mourning dove⋆

“Gimme’ a french fry.”

It was late, a Thursday night in early September nearing a bit too close to midnight. Your thighs stuck to a cracked leather booth as the ambient hum of kitchen noise took over the burger joint dining room. You were very grateful for this shitty establishment, being it was the only place open late enough for you, and the man that was definitely not your boyfriend, to grab a bite to eat.

A night like tonight typically went as follows:

A text would ping your phone, interrupting you from whatever self care activity you were doing on one of your only nights off during the week, the alligator emoji mocking you as it slid onto the top of your screen.

wyd tn?

You’d pretend as though you’re debating his question; typing out a few potential responses. My nail polish is drying, or I’m watching a movie. Sometimes you consider lying and telling him you’re out at the bar with your friends.

Lucky for you, Gator Tillman was insufferable. You knew better than to tell him something that he could prove wrong in an instant.

You think on it, even though it doesn’t take much other than picturing Gator in his underwear, lying on his bed, lazily brushing his hand against the bulge in his sweats, anticipating your reply. After much deliberation, and realizing that whatever you had to say would make his night, his month, and his entire year, you sigh, and message him back:

come over?

And so it went. Gator was over your apartment no less than twenty minutes later. The movie you were watching long forgotten, the cherry red nail polish you were using to paint your toenails discarded on your coffee table while Gator had your chest pressed flush into your pillows as he drilled into you from behind. Even as the thorn in your side, you had no problem opening up your night for him.

You really hadn’t a single clue why.

Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet” crackled over the ancient burger joint sound system, the one that funnelled constant oldies into the dining area no matter what time of day it was. Usually you were more grateful for the musical stylings of the late seventies but tonight, no. Not tonight. Even a strawberry milkshake couldn’t ease your headache.

It didn't help that you had a second headache sitting in the booth across from you.

“Help yerself’ princess. Y’aint gotta’ ask.”

Gator’s hand pointed down to the leftover fries on his tray, the other bringing the straw of his root beer up to his lips as he noticed you eyeing his fry basket. His styrofoam cup squeaked, and you winced.

“Thanks,” you mumble, reaching over to steal a fry. Gator’s eyes found yours when he swallowed, his cheeks still flushed from your earlier activities.

Gator Tillman wasn’t a bad guy. Not as bad as everyone in Stark County claimed, anyway. You’d met him at a charity dinner—even though there was nothing particularly charitable about the sheriff’s department— after hearing through a friend that the Tillmans would be in attendance.

You’d chosen a floor length, plum colored evening gown, one that accentuated your curves with its ruching and strappy black heels that stretched a mile high. Was your striking outfit chosen meticulously with hopes that the most powerful man in the county would feast his eyes on you and make you his next wife? A woman never tells. 

Despite the work it had taken to get an invitation, and rub elbows with Stark County elites in order to claw your way to an important table, your attempts to catch the eyes of a married man at a charity dinner were futile. You didn’t accept defeat easily. In fact, you didn't consider it a defeat at all.

Because you’d caught the eyes of his son instead.

Equally as influential, though slightly less powerful, Gator Tillman was exactly the man you needed. He was closer in age, malleable, slightly naive— his only issue being how he was the biggest dick in all of North Dakota.

But since meeting Gator, after realizing he was essentially worthless in your plans to fake it ‘til you make it, you’d begun to treat him like you would any other hookup. You’d leave him to rest during the week, not quite entertaining the thought of seeing him until the weekend, quickly realizing that he was a lot harder to get rid of than any other old hookup of yours. He was consistent about seeing you, that was for sure. Not to mention, he was the best sex you’d ever had.

Your roster had dropped significantly in length; from five or six good options— to just one.

You taught Gator everything he knows and he was never one for aftercare, but the more you saw him, the longer he stayed, graduating from leaving ten minutes after the two of you had gotten cleaned up and changed, to getting comfortable in your bed, looking at you with pillowy eyes as he laid with his arm beneath his head and asked: “Y’hungry?”

It was hard to say no to Gator Tillman. And he most certainly had a hard time saying no to you, too. You’d gained the nickname princess after a few choice words exchanged in a Denny’s parking lot one morning after a typical Friday night booty call. He called you spoiled, and you reminded him exactly why that is.

Neither of you ever addressed the elephant in the room. The question ‘what are we?’ hardly ever came up.

Until tonight.

“So, ‘bout what I said earlier…” Gator’s sentence trails back off into his straw, reminding you of the pillowtalk the two of you shared before getting in the truck to grab a bite to eat.

“Oh God, Gator, can we please not do this now,” you roll your eyes, sticking another fry in your cheek to avoid the topic entirely, “we’ll talk about it later.”

Gator scoffs, sinking into the booth, his backwards trucker hat preventing him from leaning back all the way, “Later. Y’always say that shit. Like later’s ever gonna’ fuckin’ come.”

There’s a pause, it hangs in the air; thick, and tension ridden. 

“Y’know, I’m real sick’a ya’. Stringin’ me along like a damn’ puppet. I ain’t a puppet. I mean somethin’ in this damn town.”

You shake your head, glancing down at your thighs below the table. Goosebumps raised on your legs, the frilly lace trim of your pajama shorts peeking out beneath your oversized crewneck. Regretting the clothes you’d thrown on after the promise of a strawberry milkshake, you reach down and bunch the fabric, the action more of a mindless tick than intentional.

“What do you want from me, Gator? I thought we were just— having fun.”

“Having fun,” he repeats your words with a slight bitterness and a tinge of regret lingering on his tongue, “Sure, gettin’ lead on is lots a’ fuckin’ fun.”

“Listen, it’s fun in its own way, y’know? We make it fun. We fuck, you sleep over on weekends, we fuck again, sometimes I let you stay for a few days after and keep me company while I run errands and clean the apartment. That’s honestly– a lot more domesticity than I’m used to.”

Your strawberry milkshake was dwindling down to the maraschino cherry that you’d let sink to the bottom, you no longer had an excuse for your mouth being occupied to avoid all of Gator’s questions.

“Yeah but, it ain’t fair t’ me. I could ‘ave any girl I fuckin’ want n’ here I am. Wastin’ my damn’ younger days on a chick who ain’t even interested.”

Something about the words he spoke plucked at your heart strings. Gator Tillman, of all people on this earth, discussing how he could have anyone he wants, seemed to strike a nerve.

“Yeah? That’s how you really feel huh?” you bite back, crossing your arms tightly in front of your chest. Gator’s face melts a little, but you continue searing bullet holes into his forehead with your eyes. “Since I’m too busy stringing you along, how about you go out and find another girl who’d put up with all of your bullshit? I bet you a million fucking dollars— you won’t find someone half as nice as me, Gator, I can promise you that.”

His nose twitches, your words the hardest pill he’s had to swallow in quite some time. You stay still, your arms still crossed, classic rock still funnelling out through the speakers. The two of you were the only ones left at the burger place.

“I could walk out right now, y’know. Walk out that door n’ never look back at’cha ever again.”

You take one final sip of your milkshake, the limited contents of your practically empty cup making a loud, obnoxious slurp. Gator’s eye twitches, hands clasped in front of him on the table as he uses them to nudge his tray out of the way.

“Too bad you’re my ride.”

He huffs, his lips rolling in on themselves. You’d just made a great point. “I’ll leave ya’ here.”

“No you won’t.”

Without even letting a moment pass, Gator slides out of the booth. You look up at his towering frame, at his leather jacket with the popped collar and the two lines shaved cleanly into his sideburns, wondering if he was actually serious about leaving this time.

He threatened it quite often, but to no avail. You smiled to yourself when all he did was pick up his tray, and yours, to walk towards the garbage can.

It was nearly one in the morning now and the tiredness hit you like a freight train. You yawn, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm as you wait for Gator to sit back down. When he eventually returns, he doesn’t sit. Just towers over you with his hands dug in his pockets. One of them reveals itself, his neon green vape clutched in his knuckles as he takes a frustrated pull and lets the smoke funnel into his nose.

