Its Dark In Here

You don't do walk-ins. Your clients know and understand this, most of them booking their appointments weeks in advance but, when Sarah first came into your salon while dragging her sixty year old father by the hand like a stubborn toddler, you couldn't find it in yourself to turn them away.

“He's been cutting his own hair for years.” She tells you as the both of you coax Joel to sit down in your chair, a scowl on his face, his entire back taut.

“And I do a damn fine job.” He grumbles, but Sarah just waves him off.

“His eyesight ain't what it used to be, I'm surprised he hasn't snipped his own ear off just yet.”

Joel gives her an affronted grunt that yanks a laugh out of you. His hair is styled back, as if he'd just pushed it away from his face with a little bit of styling mousse and the way it sticks out of the sides is clear that he does it to hide the choppy cut, the curls at the nape of his neck doing wonders to hide just how uneven it is. His broad back stiffens when you run your hands through his hair, the curls catching on your fingers; it's clear that he's uncomfortable, but you're not certain if it's just because he's in a beauty salon rather than a barber shop or something else entirely.

“I could just clean it up a little.” You say, your hands resting on his shoulders for a moment before you pull away. “We don't need to change the haircut, I can just make sure it's even, give you a fresh canvas for you to muck up at home when you decide to cut it yourself again.”

He doesn't laugh, not really, but his lips twitch under his mustache and his eyes seem lighter somehow, which you take as a good sign; Sarah isn't a helicopter daughter — and thank God for that —, choosing instead to sit in a corner with her nose buried in her phone while you work. Joel is tense at first, sitting straight as a rod in your chair and then barely lowering himself into the backwash unit, his head tilted halfway up in a position that you know water is going to pour down his back the second you turn the faucet on. So, you pull the trick that your old boss, a lady with bleached blond hair that was three stories high and a voice rougher than gravel, had taught you: The scalp massage.

It's not something you do often considering that the bent position you're in while shampooing a client's hair kills your back at the end of the day, but you take your time with Joel. You apply just a little bit of pressure with the pads of your fingers, mindful of your nails, running clock-wise circles from the top of his head to his temples, grinning to yourself at the way he stiffens even more before his entire body melts against the porcelain basin, the hands folded over his lap clutching his reading glasses tightly as you work him over, shampooing and moisturizing his hair, tugging and rubbing until he's all but asleep.

Joel Miller becomes a fixture at your beauty parlor after that. You don't have a lot of male clients, your entire salon mostly avoiding booking appointments for men after one too many creeps but Joel is the exception you can't stop yourself from making: He comes in every twenty days 'just for a trim', even if he wears his hair on the longer side and doesn't really need trimming that often. He also starts buying a stupid amount of haircare products once you mentioned you earn a small commission off of every sale, always leaving the salon with a new beard oil or hair moisturizer or curl defining cream that you know he'll never wear on his own. The girls you work with start teasing you about your not-so-secret admirer and, while you laugh and roll your eyes at them, your stomach still burns with something that is not embarrassment. Truth is, you find Joel to be quite dreamy.

The girls don't agree with you— Too old, too weathered, with a daughter whose age is closer to yours than yours is to his but they don't see him the way you do: The way his impossibly broad shoulders relax when he sees you, the shy smile he gives when you welcome him to your chair, the soft sigh he exhales the moment your fingers touch his scalp. Joel Miller is a man built on contradictions: His hair is soft when his frown is prickly, his body language skittish when his words are warm, his brutish hands gentle whenever he shakes yours in goodbye: You found the handshake odd at first, as if you were sealing a business deal rather than saying goodbye to the man whose hair you've just spent the last forty minutes intimately touching, but you've come to appreciate that small moment. The only time your touch is reciprocated, the couple of seconds where his large hand engulfs yours and his warmth involves you in a way that lingers far beyond the handshake.

Maybe you're the one that is the not-so-secret admirer, in the end. You look forward to his appointments, terribly saddened by the few occasions in which he had to cancel, and it has very little to do with the easy money you make off of him.

He's usually your last customer of the day, and you're pretty sure that it's because he likes it when it's just the two of you. Joel seems more comfortable like that, more prone to talking about himself when your ears are the only ones listening— You learn that he's the single father of two daughters, Sarah and Ellie, and that he tried to retire a couple of years ago but got so antsy he had to go back to work. He owns a contracting company with his brother and, with his old age, he's taken the admin duties while his brother and a couple of guys take on the manual labor. He enjoys cooking and woodcarving and he lives on the other side of town— Sarah's apartment is close to the salon, and while he makes it seem that he only comes in to get a haircut whenever he's visiting, you get the feeling that it's not exactly true. And while you share just as many details of your personal life with him, the relationship has always been strictly professional.

It all changes on a rainy January Tuesday.

Joel comes in as your last customer as usual, but this time he's about fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for the man that is always so punctual. He's more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, his hair is in disarray, curls undone and sticking everywhere; he's in black sweatpants, a t-shirt and the jacket he doesn’t seem to ever take off, but the ensemble is still something you've never seen before: He's always in jeans and some sort of button down or flannel, his sleeves rolled up and his boots shiny, like he takes good care of it. It's always casual but calculated, like he actually put in some effort before leaving the house.

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart.” He says as a greeting, shoving an iced coffee towards you— The coffee is a newish and welcome addition, even if Joel grumbles about how caffeine so late in the day is bad for you, he always shows up with pink-tinted cheeks and the iced caramel latte he knows you enjoy. “Had to drive the kid to the airport and traffic was crazy, ended up not havin' time to go back home to get dressed. Am I too late?”

“No, you're fine.” You smile, taking a sip of your coffee as he shakes off the remains of the pouring rain from his coat before sitting in your chair. Your late policy means you shouldn't be taking in the appointment: The salon has a maximum of ten minutes of tardiness but even if you tell yourself that you're breaking policy simply because he's the last client you have today, it truly is because he is Joel, and you'd let him run you over with his car if he wanted to.

You go through the motions as you usually do: Placing the towel over his shoulders — the larger ones, always, because the regular size doesn't fit him properly —, and then the bright pink cape — which you always pick for him because you think it's funny of see a man that size wrapped in a bat-like pink cape — before clipping his sideburns and the nape of his neck; the scruff on his cheeks is on the longer side today, but you don't touch them. You like him with a beard, and you often pretend to forget about it unless he specifically asks for a trim of his facial hair too. By the time the two of you make it to the shampooing station, Joel's already halfway through his tale of Sarah's out-of-state girl's trip for a friend's birthday and how it's the first time she's taking a long trip without him. It's cute, the way he talks about her as if she's just a teenager even though you know she's a grown woman, the way he voices his worries to you and then finishes a sentence with ‘didn't say that to her, of course’, as if he's apologizing for his over-protectiveness to her through you.

Joel falls oddly silent after the first wash, his voice cutting itself halfway through a sentence as you rinse away the shampoo, his once closed eyes snapping open. He shifts a little, one of his hands flying downwards as you fill up your hand with shampoo again and your eyes drift to follow the movement, your stomach dropping in the split second in which you think he's touching himself. He's not, not really, his hand closed into a tight fist and carefully placed over his crotch in a poor attempt at concealing a very impressive hard-on that tents through the pink cape. His eyes flit to yours, the two of you making eye contact for just a second before your hand overflows with the mint-scented shampoo.

