who is that 𝕃𝔸 𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕘𝕚𝕣𝕝?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ⊹₊ ˚ ‧ — ୨୧ — ‧ ˚ ₊⊹

travis climbed the steps to your little home after a long day at work, his back and shoulders sore from lifting heavy boxes, and his legs aching from walking up and down the stairs all day due to a broken elevator. the only thing that carried him through the tough work day was coming home to his beautiful wife, and your sweet home together.

unlocking the door, he was immediately greeted with the smell of your cooking. as soon as you heard the lock click open, you put down the cookware you were handling and rushed over to him. "travis!" you grinned, wrapping your arms around him tightly. he immediately dropped his bag onto the floor and squeezed you in return.

"hey, baby." he cooed, nuzzling his head into your neck and breathing in your sweet scent. "oh, fuck, i missed ya." he exhaled, pulling away slightly just so that he could look at your beautiful face.

you giggled softly, staring up at him, your eyes still just as full of love as they were the first time you met. "i missed you too." you raked your hand through his hair, your gaze taking in every part of him, from the moles scattered across his face that you loved to kiss, to the way his eyelashes softly fluttered against his cheeks as he looked down at you, his big arms tightening around your waist as he revelled in the feeling of getting to hold you again.

travis kissed along your jaw, "what're ya cooking?" he whispered in your ear, his eyes glancing over your shoulder and towards the kitchen.

you smiled again, pulling away from the hug and trailing over to the stove. "your favourite, you've had a long week." you frowned, taking the lid off the pot to reveal some honey and garlic chicken sizzling away as they cooked to the perfect shade of brown. you watched travis' entire body relax when he saw the food, and the small smile on his face which showed more gratuity than any words could have.

he reached over and squeezed your waist. "i love you so damn much." he exhaled, chuckling.

"i love you too!" you grinned, picked up the spoon from the counter and stirring the meat. "can you get the plates out, baby?" you asked, to which travis immediately opened up the cabinet and handed you two plates. "and how much do you want?"

he stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and breathing in your hair, planting soft kisses on your head. "however much you wanna give me, yeah?"

you giggled softly, portioning out the food so that there was enough for travis to take into work for his lunch tomorrow, as you know how much he loves that. you always made sure to include a note that reminds him just how much you loved him, always along with a kiss mark sparkling from your glittery lipgloss. he always felt like the luckiest man in the world.

you walked to the table holding both of the plates while he continued to cling to you, and when he broke away to sit down, he immediately grabbed your spare hand, interlocking your fingers. "how was your day at work?" you asked with a smile, to which travis just shrugged, his eyes flickering between your large engagement ring and your pretty face.

"fine, it was whatever. griffin had me movin' boxes, i told him i'm a security guard not a warehouse worker, he said he didn't care. god, he's such an asshole." he rambled, eating his food with angry bites.

"poor baby." you cooed, frowning playfully. travis nodded in agreement. "we can just chill out tonight, yeah? take a shower... maybe watch a movie?"

travis grinned, "shower?"

"don't get any ideas!" you exclaimed playfully, squeezing his hand. travis kept smiling, and shrugged.

"nope, no ideas. i'm too tired."

you smirked, "oh, well... in that case." you huffed dramatically, putting on the perfect face of a downtrodden partner.

travis raised his eyebrows, his fork pausing on his plate for a second as he contemplated what he had just agreed to. "well– not that i wouldn't–"

your smirk turned to a full blown grin as you watched him stumble over his words, his face looking amusingly shocked and confused. travis' grip tightened around your hand as you both ate, and you started to giggle to yourself as you watched his face melt into a cute little smile, his eyes shining with love as he stared at you.

he always appreciated the beautiful life you two had built together. you lived in a small, sweet little home which you had spent around a year renovating, since it was relatively run down when you bought it. those were some of the most beautiful memories that he had, considering he had gotten out of prison not long before and didn't have a lot in his life to hold onto.

you were definitely the best cook in the world, at least to him, and travis got to experience it firsthand. whatever you made, he was first in line to try, and he couldn't deny the fact that his jeans had gotten a bit tighter, and he had filled out a lot more since you got married. although, he could never find the opportunity to feel self conscious about it, because you were always there telling him how much you loved him and that you preferred him a bit bigger.

if anything, you made him far more confident, as you were taking any opportunity that you could get to squeeze him and kiss him, and all he has to do is remind himself that you wouldn't be so clingy if you didn't find him attractive.

you both finished your food, and travis took the plates to the sink. "did you like it?" you asked, turning around in your chair to face where he was now stood.

"best fuckin' chef in the world, baby. i told you that. i always tell you that. you can make some bullshit and it'd still be the best thing i tasted. you work some magic, baby." he strolled back over to you, taking your hands and pulling you out of your seat. "god, i love you so much." he smiled, admiring you.

you felt your face heat up slightly, your cheeks surely flushing red. "i love you too."

travis grinned, and lead you into the bathroom, where he switched on the shower, one of your hands still clutched tightly in his. he turned to face you, taking in your cute little sundress. "'m sad to take it off." he chuckled, turning you around and slowly pulling down the zip, planting a soft kiss on the back of your neck as he did so.

it was never in a sexual way, but travis loved to undress you. undoing your buttons, pulling down your straps, untying your ribbons, anything he could do to keep his hands busy, otherwise he would be filled with the most intense cravings to be touching you at all times, and he genuinely couldn't help it, he loved you too much.

he slid the pink straps down your shoulders, allowing the front of the dress to fall, where you then stood bare in front of him, suddenly feeling quite shy. "pretty baby." he whispered, pulling the skirt down too, so that you were just stood in your bra and panties. "god, what did i do to deserve you, hm?" he asked, his voice soft.

"stop." you whispered, a small smile on your face as you reached back to unclasp your bra, allowing it to the fall to the floor. travis' eyes widened ever so slightly, but he busied himself yet again with taking his own clothes off, determined to just have a soft, sweet evening with you. annoyingly, he really was sore from work.

as he fumbled with his belt and pants, you slid your panties down your legs and stepped into the hot shower, allowing the water to wash over your entire body. travis stepped in behind you, wetting his blonde hair, his arms immediately finding their way around your waist, your bare skin pressed against his. you turned around so that you were chest-to-chest, and planted a soft kiss on his lips.

he reached over your shoulder and grabbed the pink shampoo bottle, squeezing a dollop onto his hands before massaging the vanilla-scented soap into your hair. you closed your eyes, a small smile gracing your face at the feeling, and your head fell into his chest, the sound of his heartbeat filling your ears immediately.

travis shuffled backwards until you were directly under the shower spray, and washed out each of the suds, watching the bubbles go down the drain as you clung you him. next, he grabbed your bottle of body wash and began to lather it over your soft skin, admittedly taking his time over your more intimate areas, drawing a little giggle out of you.

you opened your eyes once he was done, and looked up at him, your chin against his chest. "thank you." you whispered, kissing his jaw. travis grinned, and bent down slightly so that he could kiss your mouth instead.

you giggled again, before taking the bottle of purple shampoo that you had bought for him and working it into his hair, taking your time to care for the ends. travis had thought it was a joke, but you genuinely cared about his hair health, especially since he was dead set on keeping the blonde. you thought he looked so handsome, so perfect, but you could always tell he wasn't expecting the brassiness that came with it, hence the little gift.

afterwards, you surprised him by washing him with your soap, as you know that he loved to smell like you, especially while he was at work, as occasionally he would get a whiff of your vanilla scent, and be reminded of how much he loved you, his eyes trailing to the small wedding photo he kept in a neat frame on his desk.

once both of you were clean, travis switched the water off, wrapping a fluffy towel around you, and then wrapping another one around his hips. he lead you back into your bedroom, and you sat at your vanity while travis got dressed, just pulling on a pair of boxers and some sweatpants.

you gently did your post-shower skincare, as well as brushing out your hair delicately, meanwhile travis sat on the bed, watching you with a fond smile on his face. finally, you got dressed, into your favourite pink silk nightdress, before you slid in bed next to him, pulling the covers over your legs.

immediately, travis pulled you into his lap, your legs sideways across his thighs. you felt your body melt into his, and his big, beefy arms were wrapped firmly around your waist, tethering you to him. he didn't really know how to exist any other way.

you had met travis when he had only been out of prison for a couple of months, his life and living situation still very rocky. he drove an old car that barely worked, and lived in a cheap student accommodation that the state had given him for five hundred dollars a month. he still works the same job, a security guard at aitchison storage, however he has a lot more going for him now.

you never minded how much he talked, which was one of the things that he loved most about you, that being the fact he could ramble about his day and never feel like he was being annoying, or that you secretly wanted him to shut up. you were always engaged in the conversation, and you had never, ever told him to stop talking.

the best day of his life was obviously your wedding day. you looked so beautiful in your gown, the sun was shining, and travis just felt like he was trapped in the sweetest bubble of love, and so far, it hadn't popped. he always did his very best to ensure that you were happy, and you always did your best to ensure that he was happy, and he would never change a thing. no matter how hard his work days were, how long they seemed to stretch, or how tired he was when he came home, he knew that you'd be waiting with a sweet smile, and he wouldn't trade that for anything.

even now, watching you fall asleep in his arms, so safe, so comfortable, your mattress tonight being his soft, warm stomach and chest, he knew that there was never going to be anything else that could possible encapsulate the feeling of holding you tightly. he wouldn't even bother trying to find it, because the feat would never be beaten. he loved you with his entire heart, and he was always going to.

you had shown him that there was still gentleness in the world, and that just because he did a few bad things when he was younger, spent some time in jail, and ultimately had to rebuild everything that he had ever known, it didn't mean that he was a bad person, nor did it mean that he wasn't worthy of the beautiful life that you had created together.

he knew that he was going to spend the rest of his years working his butt off to repay even a fraction of the kindness that you had shown him, but he also knew that he'd slave away until the day he died if it meant that he got to fall asleep next to you every night, and wake up with your beautiful face being the first thing that he saw each morning.

he'd never get used to how much you would make his heart soar, even now, you still gave him butterflies, he obviously thought that you were the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, and so the fact that you willingly stuck around with him was still extremely confusing, even if he did cherish every second he spent being chosen by you. he loved you so much, it was completely unfathomable.