“What’s it gonna take, huh?”

His body leans forward as he presses you. You glance up at him through half lidded eyes. You hadn’t imagined what Gator’s breaking point would look like, and you especially didn’t think it would be happening here, and now.

 “What?”

“What’ll it take? Y’know. T’— win ya’ over? Y’want me t’ buy y’ out? Empty my fuckin’ wallet on useless shit fer’ ya?”

“Gator—” Your sad attempt at cutting off his tangent was helpless.

“I don’t fuckin’ get it, n’ I’m not gonna stop ‘till I figure you out. Y’want jewelry? Lingerie? Roses? Say the word, princess. You’ll make a fuckin’ man outta’ me.”

His tone still rang true to the typical, pompous asshole that he was, but his eyes were pleading. They were wide, and shaky, searching your face and awaiting a response. Waiting for you to say anything at all. After a moment, you slide out of the booth, crowding his space and mirroring the upper hand he thought he had on you, your front pressing against the cool leather that made up his favorite jacket. His breath hitches, but you just cock your head, letting confidence surge through you like lightning. That same tenacity that won him over to you in the fucking first place.

“Well?” Gator urges, his arms crossing over his chest, swallowing indignantly when your eyes narrow at him. You press a finger to his chest, and his heart damn near stops.

“Roses ain’t enough for a girl like me.”

—

It had been a little over a week since you’d heard from Gator. Normally, you wouldn’t even blink. 

You’d go about your weekend as usual, working through your appointments at the salon; sweeping all the loose hair off of the floor, tossing the linens in the dryer and closing up shop just before sunset with enough time spared to make evening plans.

You were usually elbows deep in the washbowl to clean it when Gator would text you, twenty minutes before quitting time, asking if you’d prefer him stopping to pick up food, rather than taking you out later. Sometimes, the message would be risqué enough to make you pull your hand out of the water and toss your phone onto the pile of towels beside you, blush creeping onto your cheeks as Gator would so kindly remind you with a photo of what was waiting for you after his patrol was over.

But tonight, the washbowls were cleaned, the floor was swept, the linens were tumbling and the lock to the salon doors clicked; hues of orange and purple dusk painting the midwestern sky. Tonight, everything was the same.

Besides the text from Gator, which never arrived.

You sat in your car, the air conditioner finally kicking in after a few minutes. You untied your apron and peeled it off, tossing it into your hot pink work bag that sat laden with styling tools and hair products in your passenger seat. The drive home was nothing out of the ordinary; you cracked the windows like always, letting the breeze hit your face as you hopped onto the highway.

You tried to shake the thought of that stupid text; the one that would make you roll your eyes and chuckle down at your phone with enough of a giddy smile to make your coworkers start asking questions. Gator was not husband material; he was barely boyfriend material and he sure as shit wasn’t worth all of the trouble you went through to keep him around. But you just couldn’t help it. 

You couldn’t help him either.

Your knuckles tightened against your steering wheel cover at merely the thought of him. How he was never able to commit to plans, claiming to be slammed with work when you’d caught him in that lie on multiple occasions, at the bar out late with his cop buddies. You thought about the countless nights where he’d grunt the wrong girl’s name, and how he’d get all pissy and ignore you once you did the same.

All of these negatives would’ve outweighed the positives to any normal girl; one with enough dignity and sanity to know that the sheriff’s impudent son was nothing but bad news. 

However, the more you considered it, the more you realized that there was not a single man in Stark County that was as pussy-whipped for you as Gator Tillman.

You pulled into your apartment complex just as the sun fell past the horizon. You had not a plan in sight; not even to watch a movie or do some desperately needed self care. Just a pile of laundry waiting to be folded and an oven bake pizza ready to be eaten entirely alone. When you walk up the two flights of stairs leading to your apartment, your bracelets and keychains jingle and occupy the space around you, temporarily stopping the incessant thought of Gator, Gator, Gator.

You were also trying to stop yourself from checking your phone; you hated how much of a hold that that stupid little pixelated alligator had on you. Shaking the thought for one final time, you pushed open the door and—

Oh.

When your apartment door swings open, you are presented with a full view of your kitchen table, as usual, and it was exactly how you left it; your little pink appointment book left open, pens and highlighters strewn across the open pages as you struggled to jot down appointment times before rushing out the door. Your unfinished hot tea beside it, the tea tag resting beside a smudge of lipstick around the rim.

But there was something else there that you would’ve never expected. Hell must’ve frozen over.

Atop your kitchen table, you gasp at the sight— a gorgeous (and massive) bouquet of wildflowers. Daisies, white lilies, snapdragons, marigolds, and lavender all tucked and arranged neatly into a clear glass vase. One that was definitely in the back of your kitchen cabinet and probably needed to be cleaned. You approached the flowers slowly, as if thinking too hard about any of this would make them disappear.

As you step closer, you can see a small notecard, folded in half, propped up to be standing. You shake your head when you drop your bags, your heart pounding in your throat as you stride to the table and pick up the notecard to read it:

To the girl that thinks roses are worthless.

Crazy bout you,

G.

A puff of air leaves your chest; you could practically hear the smugness of those couple of sentences in his voice. The note was sweet, and thoughtful, but something was missing. It still had that jagged edge, that punch in the gut that feeling left you empty, yet somehow still incredibly full. 

Gator wasn’t the kind of guy to leave thoughtful notes. To go out of his way to buy extravagant bouquets of flowers, or round the hood of his truck to pull open the passenger door for you and carry you bridal style over puddles in the rain. You didn’t think he had it in him.

But to your surprise, and absolute dismay, Gator Tillman does indeed have a heart.

You chew on your lower lip, putting the note back down where it originally was and running a hand through your hair.

“Gator?”

You call out to your suspiciously quiet apartment, knowing he had to be lingering. The flowers were fresh, still smelling like they would if you were to pluck them straight from the dirt. You tiptoe towards the hallway, noticing your bathroom door cracked, the light left on.

At first, you were annoyed— hoping Gator didn’t do anything stupid like pick your locks or use a cutter to chop up your deadbolt. But you soon remembered the spare key hidden beneath your doormat, you’d told him about it once when he jokingly offered to feed your pet hermit crab while you were away. He frowned almost immediately, turning to you and saying “yer’ lucky no one ain’t break inta yer’ shit n’ snatched you up while yer’ sleepin’.”

You really should be more cautious, you thought. Surely he’ll scold you for it later.

“Gate?” you call out again, this time walking towards the outer threshold of the bathroom and standing just outside of the door. Rather than a response, you hear the sink turn on, and the sound of brushing teeth.

Behind the door and sure enough, there Gator stood. Content. Unbothered. Shirtless. Complexion fucking radiant beneath the warm lighting of your vanity, as if the sun were setting against the hundreds of moles splattered across his shoulders. A pair of charcoal grey sweats hung low on his hips, the patch of hair that started at his belly button and led down past the waistband of his pants contorting when he turned to face you. It was the last thing you had your eye on.

“Let m’self in,” Gator announces, toothbrush tucked in his cheek, mouth sudsy.

“I can see that,” you reply, noting only now that the hot pink glitter toothbrush he was using was indeed yours and not the one you kept for him in the cabinet.

He continues to brush his teeth, leaving you dumbfounded in the bathroom doorway. Feeling somewhat self conscious, despite seeing Gator in much less fabric than this, you shrug your cardigan off, letting it hit the floor with a fwup. Gator’s head snaps to face the sound of you ridding yourself of an article of clothing, his hair soft and tousled and falling into his eyes the second he moves his head.

His hair was quite cute without all of that gel and pomade pushing it back. Seeing him like that, like this, in a way that rarely anybody else did, was a blue moon you were grateful for.

“Those flowers,” you begin, stepping towards him timidly, “they for me?”

Gator pauses his brushing, locking eyes with you in the mirror.

“Who th’ fuck else would they be for? The damn’ hermit crab?”

“Don’t be a jackass. They’re pretty.”