You work in silence, biting down on your bottom lip to hide the giddy smile that threatens to show.

Normally, if it were any other man on Earth, you would've been disgusted by it— Or annoyed, at the very least, but you're not. You take your time with the scalp massage, rubbing your fingers against him slower, more teasingly this time, doing your best to remain as professional as you can while having fun with it. Joel's entire face is bright red and his eyes are shut tight, but he doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he was before, his breath catching when your fingers dip close to his temple. You're not supposed to use your nails, you know it can be quite uncomfortable for some people but you can't help the way you allow yourself to scratch softly as his scalp, his mouth parting slightly at the sensation.

Joel doesn't look you in the eyes when you walk him back to the chair, which is not uncommon for him, but the air is electrified and you look away as he tries to readjust himself; the cape does nothing to hide his erection, though, and you know the imagine will be ingrained in your mind for a long time.

The two of you are silent throughout the entire haircut, with Joel shuffling in his chair every so often, clearly uncomfortable, and it makes your job at evening out the ends just a tad harder— You're not certain it's completely even by the time you're done, your hands shaky and your mind entirely distracted by him but the curls hide it well; if he never shows up again, you won't ever know if it's because of the uneven cut or because of the ten or so minutes he spent rock hard at your shampooing station. He seems a little more relaxed by the time you're removing the cape from his neck, his face still flushed red but at least his cock is down.

It's almost as if the Universe is conspiring against you, the rain pouring twice as hard by the time Joel finishes up his payment — with an extra 25% tip and a beard shampoo that you're certain he'll never use —, the two of you standing awkwardly by the door for a moment.

“Can I drive you home?” Joel asks all of a sudden, hands shoved inside the pockets of his carhartt jacket. “The rain ain't gon' let up soon.”

You open your mouth, ready to politely decline: Despite your crush, Joel is still someone you don't know that well and you're not certain you want him to know your address or to be inside his car for so long. But he blinks at you with his big brown eyes, shoulders drawn tight as if he's bracing himself for a rejection and suddenly you simply can't think of a single reason as to why you shouldn't take a chance. And, in the end, it was better than getting home late and sopping wet after taking the bus under a thunderstorm.

“Okay.” You nod, your smile broadening when he smiles back. “I would love that, actually.”

Joel's car is old, a large red pick up truck that he clearly uses for work, dirt on its tires and sides. He opens the door for you and helps you climb in, large hands respectfully wrapped around your waist when he hoists you up. You're a little shy when giving him your address, afraid he'll be annoyed by how far it is but Joel simply nods and turns on the radio, an old rock song coming through.

You sip your coffee, which is not as iced anymore by this point, sharing it with Joel every so often. He takes the cup between red lights, and you don't miss the way he twists and turns the cup to make sure his lips touch the exact spot where your lipstick has stained it— It makes desire simmer low but constant in your belly, his own lips staining with a soft shade of red.

By the time his truck pulls up into your driveway, the rain is somehow worse than it'd been before. The two of you sit in silence for a moment as you gather the courage to leave the warmth of the truck's cabin, and Joel hums to the song on the radio as if he didn't mind you stalling at all.

“Do you want to come inside?” You ask, and while the question might seem innocent enough, you can't get the outline of his hard cock from your mind. “I mean— It's just… It's dangerous for you to drive home in the dark while it's raining hard like that— I mean, uh, not hard, I—”

You burst into a fit of giggles, hating yourself from even bringing the word up. Joel closes his eyes, his face going pale before he blushes so hard his face is almost purple.

“I'm sorry for that. I…” He stops, visibly unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” You say, softly, and Joel's eyes finally snap to yours as if he can't believe what you just said. “Just come inside, Joel.”

“Okay.” His voice is so low it's almost a whisper, gruff in a way that flies straight through your spine. “If you're sure.”

You don't dignify him with an answer, instead simply hopping out of the truck and rushing to your front door, hoping he'll follow.

Your house is small and in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood, a little messy and full of mismatched secondhand furniture and you're a little embarrassed as you shrug off your coat but Joel doesn't seem to mind, his intense gaze focused solely on you. You're suddenly acutely aware of how sweaty you are after a whole day of working on your feet.

“Make yourself at home.” You tell him, hopping around the room to collect the shoes that are scattered near your couch. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

“Take your time.” Joel drops down on your couch, his hands rubbing his own knees. “How about I order us some food in the meantime? You must be hungry. Any allergies?”

“Sounds good.” You connect your phone to the bluetooth speaker on top of the coffee table, scrolling through your playlists as fast as you can to pick out anything that might be of his taste. “No allergies, no.”

Joel seems entirely at home in your cramped couch, his long legs stretched as he scrolls through the cellphone which he holds comically away from his face, too stubborn to put on the glasses you know he wears— You’ve seen them in his hands or hanging from the collar of his flannel but he never puts them on around you.

You try to be fast with your shower, but you still take the time to exfoliate and shave and moisturize every bit of your body. The clothing is a problem all on its own: You want to look pretty, but you're home after work and you can't simply show up to your living room super dressed up. All of your nice pajamas are a little too skimpy and, since you already invited him in, you don't want to walk out half-naked either— Sure, you are throwing yourself at him, but you still would like to pretend that you are not. In the end, you decide on putting on your prettiest lingerie and then covering it with a pair of comfortable shorts and the only oversized shirt you own that isn't torn or stained, an old Van Halen shirt that you mostly use only in the gym nowadays.

All your worries melt away when you pad back into the living room and Joel drinks you in; he's standing by your fridge, analyzing the thousand polaroids pinned to it. He looks at you like you're the only woman in the world, his darkened gaze going from your thighs to your chest to your face.

“Nice shirt.”

“Thank you.” You tug the hem of the shirt a little, self conscious even though you love the way he looks at you.

Joel clears his throat, his eyes snapping away from you to the square white box on top of the kitchen counter. “I ordered pizza. Reckon it was the safe choice, I dunno what you like to eat.”

“Pizza's great. I'm not fussy.” You rifle through your purse, and Joel frowns when you pull out the bills from the tip he gave you earlier. “How much was it?”

“What're you doin'?”

“Paying my share of the food?” You offer him the crumpled bills, but Joel crosses his arms over his chest.

“You ain't payin', are you crazy?”

“Joel, with the obscene amount you tip me, I could probably pay for the whole meal.”

“Use it to buy somethin' pretty for yourself.” He simply waves you off. “Go sit, we should eat before it gets cold.”

You want to make a sugar daddy joke but you're so flustered by the whole ordeal that you simply smile and do as you're told; you're not used to things like that, men opening doors and offering to pay and being so gentle with you— Most of your past boyfriends were nice enough, but never went above and beyond to make you feel special in the way Joel does.

 You eat on the couch, pizza box perched on the coffee table and mismatching plates balancing on your legs but Joel doesn't seem to mind, leaning across the couch to refill your wine glass — and isn't that fancy, having an actual bottle of wine with your food rather than the boxed stuff you usually buy? — whenever it starts to run low, his own glass tucked on the ground near his feet.

