Drunk Tyler who’s a big cute softy, with him being a Hyde he’s gained a lot of strength. Maybe reader taking care of him and he just lifts her up out of nowhere like she weighs nothing. Idk just something cute and fluffy, I loveee you’re writing and feel free to tweak this however you want, have a great day babes 💕
𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 : 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: When Sheriff Galpin’s working late, you and Tyler share a bottle at home. He’s soft and tipsy, all warmth and boyish honesty, until the Hyde-strength he can’t turn off slips through in how easily he handles you
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ / NSFW Graphic smut, drinking/ alcohol use ,Drunk but consensual sex (clear consent established) Manhandling , Rough sex ,Oral sex ,Creampie, Praise + possessive language ,Soft aftercare
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It wasn’t unusual for Sheriff Galpin to work late. The house was quiet when he left, quiet still after, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the low music you and Tyler had put on to fill the silence
Two bottles sat on the coffee table. One nearly empty. The other well on its way. Tyler leaned back against the couch cushions with his legs stretched out, a half-smile on his lips and a whiskey glass dangling loosely from his fingers. His hair was a mess from running his hands through it, his shirt rumpled from how he’d slouched down to one side.
You sat cross-legged next to him, nursing your own drink. The alcohol burned less after the first few sips, though Tyler clearly hadn’t noticed the sting at all. He was too busy talking, words coming slower and softer, the way they always did when he let himself relax.
“You ever think about how weird this house feels when he’s not here?” he asked, voice husky with drink. “Like it’s not even mine. Like I’m just borrowing it.”
You tilted your glass, watching the amber swirl inside. “Feels like yours to me.”
Tyler huffed a laugh. “That’s only because you’re here. Otherwise it’s just walls.”
There was a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with whiskey. You tried to ignore it.
When you leaned forward to set your glass down, Tyler moved without warning. His arm hooked around your waist and he pulled you against him, clumsy but certain, as though he’d been waiting for the excuse. The motion was so sudden you almost spilled what was left of your drink.
“Tyler—”
He cut you off with a grin, wide and unguarded. In one smooth motion he lifted you straight off the couch. Your stomach dropped, a startled sound escaping before you could stop it. He held you effortlessly, as if you weighed no more than the glass he’d just put down.
“See?” he said, slurring a little. “Strong.”
You clutched his shoulders instinctively. His grip didn’t waver. His eyes were bright despite the alcohol, fixed on you with something raw and unshaken.
“Always strong,” he murmured. “Never gonna hurt you.”
It was the kind of promise you shouldn’t take seriously from someone drunk, and yet it didn’t feel careless. He wasn’t posturing. He was holding you with the kind of care that made your throat tighten, as though the weight of you was sacred.
“Tyler,” you said softly
“Safe,” he whispered back. His forehead tipped to yours, heavy and warm. “You make me safe.”
You should have pulled away. Instead you stayed in his arms, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. When his lips brushed your temple, clumsy and hesitant, you didn’t stop him
Tyler didn’t set you down right away. Even drunk, his arms were steady, cradling you like he could hold the whole night still if he tried hard enough. You could feel the heat of him seeping through his shirt, the slow drag of his breath against your hair.
“Tyler,” you murmured again, gentler this time.
“Hmm?”
“You should sit down before you drop me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, as though you’d spoken in a foreign language. “Never,” he said simply, and for once you believed him.
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. You leaned into him, your forehead brushing the edge of his jaw. He smelled like whiskey, yes, but underneath it was something grounding, something so distinctly him it made your chest ache.
When he finally lowered you, it wasn’t back onto the couch but onto his lap. You found yourself straddling him without warning, his broad hands steady on your hips. The sight of him beneath you, flushed and smiling as though this was the most natural thing in the world, left you momentarily speechless.
“This okay?” he asked. The question was blurry with drink but the intent behind it was sharp.
You nodded before your mind caught up with the motion. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
His grin softened. He leaned forward, clumsy and a little off-aim, lips brushing your cheek instead of your mouth. The next try landed at the corner of your lips, warm and unpracticed, and you surprised yourself by turning into it.
The kiss that followed was messy—too much teeth, too much whiskey—but you let it happen, let his mouth press to yours with the eagerness of someone who had been holding back too long. Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into you like the sound had been dragged from his chest.
When you pulled back for air, his eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown. “God,” he whispered, as though the word wasn’t enough. His thumb stroked over your hip in lazy circles, a contrast to the sharp rise of his chest. “You’re… you’re everything.”
You laughed softly, but the sound shook. “That’s the whiskey talking.”