You cross your arms over your chest, now standing side by side with him in the mirror. You scan your own reflection, letting your eyes wander over to his. There was something about standing beside Gator whilst he got ready for ‘bed’ in your bathroom mirror that made your stomach turn. His broad shoulders squared, towering over you while he rested a hand on his hip, the bit of pudge that fell just above his waistband torturing you at just the sight of it. Gator looked ravishing in the light of the vanity, like he was a permanent fixture in your picture of domesticity.

This wasn’t the first time the two of you shared a bathroom counter, and it definitely won’t be the last.

“Y’know,” you murmur, after letting the silence hang for only a moment too long, “you didn’t have to get me anything.”

Gator finally finishes his brushing, leaning down to spit out his toothpaste and swish his mouth out with water. He maintains eye contact on his way back up, blindly reaching over to snatch your little purple hand towel off of the hook and pat his mouth dry.

“Whatcha’ should really be sayin’ is, ‘gee, thanks fer’ the flowers, Gator. M’sorry I ain’t talk to ya’ in a damn week’...” 

“What?!” you snap your head to face him, agitated enough by the sound of his contemptuous tone, “You were the one who was ignoring me. You always text me on Friday nights!”

Gator’s mouth opens to retaliate, but clamps shut, as if he were actually stopping to think about what he was about to say for the first time in his life.

“So, you’re finally admittin’ it.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Huh?”

Gator chuckles, it's wry, and condescending. He swivels to face you fully, glancing down at you through his lower lashes with that signature smirk plastered on his face. It makes you want to reach up and smack it right off of him, but the warmth of his body as it approaches yours makes your knees buckle.

“Yer’ admittin’ that you wait up fer’ me on our Friday nights. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Instead’a actin’ all high n’ mighty, like y’ve got better shit ta’ do while I’m eatin’ yer’ pussy ‘till there’s tears in yer’ eyes—”

“Gator,” you snap.

He puts his hands up, feigning innocence, “Just sayin’.”

Your jaw ticks when that shit-eating smile of his doesn’t fade; he wasn’t just being a dick for the fun of it, making you blushy and flustered because he enjoys the shade of rosy pink your cheeks and forehead get whenever he reminds you of just how good he is with his tongue.

He was being a dick because he knew he was right.

“How long y’ gonna keep this up princess?” Gator breaks the silence, it wasn’t long but it was certainly tense.

You glance down at the bathroom counter, noting the fresh men’s razor that was now resting beside your vanilla cupcake scented lotion, “Keep what up?”

“This,” he motions between your bodies with his fingers, “Feel like I ain’t gotta explain much else.”

“Still don’t know what you mean.”

Gator sighs. He doesn’t want to say what’s on the tip of his tongue, though by the looks of how pale his face had just gotten, holding it in and biting it back (like he always does) wouldn’t do him any good in this case.

“Y’seem like the typa’ woman who knows what she wants. ‘Been tellin’ yer’ little friends fer months that I ain’t boyfriend material— yet, here I am. Practicl’y livin’ in yer’ damn apartment. Every weekend. I ain’t miss a beat since the first time I met ya’, neither— I get you dinner, I buy ya’ fuckin’— stupid ass flowers n’ write ya’ cheap notes t’ try n’ make you smile. Shit, ain’t sure what else it’ll take.”

Gator sounded more exasperated than he did angry, as he ran a hand down from his temple to rest on his jaw. He gazed into his own eyes, searching deep within his reflection as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Y’ain’t got shit to say t’ that, do ya?” he scoffs, a wry chuckle slipping past the absolute audacity, “I figured.”

“Gator…” you said, knowing exactly the words he wanted to hear, yet unable to admit them. Mainly to yourself.

He scoffs again, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just that dumb, snarly expression he wore on his face like it was glued there. 

“Yeah. Figured…” he repeats, stepping away from the counter and stepping behind you as he watches you lose yourself now, in your own reflection.

“…I’ll be in yer’ room if y’ wanna fuck about it.”

You didn’t realize your mouth had been open, but upon hearing his words, you pinch it shut. He finds your eyes, and they blaze with passion. With fury. With— a little something else that you could quite put your finger on.

“What?”

“Y’ ‘eard me,” he shrugs, “I ain’t stutter.”

When Gator walks out of the bathroom, you stand in the mirror dumbfounded. The flowers, the note, the ignoring you for a week as a cry for attention. You hated that he knew it’d all work on you. You absolutely despised how this pathetic, cocky fuck knew you like the back of his hand. You hated it so much that it was actually— endearing.

A crooked smile twitches onto your cheeks, not long before you’re turning away from your reflection and walking out of the bathroom towards your bedroom.

Gator Tillman; the man you swore up and down wasn’t boyfriend material, finally had a fair chance.

Not that you’d let him know that, anyway.

It isn’t a long walk to your bedroom, but the ten footsteps you took felt more like a hike up a mountain. You’d stopped a few times midway, deliberating whether or not giving Gator what he wanted was a bright idea. You were already his biggest enabler just from letting him sweeten you up with his bittersweet way of flirting and attentive tongue.

Fuck it, you hadn’t much left to lose.

Gator is already on your bed, sprawled out like he belonged there and truthfully, he did. He claimed that spot just about every Saturday morning.

One of his knees was propped up, with one arm tucked behind his head as he used the other to scroll mindlessly on his phone. His clean, loose hair was tucked away, almost into his signature slick back but slightly less uniform due to the lack of army grade gel. You purse your lips when you gaze at him, leaning your arm against the door jamb.

“You’ve got a starin’ problem, princess,” he hums into his screen, not looking over at you, as if he can feel your eyes searing into his cheekbones.

“I know you want me to admit it. But I won’t.”

“I gave up on tryna’ get yer’ stubborn ass t’ say it out loud a long time’ago. I know whatcha’ want. All’s left is fer’ you ta’ give in. Ain’t nothin’ else to it.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Damn you, Gator Tillman. Damn your sweet hazel eyes and the way you smell like the ground before it rains. Damn your big strong hands that engulf your smaller ones and leave dark bruises on your hips that only the two of you could see. Damn your sweet, sappy affection and your hardass way of showing it.

“What’re ya’ puttin’ on a show fer?” he interrupts the natural flow of things, much like he always does, and finally pries his eyes away from his phone to look at you, “Nobody else ‘ere but me.”

“I’m not— putting on a show. I just— it’s a lot to think about, okay? A lot to consider. Being tied down, and stuff.”

You hadn’t even noticed how many steps into the room you’d taken. Closer to the bed. Closer to a waiting Gator, who had discarded his phone completely and let his arm rest against his stomach.

“You n’ I both know there ain’t nobody else in that little black book ‘a yers, princess. Y’ve been mine since we met.”

“That’s not true,” you say, your voice trailing off at the end in dishonesty, “I have plenty of people on my roster.”

He scoffs, eyes rolling as if to dismiss you and say, get over here and stop talking before we really have an issue.

“Yer a shit fuckin’ liar, I can tell ya’ that much.”

And just like that, you’re on top of him. Mainly to shut up that smart mouth.

His hands are gripping your ass, grinding your hips down onto the chub tenting up in his sweatpants as he licks and moans into your mouth. Your hands found his tousled locks; long manicured nails taking one hand to push his bangs away from his face, the other curling around the clipped hair at the base of his neck.

He bucks his hips up, earning a soft moan from you as he pulls away from your kiss. He doesn’t go far though, his nose bumping against yours, the two of you already panting.

“Y’done bein’ a stubborn brat?”

“Are you done being a cocky piece of shit all the time?”

Gators hand slides up your back beneath your tank top, finding your bra and unclasping it blindly with practiced precision. You suppose that was your answer to that question.

“Maybe we both got things we ‘oughta work on.You’re a raging bitch, I’m an idiot. But ‘ey, if we’re gonna be fucked up, at least we’re fucked up t’gether, right?”

You gasp, and without thinking, lay your palm right across his cheek. His head jerks to the side with the force of your smack, jaw already turning red as he tries to hide his smirk by curling his tongue.