The conversation flows easily, easier than it usually does at work when there are too many interested eyes and ears on the two of you. Joel seems more at ease too, his face flushed from the wine and brown eyes gleaming under the warm light of your living room. Your feet end up on his lap somehow, the TV playing a movie you're not exactly paying attention to: Despite how much you try to seem relaxed, you are incredibly aware of Joel's imposing presence by your side, quietly watching the screen with the prescription glasses he finally perched on his nose when you first offered to turn on Netflix. His large, calloused hand rests on top of your feet, not moving at first, just holding onto you.

And then his thumb slides down, pressing softly against the arch of your foot. Your eyelids flutter, the dull pain from an entire day on your feet evaporating as he rubs against your skin, applying just enough pressure to have you melting into the couch. You don't remember the last time you've been so relaxed, especially around someone that is virtually a stranger, but you close your eyes and lean your head back against the cushions and do your best to keep the little moans trying to escape trapped behind your teeth.

The first time you feel it, it's just a soft bristle on the bridge of your foot, so feathery light that you think it must've been a breeze. And then you feel it again, the soft and scratchy tingle of Joel's beard on the inside of your ankle. You don't say anything and neither does he, his lips traveling a little higher, pressing a small kiss to your shin. Joel's nose runs upwards ever-so-slightly, bumping against your knee.

“This okay?”

You nod, a little embarrassed that just a couple of small pecks were enough to get your body thrumming. You feel Joel's lips twist into a smile as he turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee.

“I gotta hear you say the words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Joel.” You breathe out. “More than okay.”

He moves slowly up your body, and you giggle at the small grunt Joel gives as he twists, kneeling on the couch so he can run a line of open mouthed kisses up your leg, his aquiline nose brushing over your clothed mound before he started mouthing at the band of your shorts, pushing your shirt up so he could pepper kisses up your stomach all the way to your sternum; he doesn't touch your breasts, and the only touch to your pussy was the brief brushing of his nose, but you feel your entire body already on fire, legs falling apart so his hips could fit between yours before Joel finally presses his lips to yours.

He tastes of wine and remnants of pizza but the only thing you can focus on is the weight of his body on top of yours, his mouth moving against yours with experienced precision, one arm next to your head holding most of his weight while the other roams your ribs underneath your shirt. You giggle and squirm when his fingers ghost a particularly tickly spot, and Joel pulls back to watch your reaction, a soft smile on his face.

“I've been wanting to do that since the day we met.” He admits, his graying curls falling over his forehead. You reach up, pulling it backwards, unable to keep the smile off of your lips.

“I got a lot more that I've been wanting to do to you, old man.”

“Minx.” Joel gasps, but you can tell he's not offended by it, free hand wrapping at the nape of your neck before he pulls you up until the both of you are seated, your thighs straddling his lap.

Joel holds you close as the two of you kiss, your hips grinding down against him, your chest pressed against his as his hands roam from your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of it as he dictates the pace but, no matter how slow or fast or rough you go, he doesn't seem to get past half-mast. It is as if he can sense the inquisitive tilt of your hips, head falling back against the couch as his hands knead your ass cheeks.

“ 'M real sorry, darlin'.” He says, redness crawling up his thick neck. “It just— It takes 'im a minute sometimes.”

A shiver runs down your spine when you realize that the him he's talking about is his own cock— You have never had anyone speak like that before, and although you expect to find it weird, you can feel yourself get wetter.

“Maybe we should move this to my bathroom.” You tease with a small smile, trying to ease the tension he clearly feels. “Let me wash your hair again and he'll wake right up.”

He groans, leaning forward to hide his face in the crook of your shoulder. You take pity on him, your nails raking through his hair before you lean back just enough to face him.

“We don't have to do anything tonight, Joel.”

“I want to.” Joel answers immediately, fingers flexing against your skin. “I want you— Fuck, darlin', you have no idea how much I want you.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “Let me help, then.”

Joel watches you curiously as you climb from his lap, his legs parting automatically as you settle on your knees in front of him. His meaty hands flex, but he keeps them to his sides, mouth opening and then closing as if he's swallowing down whatever it is that he was about to say. You start slowly pressing soft kisses to the tent in his sweats that, while not as big as the one you'd seen earlier, it is still more than you thought it should be; you cup him through his clothes, warm and heavy, before sliding his pants down to his ankles. Joel shifts, toeing the sweatpants off just eager enough to make you chuckle, the fabric bunching as it gets caught on his left shoe.

He's only half-hard still, cock heavy laying against his right thigh, twitching in the night air— You take him in your hand, pumping him slowly, but all you can focus on his how big he is: Thick and long and uncut, bigger than any cock you've ever seen and you don't think there is any way he can grow any bigger once it's fully hard. You’re tempted to just swallow him at once but you don’t, holding him upright as you place soft kisses to Joel’s inner thighs, making your way upwards until the tip of your nose brushes against his balls— Joel jolts, just a little, but his legs spread a little more and you take that as a sign. You start with kitten licks, your hand still pumping his cock as you run tongue your over his balls; the noise that comes out of his mouth is almost painful, somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. You switch directions then, placing small kisses at the base of his cock— Joel looks wrecked just from those simple touches, his hands fisted by his sides, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down on you. 

“So fuckin’ pretty like that.” He breathes out, his hands pulling your hair away from your face, holding it in a makeshift ponytail— Joel doesn’t use it to guide your movements though, letting you explore him freely without the hair getting in the way. “Wish you could see yer’self.”

“Maybe next time I’ll let you take a picture.” You say as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue. Joel moans, his grip tightening in your hair and you can feel his cock twitch under your touch, hardening under your ministrations. You lick a fat stripe from the base up to the tip, following along the vein on the underside of his shaft, suckling on the head; you can taste his precum, salty and a little shy, but he’s far more responsive than you expected. 

“C’mon darlin’.” Joel goads you. “Take ‘im in. I know it’s big, but you can do it.”

Your lips quiver as you hold back your smile, your mouth slowly sinking onto him; you’re able to take about two thirds of his cock before it hits the back of your throat and you pull back slightly, breathing through your nose as you pump whatever part of him you can’t fit inside your mouth. It’s quite the stretch, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down the sides, and your core pulses as you think about how it’ll feel inside of you. 

“Fuck, there you go— Such a good girl f’me.” You find a pace that is comfortable for you, the weight of his cock on your tongue, the saltiness and warmth of his velvety skin making your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

He somehow grows fatter in your mouth, thicker and heavier than before. You take him as deep as you can, only pulling away when you feel his cockhead hitting your throat, and Joel whines every time. You can see he’s trying to behave, the hand not holding your hair fisting the couch, straining as he tries to stop from thrusting into your mouth, which you are thankful for— While you don’t mind a little bit of throat fucking, you’re quite intimidated by how big he is. 

“C’mere.” Joel begs, tugging on your hair for the first time as he pulls you away from his cock. “Take those shorts off and sit on my lap.”

His words send a thrill of desire down your chest, your skin feeling warm and tight all over as you climb on top of him, your shins bracketing his thighs. You’re still in your oversized shirt, the hem coming down to the top of your thighs but you shiver when Joel’s now hard cock bumps against your wet cunt. You tug at his shirt just as Joel pulls you in for a kiss and the both of you chuckle at the clumsiness, his cotton shirt half tangled with his limbs; Joel separates himself from you just enough to yank his shirt off, the clothing falling somewhere behind the couch before he’s dragging his lips back to yours. 