"night, baby." he whispered, trailing a finger down the bridge of your nose, causing you to smile.

"goodnight, teacake." you grinned, drawing a small chuckle from him in return. your warm arms snaked around the back of his neck, allowing you to tighten your grip on him. travis pulled the blanket further up, so that the soft material was fully covering your back, where he then ran his hand up and down it, soothing you gently until he felt your breathing even out, and your muscles relax.

his body returned the same motion, all of the stresses of the day melting away instantly when he felt his wife safe in his arms, like it was an automatic response.

this was your routine by now, and he'd never have it any other way. he'd spend forever in this exact position as long as it meant he got to do it with you.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ⊹₊ ˚ ‧ — ୨୧ — ‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You answered. He answered faster. Within an hour the conversation had drifted from awkward small talk into something softer, then something hungrier. He admitted he’d already jerked off thinking about the way you’d come on top of him. You told him you liked knowing that. He sent a string of embarrassed emojis and then, later, a shaky voice note where he whispered that he couldn’t stop thinking about your mouth.

Three nights later you requested him again.

He accepted in eleven seconds.

When you slid into the passenger seat the cameras were still unplugged. Kurt looked like he hadn’t slept well. Dark circles, messy hair, the same nervous energy thrumming under his skin. The second the door shut he turned to you, eyes bright and a little wild.

“Hi,” he said, voice already cracking on the single syllable. “I, uh… I cleaned the car. Like, really cleaned it. Just in case. Not that I assumed anything would happen. I just—yeah. Hi.”

You smiled and told him to take you somewhere quiet again.

He drove with both hands locked on the wheel, glancing over every few seconds like he was afraid you’d disappear. Ten minutes later the sedan was parked under the same row of trees behind the closed auto shop. Engine off. Dashboard glow. Silence thick enough to taste.

Kurt turned toward you, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he admitted. “About… what it might feel like if you ever… you know. Used your mouth. On me. I’ve never—nobody’s ever done that. Not even close. I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask or just sit here hoping or—”

You unbuckled and leaned across the console, resting a hand on his thigh.

“I want to,” you said quietly. “If you want me to.”

Kurt made a soft, punched-out sound. “Yes. Fuck. Yes. Please.”

You climbed over carefully, settling on your knees between the seats as best the cramped space allowed. Kurt’s legs spread automatically to give you room. His hands hovered in the air, unsure where to put them. You could already see the thick outline of his cock straining against his jeans, a dark wet spot forming near the head.

“Can I… take it out?” you asked.

He nodded hard, throat working. “Yeah. God. Please. Just—be careful? I’m already so close and you haven’t even touched me yet.”

You popped the button, eased the zipper down. Kurt hissed through his teeth when the cool air hit him. You tugged his boxers low enough to free his cock. It sprang up heavy and flushed, the head already shiny with pre-cum, veins standing out along the shaft. He was bigger up close than he’d felt through denim, thick, slightly curved, twitching under your gaze.

Kurt stared down at himself like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “You’re actually looking at it. You’re—fuck, your face is right there.”

You wrapped your fingers loosely around the base. He jolted so hard the whole car rocked.

“Sensitive,” he gasped. “Really sensitive. Sorry. I just—your hand is warm and soft and I’ve only ever used my own and it’s not the same at all”

You leaned in and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

Kurt’s head thunked back against the headrest. A broken, high sound tore out of him.

“Oh my god—oh my fucking god”

You licked a slow stripe up the underside, tasting salt and skin and the sharp edge of his arousal. His hips jerked helplessly. One hand finally found your hair, not pushing, just resting there like he needed an anchor.

“That feels—Jesus Christ, that feels insane,” he babbled. “Your tongue is so wet and hot and—are you really going to put it in your mouth? Like, all the way? Because I might die. I might actually die.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” The word came out desperate. “Please don’t stop. I’ll do anything. Just—go slow? I’ve never—I don’t know how long I’ll last. I’m already leaking all over your hand.”

You closed your lips around the head and sucked gently.

Kurt’s whole body arched. A loud, wrecked moan filled the car.

“Fuck—fuck fuck fuck—your mouth—it’s so soft and wet and tight and—oh my god you’re sucking—you’re actually sucking on it”

You took him deeper, slow and careful, letting your tongue drag along the underside. His cock throbbed hard against your palate. Pre-cum spilled across your tongue, bitter and hot. Kurt’s thighs trembled on either side of your shoulders. His free hand gripped the edge of the seat so hard his knuckles went white.

“I can feel your throat,” he whispered, voice cracking. “When you go deeper I can feel it and it’s—holy shit I’m not gonna last. You’re too good at this and I’ve never felt anything like it and I keep thinking about how you’re doing this for me, for the weird rideshare guy, and it makes me even harder”

You hummed around him. The vibration made his hips stutter.

“Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to thrust—your mouth just feels so fucking good I can’t help it”

You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him slowly while you caught your breath. Kurt looked down at you with glassy, fucked-out eyes, lips parted, chest heaving.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I can’t stop,” he admitted. “You’re on your knees for me and your lips are shiny and I just watched my cock disappear into your mouth and I keep thinking this has to be a dream because no one this perfect would ever—please put it back in. Please. I’ll be quiet. Or I won’t. I don’t know how to be quiet when it feels like this.”

You took him in again, deeper this time, letting the head nudge the back of your throat. Kurt let out a broken sob of pleasure.

“Oh fuck—oh fuck that’s—your throat just tightened and I can feel it squeezing and—I’m close. I’m so fucking close already. Is that okay? Can I—do I warn you? I’ve never done this so I don’t know the rules”

You pulled off just long enough to say, “You can come in my mouth if you want.”

Kurt’s eyes went huge. “In your—seriously? You’ll let me? I’ve always wondered what that would feel like and now you’re offering and I—”

You swallowed him down again. He lasted maybe twenty more seconds.

His hand tightened in your hair, still careful, still not pushing, and his whole body locked up.

“I’m—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m coming—I’m coming in your mouth”

The first pulse hit your tongue thick and hot. Kurt cried out, high and helpless, hips twitching as he spilled in heavy spurts. You swallowed around him, taking every drop while he shook and whimpered and babbled broken praise.

“Holy shit—holy fucking shit—you’re swallowing—you’re actually swallowing it—it feels so good and warm and I can feel your throat working and—god, you’re so perfect, so fucking perfect”

He kept coming longer than you expected, trembling through aftershocks, soft broken noises spilling out of him until finally he slumped back against the seat, spent and dazed.

You eased off slowly, licking him clean while he watched with glassy eyes. When you finally sat back, Kurt reached for you with shaking hands and pulled you up into a messy, grateful kiss, tasting himself on your tongue without hesitation.

“That was…” He laughed weakly against your mouth, still breathless. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Like, in my entire life. I didn’t know it could feel like that. I thought I knew what getting off was and then your mouth happened and everything I thought I knew was wrong.”

He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For being patient. For letting me be bad at this and still making it feel amazing. For coming back. For… everything.”

You stayed there a long time, trading soft kisses while Kurt’s heart rate slowly returned to something close to normal. Eventually he helped you settle back into the passenger seat, still looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“Same deal,” he said quietly as he started the engine. “Anytime you want another ride. Or anything else. Just request me. Or text me. Or call. I’ll drop everything.”

He reached across the console and laced his fingers through yours, holding on tight the whole way home.

In the rearview mirror his reflection still looked a little ruined, flushed, soft-eyed, smiling like someone who’d just been handed the entire world and didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.

You stayed quiet for the first few blocks, fingers still laced with his across the console. Kurt kept glancing over like he was afraid the whole night might evaporate if he looked away too long. His free hand rested on the wheel, thumb tapping restless little patterns against the leather.

When the silence stretched, you spoke carefully.

“Are you doing anything after this?”

Kurt blinked. “After I drop you off? Uh… no. Just… going home. Maybe edit some old clips if I can’t sleep. Which is basically every night lately. Why?”

You kept your voice light. “Is your mom home?”

He almost missed the next turn. The car drifted half a foot before he corrected, ears going instantly pink.

“My—my mom? Yeah, she’s… she’s home. She usually goes to bed early though. Like, nine-thirty, ten at the latest. Why do you ask?”

You shrugged, looking out the window like it was no big deal. “Just wondering.”

Kurt’s grip on your hand tightened. You felt the exact moment the implication landed. His breath hitched. The tips of his ears went full crimson.

“Oh,” he said softly. Then, after a long pause, “Oh. You mean… like… do you want to come over? To my house?”

You turned back to him and simply nodded.

Kurt stared at the road like it had personally betrayed him. “Holy shit. Okay. Okay. Yeah. Yes. Definitely. My mom’s room is on the other side of the house and she sleeps with a white-noise machine so she won’t hear anything, and I can park in the driveway quiet, and—fuck, I’m talking too much again.” He laughed under his breath, shaky and disbelieving. “You’re seriously coming to my house. No one’s ever… I’ve never had a girl in my room before. Ever.”

Ten minutes later the sedan pulled into a quiet suburban driveway. The house was modest, lights off except for a single porch bulb. Kurt killed the engine and sat there for a second, hands still on the wheel.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Be really quiet going in. Stairs creak on the third step. My room’s upstairs at the end of the hall.”

You followed him inside. The living room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the leftover scent of whatever his mom had cooked earlier. Kurt moved like every floorboard might scream. At the top of the stairs he unlocked a plain white door, ushered you in, and shut it behind you with exaggerated care.

The room was exactly what you expected and somehow worse.

A twin mattress on the floor against the far wall, no frame, just a tangle of mismatched blankets and a single flat pillow. A desk cluttered with camera gear, external hard drives, and empty energy-drink cans. Posters of old movies stills tacked unevenly to the walls. A laundry basket overflowing in the corner. The air smelled like boy, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of electronics.

Kurt hovered by the door, rubbing the back of his neck hard enough to leave marks.

“So… this is it,” he said, voice small. “My glamorous bachelor pad. Mattress on the floor because I keep saying I’m gonna buy a real bed and then I spend the money on better mics instead. It’s… yeah. Not impressive.”

You stepped closer. “I don’t care about the bed.”

He swallowed. “You don’t?”

“No.”

Kurt’s eyes flicked from your face to the mattress and back. “I’ve never… had anyone in here. Like, ever. Girls don’t come over. I don’t even know where to put my hands right now.”

