Just A Young Freak

You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. “Okay, well that didn’t happen with Sheryl, did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re still stuck on Sheryl.”

He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. “Eh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.”

You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. “Other than like… the finale, was the sex good?”

“Yes! And the date was perfectly fine too.” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth… mostly. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t amazing. It was just… fine. He gave you a half-smile. “Thanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.”

You smiled teasingly. “Oh, Robin would’ve bailed the moment you said the word cum.” You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. “‘Ew, Steve! I don’t want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.”

“She would’ve agreed about Katie’s tits, though,” Steve insisted. “She’d pretend to be mortified that I’m objecting women or whatever, but she’d agree.”

You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chest— some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.

He didn’t get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time he’d known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hot— that’s why he had to give you dating advice all the time—but that was different.

"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,” you said earnestly. “Like… maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body does.”

You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.

The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.

“I called this morning,” she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. “Some guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.”

Steve smiled and turned on the charm.

Becky wasn’t the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasn’t a quitter. He’d just… avoid names in general.

Steve was a gentleman. They’d gone to dinner a few nights prior, and he’d been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.

The second date wasn’t as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parents’ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasn’t even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.

But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coy— eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.

“Something wrong?” She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.

Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.

“Do you wanna go to your room?” Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I want to.”

——

His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.

“That doesn’t—“ He shook his head. That doesn’t usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. “I don’t know why that happened.”

She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. “It’s whatever, Steve.”

“No, no I mean it,” he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little… casual about it all. He’d gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldn’t take anymore and begged for him.

He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldn’t his body let him do it?

What the fuck?

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. “I’m only in town to visit my aunt anyway.”

“This really never happens to me,” he insisted. The look on her face— the subtle mix of disbelief and scorn— made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.

He didn’t bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the world’s most disastrous hookup attempt.

He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.

“Hello?” Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didn’t need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents weren’t home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. “Am I bothering you?”

“Nuh-uh,” you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. “Just painting my nails. What’s up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?”

His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadn’t called. “Yeah, uh, she left.”

“Oh,” you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. “You sound disappointed. Did it not go well?”

Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. “Permission to overshare?”

You paused. “Hm…” Another beat. “Uh, I guess so. Why not?”

You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldn’t stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.

“That’s tough, but it happens, Steve,” you said softly. “Maybe your heart wasn’t in it.”

He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.” He paused. “That wasn’t on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.”

“Well, stress can impact performance,” you explained. “Especially if you’re psyching yourself out about whether or not you’re going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.”

“Last year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldn’t get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?”

Steve swallowed. Hard. “W-what?”

“I turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.” You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. “Um, that's just, like, a suggestion.”

The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didn’t go away.

“I’m just trying to explain that it’s super common to have issues getting off, and it’s not weird!” You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. “Did that help at all?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Robin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.”

“Maybe.” You paused. “Give yourself some time, alright? You’ve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.”

You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. “Did you try it?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“What?” He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t up for it.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”

“I know, I know,” you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. “So, do you think that Becky’s not…”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, which blows.”

You shrugged. “Screw that. You can find someone way better, alright?” He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. “Alright?”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He wriggled out of your grip. “Can you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?” You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.

He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he would’ve found dorky if you weren’t perfectly endearing.

You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone would’ve rented that in August.

He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie she’d liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.

“Steve!” Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keith’s office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.

Oh fuck. You were bent over Keith’s desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldn’t even fathom how you’d gotten into that position— maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?

Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. He’d forgotten why he’d walked into the room in the first place.

“Steve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,” you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. “I got this when Empire came out, it’s irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.”

It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.” He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?

“Steve, hurry.” He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. “Jesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.”

With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.

He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasn’t dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.

Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldn’t even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.

“Hey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but… you know. I don’t really want to.”

Better and better. “Yeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?” He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles like— Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.

She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. “You’re the best, Steve.” He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.

You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.

“Let me help you put these out,” you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to life— an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.

It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.

“Maybe you should sneak one of these home,” you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. “It could help.”

“I don’t need tapes to get off,” he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. “I like magazines better anyway. Classier.” He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

You shrugged and continued shelving. “Magazines are cool,” you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. “Very classy.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. “I’m fine.”

“Okay…” you replied, a furrow between your brows. “I never said you weren’t, Steve. I’m just—“

“Trying to help— I know but…” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it, alright?” You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. “Okay, we’ve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so let’s just get it done.”

He hated that he’d upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.

And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?

You shelved the movie and moved on— grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he was— greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.

His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?

“Hm? Doing what?“ you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “Because if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, that’s a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.”

There was something about your smile then— sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didn’t even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employee’s only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.

He wasn’t an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.

He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.

This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasn’t time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.

And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keith’s desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didn’t hurt anyone.

Fantasies about you doing it on purpose— arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he would’ve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didn’t hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.

He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.

“Jesus fucking— goddamn it.” His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.

A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. “Are you okay in there, dingus?” Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. “You ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.”

He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.

It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like he’d Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.

No. That wasn’t exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldn’t cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasn’t totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.

The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or he’d have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.

There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at hand— that the reason for his body’s reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.

His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book he’d been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.

“Yeah?” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?