“Don’t— call me a bitch, Gator. What the hell’s your problem? It’s like you’re trying to end up in the fuckin’ doghouse.”

“Thought I’d been in it fer’ weeks now. The fact that I ain’t even there yet is news t’ me.”

Before you could retaliate, Gator’s kissing you again. He’s got you shimmying out of your bra beneath your tank, making you lift one arm, then the other, before pulling it off and tossing it to the side to be lost with the rest of your dirty laundry. He finds your newly bra-less tits instantly, cupping and massaging them as you rest your weight on him.

He sucks in a deep breath, his tongue tangling with yours. The feeling of your body on his was something he’d been deprived of only for a few days, but it had felt more like an eternity in his mind. The feeling of your teeth sinking into his bottom lip while your hands trailed his chest was a drug, and he was an addict. Nowhere near ready to get clean.

“Gate’,” you say his name clipped against his plush lips, as he holds you tightly to lift you with him to sit with his back against your headboard, “I, uh—”

You’re officially straddling him now, still connected, though his lips have traveled down to explore other places and his hands have reached into your shirt to fully pull out your tits. You were now exposed, trying your hardest to just spit out the words you wanted to say in such a weak and vulnerable moment.

Meanwhile, Gator was on another planet— his mouth found the tops of your breasts, already suckling at the sensitive skin there and leaving bruises in his wake. You toss your head back when his tongue grazes your nipple, not taking it into his mouth just yet.

“Hm?” he hums, mouth clearly occupied.

“Gator I just— I’m sorry, okay? I just— fuck,” you’re interrupted when he bounces you slightly on his lap, providing you with some momentary, desperately needed friction.

“You’re sorry?” he parrots you, more so in shock rather than him not hearing it, “‘You actually apologizin’ fer’ once? Or am I fuckin’ dreamin’?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m being unfair to you.”

“Well, shit. ‘Think I just ‘bout came in my pants from ‘earin’ ‘at,” he teases, using his hips to bounce you a couple of times on his lap, laughing when you roll your eyes, pull up your shirt, and cover your face with your hands.

Gator pries your hands away from your face, leaving you with a pout as he takes them into his own, rubbing the tops of your knuckles with his thumbs. “Can you just— not ruin a moment for once? Seems like it’s all you’re good for these days.”

“I’m good fer’ ruinin’ a lot more than moments, princess. Speakin’ of, how many pairs’a panties do I owe ya?”

“At least ten,” you try to fight a small, sweet giggle, but simply cannot, “but who’s counting?”

The corner of Gator’s mouth curves up into a smirk, still mindlessly rubbing circles on your hands. You stare at him for a moment, wondering how a man like him— a cocky, abrasive, nepo baby— could be dumbed down to nuts and bolts when it came to you. Sure, he was still himself; but he was softer. He was more patient, and willing, eager to learn everything you had to offer him.

You were never really sure why you kept coming back to Gator Tillman, or why you even stayed at all. But the way his eyes sparkled as he looked back at you like you were made up of all the stars in the sky made you damn sure now.

“I wanna try this, I think,” you say, a sheepish admission. You don’t specify what exactly it is you’re willing to try, but hey, it was something. Something Gator had been trying to pry out of you for months now.

“That right?” he affirms, “You sure you ain’t hit yer’ head on one’a them blowdryers at the salon?”

You chuckle, the first easy feeling you’ve felt since getting home and the most at peace you’d felt in a week, “Yes, I’m sure. But if you try to pull some shit—”

“Lemme’ stop ya’ right there,” Gator interrupts you with a finger pressed against your mouth, “and make sure that you ain’t got no shit’ up yer’ sleeve ‘neither. I wan’ all cards on the table, princess.”

Without a word, you slither your right hand from his grasp and hold out your pinky, it trembles in midair but it is indeed—

“A promise?” Gator raises his eyebrows, “What exactly am I promisin’?”

“Promise we’ll be good to each other. We don’t have to be saints but, shit.”

“Y’know damn well I ain’t a saint. Never have been.” You nod, lips pursed, because well, he’s right.

“And neither am I. Hence why,” your pinky wiggles, “a promise. To try, at least.”

Gator grumbles like a petulant child, like you’d just asked him to solve a Rubik’s cube with his eyes closed. Like being a good man was rocket science because to him, it really was. It was the end of the world as he knew it.

But rather than giving you a nothingness sort of answer, he sighs, holding up his pinky to mirror the one of yours that you’d left stranded in midair.

“Promise. I’ll be the man y’wanna tell yer’ friends about. I ain’t perfect but, shit, I’d be anythin’ fer’ you.”

Gator locks his pinky with yours and all you could do was grin, like a damn idiot. He knew you had nothing else left to say, having already spoken up to your emotional bullshit wordcount limit and that was fine with him, what mattered now was that he had his answer. 

He’s known since he met you that you were his girl. Gator’s girl. All that was left was for you to admit it yourself.

Gator uses your hooked pinkies to pull you back into him, lips ghosting across your cupid’s bow before taking it into his mouth. He focuses on your top lip for a while, kissing you and pulling back, your hands finding his jaw and cupping his face to absorb and savor whatever tenderness this moment had left in it. For you knew it wouldn’t last much longer. Gator Tillman was not a damn sap.

His tongue slides past your waiting, parted lips, gliding across your bottom teeth and asking much less respectfully for entrance than usual. The heat from before rises again, interlocked pinkies long forgotten as his hands now keep your hips caged in and pressing against the hard on in his sweats.

“Mmh,” you moan, your hand sliding down from his jaw towards the patch of hair on his chest, “Gate—”

“Off,” he mumbles. Demanding as always, but it was a tone you were used to. Knowing exactly what that command meant pulled a dumb, excited grin out of you.

“Yes sir,” you joke, dismounting his lap and kneeling beside him. His hands linger on your hips, shifting up even further on the headboard and spreading his legs. Enough room for you to fit between them.

“Go ‘head, sit.” Gator’s hips settle at the top of the mattress, stretching one arm behind his head lazily while the other pats the empty space between his legs — you lick your lips, hiding your smile as you lean forward and place a kiss on the mole right beneath his jaw.

“Gonna’ make me feel good?” you smile against his jaw, pressing your lips against his temple before a strong arm slithers around your waist and pulls you down prematurely, making you squeak.

Gator grumbles, impatient. “Takin’ too long.”

You’re seated with your back against Gator’s front now, adjusting your legs to mirror his as his hands waste no time sliding down the front of your tank top to cup your breast. You arch your back, pressing your shoulders against his chest and letting your head rest in the crook of his neck.

Gator takes your hardened nipple between his forefinger and thumb, rolling and pinching it as his head ducks down to kiss your craned neck. His other hand is large, and overbearing, taking up half of your face as he intends to cup your jaw.

“Wanna’ see how wet y’ get jus’ fr’m me touchin’ ya like this,” he mumbles, his voice muffled and gruff as you listen to it through the side of his face, “Wanna watch that sweet pussy clench ‘round nothin’ n’ have you cryin’ on my fingers b’fore y’ can even think ‘bout touchin’ my cock. That sound alright ta’ you, princess?”

You were buzzed by his words alone. One thing about Gator, there was never a dull moment. No matter the circumstance, the intensity remained; being around him and with him lied within the thrill of the chase — you never knew exactly which Gator you were gonna end up with.

Sometimes you had the pleasure of spending a rare evening with soft and desperate Gator. The Gator that had one too many whiskey sours and got dropped off at your complex embarrassingly early into the night by one of his cop buddies. He’d lean against your door jamb with a lazy, drunken smile, pleading with those pools of honey he calls eyes to come in and let him suck your tits and curl his fingers inside of you while you pet his head and choke on your own moans.

But most of the time, you were graced with who you liked to call rough and tough Gator. The man you’d met in the coat closet at that charity dinner. The man who’s had you bent over and splayed out on more surfaces than you could count. The man whose mouth was so dirty, his words alone would make you tremble. 

