softly at the memory, it was just a few days before the mall was destroyed, you remembered how he stormed in there to give you a piece of his mind, before fawning and apologizing on Mike’s behalf.
You brush your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, in that ridiculous sailor outfit.”
“The sailor outfit was a chick magnet." Steve joked. “Anyways, yes, Easy Lover would be up there if I had to guess. But seriously, what would you want me to play for you?” What part of you should I hold onto? What piece of you is mine to protect? He wasn’t letting this go until you answered honestly.
“I wish mine was as cool as Max’s, but honestly? Tell it to My Heart by Taylor Dayne.”
Steve snickers a little. “What do you mean? That’s cool, I’m sure I have a Taylor Dayne cassette laying around somewhere in my beemer.” he puts out the cigarette. “Robin’s of course, not mine…” he covers up. Yeah, okay, Harrington. “You know, knowing you, I was almost sure you were going to pick something from like…Rocky Horror or something. Ever since Robin made me watch it, I can’t stop thinking about how you’re such a Janet.”
“Whatever, you’re such a Brad.” you fired back, smiling. “What about you? What should I play if Vecna ever tries to target you?” you asked earnestly. Steve stays quiet for a bit, before saying “what would he want me for? I’m just muscle.”
You scoff. “C’mon just answer the question. You know I won’t laugh at you.”
Steve glances at you for a second, softly chewing his bottom lip as the cigarette smoke curls around him. “Fine, you wanna know?” he asked. Duh, it’s not like you were asking him or anything. You cross your arms, feeling your knees rub against Steve's. “Yes, spill.” you hummed. Steve threw up his hands slightly. “I Got My Mind Set on You by George Harrison.” he exposes.
You raise an eyebrow. “Why were you covering it up like it was embarrassing? George Harrison rocks-” “-I dunno-” “-acting like the Beatles weren’t one of the most iconic bands of all time.” you laughed. “You can’t sit here and ask me questions about what would save my life and expect me to stay silent about what would save your life. What would’ve been corny if your song was Holding out for a Hero.” except, for that lingering feeling where you felt your song was saying “tell me you want me” and his was saying “I want you, I just didn’t know I could say it.” Either way, bashful Steve turns a bit away from you. “Byers said it was dumb, cheesy.”
“Why do you care so much about what he thinks?”
Steve gulps softly, his throat bobbing. “I don’t care what he thinks.” he covered up. “Really, I don’t. He just says stuff I do is dumb all the time…everyone seems to be saying that a lot to me these days. It's kind of hard not to believe them sometimes.” there it is, that’s the meat and potatoes of why he’s been lashing out recently. “And he’s right, sometimes…I don’t have the best ideas, I get reckless. I don’t contribute to the crawls the way Nancy or Mike or the others do. And yeah, the song is a little corny.” Steve’s tone drops, you’ve never seen him sound, look, and feel so small. “It’s dumb, I’m dumb.”
You hated it.
Your chest burned with anger, not at Steve, never at Steve, but at how everyone’s been treating him, at yourself for never calling it out, you were upset at whoever made Steve feel that he wasn’t important enough. “Steve…” your voice softens. “That’s not dumb.” “Sure, yeah.” He shot back in a self-deprecating manner. He avoids eye contact with you, ashamed to have even admitted that the stuff Jonathan and Dustin says gets to him.
You bit your lip. “Have you ever heard of the theory of multiple intelligences?” you asked.
Steve knitted his eyebrows in confusion, scratching his jaw. “What?”
“It’s this theory that I read in one of my psychology classes.” you clarified. “It’s pretty new, not even five years old but it states that the way people perceive intelligence is pretty…one note, you know? There’s not a lot of nuance. That maybe there’s plenty of ways someone can be intelligent that isn’t all just numbers and puzzles and stuff. Like…me.” you make yourself into an example. “I suck at math, did horrible in school and in my SAT’s but…I’m pretty great at making people feel better, you know? I’m good with my words. I’m people-smart, word-smart. Some people are number or logic-smart, others are art-smart, body-smart, music-smart, etcetera.”
“Etcetera?” Steve questions. “Now you’re just showing off.” he huffs.