“No,” he said, too quickly, too certain. “That’s me.”
You felt his strength even in stillness. The way he held you without effort, the subtle flex of muscle beneath his shirt. It was intoxicating in its own right, to be wanted and protected all at once, to know he could crush you and yet every part of him was bent on holding you steady.
When his hands slid lower, resting just at the curve of your thighs, you didn’t stop him. You tilted forward, capturing his mouth again, and this time the kiss was slower. More deliberate. His lips parted under yours, and you felt the hum of his breath as though it had sunk into your bones.
The world outside the small living room might as well not have existed. The only thing real was the weight of his hands, the heat of his body, and the quiet, desperate way he kissed you like he was afraid to let go.
The kiss deepened until you lost the taste of whiskey under the taste of him. Tyler wasn’t smooth about it, wasn’t calculated. His mouth chased yours with the impatience of someone who had waited too long, every brush of lips and teeth a little uneven, but it made something inside you give way.
You shifted against his lap, just slightly, and the sound that left him was low and startled. His hands tightened at your thighs, not enough to bruise but enough to remind you of what he was—strong in ways most people would never understand.
“Careful,” he rasped, though the warning rang hollow when his hips rolled up beneath you.
Your breath caught. “Tyler…”
He buried his face against your neck, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to breathe. His voice came out rough. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
“I think I do.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin.
For a moment, everything held in fragile balance. You on his lap, his hands spread wide across your body, both of you breathing like you’d run a mile. Then, as though he’d finally lost the ability to wait, Tyler shifted.
It happened so quickly you had no chance to protest. One arm slipped around your back, the other under your thighs, and he lifted you in a fluid motion that shouldn’t have been possible for someone this drunk. The air left your lungs in a shocked gasp as he carried you across the small living room.
“Tyler!”
“Shh,” he said, lips brushing the edge of your ear. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. His hold was steady, solid, as if you weighed nothing at all. The effortless way he maneuvered you left your pulse hammering. He set you down on the couch again, but not before pressing you into the cushions with the weight of his body, caging you in.
The look in his eyes when he pulled back just far enough to see your face nearly undid you. Heat and hunger, yes, but threaded with something vulnerable.
“This okay?” he asked again, voice low, husky.
You swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
The tension broke. His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was no longer messy but demanding, his tongue sliding against yours until you gasped. His hand gripped your hip and tugged, pulling you closer, aligning you against the unmistakable hardness straining his jeans. The friction made your thighs tremble.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound guttural, almost Hyde-deep. “God, I need you.”
Your body answered before your mind could catch up. You arched into him, nails digging lightly into his shoulders. His response was immediate—he shifted you again with startling ease, dragging you higher on the couch until he had you pinned beneath him.
It wasn’t cruel, the way he handled you. It was reverent. Careful. But the sheer strength behind his movements made your breath stutter. You didn’t resist when his hands skimmed down your sides, tugging at the hem of your shirt, his voice breaking into something ragged.
“Please. Let me touch you.”
Your lips parted, the word spilling out before you could second-guess it. “Yes.”
Tyler’s hands shook a little as he pushed your shirt up, but the strength behind them never faltered. He peeled the fabric over your head and tossed it aside, his gaze locking on the skin revealed. For a moment he just stared, chest heaving, pupils so wide they almost swallowed the green of his eyes.
“You’re…” His voice cracked, heavy with awe. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
The words would have sounded corny from anyone else. From him, drunk and trembling with the need to touch you, they landed like truth.
His hands slid down your sides, mapping every curve as if committing them to memory. He cupped your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over stiffening peaks until your back arched into him. The sound you made only spurred him further—he bent his head and mouthed sloppily at your collarbone, teeth scraping lightly, lips leaving heat wherever they dragged.
You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged, and the groan that tore from him was guttural, nearly Hyde-deep. The sound went straight through you.
When you wriggled beneath him, thighs pressing together, Tyler growled softly against your skin. His hand shot down and pushed your legs apart, spreading you with a strength that left no room for resistance. Not that you wanted to resist.
“Mine,” he whispered, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I don’t ever want anyone else touching you like this.”
You shivered, both from his words and the way he handled you—like you were delicate and untouchable, yet he couldn’t help but claim you anyway.
His fingers brushed along the waistband of your pants, hesitant despite the hunger in his eyes. “Can I…?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
That was all the permission he needed. He dragged your jeans down with quick, rough motions, nearly tearing the button in his haste. When he settled back between your thighs, the sight of you spread beneath him seemed to undo whatever restraint he had left.