“Hey, Steve, it’s me.” Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. “I was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know it’s a big ask since it’s so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.”

He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. “Mhmm. Shouldn’t be too bad,” he lied.

You sighed with relief on the other end. “You’re a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.”

His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. “Date? I didn’t even know you were…” He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.

You laughed. “Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just… casually, nothing too serious.”

Oh. He didn’t have the right to feel disappointed, and yet… He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didn’t want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldn’t think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.

It was crazy. He’d set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didn’t have any reason to feel weird about it now.

“Steve? Did I lose you?” You asked softly. “I know you’re still dealing with… you know, everything. I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Go have a good date, and don’t let him have all the fun, alright?”

You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. “I would never. Thanks again, Steve.”

You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You weren’t even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.

“Good night?” He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.

You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. “It was so good. I think you know him— Andy from Varsity baseball in ‘84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. He’s living at home while he’s doing an internship for some financial firm.”

“What happened to just being casual?” Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.

You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.

“Back to work, Harrington,” he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. “These returns aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

——

“You’re glowering.” Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.

“I’m not, I'm just focused,” he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andy’s head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.

It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.

Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? You’d been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.

God, he sounded like Keith. Wasn’t that terrifying?

“Do you remember him from high school?” Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. “Yeah, I figured. He graduated in ‘84. Third baseman.”

Robin snorted. “I bet.”

“Cute. Very charming, Robin,” Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. “Whatever. He just doesn’t seem her type, that’s all.”

Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. “Steve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charming…” She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.

“I’m not glowering,” he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. “I’m just trying to finish up the rewinds since we’re down an employee.” He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.

Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just… sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.

His Rolodex was filled with girls who he’d fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.

Deanna was hot… she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.

Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?

He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy who’d forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didn’t really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.

Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like you’d said.

He was in a mood for the next week. He hadn’t felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.

You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.

You were dressed like you were going to go on a date later— with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. “I’m not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,” he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.

Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. “Okay, one, I wasn’t going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

He just huffed. “Sorry, long day.” Long month. “I’m being a dick.”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are… but I forgive you.” You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. ”Let’s hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. I’ll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way… it’ll be just like old times.”

The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. He’d been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time he’d been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.

But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. “Yeah, sounds fun.” It would be fine. He could persevere.

——

Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your mom’s Tupperware stock.

It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandma’s macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.

The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldn’t complain. Maybe he did need this.

”So… are you still seeing Andy?” He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention, it was just hard to focus.

You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. “Ew, no,” you said with an eye roll. “He was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?”

Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).

He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. “So, how’s your problem?” You asked.

His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustin’s turtle’s tank. “Oh,“ he cleared his throat. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know, actually. I haven’t been on any dates since Becky, so…”

“Really? Why not?” You asked, brows knit.

His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too bad— just that I can’t get hard lately unless I’m fantasizing about you. “Why do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. I’ll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesn’t think my dick doesn’t work.”

You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. “What about when you’re alone?”

His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session he’d had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.

“Uh…” His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. “Normal. It’s normal.”

“So, if that's normal, what do you think about when you’re alone?”

His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs… you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like he’s considering anything else. “Um… normal things. Just… normal stuff, you know?”

You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression he’d never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. “Steve,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, swallowing. “Mhmm? Yeah?”

“You’re hard right now.”

He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.

“Oh, that’s just… y’know, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that I—“

The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?

When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldn’t find words for how he was feeling, for how he’d been feeling, so he offered a meager, “You’re really good at that.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his body’s ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.

“I don’t know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,” you said softly. “I’m really into you.”

His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. “What? Since when?”

You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. “Um, on and off since I’ve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.”

It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.

Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.

Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. “But you were just dating Andy.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “I was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.”

Robin. “I didn’t pout,” he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just… glared in Andy’s general direction. “Okay, fine. If that was on purpose, I’m guessing your panty flashing was too.”

That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, my what?”

He blanched, embarrassed. “You know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keith’s desk. You were messing with me, obviously.”

He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when you’d gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. “You think I’d risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?” You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. “Oh my god, Harrington you perv—“

He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. “You’re so evil,” he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasn’t doing much to help him cool down. “You’ve been driving me crazy, like you’ve got some sort of witchy spell on me.”

You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. “Did it turn you on?” You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.

Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so he’d throw himself into the fire for your amusement. “It turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,” he mumbled against your throat.

That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steve—

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. “But you could have just told me, dummy. We could’ve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.”

Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. “Don’t say things like that,” he groaned. “If you talk like that it’ll fucking kill me, I swear.”

He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didn’t give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.

This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, he’d never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.

"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.

He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in it— in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.

You pulled back first— lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.

“So…” You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. “Everything definitely feels like it's working like normal.”

He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.

It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just… just wait—" He choked out.

You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"

"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.

"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."

Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said… witchy spell."

He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You know…" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."

He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.

You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.

You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.

Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.

"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.

It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nngh— You've gotta— Ah, fuck— 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.

"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.

"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.

When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like… I mean… I do have stamina, typically."

"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.

"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.

"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."

"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."

Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.

You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just… different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.

To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.

"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."

You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"

Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.

"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."

Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.

But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.

He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hours— just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.

It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.

Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.

"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.

His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.

You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That's— ah, fuck— that's really good."