That was the man you were dealing with right now. Regardless of any feelings involved.

“Fuck,” you whisper, bordering a moan, Gator’s fingers still working at your nipple while the other hand reached into your tank to pull out your other breast. He massaged that one too, his strong thighs resting beside your hips and caging you in. You could feel how hard he was, thick length pressing against your back through his favorite pair of sweatpants.

“How’s’at feel? Talk ta’ me.”

“You— God, Gator, feels s’… so good.”

“Yeah?” he hums, pressing a couple more open mouthed kisses to your neck.

“Mmmhm.”

You crane your neck to connect your lips once more, tongues tangling, savoring the taste of one another. You truly couldn’t get enough of him.

And it kind of made you sick.

“Gator,” you sigh, against your better judgement as you knew there was a method to his madness, “Touch me? Please?”

Your core throbbed at just about everything that was occurring at the moment — Gator’s fingers tampering with your peaked nipple, the other hand moved on from massaging your breast, now resting on your stomach just below it. Your back pressed against him, the warmth of his body just adding to the fire fueling in your abdomen. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the pattering of his heart. Every single last bit of it had you worked up.

Every last bit of him.

“Aht,” Gator tuts; you hoped he wouldn’t notice you subtly pushing his free hand down towards the band of your yoga pants, but he shakes it away within seconds, “It ain’t gonna be that easy t’ get whatcha’ want, princess.”

“That— that’s not fair,” you mumble, face still contorted in pleasure as he flicks at your nipple now.

You moan loudly at the action, at the thought of him being cruel enough to hold out on you. A self assured sigh puffs from his chest before he says, “Life ain’t fair.”

You grumble, body slinking further down in between his legs. You wanted to stomp your foot like you were a kid again. Gator knew that you weren’t used to not getting what you wanted, in fact, he knew it better than most things. So when the realization hit that he was holding the baton now, all he could do was smile.

“Gonna’ have y’ beggin’ fer these fuckin’ fingers ‘till ya’ jus’ can’t take it no more, yeh?” His voice is low, and gruff, and enough to make you moan in itself. Each time he massaged one of your tits, the other hand came down and slid across your stomach, nearing closer to your waistband each time.

“Fuckin’— tease,” you spit.

“Oh, I don’t think I’m the tease, princess,” Gator says, amusement clear in his tone as he watches you fall apart, piece by piece, “Kept me waitin’ for a week like it was nothin’.” 

He lowers his hand to your thigh, feeling it twitch beneath his hand as it skims over your skin. If there was one thing Gator loved, it was making your body need him. Breathe him.

“Yeahhh, see? I ain’t the tease here. Yer’ just impatient.”

He cups both of your tits then, working his thumbs over your nipples and chuckling to himself when you squirm impatiently.

“Fuck you.” You really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Not ‘till you beg fer’ it.”

His hand teases you again— a fine line between that and torture. His fingertips had breached the waistband of your yoga pants, tucking themselves beneath the bunched up fabric and skimming right above the top of your underwear. You bite your tongue, not wanting to give into his power trip just yet. But you end up choking on a moan when his pointer finger slips beneath your panties and runs along the crease where your thigh meets your groin.

“Shit— Gatorrrrrr,” you whine, “stop iiiiit.”

“Yeah? S’at what you want?”

Before you could reply and start shaking your head no no no God please no, Gator yanks his hand from your pants. He rests it at his side, nudging his nose into the crook of your neck as you whimper helplessly.

“You’re so— annoying.” you mutter.

“Why? You were the one who told me t’ stop.”

Your lip quivers, so frustrated and pent up sexually that you could actually start to cry. Gator’s body reacts to the way you tense up, you feel him frown against your jaw.

“S’matter, sweet thing? I told’ja it wasn’t gonna be easy.”

“Are you punishing me?” you ask, breathless, “Is that what this is? Trying to make me feel bad? Some dumb power trip to feed that— gigantic fucking ego?”

He’s back to sliding his hand towards your pants again and you could barely stand to sit still at this point. Your core was throbbing, your cheeks were flushed like you were running a thousand degree fever. Gator’s lack of reply only makes you more frustrated.

“Does it feel like yer’ bein’ punished? I thought everythin’ we get up ta’ in this bedroom is all in’ good spirits. ‘Promised ta’ be good t’ each other, no?”

It doesn’t take much for you to boil over — you were hot headed, and short tempered. Another thing Gator liked about you. He knew you wouldn’t play those puppy dog, beggar games with him. Hence why, he fully expected what happened next.

You huff and grab his hand, shoving it down into your yoga pants and using your index finger to guide his between your folds.

The two of you groan. You from the relief, and him because—

“Christ, yer’ fuckin’ soaked.”

You’re left trembling at the feeling, his blistered palm pressed against your pelvic bone as he curls that single finger inside of you slowly. But it wasn’t enough, no. Not for you. Not for the girl who thinks roses are worthless. 

You needed more.

“Gatoooorrrrr,” you whine, the irritation in your voice pairing well with the way your hips were bucking up impatiently to meet him. Gator chuckles from behind you, watching you squirm and try with all of your might to fight the feeling of melting like clay in his hands. But you knew eventually he’d give into your sweet sounds, just like he always did.

“Whatdaya’ want from me?” 

“You know what I want from you,” you seethe, annoyed but knowing he can see right through it. He always could.

He huffs a short laugh, breath warm on your neck, before he flits his tongue out over your heated skin, tasting soap and sweat and groaning a little; you feel it thrum his chest against your back, more than you hear it.

“‘Less ya say it I ain’t gonna know…” he teases, bordering on singsong, and presses his finger a little deeper inside of you, even as you turn your wrist, trying to entice him to do something else, add another finger, rub your clit, anything.

“You just”一you gasp between words一“love digging yourself into a hole.”

“I’m diggin’ a hole now?” he asks, pulling his finger out of you and rubbing through your folds, purposely avoiding your clit, focusing just on the sensitive, quivering space around your slit. “Thought I was in the doghouse.”

“If you thought I was a bitch before…” you say, clenching your teeth as you curl your hips up into his hand, trying to have him accidentally-on-purpose enter you again. But he’s onto you, and he doesn’t, successfully dodging your slit like he fully knows what you’re doing.

“Ya gonna finish that sentence, princess?” he asks, moving his free hand to cup your breast again, squeezing it, his large hand enveloping it as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and middle finger, rolling it just enough that you dip your head back onto his shoulder and whine, loud. 

Gator snickers.

“Takin’ that as a no.”

You have no words, nothing but the hot breath in your lungs and the pressure between your legs, already so worked up you might explode, but he’s giving you no outlet, no relief, no way to alleviate any of it. He’s just working you over, barely even fingering you, his wrist resting against your thigh, not quite two knuckles deep as he lazily strokes at the inside of your cunt, just enough so you can feel it, feel him there, and that’s it.

“Yer fuckin’ drippin’ fer me,” Gator says, his voice low, gravelly, right in your ear. Your breath hitches, your stomach tenses, your thighs twitch, just from the sound of it. “Feel that?”

Without waiting for an answer, and in one quick motion, he lets his finger slip out of you, then presses two back against you, dragging the pads of them up through your folds, gathering up your fluids and smearing them all over your mound, the spongy skin absorbing his touch as he slathers your own mess all over you, wetting your skin enough that when he moves his hand back down, you feel your panties stick to you.

He’s avoiding your clit on purpose, and you know what he wants一what you don’t know is if you want to give it to him yet. Your heart and your body is telling you一 Yes, give in. Ask for it, beg for it, tell him you need it, need him. Your mind disagrees. The longer you draw it out, the more you’ll have him wrapped around your little finger. Because that’s what is happening here. He thinks he’s winning, but you’re consuming him. He’s yours.

“Gator,” you whimper, voice weak, shaky.

“Mhm,” he hums, letting you know he’s listening, but might ignore you anyway. His fingertips drag over your wet lips, finding your soaked hole tucked between them, and as he sucks a kiss to your neck, he enters you again, stretching you just enough that you miss him, even though you absolutely have him.