You roll your eyes. “What I'm trying to say is that you’re not stupid, you’re not dumb, you just have different strengths. Now you know there’s different kinds of ways of being smart and they don’t. You think Jonathan is well-versed in psych theories? You got one on him now. Imagine thinking that there’s only one way to be smart, that’s pretty fucking dumb.” you grab his hand. “And they say it to your face all the time, how dumb they think you are, and you don’t ever fight it…Why do you let people talk to you like that? Why do you believe them? Why does one comment from Byers, Byers, of all people, matter more to you than anything you’ve survived?”
Steve blinks, almost thrown off by your question. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Steve, Jonathan Byers is a fucking loser!” your frustration ramps up. “Jonathan never comes up with ideas of his own! He’s just Nancy’s yes-man, at least you challenge her with your ‘dumb’ questions that aren't actually dumb, Steve! Like questioning if Vecna’s actually dead or not? After what? 30 something crawls? It was a valid question. Jonathan literally thought it was a good idea to take pictures of you and Nancy fucking, he’s a creep! Pretentious fucking pervert.” you mumbled to yourself. “Last year, he was breadcrumbing Nancy so she would dump him, he wasn’t even here for everything we went through with Eddie, and now he’s all over her? What, because you’re around? He’s insecure! He doesn’t even want Nancy, he doesn’t deserve her! He just doesn’t want you to have Nancy. He’s the one who’s making everything competitive, making you seem like you haven't grown at all, and I hate the way he treats you!”
Steve just stares at you as you keep going. “And Nancy? Nancy Wheeler? With all the love and respect, she doesn’t deserve you! She cheated on you with the man who stalked her! I mean, god, it hurts me to say this ‘cus I love Nance but…that was fucking crazy! Holy trauma bond! Quite frankly, you need to let that go because your future wife would never cheat on you, Steve.” You breathed heavily and raised your hand.
“And you know why Dustin’s treating you like garbage, Steve? It’s because he’s so happy you're alive, he is so relieved that you’re alive, but so angry that Eddie died, that he’s taking it out on you so if something happens to you, it won't ‘hurt’ him as much and that's it! The kid adores you so much that he has to separate himself from you ‘cus if something happens to you, it would destroy him way more than Eddie’s death ever could.”
Steve breathes out slightly, “y/n-”
“I hate it,” you say angrily, fists curling. “I hate when you talk about yourself like you’re some screw-up who doesn’t contribute anything. I hate when people treat you like your heart isn’t the smartest thing in every damn room you walk into. I hate that it’s gotten so bad that you don’t even argue anymore. You just…accept it!” you stare into his eyes. “You’ve fought monsters. You’ve kept a bunch of teenagers alive. You’ve been beaten, dragged through hell and back, you’ve proven yourself! And somehow you still think you’re dumb? Or-Or worthless?!”
Steve gets overwhelmed, he pulls his hand away from yours and sighs. “What else am I supposed to do? Fight with everyone more than I already am, Y/N?” he exasperates. “Be more of a nuisance than I already am?!” “I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you-” “-yeah? And what’s that?” Steve pushed.
“A hero!”
Steve’s breath gets caught in his throat, and for the first time since you’ve both been out here at Skull rock, Steve is speechless. Blush creeps onto his cheeks and the tips of his ears, as your body gets warm all of a sudden, as if the heater was on full blast. Steve’s mouth goes dry as he looks at you. “What…?”
You breathe out softly. “You saved my life, Steve.” your voice comes out tender. “You’re my hero.”
Steve’s eyes soften slightly at your confession, because that’s what it was, a confession layered in admiration and care. His cheeks burned bright red as he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Before you realized it, Steve’s eyes were on your lips again, and the cherry chapstick you were sporting became more and more appetizing by the second. Your breath hitches softly as the air stood still in the car. Steve couldn’t handle it anymore because of course; it had to be you, and only you. His hand gently went to the back of your neck as he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your lips. It was both fast paced and in slow motion, the way he brought your face to his as your lips meshed with each other.
Your eyes fluttered with surprise, a kiss was the last thing on your mind, but it was what you craved from him. Your hand slowly creeps to his thigh, as his other hand goes to your cheek, holding your face as he deepened the kiss. You can tell that poor, touchstarved, stressed Steve needed this a lot more than you did. You felt yourself lift, getting on your knees as the kiss slowly intensified, your hand hovering over his as a small ‘mphm’ left him.