He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"

You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.

It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.

"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.

"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were close— he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like that— Just like that—"

When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.

You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.

He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"

You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"

He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."

Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes off— kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.

"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders

"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.

With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."

Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.

You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his tip only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.

Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.

You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took control— taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.

Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.

"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."

You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.

He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"

A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."

His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."

"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"

Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.

He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.

Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.

"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."

Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.

But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.

His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.

It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."

He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.

You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.

"Fuck—" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, please—"

He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.

Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."

It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you did— crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to… it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.

He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.

"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"

Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.

You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."

He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine… that promptly went right back in for another clean.

You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.

"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."

You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."

He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."

it presses down heavy even after sunset, bleeding through the open windows and the thin cotton sheets, sticking to your skin. you twist in the dark, restless, half awake and already sweating. you pray like you always do, whispering the words in your head over and over until they lose their shape. until you start thinking about other things.

the way he looks at you. the sound of his voice, slow and sharp like something that bites.

you dream of the church.

but it isn’t how it was that morning. the pews stretch longer. the light is strange—gold and thick, pouring in like molasses through the stained glass. dust floats in the air, heavy as smoke. you stand alone at the altar, bare feet on cool tile, dress brushing your knees.

and he is there.

at the back.

not walking—sliding. like something that moves without effort. without sound. like a serpent in tall grass. his eyes don’t blink. just fix on you, steady and dark.

you don’t run.

when he reaches you, he doesn’t touch—not at first. just circles slow, boots silent, like he’s tasting the air around you. like he already knows how you’ll sound when you break.

he leans in close, breath warm at your neck.

“you ever dream of sin, sweet girl?”

you wake with a gasp, heart pounding.

the room is still dark, the fan spinning lazy overhead. you are alone. but your skin is flushed. burning.

your thighs have pressed tight together while you slept. the ache is there—low, confusing, wrong. you shift, rubbing them together just a little, breath catching at the friction. it feels—

it feels like something you’re not supposed to know.

and still, in the hush of your room, you whisper it. the name like a secret tucked under your tongue.

“gator.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

it had been a few days since the funeral.

long, hot days. quiet ones. the kind that stick to your skin and make your clothes feel too heavy, even when you aren’t doing much. you’ve barely seen anyone besides your family. barely left the house. you’ve tried to keep busy—laundry, dishes, sorting hymnals in the back room at church—but none of it makes that dream go away. the way he looked at you. the way he sounded, warm and dark and crawling up your spine like ivy up a brick wall.

you didn’t mean to go in.

you were just supposed to drop off the tithe envelope and pick up paper towels from the little store next door. but the heat has been choking all day, your head is swimming, and you tell yourself you’ll only sit down for a second. one iced tea. ten minutes, tops.

the diner is nearly empty anyway. the waitress barely looks up when you slide into the booth by the window, ankles crossed, hands folded on the sticky plastic menu. a fly buzzes lazy against the screen door. you can still smell fryer oil and burnt coffee from the morning rush.

and then the bell above the door rings.

you don’t have to look up. you feel him. hear him.

that same low pull in your stomach. that warm, wrong feeling that makes you sit up straighter without knowing why.

“now this’s a lucky coincidence.”

his voice—same as before, smooth and sin slick—tumbles over your shoulders. you turn, and there he is, walking toward your table like he’s been invited. like he belongs there.

you swallow. “i was just—cooling off.”

“mmhmm.” he slides into the booth across from you without asking, arms stretched along the back like he isn’t crowding you on purpose. “sure you were, angel.”

you hate how your cheeks burn when he says it like that. like it means something dirty.

“hot day,” he adds, like it’s small talk. “hotter now.”

you swallow, thighs pressed close together under the table.

your fingers twist in your lap. you glance around, but no one is looking. the waitress is deep in a crossword, and the kitchen is quiet.

he’s smiling at you, but not in a cruel way. it’s soft, almost lazy. familiar, like he already knows all the things you don’t say.

“you always eat here?”

you shake your head. “no, sir.”

he smiles like he likes that. “sir. that’s cute.”

“anyway i figured not, since this’s my first time seein you in here. you ought to come around more, it’s nice seeing you.”

your cheeks burn. you look down again, but he just leans forward a little, elbow brushing the table as he peels the paper off his straw and starts twisting it, slow and neat, between his fingers.

“yeah maybe.” you keep it short, watching the way his fingers twist the paper.

“speaking of seeing you— i can’t remember if i got the chance to tell you how sweet you looked the other day, ” he says. “all that white. all them notes comin’ out your mouth. had me thinkin’ about heaven for the first time in years.”

you blink, lips parted, breath catching.

he reaches across the table and slides something toward you.

a ring—made from the twisted straw wrapper, looped and knotted.

“what’s this?”

“a gift,” he says, deadpan. then smiles. “thought you oughta have it.”

you hesitate, then reach out.

his fingers catch yours.

just barely. just a brush of your knuckle as he slips the paper ring onto your hand, like it means something. like you mean something. your whole body lights up under your dress.

he doesn’t look away.

“you got a name, sweetheart?”

you nod.

“you gonna tell it to me?”

you tell him. quiet, a little breathless.