You closed the distance and kissed him, soft and slow. He melted into it immediately, hands finally settling on your waist like he’d been waiting for permission. When you pulled back he looked dazed.

“I want you to go down on me,” you said quietly.

Kurt’s brain visibly short-circuited. “You—right now? On my bed? My floor mattress? With my mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never done that,” he admitted, voice cracking. “I’ve watched videos. A lot of videos. But I’ve never actually… I don’t know if I’ll be good at it. What if I suck? Not in the good way. What if I hurt you or do it wrong or—”

You guided him down until he was kneeling on the mattress. You sat on the edge, legs parting just enough. Kurt stared up at you like you’d just handed him the keys to the universe and also a live grenade.

“Teach me,” he whispered. “Please. Tell me what to do. I’ll do whatever you say. I just want to make you feel good.”

You helped him peel your pants and underwear down. The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin; Kurt’s breath hitched hard when he saw you.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “You’re… you’re already wet. From earlier. From sucking me off. That’s so fucking hot.”

He leaned in, then hesitated an inch away.

“Can I… just look for a second? I’ve never seen one this close. In real life.”

You nodded. Kurt’s eyes traced every detail, cheeks burning, breathing shallow. When he finally touched you it was with the tips of two fingers, gentle, almost reverent.

“So soft,” he whispered. “And warm. And you’re so wet already. Is that normal? Because it’s making me really hard again just looking at it.”

You ran your fingers through his hair. “Start slow. Kiss the insides of my thighs first.”

Kurt obeyed immediately. Soft, open-mouthed kisses trailed up one thigh, then the other. His hands rested carefully on your hips, thumbs stroking little circles like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Like this?” he asked against your skin. “Does that feel okay?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

He moved higher, kissing closer and closer until his mouth hovered over you. You felt his shaky exhale.

“Okay. I’m just gonna… try.”

The first lick was tentative, flat, a little too firm. Kurt pulled back immediately.

“Was that bad? It felt weird. Tell me if it’s bad.”

“Softer,” you murmured. “Use the tip of your tongue. Right here.” You guided him with two fingers, showing him the spot.

Kurt nodded seriously, like he was taking notes for a final exam. He leaned back in and tried again, lighter, more careful. The second pass made your breath catch.

“Oh,” he said against you, voice muffled. “You made a sound. Was that a good sound?”

“Good sound. Keep doing that.”

He licked again, then again, growing a little more confident with every quiet noise you gave him. His technique was clumsy, sometimes too much pressure, sometimes not enough, occasional awkward angles but the pure eager focus made up for everything. He kept glancing up between licks, eyes wide and desperate for feedback.

“Am I doing it right? Does it feel good? You’re so wet it’s all over my chin and I keep thinking I must be messing up because I don’t know what I’m doing but you haven’t stopped me yet so maybe—”

“Talk less,” you whispered, guiding his head back down. “Lick more.”

Kurt made a soft, obedient sound and redoubled his efforts. He circled your clit the way you’d shown him, then tried longer strokes, then carefully sucked the sensitive peak between his lips the way he’d seen in videos. The first time he got the suction right your hips twitched.

He pulled off instantly. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Do that again.”

“Really?” His voice cracked with pure wonder. “You liked that?”

“Yeah.”

Kurt dove back in with renewed determination, sucking gently, tongue working in clumsy but enthusiastic circles. One hand stayed on your thigh; the other slid up under your shirt to rest over your heart like he needed to feel it beating. He was messy, spit and your wetness everywhere but he didn’t care. Every time you made a sound he moaned softly against you, the vibration sending sparks straight through your core.

“You taste so good,” he mumbled between licks. “I didn’t know it would taste like this. It’s… different. Better. I could do this forever. Tell me if you want me to go harder or softer or slower or—fuck, you’re getting louder. Are you close? Please say you’re close. I want to feel you come on my tongue. I’ve never felt that before and I really, really want to.”

You tangled your fingers tighter in his hair and rolled your hips against his mouth. Kurt followed every movement, clumsy and eager, adjusting when you tugged him higher or pressed him lower. His nose bumped your clit more than once; he apologized every time and kept going.

“Right there,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

Kurt made a desperate little sound of agreement and locked onto the exact spot, licking and sucking with single-minded focus. His free hand slid under your ass, lifting you slightly so he could get a better angle. The wet sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and soft and continuous.

When the orgasm hit, it rolled through you in deep, pulsing waves. Your thighs tightened around his head; your fingers clenched in his hair. Kurt kept licking through it, moaning against you like he was the one coming, drinking every tremor and soft cry like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Only when you gently pushed him back did he ease off. His mouth and chin were shiny, lips swollen, eyes glassy and stunned.

He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still staring at you like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

“I… did that,” he whispered. “I actually did that. And you came. On my face. In my room. On my floor mattress.” A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Holy shit. I’m never going to be able to look at this bed the same way again.”

He crawled up the mattress and stretched out beside you, still fully dressed except for the obvious tent in his jeans. One arm slid under your shoulders carefully, like he was afraid you might vanish.

“Was I okay?” he asked quietly. “Be honest. I know I wasn’t smooth or anything. I just… I tried really hard.”

You turned your head and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. Kurt melted into it with a soft, happy sound.

“You were perfect,” you murmured against his mouth.

Kurt’s smile was shy and radiant and a little ruined.

“Can we… stay like this for a while?” he asked. “I don’t want you to leave yet. And also I’m still really hard and I don’t know what to do about that but mostly I just want to keep holding you.”

Outside, the house stayed quiet. Down the hall his mom’s white-noise machine hummed steadily.

And on the mattress on the floor, Kurt Kunkle held you like he’d just been given something he’d never dared hope for and had no intention of letting go.

-

You felt him still hard against your hip, the thick line of him twitching every time you shifted. Kurt was trying very hard to ignore it, one arm under your shoulders, the other resting carefully on your stomach like he was afraid to move too much.

You turned your head and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I can help you with that,” you murmured.

Kurt’s eyes flew open. “You—right now? After I just… with my mouth? You still want to?”

“Yeah.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ve never… I’ve never done that either. Like, the whole way. I’m a virgin. Completely. What if I’m bad at it? What if I finish in three seconds? What if I hurt you or—”

You sat up and straddled his thighs, hands resting on his chest. “We’ll go slow. And if you finish fast, we can always try again later.”

Kurt stared up at you like you’d just rewritten his entire life. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.” His voice cracked. “Just… tell me what to do. Please.”

You helped him out of his jeans and boxers. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, still sticky from earlier. You stroked him once and he hissed through his teeth.

“Sensitive,” he whispered. “Still really sensitive.”

You rolled a condom on carefully. He’d produced one from a drawer with shaking hands and an embarrassed confession that he’d bought them “just in case something impossible ever happened.” Then you guided him onto his back and settled over him, knees bracketing his hips. Kurt’s hands flew to your waist and stayed there, gripping like a lifeline.

“Ready?” you asked.

He nodded, eyes huge. “Yeah. Please. I’ve wanted this for so long and now it’s actually happening and I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

You sank down slowly.

The stretch was thick and steady. Kurt’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp the second the head pushed inside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave little crescent marks.

“Oh my god—oh my fucking god—” His voice was wrecked. “You’re so warm. And tight. And wet. And I’m inside you. I’m actually inside you. Holy shit.”

You took him inch by inch until you were fully seated. Kurt was trembling underneath you, breathing in short, panicked bursts.

“Don’t move yet,” he begged. “Please. If you move I’m gonna come. I can feel everything. Every little pulse. You’re squeezing me and I can feel how wet you are around the condom and—fuck, I’m already close. I’m so close and we just started.”

You stayed still, letting him adjust, brushing hair off his forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

Kurt let out a broken little laugh. “I haven’t done anything yet. You’re doing all the work and I’m just lying here trying not to embarrass myself.”

When you finally rolled your hips, slow and shallow, his whole body jerked.

“Too much—too much—” He was already gasping. “You’re moving and it feels so good and I can see your face and your tits and I’m inside you and I can’t—I can’t keep it together”

You kissed him to quiet the spiral, then lifted up and sank back down. Kurt moaned into your mouth, high and helpless. His hips stuttered up to meet you once, twice, then he froze again.

“I’m sorry—I’m trying to last—I swear I’m trying”

You could feel how close he was, the way his cock throbbed hard inside you, the desperate little whimpers every time you moved. So you made the decision for both of you.

You sat up fully, hands braced on his chest, and started riding him properly.

Kurt’s eyes rolled back. “Oh fuck—oh fuck you’re on top—you’re riding me—you look so good and I can feel every—every time you go down it hits something and—Jesus Christ”

You set a steady rhythm, grinding down on every stroke so your clit dragged against him. Kurt’s hands stayed on your hips but he didn’t try to take control. He just held on, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“You’re so deep like this,” he babbled. “I can feel you all the way. And you’re—you’re using me. You’re just using my cock and it feels so fucking good I can’t think. Tell me I’m doing okay. Please. Even if I’m just lying here.”

“You’re perfect,” you breathed, rolling your hips harder. “Just stay still and let me.”

Kurt moaned loudly, head tipping back against the pillow. “Yes—yes, okay—I’ll stay still—whatever you want—just don’t stop”

You rode him with focused intent, one hand sliding down to rub your clit while the other stayed braced on his chest. Kurt watched every movement with glassy, worshipful eyes, lips parted, soft broken sounds spilling out of him every time you clenched around him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice high and thin. “You’re too tight and too wet and you’re looking at me like that and I can’t—can I come? Please? Is it okay if I come inside the condom while you’re on top of me?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

Kurt shattered.

His back arched off the mattress, a loud, wrecked moan tearing out of him as he pulsed hard inside you. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping tight, hips twitching up in helpless little thrusts while he spilled into the condom. The sight and the feel of him coming undone under you pushed you over the edge a moment later, your orgasm rolling through in deep, pulsing waves while you kept grinding down on him, milking every last tremor.

When it was over you collapsed carefully onto his chest. Kurt’s arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight, still inside you, still shaking.

For a long time neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Heartbeats. The quiet house around you.

Eventually Kurt’s hand started stroking slow circles on your back.