“You,” is what you manage, sighing softly and turning your face toward him. He’s above you, the back of your head on his shoulder and you arch your back, pressing up enough that you can kiss his neck too. He pauses, waits, his fingers wedged deep in you now, deeper than before. Your arousal is pooling in your panties, probably soaking through to your yoga pants down onto the bed, but you can’t worry about that now.

“Me?” he says, turning to look down at you, the angle a strain on both of you, but he manages to just about meet your eyes.

“Yes, Gator一you一” you stammer. “Enough… pl-please?”

“Ya think so?” he asks, and you feel his thumb skim over the sticky skin of your mound, graze where your labia parts from itself, but he doesn’t dip in between them.

“I do,” you say, nodding, tilting your head a little to kiss the underside of his jaw, the mole there that you’d given a peck to before too.

“Well then一who’m I t’argue?”

You gasp, deep and hearty as he twitches his thumb down just enough to find your clit, and as soon as he touches it you feel yourself gush even more around his fingers. You’re absolutely drenched, and you know, it’s because of him. Not just how he’s touching you一him.

“Yeah, ‘at’s my messy girl,” Gator eggs you on, his choice of words a little too relevant to the situation, “Love them’ sweet sounds you make. Y’gonna cum all over me? Soak my fuckin’ hand?”

Your heart was pounding out of your chest, Gator’s thumb still deftly flicking at your bullied clit while his index and ring fingers curled deep inside of your dripping heat. It was disappointing– at least to you– just how efficiently Gator was able to get you to the finish line, how well he was able to pick up on your signals and whisper sinful things in your ear until you simply couldn’t take it anymore. Your head feels like it weighs a ton as it falls limp onto his shoulder; you could practically hear the brazen smile on his face as he realized he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Gator,” you whine, your eyes pinched shut. His pacing was torturous.

“Hmm?” he hums in response, his mouth occupied with nipping at your jaw, chest rising and falling just as quickly as yours.

“Stop fuckin' playing,” you snap, but it's half-hearted and weak, because you're so wrung out that you can't even manage to keep the attitude.

“Who's playin'?” he asks, but his demeanor changes, his wrist presses tighter against your thigh, and you can feel as he teases entrance with a third finger.

“Fuck—” you gasp aloud, the word cut off as your cunt squelches around him, three fingers now stretching you around them as he lowers his hand from your tit to get that down between your legs too. Your eyelids are fluttering, your thighs tensing up as your heels dig down into the bed beneath you, and you whine when he lifts his thumb from your clit, only to half-scream his name as he replaces it with his other hand, two fingers slicking across the hard little bead with precision. He's moving too fast—your mind can't keep up with your body or maybe it's the other way around—but the next thing you know, you're cumming, back arching away from him, chest bowed up and your mouth open in a silent scream. No—wait—you are screaming, nonsense mixed with his name, loud cries of pleasure as he fingerfucks you through it, his touch on your clit relentless as you soak your underwear, your leggings, your bedsheets beneath you.

You come down with tears pricking the corners of your eyes, your cunt still spasming around his hand chest kicking, heart pounding in your ears. And then, to top it all, his lips brush the shell of your ear from behind as he speaks.

“Missed me, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, breathy and shaking, because what use is it to play around anymore? He knows, you know—your fucking neighbors have certainly just found out—so why bother pretending? “I'm so wet,” you mumble, because you can't think of anything else to say and when you close your legs you feel it, the mess he made of you.

“All f'r me,” Gator whispers, and it's almost softer than you're used to, almost like it's something he doesn't even want you to know.

You don't respond and there's a lull, quiet and secret, just the two of you in your bedroom, as you start to regain your faculties and your lungs stop burning from all the panting and gasping you were doing minutes ago.

Gator slips his hands out of your yoga pants, smearing your release all over your stomach beneath your tank top, but you don't mind if he doesn't, because what he's actually doing is pulling your back against his front, hugging you.

Gator Tillman is hugging you.

You shift a little in his hold, turning a few degrees and then turning more fully, rolling onto your knees, perpendicular to him until you finish the movement and face him. His thighs are still splayed out on either side of you, and now that you're taller than him, he looks up at you, thick eyelashes almost obscuring his eyes, but not completely. Leaning down, you kiss him, capturing his lips with yours as you cup his face with one hand, the other tangling into the thick patch of hair on his chest.

He kisses you back easily, letting you take the lead, and his hands settle on your hips before tugging the hem of your tank top up—way too eagerly to be chill, and you laugh as he breaks the kiss, not by pulling away but instead by just yanking your shirt up and over your head, catching your nose on the way.

“Dick,” you mutter.

“Accident,” he replies, leaning up toward you again, lips parted, wanting your mouth back on his.

“That's a funny way to say sorry,” you reply, but kiss him again, because his mouth is soft and warm and never disappoints.

“Got yer apology right here,” he mumbles against your lips, and you glance down between your bodies to see him tugging at his cock through his pants, palming the outline of his member through his sweats.

“You could literally just say 'my bad,'” you chide him, but you sit back on your knees and push him to lie back against your pillows with one hand, while the other pushes his own off his cock and you begin to rub it instead, feeling it twitch against you a little as you rub at the head through the fabric cloaking it.

Gator sighs, tipping his head back against the headboard, but keeps his eyes on you, your bare tits swinging as you have your way with him, or start to.

Sliding your hand down his front, you tug pointlessly at the already loose drawstrings of his sweats and then curl deft fingers into the elastic waistband, tugging it down with one hand and then two. He lifts himself up for you, just enough that you can pull them down around his thighs, rigid cock flagging over his thigh as you expose it, heavy balls set between his legs and you try to resist the urge you get, but fail—you shimmy back a little on the bed, fold yourself up as best you can, and wrap one hand around his hefty cock while the other fists his sweats, tugging them down and out of your way.

Pressing your palm flat against his stomach, pushing his length against his front, you rub your palm up and down over the underside as you lick at him, the sensitive fold of skin between his cock and balls, and then lower, laving a wide stripe over his sac.

His hips kick and you hear him above you, a quiet little shocked gasp leaving him as you lick his balls, closing your eyes as you hum to yourself, then draw one in between your lips, sucking softly at it and having him just about losing it above you.

Cock dripping precome against his front, every time the heel of your hand nears the head, you hear Gator whine under his breath as you suck his balls and not his dick.

“Fuckin'—” he tries, but he can't finish the thought, because you're rubbing the pad of your index finger over the wet slit in the head of his cock as you tip your head a little to the side, switching up what's in your mouth as you give the other one a little attention.

Above you, Gator lifts his hands, curling both into his hair as he watches, your sweet little filthy mouth working at his balls, sucking them into your mouth in turn, sucking fat kisses to each side, before you look up at him and smirk, and he feels his abdomen clench up, because he thought he knew, he really did, what he was bargaining for, and yet here you are, surprising him all over again. Making him—feel too much, all over again.

With your hand down beside his thigh, you push yourself back up, leaning over him to let your lips just barely trail over his as you start—finally—moving your hand on his cock, fingers wrapped around him, thumb teasing the weeping tip every time you near it. Gator tries in vain to keep himself quiet, and then completely fucking gives up when you speak, voice low and weighty, your mouth brushing over his as you do.

“Let me hear you,” you request, and almost like he was waiting for you to ask, he looses a groan, his chest rumbling as you take his lips again, kissing him. You move your hand to his shoulder, tongues swiping together as you stroke him off, slicking his precome over his heated skin, your soft hand on his silken cock easing the slide. He bites at your lip, drawing you in even closer, and deepens the kiss as he licks into your mouth, his hands back on your hips, sliding up your side until he moves them around to your front.

You tip your forehead against his and look down, into his eyes, as his hands explore your front, your stomach and your waist, fingertips sinking into your plush skin as he finally arrives exactly where you both want him: Your tits. He cups your breasts and pinches at your peaked nipples again, rolling them between his fingers as you move your hand faster over his cock, the friction enough that it's got him acting up—he pulls on your nipples and you whimper, biting his lip hard enough that he hisses and pulls back.