You have never been with a man who really likes to kiss before— For most of your partners, kissing was just a means to an end, just a pitstop before getting to the foreplay but Joel takes his time with it, making out like you’re teenagers, his hands exploring every bit of your body underneath your shirt. It leaves you aching, your hips rutting against him, little needy whines escaping your throat. 

“Need something, sweetheart?” He has the gall to smile against your skin, his mouth trailing off from your lips down to your jawline. 

“Your cock.” You answer, throwing your head back so he could keep kissing the column of your throat. 

Finally, finally, Joel’s hand trails down between your legs. The pads of his fingers trace your clit and your labia, stroking softly as if he’s mapping you out, spreading the wetness that has been leaking out of you and dripping down onto his shaft.

“I don’t think yer ready for ‘im.” Joel mumbles against the hollow of your throat, his southern accent heavier than you’ve ever heard it. The tip of his middle finger teases your entrance, circling without pushing in and you buck your hips down, mewling when his finger sinks inside of you. Even his fingers are thick and you chase after the stretch, your torso leaning so far back that you need to grab onto his shoulders not to fall over. 

“Give me another one.” You all but beg. Joel leans back on the couch, one hand between your legs, the other holding you by the small of your back and you clench around his finger when you realize he pulled back so he could watch as he plunges his ring finger into you. You already feel so full your mouth waters thinking just how his cock is going to feel, how Joel is going to stretch you enough that you’ll be reminded of him every time you move. 

He fingers you slowly with precise, careful movements, his eyes never leaving your cunt and you keen every time he pushes his fingers to the hilt, his palm kneading against your clit. By the time Joel’s third finger slips inside you’re so wet the squelching sounds drown out your moans, your legs burning from how you bounce against him, fucking yourself on his fingers. 

“Fuck,” You moan, hips bucking faster as you try to chase your orgasm, your pussy clenching him so tight that Joel moans. “Joel— Please, I’m gonna—”

A whine falls out of your lips when Joel abruptly pulls his hand away, your slick dripping down his wrist. He holds eye contact as he licks his own fingers clean and you clench around nothing, your body thrumming with desire and annoyance at being denied your peak. 

“I want you to come on my cock.” He says, but the glint in his eyes tell you that it’s more than that— He wants to tease you, drive you to the edge of madness and be the one in control of your pleasure. Joel takes hold of himself, rubbing the tip of his cock against you and you gasp when it bumps into your sensitive clit. Everything feels heightened after your denied orgasm and you lift a little bit, wanting nothing more than just to sink on top of him. You start slowly, the hand that isn’t holding his own cock steady kneading the fat of your hip as you take him inside. It’s a lot, even just the head of his cock being thick enough to hurt, and you pause when he’s just a couple of inches deep. Joel kisses the soft flesh underneath your chin, his breathing deep and ragged, and you can tell he’s trying to control himself. 

“I’m sorry—” You breathe out and try to sink a little more. “I didn’t think you’d be this big— Fuck, that hard on at my shampooing station was just a half chub, wasn’t it?”

Joel chuckles, his grip tightening on you. “Don’t apologize. I know it’s a lot, darlin’. Just take your time, you’re doin’ so good f’me.”

You clench around him at his words and the both of you groan in unison, Joel holding you so tight you know you’ll have bruises in the morning. You take another inch and his cock hits the exact spot inside of you that makes you see stars; you come just like that, your cunt spasming around him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It’s never happened before, you don’t think you have ever come from penetration alone, especially one where neither of you are properly moving but the fresh wave of wetness that comes from it and the way your knees give out makes you sink on top of him all the way down to the hilt. 

You think you’d scream if you had any air left in your lungs. Joel makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whine, his teeth digging into the soft spot between your neck and your shoulder. 

“Goddamn it, did you just come?” There is a hint of wonder in his voice and you giggle, a little embarrassed. You moan and squeeze him again, unable to form any coherent words.

You hold him close, eyes shut, your nails raking through his hair. You’ve never been this full before, not even with your largest toy, and it burns and hurts and it’s fucking incredible all at the same time. You give your hips a little rock, testing the waters, but Joel stops your movements. 

“Fuck, gimme a second, here.” He mumbles into your shoulder. “You’re just— So fuckin’ tight—” Joel kisses your shoulder and your neck, his mustache tickling your overheated skin. “Perfect f’me, takin’ me so well, such a good girl.” 

“Can I move?” You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and lost in pleasure and desire. “Please, Joel, I need to feel you.”

His hands move from your hips to knead your ass and that is all the answer you need. You start slow, a little back and forth and some circles, trying to get used to the sheer size of him but you pick up the pace quickly, head thrown back as you fuck yourself on him. Joel is a lot more vocal than you expected him to be, moaning and groaning with every thrust, talking about how you’re a good girl and how you were made for him. It’s easy to get lost in it, his string of praises egging you on, the sound of your body colliding against his reverberating through the room. 

His hand finds your clit, not rubbing but simply holding steady, and every time you move up and down his fingers press against your clit just right and suddenly you’re shifting your position, subconsciously trying to rut against his hand. You don’t think you can come twice, but the way his cock keeps pushing against the perfect spot inside of you makes you crack, your second orgasm coursing through you like lightning. Your muscles lock as you moan, pussy clenching hard around Joel’s cock and he comes just as you’re regaining your breath, thick ropes of cum filling you inside— You’re so full from his cock and his come that it pushes against your belly. 

Joel rubs your back when you settle against his chest, exhausted. You can feel his cock softening inside of you, his spend and your slick dribbling down over his balls. 

“You did so good f’me.” Joel whispers against your ear. “I knew you’d be perfect the first time I saw you.” 

“Is that why you kept coming back to the salon?” You ask, head slumped on his shoulder, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice. 

“Yes and no.” He answers, rubbing his cheek against your temple. “Knew I wanted to take ya on a date, but I would never have the courage to ask— You’re too young and sweet for a bitter old man like me. So I settled for the haircut, yeah, but I wouldn’t come back if I didn’t think you’re good at what you do.”

You hum at his words, your stomach fluttering at the idea of going on a date with Joel. You didn’t expect him to be actually interested in anything other than sex, and you smile against his neck. 

“I would’ve said yes.” You whisper, your fingers flexing against his chest. “If you had asked me out.”

Joel’s muscles stiffen underneath you and you panic, thinking that maybe you’ve just said the wrong thing and that he’s not interested now that he got what he wanted, but he speaks before you can figure out a way of taking your words back. 

“And now? Would you still say yes to that date?”

“Especially now.” You giggle, the words coming out a little too fast. “With a dick like that, I’d be crazy to say no.”

His chest rumbles with laughter, and from your position you can’t see his face but you watch in real time as his chest and neck turn red with embarrassment. 

“How about tomorrow, then?” His voice is a little shy, rough and low. “Can I take you out for breakfast?”

“Only if you spend the night.” 

Joel turns his head then, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose. 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”

He keeps coming back for his trims, always your last appointment of the day, always with some sort of sweet treat or coffee or flowers. He tips generously and rolls his eyes when you say that he has boyfriend privileges now and doesn’t need to pay. But he never leaves the salon alone.