Your noses bumped as your plump lips pulled from his, you can tell he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to keep kissing you, show you the kind of hero he wanted to be for you, the one that pleased you, but he wasn’t going to force it. “I…did you want that?” he nervously croaked, his voice getting raspy as he examined your face, trying to gauge your reaction. Instead of answering with words, you crawled onto his lap and straddled him; you felt him shift slightly towards you, his eyes sparkling with need as they fell to your lips, his thumb ran over your bottom lip. You just realized how big his hands felt on you.
You stared down at him. “When was the last time you…” your voice trails off as his free hand does to your waist, pulling you closer. “Can’t even tell you.” he mumbles, he had to be telling the truth. Since Hawkins went on lockdown, it feels nearly impossible to find someone to hookup with. Not since half the town left. “God, I’ve wanted you the moment I saw you…” Steve confesses. “Mhm, I can make you feel like a man, Harrington.” you teased, rocking your hips softly. “All you have to do is ask…”
He bit his lip and tried to stop your hips from moving, just so he could get a word in, but he couldn’t, he was mesmerized by the way you were moving. “Mhm…” he whimpered softly. “I need you, please sweetheart, I need you-” he desperately groaned as he snatched you by your jaw and smashed his lips into yours. It throws you through a loop, the way he kisses you is filled with passion and vigor. “I don’t even want to fuck you fuck you-” he mumbled during the kiss.
You pull away and squint your eyes. “Oh yeah? What are you trying to do, then?”
“Make love with you?” he gazed up at you.
Oh. your cheeks turn red, chivalrous Steve Harrington, your knight in shining armor, wants this to be the beginning of something new instead of just fucking, having this be a one time thing, etc. he’s definitely grown his high school, grown so much, you could feel it poke yout thigh and growing harder and harder by the second. Steve smirks. “I won't want it if you don’t.” oh, but you wanted it. Guess fever dreams do come true.
You softly push him down on the floor of the Squawk van because yes, you were having sex with Steve for the first time in this stupid van. He holds onto your hips as both of your hips gyrate with each other, soft moans filling up the van as your lips eagerly attach themselves to each other. You felt Steve’s boner align perfectly with your clothed mound, you could feel yourself get wet, shaking with anticipation as he grabbed your hips.
“Let me help you, honey.” he coos softly against your lips as both of his hands went to your hips, forcibly speeding up the pace as you moaned out for him, your face digging into his neck. A groan rips from his throat as he smiles against your cheek, kissing it softly as heavy breaths hit your ear. You could smell Steve’s cologne, cedar and leather fling up your senses as he tugged on your ear with his teeth gently. A chill runs down your back as you feel your hips move against him naturally.
Your body burned with desire, Steve knows this and grabs your chin and lands a soft kiss on your lips. You were right, you made him feel like a man. He loved how easily you melted into him, as the soft kiss turned into a wildfire of needy, sloppy kisses. His tongue darts in your mouth as you slightly let him in. Steve’s tongue moved with yours as his hands fumbled with your shirt. “Take this off, now.” he demanded against your lips.
A small smirk was plastered on your face as the radio softly played Abracadabra by the Steve Miller Band. You pulled away from his lips and straddled him, slowly pulling your striped shirt over your head and exposing your white lace bra. Steve is practically drooling over you, you feel his hands grab your denim shorts as he eagerly pulls them off, helping you and feeling your ass as the denim passes it. “Holy fuck…” he mumbled “Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” he hums as he sits up, his hands running all over your body.
Having his hands on you this way feels intoxicating, rough and calloused but so gentle. He grabs your jaw and pepper kisses all down your neck and collarbone. He holds onto you tightly, his fingers sliding down to your wet panties as his thumb glides along the wet slick of wetness right down the middle. “Say you want this, honey. Say you want me too…” he groans.
You choked out a moan and nod. “Oh-fuck-mhm!” you couldn’t contain your excitement. Maybe you were just as touchstarved as him. “Y-yes Stevie, yes baby-” you raggedly breathed out. This felt better than all the fantasies you had of him, and it felt better than all the fantasies Steve had of you. You wanted to rip his shirt off, tug at it with your teeth or something, anything to show just how bad you’ve been wanting to get plowed by him. How you’ve been dreaming since he saved you from the Mindflayer, how he’s been dreaming since the first time he saw you, standing next to rows and rows of lingerie he pictured you in.