“Dick,” he says, and you laugh loud enough, heartily enough, that he snickers too, not able to help it.

You drag your hand all the way up his length, letting him go, his cock falling against his thigh again with a quiet slap of skin-on-skin, but before he can complain, you only cup your hand beneath his mouth, and yours due to the proximity, and meet his eyes.

“Spit,” you say, following your own order, letting a glob of saliva land in your palm; Gator does the same, and when you wrap your hand around his hot prick again, the difference is noticeable to both of you, but mostly him—his hips kick up at the slick, wet slide of your hand over him, and his lips closed around your tongue, sucking it into his mouth desperately, needing you as close as fucking possible.

You kiss him back, heated and desperate, but as your hand moves between your bodies, working him slow and steady, the kiss devolves into something languid, slow and weighted down with an unspoken meaning; unspoken because you’ve never let yourselves define it, and also because you have no idea what it is or could be. Maybe you don’t want to know. Maybe you’ve always been too afraid to.

But the kiss—even though what is transpiring between you and Gator transcends a simple lip lock—it’s not new and yet it’s unexplored territory between you anyway, being good to each other. Being open, and brave, and letting him in. Trusting that he won’t make you regret it.

“Fuck, baby,” Gator groans against your mouth, and the name does something to you, your heart twanging away at your ribcage as you push yourself closer to him, your free hand curling into the soft, short hair at the nape of his neck, and it’s almost like he doesn’t realize what’s got you in such a tizzy until it hits him that he just called you his baby, out loud, and then it gets him too. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, your arm trapped between your body and his, one of your thick thighs fumbling to the outside of his, so you’re straddling his leg, half on top of him as you try to work your hand over his length, letting him fuck up into your fist just as much as you’re moving the ring of your fingers along his cock.

“Gator,” you whimper, tearing your mouth away from his to look down at him from where you’re just above him, your eyes meeting his—his pupils are blown wide, his thigh trembling against your sopping cunt where you’re sitting on it, and he stares straight into you, holding the eye contact as you feel his cock jump in your hand, and then he’s cumming, hot, thick lines of spunk landing on his stomach, your arm, the sheets beneath you, and the whole time he’s just looking up at you, lips mouthing your name and “baby” and “fuckin’ love—it, love it” and you’d never assume he was going to say something else, but the thought has you trying to press your thighs together again, even though you can’t with his leg in between yours.

His body relaxes back into the pillows, and before you can fathom your next move, he’s got his arms wrapped around you, pulling you down beside him, rolling over to face you, and he’s kissing you again with abandon, and you’re whining quietly into his mouth as he reaches down and slips his hand inside your loose pants to grab at your ample thigh, sliding up to grope at your ass cheek before he reaches further, sliding down, his fingertips teasing your puffy lips and easy slit.

“Pl-please?” you ask, and you’re not sure what it is that you want, but you need it.

“Roll over,” Gator says, and you shimmy away from him, enough to move flat onto your stomach, glancing at him to check if this is how he wants you. But he isn’t looking—he’s stood up from the bed, kicking off his sweats and just going into your bedside table to grab a rubber, because he knows already that’s where you keep them (and also because he put them there). Once he has one, he looks over at you and smirks, leaning a little to the side to swat at your ass. “Still wearin’ these?”

“You said roll over, not ‘strip,’” you retort.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muses, lifting the condom to hold one corner of the wrapper between his lips for a moment, and then he kneels on the bed with one leg, pulling your bottoms off for you and playfully patting your ass before he climbs back onto the bed behind you, “Y’know what I meant.”

There’s a lull in the room as you watch Gator tear open the condom wrapper, admiring his body in the last bit of setting sunlight that flooded your mesh curtains. The curve of his waist, the slight bit of plushy pudge and a happy trail that he sported so well. Golden beams casted onto his supple, birth-mark laden skin like he was a goddamned renaissance painting. A notch of concentration forms in his brow as he rolls the condom onto himself; the only thing you could do now was watch him over your shoulder in pure adoration. 

He looked… beautiful. 

You’d really been meaning to tell him that.

When he finally settles behind you on the mattress, your universe realigns itself— there you both were. Just you, and Gator. The only two people to ever exist, together on a Friday night. His hand snakes down your thigh, goosebumps rising in the wake of his calloused palms.

“Love havin’ y’ like this,” he murmurs, switching right back into sex mode— as he so stupidly called it that one time when the two of you were fucking in the back of his cruiser and you smacked your head on the moon roof. Laughed for a moment, then back to sex mode.

“Yeah? You must think I’m hideous if your favorite position is when I’m turned around.”

The joke lands in your mind, but you feel Gator’s arm tense up, “You got fuckin’ issues.”

“Well, you’re the one fucking me so, what’s your excuse?”

“Girl’a my dreams ain’t come with a warnin’ label, shit,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the shell of your ear as the warmth of his torso radiates onto your back, “All’sit said in the manual was ‘batteries not included’.”

You look at him over your shoulder, straining your eyes into a glare even though it packs no heat whatsoever, “A vibrator joke? Really?” 

“Nah that— s’not what—”

“Girl of your dreams…” you interrupt whatever excuse he had by repeating his own words, the sentiment lingering on your tongue like honey, “hm.”

“What? Whatdaya hummm-in’ for?”

Your cheeks tinge pink before saying anything else, suddenly feeling more exposed than you had all night. 

“Hope you got a warranty is all,” you shoot back shyly, “no refunds.”

Gator chuckles from behind you, his hand now running mindless lines up and down your side. His fingertips occasionally dip down to traipse lazily across your stomach and over the swell of your hip. “No take backs, huh? Even if I kept th’ receipt?”

“You’re way past thirty days. Company policy.”

You feel Gator smiling against the back of your neck, his hips mindlessly, inherently rutting forward, hard cock now flush against the dip in your back. Your entire body shivers at the contact, reminding you exactly where you were.

“Well can’t’cha make an exception?”

His hand snakes between your bodies to palm at his dick, his knuckles brushing against your ass as you feel him angle it towards your dripping slit— already so ready for him. But the both of you were far too stubborn to drop the bit.

“Nope, sorry.”

Without even thinking, you lift your leg, separating your slick thighs to make way for him. The tender playfulness of the moment has you in a whirlwind, gasping quietly as you feel his tip prodding at your entrance, sliding back and forth between your folds as he gathers your wetness. He moans right into your ear; he simply cannot help it. 

“Ya sure?”

“Mmh,” your breath hitches, cunt pulsing in the absence of him, “positive.”

“This— is a dumb ass bit,” Gator laughs again, breathless from the feeling of just how wet you still are, how eager and ready you are for him, “Gonna make me ask ‘fer a manager ‘er somethin’?”

You wanted to roll your eyes and huff at him, but he had you in quite a compromising position. So, instead, you just craned your neck behind you and kissed his cheekbone. Your lips stayed in their place, brushing against his skin as you whispered, “You’ve got her right here.”

With your lips still pressed against Gator’s cheek, he sinks into you, the both of you moaning in tandem at the stretch, the feeling, the everything. He bullies his way inside of you, that first stroke of his always so antagonizing and slow.

“Fuuuuuck,” Gator groans, as if he’d been deprived of you for years, “Missed this fuckin’— God, I missed ‘ya.”

You’re too busy trying to level your breathing to say anything back to him. The initial stretch and pressure of him filling you up—especially when he’s being so tender and languid—always whips you right into another galaxy. You’re always on another planet when you’re with Gator, though. One where the two of you are the only ones on it. 

He starts to fuck into you slowly, deeply, his tip prodding at the spongy spot that makes you see stars with every damn stroke. Your inner walls tense around him and your room is so so quiet, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your breathing, syncing with the beating of your hearts. Those were the only sounds you were paying attention to, anyway.