“mmm,” he hums. “pretty. suits you.”

he leans in on his elbows, voice softer now. curious. “what do you do? ‘sides church things.”

you shrug. “help out. mama. the house. teach sunday school sometimes.”

“you ever leave?”

“fargo?”

he nods.

“only once,” you whisper. “for a choir competition.”

“that right?” he smiles like it’s sweet. “well, i’d’ve given you the blue ribbon just for standin’ there.”

your chest goes tight.

before you can say anything else, the bell above the door jingles.

“hey,” comes a voice—your sister, hair beads clacking together, a bag of groceries in her arm. “daddy said you were takin’ too long. you okay?”

you jump, tucking your hand with the paper ring under the table.

“i’m fine. just… i got tired.”

her eyes flick to gator, who is already standing. he tips his head toward her, polite as ever.

“pleasure seein’ you songbird,” he says to you, not even sparing your sister another glance.

then he’s gone.

your sister doesn’t ask who he is. just tells you to hurry up. but as you slide out of the booth, you keep your hand closed tight around the ring. paper thin. barely anything.

and yet your skin still burns where his fingers touched you.

no one has ever spoken to you like that.

no one has ever looked at you and made you feel like maybe you were made for something else.

something you aren’t supposed to want.

later that night.

you don’t take it off.

the paper ring. you wear it home, tuck it under your sleeve, hide it from your sister’s nosy glances and your mama’s sharp eyes. you tell yourself you’re just keeping it safe.

but now, hours later, curled up in bed with the lights off and the bedroom fan ticking low, it’s still there.

looped around your finger.

your hand rests against your chest, right over your heart. your nightgown clings sticky to your skin. the summer heat never really lets up—not even at midnight—and yet your whole body feels flushed from the inside out.

you turn over. again. and again.

he touched you. nothing more than a brush of fingers. but it hit you all the way through. like a strike of something—heat, lightning, sin.

you swallow and squeeze your thighs together beneath the sheets. they slide sticky against each other. you don’t know what you’re doing, not really. you just… want.

want to remember the way he looked at you. the way he said angel. the way his voice went low when he asked your name.

your hand moves lower, shy and slow. rests over your belly, then dips between your legs, where your cotton underwear is already damp. you rub there—barely—and gasp.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you’ve never done it before. but your hips rock.

far down the road, past the quiet fields and the rusted signs and the long dirt driveway that leads to your house,

he sits in his patrol car in the church parking lot. lights off, engine low.

gator.

one hand on the wheel, the other curled tight around his leaky cock, working slow and mean in the dark.

his head tips back against the seat. mouth parted. breathing deep.

he doesn’t mean to end up there. just starts driving with nowhere in mind, heart too full, brain too noisy. but the church pulls him in like a ghost—those old wooden steps, the iron bell, the cracked white steeple.

and the echo of your voice, all soft and trembling and clear as crystal. a voice like glass and sugar.

he groans, low and broken.

“jesus,” he mutters. “look what you done to me, angel.”

his hand speeds up.

he shouldn’t want you. not like this. not at all. you’re barely grown. raised by the book. sweet in a way he hasn’t touched in years.

but he can’t get the sight of you out of his head—the softness of your lips, the curve of your neck, the way you looked at him like you’ve never been looked at before.

he wants to ruin that look.

wants to make you say his name through tears.

his hips lift from the seat, wrist working faster, breath turning ragged. his hot sticky mess spilling out onto the dark patch of hair across his lower tummy.

and back in your bed, you gasp into the crook of your elbow, legs clenching tight around your own hand, thighs shaking. arousal drips from your sensitive core onto your cotton sheets, the feeling engulfing you is white hot. like carrying one one second longer will make you pass out.

tears brimming your eyes through it all.

the bible study had only just begun when the heavy wooden door creaks open.

there he is.

boots first—dusty, loud on the floorboards—then a familiar silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. tall, broad, deputy shirt with the sleeves rolled and collar half unbuttoned like always. gator tillman.

he nods at the youth pastor like he belongs there— like he wasn’t a decade older than everyone in that room, like he hadn’t missed the first half of the scripture reading. then took a seat in the back row, stretching his arm along the pew behind him like he had every right to get comfortable.

you try not to look. try not to think about the way your skin prickled, the heat behind your ears, the way your fingers fidgeted in your lap.

it was wrong. he was wrong. and yet—

you felt steadier with him in the room. not safer. just… steadier.

like your heartbeat made more sense when it had something to race against.

you glanced up once. just once. he was already watching you.

bible study passed in a blur of red letter words, freshly baked cookies, and polite discussion. when it ended, everyone filtered out slowly, lingering in the aisles to talk weather and crops and casseroles.

you stayed behind, like always. straightening a stack of old testaments. collecting pencils. anything to make yourself useful. anything to delay going home.

and when the last voice disappears out the door, you realize he’s still there.

gator.

leaning against a pew like he’d been waiting. like he’d never planned to leave.

“didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, voice velvety smooth. “just… wasn’t ready to go yet.”

you clutch a bible tight to your chest, felt your ribs press into its edges.

“everyone’s gone.”

“i noticed.” his smile twitches. “didn’t figure you’d mind the company.”

he steps forward, slow and easy, eyes never leaving yours.