He reads your mind, he pulls away, making you whine before he takes off his shirt, exposing his chest. He’s such a man, your man. Freckles doted around his chest as his chest hair was trimmed, well kept. You wanted to pull it. He smirks widely as he gently lays you down, the headphones you both were sharing stood next to your head, a faint reminder of why you came out here with Steve.
He bumps his nose against yours softly and plants a tender kiss on your swollen lips, before moving down to neck and chest. He’s utterly transfixed by your chest, trying hard to be gentle when the tent he’s pitching in his jeans is anything but gentle. A small part of you starts feeling nervous, but you push it down. It’s Steve for crying out loud, he pretty much worshipped the ground you walked on. He was worshipping every freckle and mole on your body now. “So fuckin’ pretty.” he hums.
Your back slightly arched as you felt him move down your body, you can tell he couldn’t wait anymore. God, he wanted to ruin you, fill you up, mark his territory, all while being sweet about it. You almost want to tell him to quit the foreplay, to stick his cock in you until you milked every last drop out of him, but you know he’d refuse.
He leans down and sucks gently on your thighs, leaving lovebites that no one else has to know about. You thought he was going to attack your swollen, throbbing clit with his tongue, but instead, his fingers easily slid into you, curling up gently before thrusting. He was getting harder with each passing moan, he could pretty much cum right now just by having his fingers deep in you, and hearing your pretty moans bounce off the walls of the van. “Oh my god-fuck!” you cried as you fluttered your eyes shut.
There was something so ethereal and downright pornographic about the way you were laid out for him like that. He chews on his bottom lip as he kept up the pace, wanting you to plateau for a minute before ramping up the speed in which he was finger fucking you. “That’s it, pretty girl.” he presses his thumb on your clit. “Just relax like that for me.” he kept on kissing your thighs.
“S-stop teasing me…” you whined.
“Awh.” Steve coos. ”You want me to stop?”
“N-no-no!” you cried as Steve slowed down, a smirk landing on his lips as he saw how you reacted to the lack of touch, a smirk that made your thighs clench with lust. “Just break me in” You mumbled out almost incoherently, it’s almost like it’s been more than 18 months since you got laid, and Steve knew that feeling pretty well. God, you still couldn’t believe you had Steve Harrington digging into your cunt like this, with his cock probably dripping in precum and waiting for you to be all fucked out and soaked for him. He couldn’t fuck you knowing you weren’t properly laid out for him already.
Steve blushes at your words, all moments of wanting to be slow, tender, sweet, and loving were thrown out the window, not when you were begging him like that he slid a third finger in you and slammed into you, nearly pushing until his knuckles, your slick sliding down his hand and making it hard to keep your thighs open.
“Oh-my god-fuck!” you squealed. “God-fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! Steve-” “-Yeah? Worth the wait, honey?” you didn’t even have to say it twice, you nodded. “So fucking good! So-so good! Wanna fuck you, now! Nownownownow-” you whimpered.
Steve laughed raspily, speeding up the pace. Oh my god. You sounded like a bitch in heat with all the jumbled up words, as your gummy walls squeezed around Steve’s fingers. “Already?” he hummed softly. “You have n-no idea how bad I want it please-pleaseplease!” you nearly sobbed. “Wanna make you cum i-in me and in your stupid-stupid fucking sailor uniform!” “told you it was a chick magnet-” “-and-and-I wanna pull your hair and cum on your tongue and have you spit in my mouth and scratch down your back and-”
“Slow down, honey.” he chuckled. “You got a whole laundry list of things you want me to do to you.” you almost sound pathetic for him, but Steve was actually pathetic when it came to you; nearly cracking under pressure from all your demands. “Y-you don’t get it, Steve! Fuck!” you gazed in his eyes. “J-Just humping a pillow thinking about you until I fall asleep every night after starcourt-and-and-daydreaming about you right in front of me-need your cock right now-pleasepleaseplease.”
Steve couldn’t even say no to you. He could never say no to you.
“Shit…” he grumbled as he unzipped his pants, quickly taking off his jeans. His fingers being away from you caused the loudest whine to escape you. If Steve knew you were going to be this bratty when it came to touch, he would’ve brought something to keep you busy while he got his pants off. It was a struggle, he nearly fell backwards trying to get them off so he could please you in time. He slid off his blue plaid boxers–which matched perfectly with his lightly tanned skin and brown eyes–christ, you cannot be getting wet over his boxers now.