“That was…” He laughed softly, the sound watery and disbelieving. “I just had sex. With you. On my floor mattress. And I didn’t last long at all but you still… you still made it feel like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, a little wet at the corners, cheeks flushed.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah.” He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear with clumsy fingers. “More than okay. I feel like my brain melted. In the best way.” He hesitated. “Was it… okay for you? Even though I was kind of a mess?”

“It was really good,” you said honestly. “You’re sweet. And you try so hard. I like that about you.”

Kurt’s smile was shy and radiant. “You like me?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He was quiet for a second, processing. Then, carefully:

“Would you… maybe want to do this again? Not just the sex. Like… hang out. Without a ride request. Go get food or watch something dumb or just sit in my car and talk. I know I’m awkward and I live with my mom and my bed is a mattress on the floor, but… I really like you. And I don’t want this to just be a thing that happened a few times in a rideshare car.”

You studied his face, the earnest hope, the residual fear that he might be asking for too much.

“I’d like that,” you said.

Kurt’s entire expression lit up like someone had flipped a switch. “Really?”

“Really.”

He pulled you back down against his chest and held you tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Then… it’s a date. Or whatever you want to call it. Just… us. Outside of all this.”

You stayed like that for a long time, sticky, warm, tangled together on the mattress on the floor while the rest of the house slept. Kurt’s heartbeat gradually slowed under your ear. His fingers kept tracing idle patterns on your skin like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Eventually he murmured, almost to himself, “Best passenger ever. By a lot.”

And for the first time, it didn’t sound like a streamer catchphrase.

It sounded like a promise.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

A week later you were out later than you meant to be, the last train already gone, and the idea of getting into a stranger’s car felt worse than it used to. So you opened the app, filtered for the one driver you’d already met, and requested him before you could talk yourself out of it.

He accepted in under thirty seconds.

When the beat-up sedan pulled up, Kurt was already half out of the car, trying (and failing) to look casual. The second he saw you he froze, then forced a smile that was way too big.

“Hey—hi. You’re… you’re actually here.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink immediately. “I mean, of course you’re here, you requested the ride, but—yeah. Hi.”

You slid into the passenger seat. The cameras were off this time. You noticed. He noticed you noticing.

“I unplugged them,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “After last time. Felt weird leaving them on. Like… I don’t know. Didn’t want to risk anything. Or make you think I was trying to get content out of it. Which I wasn’t. I swear.”

You buckled in. “I know.”

He let out a breath that sounded like relief and pulled into traffic. For a few blocks neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, just charged. Kurt kept glancing over like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“So,” he started, voice a little too high, “uh… how was the party last week? After you left. I kept thinking about it. Like, did you have a good time? Or was it one of those nights where you show up and immediately want to leave?”

You told him the truth. The party had been fine until it wasn’t. Too many people performing for each other. You’d spent most of it thinking about the car ride instead.

Kurt’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“Oh.” A small, stunned laugh. “That’s… okay. Cool. I mean—not cool that the party sucked, but… yeah.” He risked another look at you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot. I kept replaying the whole thing and then I’d get all… distracted… and then I’d feel guilty for getting distracted, and then I’d just do it again. It’s been a whole cycle.”

You asked him if he’d told anyone.

“God, no.” He shook his head hard. “Who would I even tell? My chat would lose their minds in the worst way, and my parents still think I just drive people around for gas money. Besides… it felt private. Like it was just ours. I didn’t want to turn it into another story.”

The honesty landed heavier than the usual streamer monologue. You watched him for a second, twenty-three, living in the weird space between trying to become someone and still being painfully, earnestly himself.

“I requested you on purpose,” you said.

Kurt almost missed a light. “You did?”

“Yeah. I could’ve taken anyone. I wanted you.”

He went quiet for a long stretch of road. When he finally spoke again his voice was softer.

“That’s… really nice of you to say. Most people don’t even remember my name. They just want to get where they’re going and forget I exist. But you keep… seeing me. It’s a lot. In a good way. I think.”

You asked where he was headed after this shift.

“Nowhere special. Back to my mom’s place. Crash. Maybe edit some old footage if I can’t sleep. Which is most nights lately.” He gave a self-deprecating little shrug. “Glamorous life of the almost-influencer. What about you? Home? Or… somewhere else?”

You told him you weren’t in a rush to go home yet.

Kurt swallowed. The tips of his ears went fully red.

“Okay. Um. There’s a place I sometimes park when I need to clear my head. Quiet. No cameras. No streetlights really. If you… if you wanted to just talk for a bit longer. Or whatever. No pressure. I can just take you straight home if that’s better.”

You told him the quiet place sounded good.

He drove there with both hands on the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Ten minutes later the car was tucked under a row of trees behind a closed auto shop, engine off, only the soft dashboard glow left between you.

Kurt turned in his seat to face you properly. For once he didn’t fill the silence with a joke.

“I’ve never done anything like last week before,” he said. “Not even close. I keep waiting for you to change your mind and realize I’m just some weird guy with too many cameras and not enough game. But you came back. So… I’m trying not to screw it up by talking too much. Which is hard, because talking is kind of my whole thing.”

You reached over and rested your hand on his knee.

He looked down at it like it might disappear.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly. “Why me? Seriously. You could’ve had anyone react like that. Why the rideshare guy who’s still figuring out how to talk to people?”

You told him the truth: because his reactions were honest. Because under all the try-hard energy there was someone who just wanted to be chosen for a minute.

Kurt stared at you for a long second. Then he let out a shaky breath and laughed once, soft and disbelieving.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”

You unbuckled and climbed across the console before he could second-guess himself, settling into his lap. The sudden weight of you made him jolt, hands flying to your waist on instinct. His thighs were warm and tense beneath you; you could already feel the thick, insistent heat of his cock trapped against the seam of his jeans, twitching the moment your weight settled fully.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

“Yes. God. Yes. More than okay.” His voice cracked. “I’ve thought about this exact thing every night since last week. Just… you here. Like this.”

You rolled your hips once, deliberately, grinding the soft heat between your legs against the already-hard line of his cock through both layers of clothes. The friction was immediate, rough denim dragging against the thin fabric of your panties, the heat of him searing through like a brand. You felt the exact shape of the head, already damp, catch and slide.

Kurt’s brain short-circuited all over again.

A broken sound punched out of his throat. His fingers dug into your sides hard enough that you could feel the slight tremor in them. The air in the car suddenly felt thicker, warmer, filled with the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean sweat and the unmistakable edge of arousal.

“Holy shit—you’re so warm. Even through everything. Never felt it before”, he whispered, eyes huge.

You did it again, slower this time, dragging yourself along the full length of him. The wetness already gathering between your legs made the fabric slide easier, a soft, slick sound barely audible under the quiet of the lot. He met the movement with a helpless upward buck, the muscles in his thighs flexing hard beneath you, forehead dropping toward yours. His breath was hot against your cheek, coming in short, uneven bursts.

You kissed him.

Kurt made a startled little noise against your mouth, then melted into it almost immediately, clumsy, eager, lips soft and a little too open at first. He tasted faintly of the energy drink he’d been sipping earlier, mixed with pure nervous heat. He didn’t really know what to do with his tongue, so he just followed your lead, breathing hard through his nose, one hand still gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d pull away. The kiss was messy and sincere; you could feel his heartbeat racing against your chest.

When you broke the kiss for air he chased your mouth for half a second before catching himself.

“Sorry—was that okay? I’ve never… I’m not good at this yet.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he whimpered into it, a soft, high sound that vibrated against your lips. His hips stuttered up against you, the thick ridge of his cock dragging along your clit through the fabric. The wet spot on his jeans was already spreading; you could feel the growing dampness seeping through, warm and insistent against your most sensitive skin.

You guided one of his hands up under your shirt. He hesitated, fingers trembling against the soft skin of your stomach, the slight coolness of his palm contrasting with the heat building between you.

“Can I…?” he asked against your lips, voice barely there.

You nodded.

He pushed your shirt and bra up together the same way you had last week, clumsy and careful. The cooler air of the car kissed your bare skin for half a second before his mouth was on your chest like he’d been starving for it. He latched onto one nipple with a broken moan, sucking greedily. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft lips, tentative tongue swirling, the faint scrape of teeth when he got too eager. You felt the vibration of his moan travel straight through your breast and down between your legs. His other hand stayed on your ass, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, pulling you tighter against the hard, throbbing line of his cock while he nursed at you.

You kept grinding, slow and steady, and he matched every roll of your hips with a shy, desperate thrust of his own. The wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the soft creak of the seat, the quiet, punched-out noises he kept making against your skin, and the increasingly slick slide of fabric against fabric. Every time you dragged yourself along him you could feel more of his pre-cum soaking through, the denim growing hotter and wetter under you. The scent of sex was starting to fill the small space.

“Feels so good,” he mumbled between sucks, switching to the other nipple. The second one was already tight and sensitive; the first pull of his mouth made your breath catch. “You’re so soft… and you’re moving on me and I can feel how wet you are through everything… I’m not gonna last. I’m really not.”

You tipped his face back up and kissed him again while you ground down harder. He kissed like he was still learning, messy, earnest, a little too much tongue sometimes but the way he trembled under you made up for every bit of inexperience. One hand stayed on your breast, thumb brushing the wet, swollen nipple he’d just left, the pad of his thumb slightly rough against the slick skin. The other guided your hips into a faster rhythm. You could feel the tension coiling low in your stomach, the friction against your clit turning sharper, wetter, almost too much.

“Talk to me,” you whispered against his mouth.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted, voice cracking. His breath was hot and shaky against your lips. “I just know it feels insane. You’re on top of me and you’re letting me touch you and suck on you and I keep thinking you’re gonna realize I’m just some awkward kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you keep going. You’re still going.”

You rolled your hips in a long, deliberate drag that made the head of his cock catch against your clit through the soaked fabric. The pressure was perfect, thick, insistent, the damp heat of him searing through. Kurt’s whole body jerked. A full-body shiver ran through him; you felt it under your hands, under your thighs.

“Fuck—do that again. Please.”

You did. He sucked in a sharp breath and buried his face between your tits again for a second, just breathing you in, nose pressed to the soft valley, inhaling like he was trying to memorize the scent of your skin before latching back onto a nipple with a needy little whimper. His hips were moving more confidently now, still clumsy but desperate, chasing the friction like he couldn’t help himself. Every upward thrust pressed the full, heavy length of him against you; every downward grind of yours forced a soft, wet sound from the soaked layers between you.