And neither do you.

Snow crusted the edges of the windshield, obscuring the world beyond the patrol car in a fuzzy, white haze. Gator Tillman sat with the engine idling, the heater blasting lukewarm air that smelled faintly of stale coffee, gasoline, & some vape flavor he’d never admit was strawberry. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap the only sound in the otherwise silent parking lot of the local grocery store.

He was bored. The kind of bored that made his skin itch & his leg jiggle out of restlessness. The kind that led to bad decisions. Or good decisions - depending on how you looked at it.

And then, you walked out.

The automatic doors slid open with a dull thud, and a gust of wind followed you out, whipping your hair across your face. You were struggling with two large paper bags that looked ready to burst, shifting your weight to keep your balance on the slick pavement. You weren't doing anything particularly remarkable. Just a woman trying to get groceries to your car before the numbness from the frigid weather set in.

But to Gator, it was like someone had turned the volume up on the world.

He leaned forward and squinted through the snow. You were new. He knew everyone in this town. Every drunk, every cheat, every bored housewife. And yet - he didn't know you.

"Who the hell are you?" He murmured, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You were pretty. Far too pretty for a town like this. But at the same time, was something different about you. Something polished, but real around the edges. Maybe you were from the city or something.

A small, satisfied smile crossed your lips as you finally managed to wedge the bags into the backseat of your car, and Gator felt a strange, tight pull in his chest. It wasn't just attraction; it was curiosity mixed with a sudden, gnawing hunger.

He watched you drive away, his taillights reflecting red against the falling snow. He didn't follow you immediately. No, that was amateur hour. He had a badge now, and he knew how to use it.

Back at the station, the air was thick with the smell of bureaucracy and stale coffee - this whole damn town smelled like fucking day-old coffee. His dad was in his office, door closed, probably yelling at someone over the phone about who knew what. Gator didn't care. He sat down at the computer terminal in the corner, the one with the sticky keys, and logged in.

It took him three minutes to find your name.

He typed in the license plate number he’d memorized, watching the cursor blink as the system churned through the data. There it was. Your address. Your date of birth. Your previous addresses out of state - of which there were many in a very short span of time.

"Runaway," he whispered to the screen. "What’re you runnin’ from, gorgeous?”

He printed the sheet, the sound of the dot matrix printer loud in the quiet room, and folded it into a neat square. He tucked it into the breast pocket of his uniform, right over his heart.

That night, Gator didn't go home immediately. He drove.

He took the long way around, passing your street without slowing down, just clocking the layout. Your house was a small rental, a little ways out from the main strip, isolated on both sides by rows of pine trees. Perfect.

He parked his cruiser down the road, cutting the lights and the engine. He sat in the dark, a cloud of fruit-scented nicotine engulfing him as he watched the windows.

A silhouette passed by the living room curtain. You were moving around, maybe making dinner, maybe just pacing. It was domestic. Boring, even. Yet it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

He wondered what you were doing in a place like this. A stranger from out of state, landing in North Dakota of all places. It didn't add up. People didn't come here unless they were hiding, or lost. So which were you?

Gator smiled, exhaling a plume of smoke into the cold air. He liked a mystery. But more than that, he liked the idea that you were here, alone. No friends or family. Just waiting for someone to notice you.

And he had noticed you. He was noticing you so hard it was making his teeth ache.

Over the next few weeks, Gator made a habit of "patrolling" your neighborhood. He never knocked on the door or made his presence known. He just watched.

It took him less than a week to learn your schedule - the way you left for work at 8:15 AM sharp and returned between 5:18-5:20 PM each night depending on traffic. The way you sat on your porch with a book on Sunday afternoons if the weather let up. How you always forgot to close the blinds in your kitchen when you were washing dishes at night.

Gator Tillman could feel the obsession growing like a tumor in his brain. He started dreaming about you. Waking up in a cold sweat, your name on his lips, his hand gripping the sheets until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to talk to you. To grab you by the shoulders and demand to know why you were haunting him.

But he waited. Contrary to what his dad probably would’ve said - he was good at waiting. Besides, predators didn't chase; they stalked.

The tension inside him was wound tight, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. Every time he saw you from a distance, caught a glimpse of your profile, or noticed the sway of your walk, the knot tightened. He felt like he was vibrating with it. Slowly losing his mind.

One evening, the grey sky turned to a bruised purple as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was sharp, biting at any exposed skin. Gator sat in his cruiser, parked in the shadows, watching your house.

He saw your car pull into the driveway. You looked tired, your shoulders slumped as you grabbed your purse and headed for the door. You were fumbling with your keys, the metal jingling in the quiet evening air.

And then, you dropped them.

They hit the concrete with a clang, sliding out of reach towards the icy patch near the tire.

Gator watched you sigh, saw the frustration etched into your posture even from this distance. You bent down to retrieve them, slipping on the ice, your body jarring from the impact of the sudden fall. Your face contorted in mild pain.

That was it.

The rubber band snapped.

Gator threw the car door open, the cold air hitting him like a slap. He didn't think. He didn't plan. He just moved. He crossed the street in long strides, the gravel crunching under his boots, the sound swallowed by the wind.

He was on you before you had a chance to straighten up.

"Need a hand, ma'am?"

His voice was low, rougher than he intended. You scrambled fruitlessly to right yourself, holding your keys clutched in your hand like a weapon. Gator didn’t miss how you eyes went wide as they landed on him. The uniform, the badge, the gun.

"Gator Tillman, Sheriff's Department," he said, flashing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He tipped his hat, a gesture so practiced it felt like second nature. "I saw you strugglin’ from back there. Lemme help you up.”

You relaxed, just a fraction, but your eyes were still scanning him warily. Smart girl. Can’t say I blame you. "I... I dropped my keys and slipped. Thanks."

"No trouble at all," he said. He reached down,l to take your hand and help you to your feet. The contact was electric, a spark that shot up his arm and settled somewhere deep in his gut. He held onto you for a second longer than necessary, wishing nothing more than to see what you were hiding under all those layers that kept out the biting cold.

"New in town?" Gator asked, gesturing towards your house with the implication that he intended to walk you to your door. It wasn’t has if he didn’t already know the answer to his question. He knew your shoe size, your credit score, and your mother's maiden name. But he wanted to hear you say it.

You nodded, still clutching your keys like a weapon. Kinda cute that she thinks those would stop me. "Yeah. Just moved in a few weeks ago."

"Welcome to North Dakota," Gator said, leaning casually turning to lean against a pillar on the front step of your porch, blocking your path to the house. "Beautiful place. If you like freezing your ass off."

You laughed. Short and nervous. "It's definitely an adjustment."

Gator looked at you, really looked at you, up close for the first time. He could see the color of your eyes, the way a stray lock of hair was escaping the style you’d put it in that morning, the pulse beating franticly in your throat. You were terrified.

And God, it made him want to ruin you.

"Well," he said, pushing off the pillar and taking a step back, giving you just enough space to scoot by him. "You be careful out here. Lots of ice. And folks say there's been some strange activity on this street lately. Break-ins and such."

The lie rolled off his tongue smooth as silk. There hadn't been a break-in in this town in six months. Maybe eight. Fuck if he’d remember.

Your pupils dilated slightly in panic. "Break-ins?"