“was hoping i’d hear you sing tonight” he hums, voice gone quiet. “the one from that funeral is still stuck in my head.”

your face burns hot. you don’t really know how to respond to him.

he moves down the aisle, trailing fingers along the pews like he was walking through a memory, not a house of god.

“you always stay late to clean up?”

“someone has to,” you said.

“you always do what you’re told?”

you hesitate.

and he catches it.

he stops close—too close—where you can smell the leather of his belt and the heat of his skin.

“your daddy know you’re in here all alone?”

you shake your head before you can think better of it.

he tilts his head, studying you.

“how old are you, songbird?”

“twenty-one,” you whisper.

something in his expression shifts—like he’d already known, but wanted to hear it from you. wanted to feel the way the number settled between your teeth.

and suddenly, it struck you. the way he carried himself. the lines carved faint at the edges of his eyes. the calm weight of a man who’d already seen too much. he wasn’t just older than the rest of the group—he was older than you’d let yourself realize. early thirties, maybe.

gator’s eyes light with something darker. “no one ever teach you not to talk to men like me?”

your breath comes short, your throat tight.

he reaches out, thumb brushing slow under your jaw. “no?” he murmures. “guess i’ll just have to be reeaaal gentle with you then.”

you take a step back, and he lets you.

doesn’t follow.

just watches.

you turn to gather your things, fumbling the keys in your hand.

“be careful, songbird,” he said, voice lazy, low. crooked smile on his face, evident in his tone— “places like this don’t keep you safe from men like me.”

you don’t look back.

you don’t have to.

everything he was doing, was working. he’d already carved himself into you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

you lock the front doors after he goes.

twist the deadbolt with trembling fingers, the heavy thunk echoing through the empty chapel like a warning. or a promise.

your heart’s still racing. cheeks hot. skin tingling where his thumb brushed your jaw. you can’t even bring yourself to sit. just pace the aisle like you’re trying to shake off something that’s already underneath your skin.

you turn toward the altar, toward the little table set off to the side. the prayer basket.

it’s part of your cleanup. empty the slips, pray over the ones that need it most, toss the rest. sometimes folks write in neat cursive. sometimes messy block letters. sometimes they don’t sign their names at all.

you pick up the first folded note absently, just to give your hands something to do.

but it isn’t paper.

it’s rough. thin. crinkled.

a cigarette. half smoked.

you freeze.

tucked inside the folded paper of the wrapper, in black ink that smudges at the curve, is a phone number.

no name. no message.

just the number. and your breath catching in your throat.

you turn it over like it might bite you.

and on the other side, in handwriting you already recognize, it says:

“if you ever feel brave.”

your fingers close around it before you even realize.

you shouldn’t keep it.

you can’t keep it.

but you don’t throw it away either.

you tuck it into the little side pocket of your purse, behind your lip balm and gum and emergency bobby pins. somewhere no one else will find it.

not even your mama.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

it takes you three days to work up the nerve.

you keep the cigarette in the inside pocket of your purse, check on it like it might’ve disappeared. like it was just a trick of your imagination. but it’s always there, smudged number and all.

you don’t let yourself think too hard about how many times you’ve taken it out. just to hold. just to trace the loop of a 6 with your thumb.

on the fourth night, you wait until the house is dark.

mama’s been asleep since the news went off. daddy’s in bed, reading scripture with a pen light and sighing at the state of the world.

you sit on the bathroom floor, legs curled up to your chest, and dig the number out of your bag.

the overhead light hums. your breath’s louder than you mean it to be.

you open your contacts. hesitate.

what do you even save him under?

“gator” feels too familiar. too simple.

you think of your older sister, the way she laughed and said, “folks call him the lizard behind his back—slippery and not to be trusted.”

it made your stomach flip then.

it makes your thumb move now.

🦎

you don’t write a name. just the emoji. like it’s safer that way. like it’s a secret only you get to keep.

you hover over the message box. type, delete, retype.

“hi.”

“i saw you the other day.”

“i found what you left.”

nothing sounds right. nothing sounds cool. or godly. or smart.

you settle on:

> it’s me.

and stare at it for a full thirty seconds.

then your thumb twitches.

sends it.

your stomach drops straight to hell.

you panic, try to turn your phone off like that’ll unsend it somehow. then turn it back on two seconds later.

message delivered.

no reply.

you sit on the floor for a long time after that, phone burning hot in your palm. heart pounding like it might give you away.

he knows now.

he knows.

you curl tighter around your knees.

and wait.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

you’re stepping into the cool hush of the church foyer when your phone buzzes in your skirt pocket. you glance around—no one’s watching—then slip it out beneath the hem of your bulletin.

1 new message.

🦎: angel.

your breath catches. thumb hovers. it’s too early for this. too early and way too late.

you don’t reply. not during announcements, not through the first two hymns. but during the third—something soft and old—you peek down again. and he’s sent another.

🦎: you singin’ again today?

you blush so hard you feel it in your chest. your fingers shake as you type:

> not a solo :[

🦎: that’s too bad. was hoping you’d sing for me again.

your stomach flips. you feel the heat pool behind your knees.

> that song wasn’t for you.