He exposed his cock, seeing the precum, like you predicted, almost sliding off his tip and glistening in the moonlight. There were just two issues that arised; “what the fuck, Steve.” you sighed. Steve chuckled nervously. “What is it?” “It's bigger than my forearm!” which earned a laugh from him, and a chapped forehead kiss. “Whatever happened to you wanting it.”
“I still do.” you hummed as you pecked his lips, your thighs shaking as you try to hold them open. “Wait, do you have a condom?”
Steve pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. “Shit.”
You put your hand up to his chest. “It’s okay-I still want it-I want it so bad…” you pleaded. Blush spread to Steve’s cheeks at the implication of what you were truly saying. “You want me to pull out?” you shake your head. “No…” Now Steve was really red. “I don’t wanna get you into a situation you don’t wanna be in, sweetheart.” he said with such care, his thumb running across your cheek. “We can’t even leave Hawkins in case something does happen.”
You bit your lip. You understood what he was saying, you knew exactly what he was implying. Yet, you remembered the conversation you eavesdropped on back when everyone took that RV and was driving to the camping store right outside of Hawkins. The conversation on how Steve wanted six little Harringtons running around. You wanted that too. Hell, you’d give him six kids and a dog if he let you. “Who says I wouldn’t want it if something happens?” you remarked. “I wouldn’t mind making you a daddy, Steve.”
Steve’s demeanor changed drastically from concerned to lustful, he grabs your face and kisses you tenderly. He wastes no time in fulfilling your wish, forcing your trembling thighs open and slapping the tip of his cock gently on your cunt. The sound of it echoing around in the van as his groans followed right behind them. “Fuckkk…” he slid it against your folds, feeling your hood wrap around his tip like a cloak with each slide. One hand went to your side, the other held your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours as he breathed softly.
The anticipation was killing you. “Please-” you choked out, you spoke too soon, he slid into you with such ease, you were almost wondering why you were commenting about his size to begin with. A sharp gasp left you as a loud moan left Steve, his head falling to your neck as his heavy breaths hit your jaw. “Too fuckin’ perfect…” he blushed as he struggled to get the rest of his cock in you. Might’ve been easy to slide in, but hard to move. “So fuckin’ tight.”
Once he started thrusting into you, he hit the ground running. Suddenly, he was grabbing your throat and kissing you roughly as his hips slammed into your inner thighs. Sweat dripped down from his forehead as the windows of the van fogged up. His perfect hair was tangled in your fingers as your legs wrapped around him. Your moans were light, airy, ethereal and pornographic just like how you laid out for him earlier. He couldn’t help it, and he knew that he wasn't going to be able to last long in you. Not with the way you were screaming
“Fuck yes! Yesyesyesyesyesyes!”
Your nails scratched down his back as his hissed in pain and kept slamming into you, the tip of his cock nearly bruising your cervix with how hard he was fucking you. He was fucking you so hard, the van felt still. Though, from the outside, it was cartoonishly rocking back and forth. He grabbed your face, which he loved doing, and made you look him in the eyes as your moans got louder and higher in pitch. “Please-steve-fuck-please!” you weeped. “So-good-good babe-fuck!”
“Yeah?” Steve growled, his throat getting raspy as he nibbled your ear. “Yeah you like it when I ruin this pretty cunt of yours, sweetheart? You like it when I fuck you the way you’ve been begging me to fuck you? You love this cock, honey?” He tried to keep his tone stable, but his breathing was getting heavier and heavier by the second.
You nodded, your head bobbing with each jolt, and your back arching as Steve held your hips down. “Yesyesyes-” you drooled on his shoulder as you left deep scratches on his back. “Y-You’re my hero and you make my cunt f-feel-feel so good and you s-saved me and I-I love your cock-I love you-” you confessed as you sobbed harder, your whimpers alone made him come closer and closer, and the confession didn't help. He let out a loud groan as his face turned red, noticeably red, and this time, you caught him blushing for you like that.
“You love me?” He picked up the pace. “Yeah? I’m your hero? You fuckin’ love me?”