"Nothing to worry yourself about.” Gator replied, his eyes locking onto yours, pinning you in place. "S’long as you've got friends in high places."

He tipped his hat again, turned, and headed to his cruiser without looking back. With a smile, he could feel your eyes on his back, boring holes into his jacket. He got into the car and started the engine, his hands steady on the wheel even though his heart was hammering.

He had made his move. The game had changed.

As he drove away, watching your figure shrink in the rearview mirror until it disappeared into the dark, Gator Tillman smiled. Hungry and dark. He had given you a warning - of sort. But really, if you thought about it, it was more of a promise.

You weren't alone anymore.

The frequency of his appearances became a pattern that you couldn't quite ignore, though you tried.

It started at the diner on a Saturday morning. You were hunched over a plate of eggs & pancakes, reading your book and trying to make yourself as small as possible. The bell above the door chimed, and a heavy-booted tread echoed on the linoleum. You didn't look up, but you felt him. Like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.

Gator didn't sit in his usual booth by the window. He slid into the booth directly behind yours, close enough that if he’d tilted his head back far enough, it would’ve collided with yours. He didn't say anything at first. Just ordered coffee and sat there. The silence was heavy, loaded.

When you got up to leave, shifting your bag to your shoulder, he stood up as well, “accidentally" bumping into you as you passed. You stumbled slightly, your hip catching the edge of the table.

"Whoa, there, missy.” Gator said, reaching out a hand to steady you. You flinched, but his grip was firm. His fingers had wrapped around your upper arms under the guise of helping you, and then they lingered there. His skin was hot, even through the sleeve of your sweater. "Easy does it."

You pulled away sharply, muttering an empty thanks that you didn't feel, and hurried out the door. Behind you, you heard the low chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine. He had touched you, and you had flinched. And he liked that.

A few days later, it was the grocery store. You were in the aisle with the baking supplies, staring determinedly at the top shelf, trying to decide between two brands of flour. You stood on your tiptoes, straining, your fingers brushing the edge of the bag.

A shadow fell over you.

"Need a boost, sweetheart?"

You didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Gator stepped up into your personal space, his chest pressing against your back, almost forcing you into the shelves. He didn't ask; he just reached up effortlessly, his arm brushing past your ear, and grabbed the bag you’d been eyeing. He smelled like cold air, something weirdly sweet, and the distinct, metallic scent of gun oil.

You turned, and he handed it to you with a smirk that made your stomach flip over. "This the one?"

You took it, forcing a polite smile that felt brittle. "Yeah. Thanks, Deputy."

"Gator," he corrected, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We're neighbors, practically. No need to be formal."

You nodded quickly and moved your cart toward the checkout, your heart hammering against your ribs. Even though you didn’t spare him another glance, you knew he was still watching you. His gaze was tracking your every move like a wolf watching a deer through the trees. He wasn't being helpful. No. He was reminding you that he was bigger, stronger, and always - always - there.

Then came the gas station after work one day. You were filling up your tank, shivering in your coat, watching the numbers tick up. A black sedan pulled up to the pump opposite yours.

The window rolled down, and Gator leaned out, one arm resting on the door frame. He wasn't in uniform this time - though he was still wearing that leather jacket and a hat pulled low. But you were certain that the badge on his belt was still there. Just out of sight.

"Fancy meeting you here," he called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the gasoline pumping. "Small world, ain't it?"

You froze, the nozzle still in your hand. This was the third time in a week. Granted, this was a small town, but it felt like a statistical impossibility. You’d never been great at math, but the amount of times you’d run into Gator simply felt too coincidental to be an accident.

"Yeah," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "Yeah. Real small."

Gator got out of the car, stretching, his joints cracking in the cold air as he meandered over to your side, leaning against the pump and invading your space with casual confidence. He looked at the price meter, then back at you.

"Full tank, huh? Good idea in this sorts weather." he noted. "Or are you runnin’ away or somethin’?"

The oddly phrased question hung in the air, sharp and probing. You felt a sharp spike of fear, and you replaced the nozzle on the pump, screwing the cap on tight till you heard the click.

"Just living my life, Deputy.” You answered, emphasizing his title. Guys like him loved a power trip, and you could tell. You moved to get into your car, but he stepped slightly to the side, blocking your path. It wasn't aggressive, just a subtle shift of his weight. But it was enough.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the teasing lilt. "I've been thinkin’ about you."

You stopped, hand on the car door. You refused look at him. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Since I helped you with those keys. Can't get you out of my head." He took a step closer, the leather of his jacket creaking. "I was thinkin’ we should go get a drink together. Somewhere quiet. No interruptions and whatnot. Just you and me."

The air between you seemed to thicken. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the intensity of his focus. It wasn't a request. It was a demand. And the way he looked at you made your skin crawl.

You looked up then, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. They were dark, swirling with something you didn't want to name. "That's really nice of you to offer, Gator. But I have to say no."

The words hung there, stark and final in the chilly nighttime air.

For a second, the mask slipped. The friendly-adjacent facade on Gator’s face cracked, and you saw something flash behind his eyes. A mix of surprise and a cold, dark anger. He didn't look away. He didn't step back.

"No?" He repeated, as if the word were foreign to him.

"No.” You affirmed, your voice stronger now.

“Why?”

“No is a full sentence, Deputy.”

Gator’s brow furrowed, and you were afraid you’d crossed a line. As if he hadn’t likely crossed a dozen.

“Yeah, yeah.” He frowned. “Lemme guess - not a fan of cops?”

Correct. Also not a big fan of you, specifically.

“Look, you seem like a nice guy.” You decided, for your own safety, to placate him a little bit. “But I'm not looking for anything right now. I'm sorry."

You yanked the car door open and got in, shutting it firmly before he could say anything else. You didn't look back as you started the engine and pulled away, tires crunching on the snow and ice.

In your rearview mirror, you saw him still standing by the pump, watching you go. He hadn't moved. He was just a dark silhouette against the bright lights of the station, remaining perfectly still, his hands shoved in his pockets.

And as you drove home, checking your mirrors every thirty seconds to make sure you weren't being followed, there was a gnawing sensation in your gut. It felt like you hadn't just rejected a date with Gator Tillman. You had just issued him a challenge.

The word "no" didn't compute. It bounced around the inside of Gator’s skull like a loose bullet, looking for a place to land.

He sat in his car for twenty minutes after you drove away, the engine cooling down, the temperature inside the cab dropping to match the bitter freeze outside. He stared at his hands as they gripped the steering wheel.

How could you say no to him? He was Gator Tillman. He had the badge, the gun, the last name. In this town, people didn't tell him no. They scurried out of his way. They lowered their eyes. They laughed at his jokes even when he knew for a fact they weren't funny.

He replayed the moment in his head. Your voice. The polite, firm refusal. The way you hadn't even stuttered.

"She's just playing hard to get.” He muttered to the silence, but the statement felt hollow. He sounded like a liar.

If you were playing, the game had just changed levels. And Gator was done waiting for you to make the next move.

The following week, the walls of your life began to close in. It started with the patrol car. It was parked outside your house when you left for work in the morning. It was there when you came home. Sometimes it was idling at the end of the street, sometimes it was parked directly across the driveway, an imposing barricade with a lightbar on top.