🦎: didn’t say it was. but it got me thinkin about how pretty you sound when you let go a little.

you tuck your phone deep into your bag. you try to forget it during the sermon, try to let your daddy’s voice drown out the rush of blood behind your ears. it almost works.

until communion, when you pull it out again.

🦎: you always this shy, sweetheart?

> no.

🦎: good. wouldn’t want to push you unless you could take it.

you clench your thighs together under your sunday dress. breath catches at the base of your throat. you want to say something back. want to be clever, bold, bad.

but your thumb hovers.

you delete and retype the same half message three times.

and then you put the phone face down on the pew beside you.

like it’s dangerous.

like you’re scared what he’ll do if you say yes.

or worse—what you’ll do if he keeps talking like that.

it’d been days since you’d seen gator in person. passed him once last thursday while out running errands, but didn’t get a chance to say anything to him.

all you’ve had is texts. brief. short. shiver inducing texts.

now, it’s almost 1 a.m.

the house is quiet—dark, settled. you’ve been lying in bed with your phone cradled to your chest, half hoping it might buzz and half hoping it won’t.

then it does.

🦎: still up, pretty girl?

🦎: been thinkin’ about you.

🦎: voice in my head don’t sound half as sweet.

your stomach twists. you reread them three times, thumb hovering over the screen. there’s a beat—your heart thudding like a hymn drum—and then you’re out of bed before you can overthink it. creeping down the hallway in your socks, slipping into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

you sit down on the floor in front of the tub. the floor cold under your feet. your fingers hover. then—call.

it only rings once.

“angel, ” he says, low and smooth. that voice slinks through the speaker like smoke. you can hear the smile in it. “didn’t think i’d actually get you.”

“i, um—i saw your messages,” you whisper.

“mm. that right?”

silence pools between you. you can hear faint rustling on his end—maybe he’s in a car. maybe a motel room. something about it makes you squeeze your knees together.

“you disappeared,” you murmur, trying to sound playful, but it comes out too soft. “haven’t seen you in a while.”

his breath catches, just for a second.

“you keepin’ track of me now?” he asks. teasing. slow.

“no,” you lie. “just… noticed.”

“mm.” there’s another pause, then a low chuckle. “workin’. trying to keep the bad guys off the streets, sweetheart. ain’t all charm and good looks.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. you hate how much you’re smiling.

“so when’re you back?” you ask, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your nightgown.

he hums—pleased. like you just gave him something he’d been aching for.

“thought you weren’t keepin’ track,” he says.

“ ‘m not.”

“you sure?” his voice drops. “soundin’ real interested.”

you don’t say anything. he lets the silence stretch until your chest is tight.

“miss me, angel?”

still, you can’t say it. but you glance down and see your toes curled into the tile and you think maybe that’s answer enough.

he exhales. “shit.”

you hear something shift—maybe the rustle of his hand, maybe the sheets. you don’t know where to look. your eyes are on the floor, but your heart’s in your throat.

“wish i could see you right now,” he says, gentler. “you curled up in that little bed of yours? lights off? what’re you wearin’, pretty thing?”

you swallow. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just waits, breathing in your silence.

“you want me to stop talkin’ like that?” he murmurs. “or you want me to keep goin’?”

you shouldn’t say it. you shouldn’t even think it.

but you do.

“…keep going.”

it’s soft. breathless. like a secret.

on the other end of the line, he groans—low, drawn out, filthy.

you don’t know it yet, but he’s already got his hand wrapped around his cock. though the faint spit sound should’ve been a tell— he spreads the warm saliva down his thick rod, starting to tug himself. slow and mean.

“fuck. you don’t even know what that does to me.”

your thighs squeeze tight. your little cotton panties are already damp. the lace edge digs into the crease of your leg and it’s suddenly all you can feel.

“you like my voice, don’t you,” he mutters.

you don’t answer, but he hears it in the way your breath hitches. you can almost hear it now. the tightness in his jaw. the change in breaths. the faint stickiness of his palm as he fucks into his hand slowly.

“mm,” he hums. “yeah, you do. bet you press your pretty legs together whenever i talk to you. wonder if you even realize it.”

you whimper. it escapes before you can stop it.

he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “jesus. yeah, there it is.”

your free hand trembles in your lap. your nightgown’s bunched around your hips. you rub your thighs together and the friction makes your stomach tense. a steady pulse building up in your sex. it begins to ache. bad.

“wish i could see you,” he says again, but it’s heavier this time. “bet you’re soaked—“ his words cut by a sharp sound, the pace of his tugs faltering a bit. “leaking through those little panties.”

your whole body shivers. untouched sex pulsing almost as quickly as your heart is beating.

“that true?” he murmurs, thumbing over the thick vein that runs up the side of his thick length. “gimme a color, sweetheart. what’s wrapped around that sweet little pussy of yours right now?”

you close your eyes. whisper, “blue.. um like baby blue.”

“fuck. fuck. you’re gonna kill me.”

you hear a wet sound, slick and obscene. your hand flies to your mouth like it might stop the noise from reaching you.

he laughs—quiet, fucked out. “wanna hear you, pretty girl. talk to me.”

“i can’t,” you whisper. “they’ll hear me.”

“then be quiet about it. but touch yourself, baby. go on. make it nice for me. you know how right?”