You feel yourself nearing your climax as you nodded, holding onto the back of his neck as he kissed you. “You fuckin’ love me, doll face? You wanna be my girl? Yeah?” Steve’s hips were starting to sputter irregularly, as if he was nearing his climax as well too. You nodded again, faster than before. “Yes-yesyes! I love you I love you I love you I love you-” you cried before feeling a wave of pleasure overcome you, a loud squeal left you as your thighs clenched and your body tightened. You tugged on his hair as a gush of warm slick spilled out of you.
“That’s it, right there, sweet girl.” Steve growled as he fucked you harder, feeling your wetness flow all around his throbbing, twitching cock. “Fuck, I love you too. I fuckin’ love you too.” he groaned as his bisceps flexed. He holds onto the door as he helplessly thrusts into you, before you feel him cum deep inside you. His body tensing up as his seed leaked out of you, he tries to thrust it back in, but it just lead to overstimulated moans and whines from the both fo you.
You both try to catch your breaths, as the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and sex filled the van. The radio was still playing in the back. Some song by The Cure about going to bed, which you did with Steve, so it all felt divinely fitting. Steve lays next to you, finally getting a hold on his breathing as his eyes look for yours. You just stared at the ceiling of the van with utter satisfaction. “Uh oh.” Steve smirked. “Someone’s not here, earth to y/n.”
“Can you blame me?” you exhaustedly sighed. “I just got my brains fucked out by Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington.” A weak laugh left you, before feeling Steve wrap his arm around you and pull you closer. “Yeah? Any notes? How many stars?”
“Five stars, no notes, will do it again.” you smiled softly.
Steve purses his lips and nods. “That’s…that’s good to hear. Genuinely.” he glances down at you, a look of relief washes over him. “I havent fucked in a while, was starting to worry that I wasn’t doing good or that my dirty talk was bad, that was until you had a whole list of things you wanted me to do. Then it started to feel…natural.” he grins at you. “You made me feel really comfortable, and the part where you said you wanted to make me a daddy? Phew, chef’s kiss.”
A small laugh left you, as your cheeks became crimson. “Well, what can I say? I’m word-smart.”
“You geek.” Steve looks amused by you. “If you’re word-smart, then I’m definitely body-smart.” he flirted. “I say we make a pretty good team in bed...a really good team, a great team, even.” he stared at your lips again (he knows it’s legal to kiss you, right?) Then he huffs. “Speaking of teams, we should really get back to the station before Robin starts wondering where we are. Probably open the windows so it doesn’t smell like cum in here.” he joked, grabbing your shirt and shorts as he grabbed his clothes as well.
As you both got dressed, you stared over at him. “I saw you almost busted your ass trying to get your pants off.” and Steve chuckles. “Oh yeah? Was it sexy, at least?” “very.” you answered as you dug into your pocket. “After tomorrow’s crawl, we should go out. Like-” “-like a date?” you answered back.
A warm smile spread across his face. “Yeah, exactly, like a date. Let me take you to Enzo's. I’m close with the owner, we can get unlimited breadsticks.” That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. A date? With King Steve? It was everything you were dreaming about. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.” you expressed.
“Sweet.” Steve smiled. “It’s a date.”
You blushed as you kept digging in your pockets and looked around the floor of the van. You were almost sure you had your pack of cigarettes somewhere, you didn’t know if you left them in your pocket or not. You almost want to ask to step outside for a bit, since the van got very hot very quick, and maybe, there was an off chance they ended up outside. Strange if that happened, but stranger things have happened. You turn to Steve. “Have you seen my…” your eyes fell to Steve lighting up a cigarette and blowing out smoke. He nods. “Yep, I have them right here.” he tossed the pack to you.
You smirk softly as you watch Steve lay back against the door of the van and smoke. He looked like he was in bliss, and you were too. It had been a near perfect night for the both of you. You crunch up your nose and point to the cigarette Steve was smoking. “Whatever happened to caring about Jonathan getting mad at you for smoking in the car?” you asked.
'Bob wasn't a pervert-' YUP! ik this is about to be good. tysm for your service 🙏🙏
workin on the full version of that rn! will be publishing a steve harrington fic in the meantime (before ST5 comes out and they take him away from me cus ofc they would fuck my big fat stupid chungus life) so if you love steve just as much as you love bob, tune in for that ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