Gator would be sitting inside, his eyes hidden by aviator sunglasses, just watching. When you pulled in, he’d give a casual salute, a two-fingered wave that was meant to be reassuring but felt like a threat. I see you. I'm here.

You tried to ignore it, burying yourself in your routine. But you didn’t realize that your precious routine was exactly what he was targeting.

Thursday night, your coworkers invited you out for drinks. You needed it. You needed to feel human, to laugh at something that wasn't terrifying. You went to a bar on the edge of town, a dive with dim lighting and loud music, the kind of place where you could disappear into the crowd.

For an hour, it worked. You had a beer, you nodded along to stories about office politics, you started to breathe again.

And then you saw him.

He was in the dark corner booth, the one usually occupied by the old timers playing dominoes. But tonight, it was just Gator. He was turned sideways in the booth, his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out under the table. He had a whiskey in front of him, untouched, and his eyes were fixed on you.

The shock of it knocked the breath out of your lungs. You froze with your glass halfway to your mouth.

He didn't wave or smile. He just watched. The predatory stillness of him made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You saw him lift his glass slightly in your direction, a silent toast, before taking a slow sip. The message was clear: There is no place in this town where I am not.

Making a quick excuse to your coworkers, you practically fled the bar. You didn't look back to see if he followed, but felt the phantom sensation of his gaze on your spine the entire slippery walk to your car.

And still, the pressure built.

Two days later, you were grabbing lunch at the deli near your office. You were standing in line, scrolling aimlessly through your phone when you felt an unpleasantly familiar presence slide up behind you.

"Busy day, darlin'?"

You flinched, nearly dropping your phone. Gator was standing right there. In line. Behind you. He wasn't wearing the uniform jacket, just a flannel shirt and his badge clipped to his belt, but the authority radiated off him in waves that made everyone else in line actively shrink back. He was standing too close. You could feel the heat from his chest against your back.

"Deputy," you said, your voice tight. You stepped forward, putting a foot of distance between you.

"Gator," he corrected instantly, his voice dropping to a confusingly tender cadence. "How many times I gotta tell you?"

You ignored him, turning back to the counter. "I'm just getting lunch."

"I see that," he said. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your ear. "You look tired, sweetheart. Sleepin’ okay?"

The use of the endearment made your skin crawl. It was possessive, familiar. It implied a level of intimacy that didn't - and never would, if you had anything to say about it - exist between the two of you.

"I'm fine.”

"You sure?" He reached out, his fingers hovering near your arm, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the static. "’Cause I've noticed your lights are on real late these days. You should rest. I worry about you."

The implication that he was watching your house at night sent a bolt of pure fear through you. Your hands, which you’d balled into fists in your coat pocket, started to tremble. You grabbed your sandwich the second the clerk handed it over.

"I have to go.” You turned to leave, and Gator was right in your path.

He lingered for a moment, a ghost of satisfaction crossing his face. Then he finally stepped aside, but as you passed him, he shifted his weight just enough that your shoulders brushed. He didn't apologize, just looked down at you, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"See you around, sugar.”

You walked back to work, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs. You sat at your desk, staring at your computer screen, but you couldn't focus. The walls of the office felt too thin. The windows felt like eyes.

It felt as though he was eroding your boundaries, chipping away at your sense of safety one small, calculated interaction at a time. From the whispers you’d heard, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and his father Roy was the one everyone was truly frightened by. But still. Gator was everywhere, seeping into the cracks of your life until there was no air left.

That evening, you drove home slowly. You didn't want to go right where you knew that he would be - but it wasn’t as though there were other options.

Sure enough, the black and white cruiser was parked under the streetlight at the end of your block. The headlights were off, but the interior lights were on, illuminating Gator in the driver's seat. He was writing something in a notebook, looking for all the world like a dedicated officer on patrol.

But as you pulled into your driveway, he looked up. He closed the notebook and watched you get out of the car, watched you walk to your door, watched you fumble with the keys.

You didn't look at him. If you looked, you knew you'd see that hungry, obsessed look again. And you weren't sure you could keep it together if you did. Based on your previous interactions - you were certain that he’d love nothing more than for you to fall apart. If for no other reason than you’d have someone to cling to to put you back together.

You went inside and locked the door, double-checking the deadbolt twice. You walked to the window and peeked through the blinds.

The cruiser was still there. What did you expect?

And then, the dome light flickered off, plunging the cab into darkness. But the car didn't move. It was just a shell now, a dark shape sitting in the snow, waiting.

He was out there, in the dark, thinking about you. Plotting his next move.

The clock on the office wall read 8:45 PM when you finally shut down your computer a few days later. The rest of the building was silent, the cleaning crew having already passed through, leaving the smell of lemon polish in their wake. You rubbed your temples, exhaustion throbbing dully behind your eyes.

Normally, you’d be home by now. In your sweatpants, curtains drawn, pretending you couldn't see the patrol car parked down the street. But an emergency with the quarterly spreadsheets - and promise of a little overtime money - had kept you tethered to your desk long past the normal time.

Your stomach gave an angry growl, reminding you that you hadn't eaten for many hours. The thought of going home to an empty fridge and the suffocating silence of your house - under his watchful eye - was unbearable.

You grabbed your coat.

"Chinese," you muttered to yourself. "I'll go pick it up. And I'll go straight home."

You drove across town to the only takeout place in town - but still some of the best you’d ever had. It was entirely out of your way, on the other side of town, a tiny brick building at the end of a strip mall next to a pawn shop.

Snow was falling again, heavier this time, blanketing the dirty asphalt in white. You parked around the back, darting inside. The smell of delicious food was a comforting assault on your senses. You paid, took the little plastic thing that vibrated in your hand, and leaned against the counter to wait.

You felt lighter. For the first time in weeks, the invisible vise grip around your chest loosened. Gator didn't know where you were. He was probably sitting outside your house right now, wondering why your lights weren't on, staring at an empty dark window like a gun-toting gargoyle. The thought gave you a petty, sharp thrill.

"Order 42?”

You grabbed the brown paper bag, thanking the employee as warmth seeped through the containers against your hands. You pushed the door open with your body and rounded out into the alley next to the building.

The cold air hit you, but it wasn't the wind that made you stop.

It was the figure standing about halfway down, leaning against the brick wall. Blocking the route to your vehicle.

Your heart skipped a beat, then hammered into a frantic rhythm.

Gator pushed off the wall and stepped into a pool of red light spilling from a neon sign above. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't doing that fake-friendly neighbor thing. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his jaw set so hard you could see the muscle twitching beneath the skin. The snow dusted the shoulders of his leather jacket, melting into the dark material.

He looked furious.

"Dep- Gator?" You managed, your voice coming out small and trembling. "What... what are you doing here?"

You took a step back, your heel slipping slightly on a patch of ice. He was looking at you like you’d personally insulted his entire bloodline.

"I've been sitting outside your house for three hours," he said. His voice was dangerously low, devoid of the teasing lilt he usually affected. "Lights are off. Car's gone. You're nowhere."

"I..." You clutched the takeout bag tighter, your knuckles white. "I had to work late. And I was hungry so I -"

"Work late," he repeated, mocking the words. "You didn't call. You just vanished."