The pressure built fast for both of you. Every grind sent a sharp pulse of heat through you; every suck of his mouth on your nipples made your thighs tighten around him. You could feel your own wetness soaking through your panties, mixing with the growing mess on his jeans until the friction turned slick and filthy. Kurt was shaking under you, breathing hard, the wet spot on his jeans growing by the second. His cock throbbed so hard you could feel each pulse against your clit.

“I’m close,” he warned, almost panicked. His voice was wrecked, high and thin. “You’re gonna make me cum in my jeans again. I can feel it. And you’re—you’re getting louder too. Are you close? Please say you’re close. I want you to feel good too. I need you to.”

You kissed him hard and ground down with more purpose, chasing your own orgasm against the thick, throbbing line of him. Kurt kept sucking on your tits between kisses, messy and eager, lips wet, tongue working, the occasional soft scrape of teeth sending sparks straight down. One hand squeezed your ass; the other stayed cupped around your breast like he couldn’t stand to let go. The dual sensation, rough, slick friction on your clit and the hot, wet pull of his mouth on your nipples pushed you over the edge first.

You came with a soft, broken sound against his lips, hips stuttering, thighs clamping around him as the waves rolled through you. The pleasure was deep and pulsing, centered right where his cock pressed hardest; every aftershock made you grind down harder, chasing it.

Feeling you pulse and shake on top of him was all it took.

Kurt came with a loud, wrecked moan into your mouth, hips locking up as he pulsed hard into his jeans. Thick, hot wetness soaked through the fabric in heavy spurts until you could feel every throb against your still sensitive clit, warm, messy, flooding the space between you. He kept grinding weakly through it, clinging to you, sucking desperately at your nipple even as his body shook apart. The wet sounds were obscene now; the scent of his release mixed with everything else until the whole car felt heavy with it.

It took a long minute for both of you to stop trembling.

Kurt stayed buried against your chest afterward, breathing hard, lips still brushing your skin like he didn’t want to pull away. His hands had gone gentle, one stroking slowly up and down your back, the other resting lightly on your waist. You could feel his heart still racing against your ribs, the damp heat of his spent cock softening slowly between you, the cooling wetness on both your clothes.

“…holy shit,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse and a little dazed. “That was… I felt you. When you came. I felt it. And then I just—yeah. I couldn’t hold it.”

He finally lifted his head, cheeks flushed dark, eyes glassy and soft. A shy, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. His lips were still shiny from your skin.

“I made a mess again. Like, a real mess this time. It’s… everywhere.” He glanced down between you, wincing a little at the dark, wet patch that had spread across the front of his jeans and the corresponding dampness on your panties. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get it on you too.”

You told him it was fine. That you liked feeling it.

Kurt’s ears went red all over again. He carefully helped you fix your shirt and bra, fingers still clumsy, then just sat there holding you for a while longer, forehead resting against yours. The quiet of the lot settled back in around the soft sounds of your breathing.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” he admitted quietly. “Is that weird? I just… I like sitting here with you. Even if I’m all sticky and awkward and probably smell like sex.”

You stayed a little longer.

Eventually he cleaned up as best he could with the stack of fast-food napkins in the glovebox, still half-hard and sheepish about it. When he finally put the car in drive his hand found yours across the console and stayed there the whole way back, warm, a little clammy, holding on like he was afraid to let go.

At your drop-off he hesitated before unlocking the door, engine still running, the soft glow of the dashboard lighting the side of his face.

“Same deal as last time,” he said, voice soft. “If you ever need another ride… or just want to talk… or anything. Request me. I’ll be there. No cameras. Just… me.”

He gave you that same awkward, hopeful little smile, the one that made him look younger than he was.

“And, uh… thank you. For coming back. For letting me… all of that. You’re still the best passenger I’ve ever had. By a lot.”

You reached into your bag, found a scrap of paper and a pen, and wrote your number down. When you held it out to him Kurt stared at it like it might vanish.

“Is this… for real?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For real,” you said. “Text me. Or call. Whatever’s easier.”

He took the paper with both hands, careful not to crease it, and looked at it for a long second before tucking it into his pocket like it was something fragile and important.

“I will,” he promised, that shy smile breaking wider, hopeful and a little stunned. “I definitely will. Tonight, even. If that’s okay.”

You told him it was more than okay.

He waited until you were safely inside before pulling away. In the rearview mirror, Kurt was still smiling to himself, shy, a little ruined, fingers brushing the pocket where your number sat, already counting the minutes until he could use it.

For the first time in a long time, the next request didn’t feel like a maybe.

It felt like a promise.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

“Hey! Welcome to the ride! KurtsWorld96 in the house — or, y’know, in the car. Haha. Content is king, right?” He flashed a too-big smile, ears already pink. The interior of his beat-up sedan was rigged with at least four small cameras: one on the dash, one on the rearview, one angled toward the passenger seat, and a little GoPro-looking thing clipped to the sun visor. He kept glancing at them, adjusting angles with nervous fingers while he pulled into traffic.

You noticed immediately. He noticed you noticing.

“Oh — those? Just for the stream. I do these long-form rides sometimes. ‘A Day in the Life of a Rideshare Guy Trying to Make It.’ People love behind-the-scenes stuff. Authenticity, y’know?” He laughed too loud at his own joke, then launched into a rapid-fire monologue about algorithms, engagement, and how some influencer you’d never heard of had gone viral last week by doing “relatable car content.”

He was trying so hard.

Every time you chuckled at one of his awkward bits, the self-deprecating jokes about his follower count, the way he name-dropped people like they were household names, his whole face lit up. Ears went full red. He’d glance over at you like he couldn’t believe you were actually listening, then immediately look back at the road like he’d been caught staring. His knuckles were white on the wheel at first. By the time you hit the worst of the gridlock, he was loosening up, one hand gesturing wildly while he talked about his “master plan” to blow up.

“Most passengers just stare at their phones the whole time,” he said at one point, voice dropping a little. “Like I’m not even here. But you’re… cool. You’re actually talking to me. That’s rare.”

You caught the lonely edge under the hype-man energy. This guy, 23, living in his parents’ shadow, rigging his car like a mobile studio, desperate for anyone to give a shit, was vibrating with the need to be seen. And underneath the try-hard streamer persona, there was something weirdly sweet about how genuinely excited he got when you laughed.

By the time the exit finally appeared, Kurt looked equal parts exhausted and wired, like he’d been mainlining Red Bull and validation for two straight hours.

He pulled up to your drop-off spot on a quiet side street a block from the party, put the car in park, and turned to you with that eager, hopeful smile.

“Uh… thanks for riding with me. And talking. Seriously. Most people just… yeah. This was… actually kinda dope.” He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. “Five stars? Or, like… whatever. No pressure.”

You could see it all over him, the inexperience, the desperate need to seem cool, the way his eyes kept flicking to your face like he was memorizing every detail for later. The cameras were still rolling. He didn’t seem to care anymore.

Before you opened the door, you tilted your head and said it casually, like you were offering him a stick of gum:

“Hey, Kurt… you want to see my tits?”

His brain bluescreened so hard you could almost hear it.

Kurt’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open. The blush that had been living on his ears exploded across his cheeks and down his throat. He made a strangled little noise that was half-laugh, half-choke.

“W-wait — for real? Like… right now? In the car?” His voice cracked. He glanced wildly around the empty street, then back at you, then at the cameras, then back at you. “Is this — are you pranking me for content? Because if you are, that’s actually genius, but also I might die—”

You just smiled and shook your head.

He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I mean… yeah. Fuck yeah. If you’re serious. I won’t — I won’t film it or anything unless you say it’s okay. I just… holy shit.” He was already leaning forward a little, breathing shallow, one hand still gripping the wheel like a lifeline. The bulge in his jeans was already obvious, twitching visibly as his brain caught up to what was happening.

You didn’t tease it out. You just grabbed the hem of your shirt and bra together and pulled them up in one smooth motion, letting your tits spill free right there in the passenger seat of his rigged-up rideshare car.

Kurt made a sound like he’d been punched in the chest.

“Fuuuuck…” It came out hoarse, broken. His eyes locked onto your breasts like they were the only thing that had ever mattered in his entire life. His mouth hung open, breath fogging the air between you. The cool-guy streamer act shattered completely. “Jesus Christ… they’re… they’re perfect. I mean — shit, I’ve never… I’ve never seen real ones. In person. Like this.”

He was rambling, eyes darting between your chest and your face like he was terrified this was a dream and you’d vanish if he looked away. One hand hovered uselessly in the air; the other was still white-knuckling the steering wheel. His cock was straining so hard against his jeans you could see the outline of the head and a growing wet spot where he was already leaking pre-cum.

“Can I…?” His voice was wrecked. “Just touch? Or — fuck, I don’t know. Whatever you want. I’ll do anything. Please.”

You gave him a little nod. “Go ahead.”

The noise he made was somewhere between a whimper and a prayer.

His hand trembled as he reached across the console. The first touch was hesitant, just the very tips of his fingers brushing the soft underside of your left breast, like he was afraid you’d disappear or slap him. “Shit… they’re so soft,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. His palm finally cupped you fully, warm and clammy from nerves. He squeezed gently, testing the weight, then a little firmer as confidence flickered in. His thumb dragged across your nipple, circling it slowly, watching in fascination as it hardened under his touch.

A low, needy groan tore out of him.

He was breathing hard through his mouth now, eyes glued to your chest as both hands came up to explore: kneading, squeezing, lifting, letting them drop just to watch the way they moved. His inexperience showed in the eager, slightly clumsy way he touched you, but the pure hunger made it hotter than any smooth technique could have.

“Fuck… I’ve thought about this so many times,” he admitted in a rushed mumble, cheeks burning. “Not — not you specifically, just… real ones. Not on a screen. Not through a camera. Just… warm and soft and real.” He leaned in closer across the center console, face inches from your chest, and without thinking pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the top of one breast. Then another. Then he was sucking lightly at the skin, like he couldn’t help himself.

His cock was straining painfully. The wet spot on his jeans had grown. One hand stayed on your tit while the other dropped down to press hard against the massive bulge in his pants, palming himself with a desperate little whimper.