“Gator I— so— so fuckin’ deep—” You blubber incoherently when his free hand snakes beneath you and grabs ahold of your throat, loosely holding grabbing onto the pressure points between his thumb and pinky. 

“Y’swore up n’down that I ain’t the man fer’ ya…” Gator’s lips tickle your neck as he speaks into you, his teeth slightly grazing against the sensitive skin there, a spot he usually loves to bite, “…Baby, this pussy was fuckin’ made fer’ me.”

The way he speaks, and fuck, that stupidly sexy midwestern twang of his. You could turn around right now, push his back into the headboard and ride him until his wheels popped off. Everything about him drove you absolutely up the wall. But instead, you just sighed, your face flushing red as he fucked into you oh so slowly, so tenderly, so generously, like a man who really wished he’d gotten to do this sooner.

Gator’s hand moves from your throat, down to cup one of your tits. He pinches your pebbled nipple between his fingers and kisses your neck, stopping just below your ear to suck at the skin there, hard enough to leave a mark.

The both of you were blubbering, moaning messes, rhapsodizing incoherently about one another and holding onto whatever part of your bodies you could reach. Your manicured nails dug into his forearm, leaving crescent shaped etchings in their wake. The sweat from Gator’s temples dripped down onto your collarbone. You couldn’t get any closer to him if you tried.

“Baby,” there it was again, “you’re perfect. Perfect f’me. Squeezin’ me so damn tight I might die. Jesus fuckin’— Christ.”

Gator picks up the pace, and immediately you’re tossing your head back in pleasure. Your entire body ran hot the moment he lifted up your thigh and started to fuck into you— hard. Fast. Deep. 

That was Mr. Rough n’ Tough. Here to fucking stay. 

“Gatooorrrr, fuck me—!” You gasp, your knuckles turning white as you grab onto his forearm for dear life. Behind you, he fucked you like a beast; animalistic grunts leaving his chest, a sadistic smile threatening to creep onto his face as he notices your coherence fading.

“Atta’ girl,” he praises, “y’ain’t like me fer’ all that time, huh? Look at’cha now. Gotcha’ droolin’ all over me while I fuck you dumb. Y’love that shit, don’tcha?”

“Y—yes,” you breathe, your orgasm on the verge of snapping like the springs on a broken mattress, “Gator, yes!”

“Lemme’ hear— hear ya’ say it. Tell Gates how much you fuckin’ love it— shit—”

“I love you, Gator! I fuckin’ love you!”

Your orgasm rips through you like a bolt of lightning, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Gator’s pace comes to a slowdown, the two of you coming in perfect synchronicity. His breathing is heavy against your shoulder, sparing you a couple final strokes as his hips sputter to a stop. You sigh, your body impossibly warm, drenched in enough sweat to swim in.

He huffs, finding the stability in his limbs to slide himself out of you, “Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.”

After a moment of quiet, the two of you are on your backs on your respective, unspoken sides of the bed. It always ended this way— the two of you knowing you needed just a moment to recover, yet not wanting to be apart long enough to disconnect. So, every time without fail, Gator’s hand dropped between your bodies, and your pinky found his, interlocking them and laying there while stars fogged your eyelids and the air found its way back to your lungs. Tonight was no different.

“Y’meant that shit?”

You turn your head without lifting it from the pillow to see that Gator was already looking at you.

“‘Meant what?”

“What you said. You said you loved me.”

Despite the darkness that now overtook your bedroom, Gator's eyes still shimmered. He may not think so, but they always looked prettier in the moonlight.

You open your mouth to reply, not wanting to leave such a heavy question hanging in midair. But Gator beats you to the punch, squeezing your pinky tightly before whispering;

“I love you. So much more.”

—

The next morning was spent tangled in your duvet, your eyes fluttering open as the morning sun broke through your chiffon curtains. You groan, too fucking early, and let your arm swing over to the opposite side of the bed.

Normally that would’ve sent a smack right to Gator’s back. And he would’ve slept right through it too, if only he was actually there.

When you finally process that he’s not in bed, you jolt upright, holding your blanket over your exposed chest, a small wave of nausea pinging in your stomach.

“Gate?” You call, your voice hoarse from the activities of the night before, but to no response.

It doesn’t take much to put together the context clues; his sweats still on the floor where you’d left them last night, the neon green vape perched upright on the nightstand that was on his side of the bed. The relief in realizing that Gator was still here made you sigh out loud before sliding out of the mess of your bed and onto the floor.

Gator Tillman wasn’t a morning person. He was hardly an early afternoon person either, typically sleeping until around 1-2pm on his Saturdays off. After getting on a pair of pajama pants and a loose fitting tank top, you padded your way out to the kitchen to find Gator upright, fully attentive, and not sleepwalking like that one time.

“G’mornin’ princess.”

You walk towards him, watching him reach up into the cabinet to grab the box of Apple Jacks that you keep for him in the cabinet.

“You’re up— early,” you say, trying to hide the utter disbelief in your voice.

“Only ‘cause I felt the unshakable urge ta’ make you breakfast. Now can it n’ sit, y’ain’t want yer’ cereal t’ get soggy.”

You’ve had enough moments of rolling your eyes and scoffing at him to count for a lifetime, so instead, you bit back a smile, chuckling to yourself as he whistled while bending down to grab the carton of milk from the fridge.

“Apple Jacks, huh? I get the dicking of a lifetime and a private chef who makes his clients his own favorite cereal, all in twenty four hours? This must be my lucky day.”

Gator smacks his teeth, hitting the fridge door closed with his hip as he holds your bowl of cereal in hand. You can’t help but let your eyes traipse down to his happy trail, down to the pair of boxers he most certainly pulled out of the pile of clean laundry that sat on top of the dryer waiting to be folded. 

“Felt like it was only right ta’ feed’ja after I had ya’ speakin’ tongues last night. Coulda’ swore y’ said you loved me…”

Gator chews on the inside of his cheek when he sets the bowl of cereal down on the table in front of you, standing beside you and waiting for you to sit.

“You must’ve been hearing things,” you tease him, stepping closer and pressing your chest to his, “Pretty sure I said that in English.”

“God forbid a man wants ta’ be flirty. Yer’ a pain in my fuckin’  ass”. 

You laugh at his snide, puckering your lips to meet him in the middle for a small peck, like it’s a toll he needs to pay before you sit down to eat your cereal.

“And for the record, I meant it,” you say, batting your eyelashes. His arms snake around your waist and he leans down to steal another kiss. Then another. Then another. 

“Yeah yeah, I figured. Took ya’ long enough t’ admit ya like me only fer’ ya ta’ say th’ three most important words like, an hour later.”

There it was, that Gator Tillman attitude, the one you revered. The one you adored. The one you loved. 

“Shut up.”

“Hey, y’can’t be speakin’ ta’ me like that! We’re like, boyfriendgirlfriend now. Shit’s gettin’ real.”

You shake your head and sigh with the biggest smile you could muster, so big it made your face hurt. So big it made Gator swat your ass to get you to sit down in your chair. He pulls out the one beside you and sits too, leaning his elbow on the wood and just admiring you as you pick up a spoonful of Apple Jacks. 

“Boyfriendgirlfriend,” you repeat, lifting your legs and putting them down to rest across his, “Gator Tillman, you’re a wordsmith.”

“Ain’t that the proper terminology?” He asks, a slight hint of this is a genuine question prodding through his usual snarl. 

“We’ll workshop it,” you shrug.

Gator runs a hand through his hair, the soft brown locks fanning up and over his forehead. You could still see the sleep in his eyes, it brought out the smattering of freckles on his cheeks.

“I do love you,” you speak again, breaking the silence and reaching for his hand with your free one. He takes it instantly, immediately starting a pattern of rubbing small circles against your knuckles, “Thought you might wanna hear it— when I’m fully coherent.”

Gator’s smile is unlike one you’d ever see on him. It’s warm and sweet, laced with the remnants of the promise the two of you made to each other the night prior. If you could look into his mind you’d see that he’d have no problem sitting there to watch you eat cereal for the rest of your lives.