“How would I have called you?” You prickled with annoyance. “I don’t have your -“

Gator started walking toward you. Slow, deliberate strides. The heavy crunch of his boots on the snow was the only sound in the alley.

"You changed your routine.” Accusation dripped from every syllable. "Why?"

You backed up, your back bumping into the brick wall of the restaurant. The rough brick scraped against your coat. "I'm just getting dinner."

"You're not supposed to be here," he snapped. He stopped a foot away from you. He was taller than you remembered, broader, looming over you like a storm cloud. His eyes were wide, manic, darting over your face like he was trying to solve a math problem that didn't add up. "I checked the grocery store. The diner. Gas station. You weren't anywhere."

"Fucking hell. Who cares?" You cried out, anger finally overriding your confusion. "I don’t need your permission. I just wanted to get food without you stalking me.”

The word "stalking" snapped something in him. His face darkened, the shadows deepening around his eyes. He didn't deny it or even look remotely guilty. He just looked… Offended.

"Stalking?" Gator took a final step, closing the distance completely. He crowded you, invading your space until there was nowhere left to go. "I'm keeping you safe. There's a difference."

"I don't need you to keep me safe!" You pressed yourself flat against the wall, trying to disappear into the mortar. "I need you to leave me alone."

Gator slammed his hand against the wall beside your head, the smacking sound echoing like a gunshot. You flinched violently, squeezing your eyes shut.

When you opened them, he was right there. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey and artificial strawberries. He was breathing hard, chest heaving.

"You think you can just run off?" He whispered, voice cracking. "You think you can just hide from me? I know everything about you. I know what you eat for breakfast. Where you work. What book you’re readin’ right now. That you're afraid of the dark. And you think you can just slip away?"

"Please, Gator.” The takeout bag crumpled in your terrified grip. "Just let me go home."

"You disrupted the pattern," he said, his eyes searching yours, wild and unfocused. "You broke the rules."

"There are no rules!" Your voice cracking. "It’s not like I’m your prisoner!"

Gator grabbed your chin then, his grip bruisingly tight, forcing you to look at him. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't pretending to be the good guy anymore - not that he ever really was to begin with. The mask was gone, leaving only the terrifying obsession underneath.

"You're right. You’re not a prisoner.” His calloused thumb stroking your cheek almost gently. "You're mine. And I don't like it when my things wander off where I can't find them."

Before you could fully process the terrifying weight of that statement, his leg moved. He shoved his knee forward and forced it between your thighs and pinning you against the rough brick with his body. The sudden pressure knocked you off balance and you dropped your takeout bag. You had no leverage, no way to push him back. You were trapped.

"Please, Gator, don't -“ you started, but the words were cut off abruptly.

He didn't ask. Didn't hesitate. He crashed his mouth down onto yours.

It wasn't a kiss - not like the kinds you’d had before. His lips were cold and chapped from the winter air, but the pressure was searing. He forced your head back against the brick, his hand moving from your chin to the back of your neck, gripping you tight so you couldn't turn away. You tasted whiskey and artificial strawberries on his breath, mixed with the metallic tang of your own fear.

You shoved against his chest, your hands clawing at the leather of his jacket, trying to find a purchase to push him off. But he was immovable. A wall of muscle and pent-up aggression. You twisted your hips, trying to kick him or at least dislodge his knee, but the friction only seemed to spur him on.

He groaned low in his throat, a guttural sound of satisfaction that vibrated against your lips. His free hand roamed over your body. Not gentle or exploring, but claiming. He gripped your waist under your coat, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, dragging down to your hip and pulling you flush against him.

What made it all the worse was that he was reveling in it. The the way you squirmed and tried to resist him. The heat of your body trapped against his. In the reality of you finally in his physical grasp.

Your struggling only seemed to validate his delusion. When you gasped for air, he took the opportunity to deepen the assault, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. It was invasive and all-consuming. He was breathing hard, his heart hammering against your chest where he pinned you.

After just a few moments, you could feel the terrifying extent of his arousal, despite the fact that you weren’t returning any of his affections. But it seemed like he didn't care if you kissed him back. He just wanted you to feel him. He wanted you to understand that your body was his to touch and take, whether you wanted it or not.

The rough brick scraped at your back through your coat, but the front of you was enveloped by him. You were drowning in his scent and body, nearly frozen by the violation of it all. Your hands limply beating against his torso as he devoured you alive in the shadows of the alley.

Abruptly, he pulled back, releasing your trembling form and leaving you gasping. Your lungs burning for air that suddenly felt too thin. His chest was heaving, the leather of his jacket squeaking with every ragged breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours, dark and satisfied.

You were trembling so hard your teeth rattled. You could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips, the bruising grip of his fingers on your hip. Your back throbbed where it had been pressed into the brick.

"See?" Gator said, his voice rough but steady, terrifyingly calm. "Wasn’t so bad, was it?"

He reached out, brushing a stray hair away from your face with a tenderness that made your stomach turn. You flinched, shrinking away from his touch, and he let his hand drop, his jaw tightening.

"Don't look at me like that," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "Like I'm some kind of monster. I'm the guy who just saved you. You're out here - wanderin’ around in dark alleyways... Anything could have happened to a pretty lil’ thing like you."

You stared at him, incredulous anger warring with the terror freezing your veins. "Saved me? You j-just assaulted me."

"I kissed you," Gator corrected, eyes hardening. "There's a difference. And you didn't exactly stop me, did you? You didn't scream or nothin’."

"I couldn't, you were -" You trailed off. Maybe it was in your best interest not to piss him off further.

The air between you was thick, electric with terror and something else. Something dark that radiated off him like heat. You were trapped. The wall at your back, and a monster in front of you.

"Tell me where you're goin’ next time," he ordered, his voice dropping to a growl. "Before you go. Understand?"

You stared at him, your pulse hammering in your throat so hard he could probably see it. You wanted to fight, to scream, to kick him in the shins, but the sheer weight of his presence paralyzed you. This was a man with a gun and a badge who had apparently decided, for whatever reason, that you were property. His property.

"Yes.” The word he finally wanted to hear. "I understand."

"Good girl.” He said, demeanor softening just a fraction, though the madness remained. "Now. You're gonna get in your car. Drive home. And tomorrow, we're gonna have a long talk about following instructions."

He pulled his hand back, straightening his jacket, the terrifying fury settling back into a simmering, barely-controlled menace. He stepped back, giving you room to breathe, but his eyes never left yours.

"Go.”

and when you’re alone?

well—he has no shame in begging.

“baby, let me taste your sweet pussy,” he would murmur in your ear after covering your neck in his wet kisses, grinding against you desperately—his eyes nearly rolling back when he could feel how wet you already were through your panties. “baby—she’s already fucking crying for me. let me—”

of course you let him. you let him lap at your soaked cunt until you’re dripping down his chin. he’s that needy that he’s rutting against the mattress. he’s moaning into you, fingers gripping your shaking thighs as eats you out like you were a five star fucking meal.

he even cums in his pants when you finally come undone beneath him

and after? well, he’s pulling you into his chest and whispering how much he loves you, how good you were for him, how he happy he would be to die between your thighs.

and when you fall asleep soon after, he’s watching—thinking how fucking lucky he was.

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

first smut writing!! be nice guys

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