He looked up at you with glassy, fucked-out eyes, lips already shiny.

“Can I suck on them?” His voice cracked. “Please? I’ll be so good. I just — I really want to taste you. I’ve never… please.”

You ran your fingers through his messy hair and murmured, “Yeah… go ahead.”

Kurt let out a shaky, broken exhale like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. “Holy shit — thank you, thank you—”

He buried his face between your tits first, nuzzling into the soft valley with a needy groan, inhaling like he was trying to commit your scent to memory forever. Then his mouth found one nipple. The first suck was experimental, soft, wet, almost reverent. The second was deeper, hungrier. He moaned loudly against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you as he sucked harder, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

“Mmmph—fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbled between licks and sucks, switching to the other nipple so he didn’t neglect it. His hands kept kneading, squeezing possessively, thumbs brushing over the wet skin his mouth had left behind. He was sloppy, eager, inexperienced, lots of tongue, occasional teeth grazing when he got too excited but the pure enthusiasm made up for everything.

His hips were rolling subtly in the driver’s seat, grinding against nothing as he nursed at your tits like a man starved. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the car, mixed with his ragged breathing and occasional broken whimpers. One hand stayed on your breast while the other kept pressing and rubbing at the huge bulge in his jeans, shamelessly humping his own palm.

He pulled off your nipple with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, a string of spit still connecting him to you.

“I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” he confessed in a shaky whisper, looking up at you with those big, desperate eyes. “I’ve never… no one’s ever let me do this before. You’re so fucking nice to me. So perfect.”

He dove back in, sucking even more greedily now, one hand massaging the tit his mouth wasn’t on while his hips bucked helplessly. You could feel how close he was to losing it completely, trembling, whimpering, leaking steadily into his jeans.

You ran your fingers through his hair gently and told him the truth: “I’d gladly let you keep sucking on them longer… but I’m already so late for this party. I really need to get going.”

Kurt made the softest, most disappointed whine against your breast like a kicked puppy but he didn’t fight it. He gave one last long, slow, savoring suck on your nipple, tongue flicking, before reluctantly pulling off with another wet pop. His lips were red and glossy, eyes glassy and dazed.

“Fuck… okay. Yeah. I get it,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. He looked genuinely heartbroken for a second, eyes still glued to your tits as you started to pull your clothes back down. “This was… this was the best ride I’ve ever had. Like, ever. In my whole life.”

He sat back in his seat, breathing hard, the massive bulge in his jeans still very obvious and twitching. He adjusted himself awkwardly with one hand, wincing.

“I’m probably gonna… uh… think about this all night,” he admitted with an embarrassed little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably while I jerk off later. Sorry — too much info?”

You just smiled and told him it was fine.

He watched you fix your clothes with hungry, lingering eyes, then forced himself to look at your face again.

“Thanks for… everything. For talking to me. For letting me… you know.” His cheeks were still flushed dark. “You’re seriously the coolest passenger ever. Five stars. A hundred stars. Ten out of ten, would drive again.”

He unlocked the door for you but hesitated before you stepped out.

“Hey… if you ever need another ride… or, like… anything… just request me, okay? KurtsWorld96. I’ll be there. Anytime.” He gave you that awkward, hopeful little smile again, the one that made him look younger than he was.

You stepped out, closed the door, and walked away toward the party.

The second your door clicked shut, Kurt slumped back in the driver’s seat like all the air had been punched out of him.

“Fuck… fuck fuck fuck,” he muttered under his breath, already fumbling with his jeans. He didn’t even bother pulling the car away from the curb. He just yanked the zipper down, shoved his boxers low enough to free his aching cock, and wrapped his hand around it with a broken, relieved moan.

He was painfully hard, flushed dark, veins standing out, the head shiny and leaking steadily from how worked up he’d gotten sucking on your tits. The first stroke was rough and desperate, twisting on the upstroke the way he liked.

“God… your tits were so perfect,” he groaned, head falling back against the headrest. His hand started pumping fast, wet sounds filling the car as pre-cum slicked his fist. “So soft… so warm in my mouth… fuck, the way you let me suck on them—”

He closed his eyes and replayed it all in vivid detail: the way your nipples had hardened under his tongue, how you’d run your fingers through his hair, the soft sounds you’d made when he got a little too eager with his teeth, the weight of your breasts in his hands. His free hand reached up like he was still touching you, squeezing at empty air.

“Never… never felt real ones before,” he panted, jerking faster, hips bucking up into his fist. “You just let me… fuck, you’re so nice to me… so fucking cool…”

His thighs were shaking. He was whimpering now, shameless, high little noises spilling out every time his fist twisted over the head.

“Gonna… gonna cum so fast — shit — your tits, fuck—”

It only took another minute. His whole body tensed, back arching off the seat, and he let out a loud, broken moan as he came hard. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto his shirt, pulsing again and again while he kept stroking through it, milking every drop as he pictured your tits bouncing, your nipples wet from his mouth, the way you’d smiled at him like he wasn’t a pathetic try-hard loser.

He sat there panting for a long moment afterward, covered in his own mess, staring at the ceiling of the car with a dazed, stupid grin.

“Best… passenger… ever,” he whispered.

Eventually he cleaned up with some fast-food napkins from the glovebox, still half-hard just thinking about it. He fixed his clothes, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and finally put the car in drive.

A new ride request pinged on his phone.

Kurt smiled to himself, that eager, try-hard energy already creeping back in and accepted it.

But as he pulled away from the curb, he couldn’t stop replaying the memory. Your tits. Your smile. The way you’d let him touch and taste like it was the easiest thing in the world. For the first time in a long time, Kurt Kunkle wasn’t thinking about views or algorithms or going viral.

He was thinking about you.

And wondering, hoping, if you’d ever request KurtsWorld96 again.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

“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.

you weren’t keeping count, but you knew keys had already had one too many drinks, more than he was accustomed to. he was clinging to you and kept whining when you pulled away.

“baby i’ll be right back im gonna get another drink,” you yelled in his direction.

“noooo,” he said with an overexaggerated pout.

“it will be less than thirty seconds,” you tried prying one of his hands away from your waist but he just tightened his grip.

“thats thirty seconds too long.”

he pulled you closer, guiding you until you were sitting in his lap, then wrapped both of his arms securely around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder, nuzzling your neck.

“ya smell good.”

“i probably smell like nothing but sweat right now.”

“dont care. i like it.”

he pressed some kisses along your neck and down your shoulder, making you shiver despite the heat in the room. his hands were wandering your body in a lazy, unrushed way; one hand on your waist, his thumb slipping under your shirt tracing slow circles against your skin, while the other moved to cup your face.

“keys, people are gonna see,” you laughed leaning your head back against him as his lips dragged up to your jaw.

“let ’em,” he muttered, his voice low and a bit raspy from the alcohol.

after a few more minutes of him lazily tracing patterns against your skin and ignoring the crowd around you, keys leaned in, whispering right against your ear, “wanna go upstairs?”

he was trying so hard to sound smooth, but the slight slur in his voice and the rosy flush spreading across his cheekbones ruined the act entirely.

“come on, up we go loverboy,” you said, deciding it was officially time to stop him from drinking any more.

keys protested as you tried to help him off the couch, but once he was on his feet he practically attached himself to your side wrapping one arm tightly around your shoulders and leaning most of his not light body weight on you.

as best as you could you helped him through the mass of bodies and empty cans trashing up the sticky floor.

“keys! leaving already?” one of his friends yelled waving at him once you reached the staircase.

keys didn't even look up; he just tightened his grip on you, burying his face into your neck and mumbled, “busy,” loud enough for them to hear, making a few guys laugh.

once you managed to drag him all the way up to his room and closed the door behind you, instant relief flooded to you as the music instantly muffled into a low hum.

keys let out a long sigh and tumbled backward onto his unmade bed, taking you right down with him with a soft oof.

“keys!” you giggled, trying to push yourself up, but he immediately wrapped his legs around yours trapping you over him.

“stay,” he murmured, his eyes already closed and his palms resting lazily under the hem of your shirt, enjoying the heat of your skin, “warm.”

“you need to take off your shoes at least,” you whispered softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“mmm... later...”

and he thinks this time is gonna be different, he's gonna show some fucking self-restraint (cause what is he, some pathetic, pussy-whipped little puke pile?), but then while he's in the break room sipping his coffee from a paper cup, you stride in with your dad's lunch in a container in your hands.

"hey gator," you throw noncommittally over your shoulder, opening the fridge to stick the meal inside.

maybe you realize, maybe you don't, but either way when you bend over to rearrange some of the other lunch kits and food items on the shelves, your skirt rides up and gator gets a full view of the lower half of your ass. he nearly chokes to death on his coffee, spitting and sputtering over the sink.

"aw jeez, you alright?!" you ask, worried. he just waves you off and storms off to the bathroom. you assume it's to clean up.

really he's hunched over in the bathroom stall, hastily working his camo pants and palming his achingly hard cock over his briefs with a shudder.

"fuckin' tease." he grumbles under his breath, eyes squeezing shut as he rhythmically strokes himself and imagines how he would've liked that break room encounter to end...

how he would've liked to have set his coffee cup down on the counter, calmly walk over to the door and twist the small lock; to see the look in your big, pretty eyes when you realized what was going to happen -- hungry, hazy with lust and want.

"fuckin' finally, tillman." you sit up on the countertop, spreading your legs wide in that useless little scrap of fabric you call a skirt and baring yourself to him completely. you start circling your clit with two fingers, licking your lips with a grin. "thought you'd never notice me, i've been trying to get your attention."

gator strides over with a smirk, dropping to his knees in front of you and licks a stripe up your drenched slit with no hesitation. he grips your plush thighs to hold them open while he tongues inside of you, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clit perfectly.

"oh shit, gator -- god, yes. you eat my pussy so good." you croak.

your back arches, one hand tangling in his hair and one palming and pinching your tit through your thin cotton shirt. he can feel you beginning to clench around his tongue, pussy fluttering as you cum all over his face. he laps up every drop before standing and grabbing the hair at the back of your head, pulling you back to kiss you deeply, sloppily, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

"please can i have your cock, gator? i bet it's so fuckin' big, i want you to fuck me stupid with it."