His mouth descended, lips and tongue working at the soft skin of your stomach, your hips, until he reached the damp fabric of your underwear. He pressed his face against you and groaned, the sound vibrating straight through you.
“Fuck, you smell so good.” The confession was muffled, desperate, as he mouthed at the thin barrier. “I could lose my mind on you.”
Your hips jerked, a whine escaping before you could stop it. Tyler’s eyes flicked up to your face, hungry and hazy, and then he hooked his fingers into your underwear and yanked it down. The strength in him turned the simple motion into something primal.
You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you.
It wasn’t practiced finesse—it was raw need. His tongue dragged through your folds, messy and eager, his lips sealing around your clit in a way that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, hands flying to his hair, and he groaned like he’d been waiting for that sound all night.
“Tyler—oh, God—”
He licked into you greedily, drinking you down like you were the only thing that could satisfy him. His hands pinned your thighs apart, grip unyielding, keeping you open for his mouth. No one had ever touched you like this, with so much unrestrained hunger, as if you were oxygen itself.
Every time you tried to wriggle away from the intensity, he simply manhandled you back into place, not letting you close your legs, not letting you run from the pleasure. The strength in his grip was terrifying and thrilling all at once.
You were already trembling, breath stuttering as he dragged you closer to the edge. Your hips bucked helplessly against his mouth, and he groaned like he wanted more, like he could drown in you and never come up for air.
“Gonna make you come,” he rasped against your skin, voice hoarse and broken. “Please—need to feel it. Need to taste you lose it on me.”
You were already trembling when Tyler pulled away from between your thighs, his mouth slick with you, lips flushed red. He looked wrecked, like he’d just drunk too deep of something he couldn’t live without.
“Can’t stop,” he whispered, voice frayed. “Need to feel you.”
Before you could answer, his hands were on you again. He hauled you upright with ease, flipped you around, and bent you over the couch cushions in one smooth motion. The shock of being moved so easily stole your breath. Your palms pressed into the fabric as he nudged your knees wider with his own.
“Tyler—”
“I’ve got you,” he said, rough and urgent, already tugging his jeans down. You caught a glimpse of him hard and flushed, and then he was pressing himself against you, sliding through your slick folds with a guttural groan.
The first thrust was deep enough to knock a cry from your throat. Tyler’s grip clamped down on your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, until you felt stretched full with him. The couch creaked under the force.
“Fuck,” he growled into your shoulder. “So tight. Feels so fucking good.”
You tried to answer, but the words broke apart as he set a pace—hard, relentless, each thrust slamming into you with the kind of strength only he possessed. He held you down when your body tried to jolt forward, the manhandling leaving you pinned and helpless against the cushions.
“Take it,” he rasped, hips snapping against yours. “Take all of me.”
Your nails clawed at the fabric, breath shattering as he fucked you harder, faster. Every movement reminded you how powerful he was, how easily he controlled your body. Yet beneath the roughness was a desperation that softened the edges—like he wasn’t trying to prove dominance, only trying to lose himself in you completely.
When you tried to push back against him, his hands tightened, dragging you back onto him with force that made you whimper. “Mine,” he groaned. “You’re mine.”
The word detonated in you. Heat coiled low in your belly, each thrust pulling you closer to unraveling. He seemed to feel it, because his pace grew harsher, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing tight circles that had you crying out.
“That’s it,” he urged, voice breaking. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”
It hit you like a wave. Your body clenched around him, stars bursting behind your eyes as your orgasm tore through you. You cried out his name, shuddering as he held you against him, still pounding into you through the aftershocks.
Tyler’s rhythm faltered, his breath ragged. He thrust a few more times before burying himself deep with a guttural growl. His whole body tensed as he came, spilling inside you with a broken moan of your name.
For a long moment, the only sound was your mingled gasps and the faint creak of the couch under your weight. Then Tyler slumped forward, chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and shaky against your skin.
“Shit,” he murmured, voice hoarse, arms wrapping around you even as he kept you pinned. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You shook your head, still catching your breath. “No. You… you didn’t.”
He sighed in relief and pressed soft, almost apologetic kisses along your shoulder. The rough edge in him had burned out with release, leaving only tenderness. He eased out of you slowly, helping you turn onto your back so he could look at you.
His hand brushed damp hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “You’re everything,” he whispered, softer this time, raw and certain. “I don’t deserve you.”
You caught his wrist before he could pull away and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Don’t say that
For once, Tyler didn’t argue. He just pulled you against his chest, wrapping you tight in his arms like he was afraid the world might take you away if he let go.
And for the rest of the night, you let him hold you—Hyde strength and all—safe and steady in the quiet of the Galpin house.