“y-yeah”

your hand slips down. cotton damp against your knuckles. your finger brushes your clit and your hips twitch like you’ve been shocked.

“slow circles,” he says, voice raw. “you like it like that?”

“uh-huh.”

“fuck. what else you like? talk to me.” he grits the words out, callous hand making rough strokes against his thick veiny cock. pre and spit starting to leak over his knuckles.

you can’t see it, but you somehow know exactly what he’s doing.

“i… i don’t know.”

“that’s alright. we’ll figure it out.”

he grunts, breath jagged. “god, wish i could get my mouth on you. kiss and suck on that pretty pussy til you’re crying.”

your mouth drops open. your fingers move faster, three of them pressed flat against the top of your cunt. not quite on your clit, but close enough that you can feel everything. and fuck, it’s so good.

“mm. bet you’re close already, aren’t you? twitchin’ for me. i can hear it.” he was right. could hear the desperate slick sounds of your pussy. so wet and needy for him and he wasn’t even in the same state as you right now. barely even had to try.

you whimper. he hears it. his breathing gets rougher, now rutting up into his tight calloused palm. eyes squeezed tightly, imagining the look on your pretty face. the look you’ll have when you let him stretch you with his cock.

“rub harder, baby. rub like you want it. picture me there, helpin’ you through it.”

“feels—feels so good—” your voice trembles, breath quickening

“yeah it does. let it happen. c’mon, let me hear it.”

your back arches. your thighs lock around your hand. you press your face into your arm and shake through it, the kind of orgasm that leaves your ears ringing.

you don’t say a word. you couldn’t even if you wanted to, far too dazed. but your silence speaks volumes.

“…you there?” he pants, cock starting to twitch, creeping up on his end.

you nod, hand still pressed against your cunt. nervous to remove it, with how sensitive and used it feels now. “uh huh.”

“that was for me, huh?”

“…yeah.”

he groans like it physically hurts him. “fucking hell. you’re gonna ruin me.”

his voice changes after that. thick. needy. breath catching like he’s barely holding on.

it makes you blush once you recognize the shift in him— the sound of his hand moving fast, rough, slick. rhythm stuttering.

“you’re all i can think about,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus christ—laying this shitty motel bed, got my cock in my hand thinking about you making a mess of yourself just— shit, just for me. ”

your breath catches, eyes closing just soaking in the sounds from him. they give you chills.

“wanna get my mouth on you so bad,” he growls. “wanna hear you whimper right against my tongue, tell me it’s mine—tell me you want it—”

he grits his teeth. lets out a quiet, broken sound. “fuck—i’m not gonna last if you don’t—baby, say my name.”

you go still.

“please,” he murmurs. “just once. c’mon. gator. need to hear it. need to hear it come outta that sweet little mouth—”

“gator,” you whisper.

he gasps. the noise that tears out of him is filthy. unhinged. he spills with a groan that’s raw and half-strangled, the kind of sound a man makes when he’s been holding it back too long.

the line goes quiet except for his ragged breathing. a rustle of sheets. the soft sound of him trying to catch his breath.

you don’t say anything. neither does he. but you both stay on the line. long past the point you should’ve hung up.

just breathing. like you need to know the other’s still there.

after it all wound down, something shifted with you two. before you became too lost in hum of the line buzzing faintly in your ear. gator’s voice piped up again, softer this time, almost hesitant. but without giving it any more thought, he started speaking. “my dad… he keeps me on a leash,” he’d admitted, a rough edge to his words. “like i’m some dog he can yank around whenever he wants. i hate it.”

you had swallowed, chest tightening, and found yourself confessing too, voice low. “i know the feeling,” you’d murmured. “my dad… he keeps me in line, like i don’t get to make my own choices. like i’m trapped under his thumb.”

there’d been a pause, a quiet weight on the line, and then gator’s voice, softer this time, almost tender. “we’re different,” he said, “but… maybe we get it. maybe that’s why we… connect.”

you’d fell asleep that night thinking about him, about yourself, about how freeing it was to finally have someone who understood. about the hours spent half awake and unloading secrets onto one another. and in the back of your mind, a small spark of fear and thrill had ignited—the kind that whispered this wasn’t going to be simple.

and when the morning light broke in, soft and slivered through your blinds, the first thing you saw was your phone still clutched in your hand.

long after the ragged sounds of breathing faded. long after you felt your cheeks cool and your limbs go soft and warm.

you’d stayed on the phone with him long after you both went quiet.

you fell asleep to his voice, low and lazy in your ear.

telling you he’d be back soon. telling you he missed you. telling you he wished he could hold you while you sleep.

a message lit the screen.

🦎 1 message

“be home in two days. thinkin’ about you already.”

you smiled before you could stop yourself.

before your brain caught up to your body.

before the guilt managed to kick its way in.

you didn’t open the message.

just pressed the phone to your chest like that could shield you from the shape of what’s forming between you.

your daddy’s voice already rang in your head, strong and sharp.

about decency. about discipline.

about keeping your heart clean and your body cleaner.

gator is not clean. not righteous. not the kind of man you introduce in the church lobby and let pray grace over your dinner.

he’s older. mean. a lizard.

he’s got a mouth like sin and hands that haven’t even touched you yet but already make you ache.

he can’t be your boyfriend. this can’t be real. what even is this?

but… he listened to you. he understood you.

he made you feel wanted. he made you feel good.

and he made you cum just from the sound of his voice.

your phone buzzes again. you don’t look. but your fingers twitch like they want to.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

you don’t text him back.

not that first morning when his name lights your phone.

not that night when he sends another.

not even the next day, when it buzzes against your thigh in the dressing room of the mall, your sister hollering through the curtain that she’s found a sale on jeans.