"fuck yeah, baby. i'm gonna split you wide open." gator says to you (and actually whimpers to himself in the real world, where he's desperately jerking himself off and biting his forearm to stifle his grunts).

he spears you with the blunt head of his dick, pushing into you smoothly from how wet and worked up you already are. your nails dig into his shoulder as you cry out, begging for him to fuck you hard and fast. he obliges, eyes rolling back at how tightly you're squeezing him.

"gator, fuck! oh yes, yes!" you squeal in his ear, far too loud to keep this little secret rendezvous between you both. he clamps a thick, rough hand over your mouth, feeling your hot breath and the gentle press of your tongue laving against his palm as every thought other than the heavy drag of his cock against your inner walls leaves your mind; you're seeing stars.

gator feels the coil in his own belly snap just before hot, thick ropes of cum paint your insides the bathroom wall. he whimpers your name, and as his eyes flutter open he sneers at the mess he now has to haphazardly clean up with the one-ply toilet paper in the stall.

he tears open the bathroom door, kicking himself for giving in and annoyed that he feels a little sticky now. his shoulder slams into someone, and just as he turns to bitch them out, he sees it's you and stops.

"oh, hell. sorry gator. i just can't stay out of your way today, can i?" you smile shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and tilting your head at him in concern. "y'okay tillman? you look flushed."

"nah. m'fine. see ya around."

he brushes by you, rolling his eyes at his stupid response. you bite your lip and watch his tight ass as he storms out of the station. god, if he would just give you one sign that he was interested in you...

"Kid, get in here. Need ya on somethin'." Roy hollers from his main office in the back of the station. Gator stands without hesitation, hoping this is finally the time his dad is trusting him with The Big One.

It wasn't.

Still, he's been stuck on worse.

When he strides into Roy's office, your dad is sitting there hunched over the desk behind Roy, scouring over papers and forms and pictures of perps and plans. He barely spares a glance in his direction, more just a guttural sound that served as a greeting.

How a crotchety old bastard like this spawned a stunner like you is beyond him, but he's not complaining too much.

"What's up, Pop? Whatcha got me on?"

"The old man and I are gonna be payin' a visit to someone owes this department quite a pretty penny for coverin' their asses for so long. Payment's come due. Need ya to tend to his little girl, she's out at a pasture party on Millner Road. Ya get her home safe?"

Okay, for one, little girl? You're like, 3 months older than Gator. You graduated in the same class. And two, what was he now, an Uber driver?

But, as he considered it a second longer, picturing you stumbling into his cruiser with your (no doubt) short skirt hiked up even higher on your delectable thighs as you clambered into the seat, potentially falling asleep with your head against the window so he could shamelessly steal a peek down your shirt?

Alright, maybe this was The Big One.

"Yah, m'on it."

The two older men just grumble in response and Gator turns on his heel to get the fuck over to Millner Road, pronto.

When he sees you giggling with a group of your girlfriends, perched on the open tailgate of some asshole's obnoxiously souped-up Ford truck, he decides that maybe you need to get knocked down a peg. Understand who's boss tonight.

He flashes the lights and whoops the siren once, making all four of you jump and you spill your drink down the front of your blouse. You scowl at the vehicle, but when he opens up his door and comes around the hood making a beeline for you, you inherently soften a little bit.

"Tillman. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Got some ID, little lady?"

"Oh, fuck off."

His eyebrows raise, not really offended but just thinking you must really be buzzed off your ass, talking to him so brazenly.

"Your daddy wanted me to come getcha home safe, so c'mon now. We're goin'."

"I am a big girl, Dep-u-teeee." You drawl out his title and waggle your finger in his direction, swiping the drink hopelessly off your chest with your sleeve. "I can find my way back home."

"Well, I'd rather you do that and not die. You're shit faced, c'mon. Cruiser. Now. Won't ask twice."

He could see the glint in your eye as you sized him up, deciding how far you were going to push the issue tonight. Wisely, he thought, you hopped down from the truck and started to walk over to him.

"Honey, you don't gotta --"

One of your friends starts to defend you, but you wave her off with a wink and loop your arm around Gator's, even though he didn't offer it.

"Well, let's do this then. Take me home, Gator."

His stomach tightens at the sound of his name coming out of your pretty, pouty mouth.

The drive is fairly uneventful. Much to his chagrin, you didn't wear your usual short skirt or flimsy dress, but a pair of denim cutoffs and a spaghetti strap tank top with a red flannel over it. Still, it was a pretty nice shot of your thighs whenever he could steal a sideways glance.

When he pulled up to the house you shared with your dad, it was all dark.

"Nobody home?"

"Well, no. But you know that. Daddy's working, and it's just me and him, so..." You shrug, although he thinks he hears a hint of sadness in your voice. He knew all too well the ugliness of a big, sprawling, empty house.

"Ya gonna be alright gettin' in?"

You smiled at him sweetly, that same smile you always give him when you pop by the station. You're smiley anyway, always a little ray of sunshine, but Gator swears the ones you give him are special somehow.

"I think so, but...maybe I'm a little scared."

He perks up, straightening and puffing out his chest, ready for action. It was adorable.

"A what? I'll take care of it."

"Well, see, that's what I'm scared of. See, I got this...big crush on this guy. And I really wanna make my move tonight, since we're alone and all, but...I dunno if he wants the same thing?" You peek at him from under your long, dark lashes and bite back the giggle at his dumbfounded expression.

"Y-you? Crushin' on me? You're kiddin'..."

"Am not, dummy. Figured you'd a noticed by now, I got my ass hangin' out for the world to see every week when I take Daddy his salads."

Gator could climb right out of his skin. All this time, all those bathroom stall jerk off sessions, and bedroom jerk off sessions, and car jerk off sessions (on duty and off), all the jerk off sessions for the last six fucking weeks could have been spent with you.

He shifts in his seat, cock now painfully stirring to life at the thought of its current muse and ready for the usual quick beat-off, but Gator presses it down. As much as he wants to, needs to be inside of you, there's no way he would screw you in front of your dad's house while you were drunk and he was on the job. He was horny as hell, even kind of a shitty person, but he wasn't a complete moron. You'd come to your senses tomorrow, tell your dad he took advantage of you, and be pig slop by the morning.

No fucking thank you.

But when he turns to tell you that, you're unbuckling your seat belt and pulling your top over your head, leaving you bare-chested in nothing but those Daisy Dukes and boots, and he feels like he's stepped right into a Playboy centerfold miracle or something.

"Oh, Christ. Your tits are -- fuck."

"That good, hm?" You purr as you climb over the seat gracefully to settle in his lap. For a second, Gator regains control of his faculties.

"Sugar, we can't. I really fuckin' want to, don't get me wrong, this is great, but you're drunk -- you're gonna regret it in the mornin', I'll get in trouble, and I ain't riskin' it. Not even for the sweetest tang in Stark County." He glides his hand along your outer thigh even as he lets you down, biting on his lower lip so hard you think he might draw blood. His eyes are also just scanning every detail of your breasts, studying them and committing them to memory for when he inevitably jerks off to them later.

You twist a little and pull a little device off the dash, fondling it until it comes to life with a couple of beeps.

"This a breathalyzer?" He nods, taken aback by your question, but watches enraptured as you wrap your cherry red lips around the white apparatus and blow until it wants you to stop. You're a real pro.

You glance at the number and grin as you flash him your reading:

0.00

He's floored.

"You're..."

"Stone cold sober? I was the DD, looks like Patty's gonna have to make two trips for my buddies. So yeah, guess that means I'm totally in my right mind?" You croon, noses brushing against each other as his big, hazel eyes follow your every move.

"Guess you, uh...won't be regrettin' anything then?"

"Mmm, unlikely." You mutter into his neck, kissing up the length of his throat and nipping at his ear lobe. You feel him tremble under you. "But you better gimme your all to make sure I don't, 'kay sugar?"

A whiny little growl escapes him as he flings the driver's door open and situates you in one fluid motion on your knees in the seat.

"Bend over the center console, show me your ass." His voice is husky, urgent, and you obey him without question. You settle on your elbows and feel his rough hands spreading you apart, groaning in admiration at the sight of you glistening in the pale night lights.

As reverent as he seems, he still crassly spits against your asshole and watches it dribble down to your cunt, spreading the slickness with his thumb. You wriggle and whine, but that's just a spur in his side. He dips the tip of his thumb into the tight rim of your ass, and as you gasp at the sensation he starts lapping at your pussy with his tongue. There's no finesse to it, but what he lacks in decorum he makes up for in tenacity and sheer willpower.

He sucks your puffy clit between his soft lips, nose sliding between your folds, and all the while gently rocks his thumb shallowly into your ass. You feel yourself pressing back into him, wanting more of everything and yet feeling that this is just enough. Before you have time to beg, your release crashes over you and Gator can taste you as you cum, feel you fluttering around his tongue.

He drinks it up like ambrosia, then grips your hips and tugs you down so that now your feet are planted on the ground between his and your forearms are propping you up in the driver's seat. He grinds his pelvis against your ass and you feel the hard, unmistakable press of his cock against your cleft.

"See whatchu do to me? Every time I see you, I'm walking around with a hard on like this. It's ridiculous, can't get nothin' done."

You tut, pouting out your lower lip as you circle your hips tantalizingly over his bulge.

"Oh, my poor baby. Why don't I kiss it, make it better?"

You twirl and drop to your knees, deftly undoing the buckle of his cargos and dropping them to his knees. You try not to let him see that his massive girth has caught you a little off guard, but the slight parting of your lips and the dilating of your pupils gives you away. He smirks in contentment.

"Yah? Like whatcha see? Think you can take all'at?"

You sniff at the challenge, tying your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist and smiling cheekily up at him while you grip the base of his cock and tap the head against your cheek. He hisses at the contact, and at the sight of the sticky string of precum connecting his cock and your face.

"I think you think I'm some little paper angel, but I'm ready to prove you wrong, Gator Tillman. You're not gonna break me, promise."

You open your lips and stick your tongue out flat, laving the underside of his dick and tasting the salty, heady flavors of him. A small moan sneaks out of you, and his cock jerks at the sound. You chuckle lightly, kissing the tip and swirling your tongue around it teasingly.

"Suck it, c'mon, please. Wanna watch you choke on it, sweetheart." He brushes your jaw with the backs of his fingers and grips the base of your ponytail, not really moving your head but just holding on for his own sake.

He brow is knit tightly together, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he watches with eager interest (but also doesn't want to nut too early, so he's trying to focus on that balance).

You waste no time in relaxing your throat muscles in the way you know how, taking his thick cock far past your tongue and into your throat. You hollow your cheeks as best as you can and begin bobbing up and down his length, a trail of spit leaking from the corners of your mouth and dripping onto your spread thighs. He smears some across your cheek with his thumb, little "aah"s punctuating every one of your strokes.

"Oh, fuck, pretty girl. Christ, you suck like a goddamn Hoover. Takin' all of me so good, look atcha. Ya hungry for my cock, baby?"

"Mm-hm." You moan around him, fluttering your eyes and playing with your nipples while you slurp up and down his glistening length.

"Yes, that's it. That's it, baby, keep playin' with those titties -- I'm gonna -- fuck, gonna cum --"

He tugs the roots of your hair a little harder, not enough to hurt but enough to make your eyes roll back at the sensation, as he spills hot ropes of cum down your waiting throat. As you pull away for air, you hold your mouth wide open, tongue out, to show him you didn't waste a drop.

He gently cups you under the soft slope of your jaw and urges you to stand again, which you do. He tilts your head up to look at him, beaming at you like he's just won the lottery. When he finally plants his soft, slightly swollen lips against yours, you think you kinda feel the same way.

You should have pushed him off. You knew who his father was. Everyone in Stark County knew Roy Tillman. You knew the stories about the ranch, the “discipline,” the way people disappeared when they crossed the Sheriff. You still let Gator fuck you in the back seat of the patrol car that night, parked behind the dumpsters, one of his hands clamped over your mouth so the radio wouldn’t catch the sounds. He was rough even then, teeth at your throat, hips snapping hard, muttering “good girl” and “take it” like he was proving something to someone who wasn’t there.

That was two years ago.

Now you’re twenty-four and still here. Still letting him show up at your trailer after midnight smelling like gun oil and blood and the cheap cologne he wears to cover both. Still letting him push you face-down on the mattress and take what he wants while the scanner on his belt crackles with dispatch calls he ignores.

-

The night they grab Dot’s husband from the hospital, Gator comes to you wired and mean.

He doesn’t knock. He never does. The door bangs open and he’s already stripping his tactical vest, talking a mile a minute the way he does when he’s high on adrenaline and daddy’s approval.

“Wrong guy,” he says, laughing, voice sharp. “We took the wrong fucking guy. Hospital was crawling with feds and I still went in. Told the boys the FBI was inside. Almost got us all pinched. Dad beat the shit out of me at the dinner table for it. Right in front of everybody. Called me a pale little lizard again. Same shit he’s said since I was a kid.”

He’s on you before you can answer. Hands under your tank top, yanking it up over your tits, mouth already on your neck hard enough to leave marks you’ll have to cover tomorrow. You try to talk, ask if he’s hurt, if Roy really hit him that hard but Gator just shoves two fingers into your mouth and growls, “Shut up and open.”

He doesn’t bother with the bed. He bends you over the kitchen table, the same one where you sometimes eat cereal in the morning like a normal person. Your shorts and underwear are dragged down to your knees. He spits on his hand, rubs it over his cock once, and pushes in hard. No warm-up. No checking if you’re ready. Just the thick stretch and the burn and the way he bottoms out on the first thrust like he owns the right to hurt you a little.

“Fuck—look at you,” he pants against your back, one hand fisted in your hair, the other braced on the table so he can drive deeper. “Still wet for the criminal. Still taking my cock like you don’t know what I do when I’m not here.”

He fucks you like he’s angry at the world and you’re the only thing he can punish for it. Hard, deep, the slap of skin loud in the quiet trailer. Every time you make a sound he pulls your hair tighter or reaches around to pinch your clit until the sound turns into a broken moan. When you come he doesn’t slow down. He just keeps going, chasing his own, muttering the same shit he always does when he’s close: “I’m a winner, I’m the fucking law, take it, take it”, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a snarl, flooding you so deep you feel it drip down your thighs the second he pulls out.

He doesn’t stay the night. He never does when the job is still hot. He just tucks himself back into his pants, presses a messy kiss to the side of your mouth, and says, “Don’t clean up. I want to know you’re walking around tomorrow with my cum still in you.”

Then he’s gone, back to the ranch, back to Roy, back to whatever fresh violence is waiting.

A week later they finally get Dot.

Gator shows up at your place with blood under his nails and that wild, too-bright look in his eyes. He doesn’t talk about the kidnapping itself just that they got her, that she’s at the cabin, that his dad left him alone with her for a while and she started talking about his mother. He laughs when he says it, but the sound is wrong.

“She called me a liar. Said my name was supposed to be Roy but Dad took one look at me in the hospital and decided I’d be a loser for life. Said he’d rather the name die out than let me carry it.” Gator’s hands are shaking when he pulls the vape from his pocket and takes a long hit, the menthol cloud curling around both of you. “I told her to shut her fucking mouth. Walked out before I did something worse.”

This time he doesn’t shove you to your knees right away. He sits on the edge of your bed, legs spread, and crooks a finger.

“C’mere. Slow.”

You go. He makes you stand between his thighs while he undresses you piece by piece, tank top peeled up and tossed, bra unhooked with deliberate fingers, shorts and panties dragged down until you’re naked in the dim light of the single bulb. His hands map every inch like he’s inventorying what’s his. When he finally pulls you into his lap you’re straddling him, his cock thick and hard between your folds, not inside yet.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice low and rough. You do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. “Tell me what you want.”

Your face burns. “You.”

“Specific, sweetheart. Use your words. Tell the deputy exactly how you want to get fucked.”

You swallow. “I want you inside me. Hard. I want you to use me.”

Gator’s mouth curves into something almost vicious. “That’s my girl.” He lifts your hips, lines himself up, and drops you down onto his cock in one smooth, brutal motion. The stretch punches a broken sound out of you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, just plants his feet and starts thrusting up into you, deep and punishing, the wet slap of it filthy in the quiet room.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groans, hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “So goddamn wet for me. You hear that? That’s your cunt sucking me in like it knows who it belongs to. Say it.”

“It belongs to you—”

“Louder.” He snaps his hips up harder, grinding deep on every upstroke so the head of his cock drags over that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Whose tight little hole is this?”

“Yours—Gator, fuck—yours—”

“That’s right. Mine to wreck. Mine to fill. You gonna come on my cock like a good whore or do I need to flip you over and pound it out of you?”

You’re already shaking, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop talking, voice dropping into that filthy, almost conversational register he only uses when he’s deep inside you.

“Look at you bouncing on it. Tits in my face, cunt stretched around my dick, making those pretty little noises like you can’t help it. You love this, don’t you? Love getting used by the bad guy. Love knowing I spent all day doing shit that’d make most people sick and then came straight here to bury myself in you.” He leans in, teeth scraping your earlobe. “I’m gonna come so deep you’ll feel me leaking out of you for days. And you’re gonna walk around town with my cum still inside you like a fucking brand. Say thank you.”

“Thank you—” The words break on a moan as he reaches between you and rubs your clit in tight, mean circles.

“Thank you, Deputy.”

“Thank you, Deputy—”

He laughs, dark and pleased, and fucks up into you even harder. “Good girl. Now come for me. Squeeze that pretty cunt around my cock and show me how much you need it.”

You do. The orgasm hits like a truck, white-hot and shaking, your whole body clamping down around him while he keeps thrusting through it, chasing his own. When he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, flooding you so full you feel it immediately start to drip around his cock. He holds you there, still buried deep, one hand stroking up and down your spine while the other stays locked on your ass.

“Stay like this,” he murmurs against your neck, softer now but still rough. “I want to feel you full of me a little longer.”

Only after several long minutes does he finally lift you off, lay you down, and clean you up with a corner of the sheet. Then he pulls the vape out again, takes a slow hit, and talks about the night he killed Irma. How she came outside at the wrong second after he shot the decoy, how he didn’t even think, just grabbed her and smashed her head against the curb until she stopped moving. He says it like he’s telling you about a shift at work. Then he turns his face into your hair and mutters, almost too quiet to hear, “I’m bad, you know that? I’m a hustler. A loser. A sucker with a gun. And you still let me in.”

You don’t answer. You just press closer, feel the thrum of his heartbeat under your palm, and let the song play in the back of your head the way it always does when he’s like this.

Mama, I’m in love with a criminal.

-

The last time is after the ranch starts falling apart.

Gator shows up at two in the morning, rain-soaked, eyes wild, blood on his knuckles that isn’t his. He doesn’t speak. He just kicks the door shut, crosses the room in three long strides, and kisses you like he’s drowning. Then he’s tearing at your clothes, at his own, pushing you back against the wall hard enough that the cheap paneling creaks.

This time it’s different, desperate, almost frantic. He doesn’t talk much at first, just lifts one of your legs high against his hip and sinks into you in one long, smooth thrust, forehead pressed to yours. The angle is deep and relentless. Every snap of his hips drives a soft, punched-out sound from your throat. When he finally speaks it’s low and raw against your mouth.

“Need this. Need you. Only good thing left.”

He fucks you standing until your leg starts to shake, then carries you to the bed without pulling out, drops you onto your back, and keeps going, slower now but just as deep, one of your knees hooked over his shoulder so he can watch every inch of himself disappear inside you. His free hand finds yours and laces your fingers together against the mattress, the only soft thing in the whole exchange.

When he comes he does it with his face buried in your neck and your name in his mouth like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

You both end up tangled afterward, breathing hard. He traces the fresh bruises on your hips with careful fingers, the only gentle thing he’s done all night.

“I’m going to prison,” he says eventually, voice flat. “When this is over. I already know it. Dad’s going down and I’m going with him. Or worse.”

You don’t tell him it will be okay. You don’t make promises. You just pull him closer, let him bury his face against your chest, and hold him while the rain hammers the trailer roof.

Outside, the county is burning in slow motion. Inside, Gator Tillman, deputy, son, criminal, the bad boy with the tainted heart falls asleep with his head on your stomach and one possessive hand still resting low on your belly, like even now he’s claiming what’s left.

And you stay.

Because this type of love isn’t rational.

It’s physical.

And you already know how the song ends.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