🦎 6 messages

🦎: morning songbird.. dreamt about you • 7:51am

🦎: missing my girl • 11:23am

🦎: got somethin to give u when im back • 12:12pm

🦎: did i push you too hard? • 1:47pm

🦎: cmon talk to me, songbird • 6:01pm

🦎: [image] u like blue right? • 9:33pm

you read every one. but don’t reply.

you tell yourself you’re thinking. praying. that maybe a little space will help you make sense of this.

but still…you don’t delete the texts.

and you don’t stop looking at them.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

across state lines, gator’s slumped in the stiff motel bed, legs spread, eyes fixed on his phone like it’s got answers for him.

no reply.

again.

he tosses the phone onto the nightstand and rubs his jaw, muttering under his breath.

“told her too much,” he says.

“got greedy.”

his reflection stares back at him from the mirror on the opposite wall—dark eyes, gel slick hair, mouth still red from chewing his lip all night. he’s been acting like a man possessed since that call, rewinding your voice in his head over and over like he can conjure you from it.

he stands. paces. talks to himself like he’s still got you listening.

“she’s mine now,” he says, pointing at his own reflection. “said she liked it. said she missed me. i’m a winner.”

he grins. wide. all teeth.

“i’m a winner.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

12 hours til gator gets home

you’re at the thrift store in town. your sister’s trying on boots when you see it—a little gold cross necklace hanging on a turnstile by the checkout. dainty, simple. harmless.

you pick it up. turn it over in your palm.

you imagine it against gator’s chest, glinting just above the edge of his collar. softening him. making him look nicer. less like a threat.

more like someone your daddy wouldn’t mind shaking hands with.

“who’s that for?” your sister asks, peering over your shoulder.

“just someone i know,” you say.

you buy it. tuck it deep in your bag.

and pretend it wasn’t for a man who hadn’t stopped texting you since you hung up the phone.

you finally text him back the morning he’s back in town.

not much. just:

> if you’re free later i can meet.

you don’t check for his reply until hours later, but he responded in minutes.

🦎: always free for you.

and then again:

🦎: name the place.

you pick the park near the rec center. the one with the picnic tables tucked under the trees, too shaded and quiet for anyone to really hang around. you tell yourself it’s just a convenient spot. halfway between both your houses. neutral ground.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

he gets there before you.

of course he does.

sits on the tabletop, legs spread wide, heavy boots planted on the bench below. he’s in a grey sheriff shirt again, the one that stretches tight over his shoulders, sunglasses pushed up into his slicked back hair. there’s a little stuffed bunny with blue ears sitting beside him.

you blink at it.

he grins.

“got it at some truck stop out in missouri. made me think of you. soft and kinda wide eyed.”

you’re not sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. it’s stupid. you hug it to your chest anyway.

“you didn’t have to—”

“wanted to.”

his voice cuts you off without sounding sharp. just final.

like he did what he did and he’s not taking it back.

“i like thinkin’ about you on long drives.”

you sit beside him. not close, not touching. your leg brushes his knee by accident and he twitches like it sparked him.

you glance down at the bunny again. then dig around in your bag, pulling out the little box you bought yesterday. you hand it to him quickly, like it’ll burn you if you linger.

“i, uh. got you something too.”

he opens it. pauses.

the thin gold cross on a chain. just the right length to sit over his collarbone.

his thumb brushes it. he blinks, looks at you.

“this supposed to save me?”

you shrug. “i thought it might make you look nicer.”

he laughs, short and low, like it caught him off guard. like he liked that answer more than he should.

“you wanna help me put it on?” he asks.

you nod.

he turns, straightens his posture up so you see the entirety of his neck. that stretch of skin—tan and freckled, scarred near the base of his skull—makes your hands a little clumsy as you fasten the clasp. your fingers graze his nape.

he turns back around slowly. he’s still too close.

you both sit there for a second. silence thick between you.

then, soft:

“can i kiss you?” his voice drops lower. “been wantin’ to. not gonna if you don’t want me to.”

you don’t answer right away. you shift the bunny in your lap. you feel something folding open in your chest, something hot and fragile and wanting.

he sees it.

you nod once.

and then he does.

he kisses like he talks: deliberate, a little greedy. one hand curling behind your neck, pulling you in. when you finally break away, he’s flushed and smiling, the necklace resting at the dip of his collarbone.

but when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that makes your throat tighten.

“you ever kiss anyone like that before?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“good,” he says.

and then again, under his breath, not really meant for you— “good girl.”

you spend another hour like that. just sitting. talking. touching shoulders. his knee brushing yours.

you don’t want to go home. but you do.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

that night, you lay in bed with the blue eared bunny tucked against your ribs.

you consider naming it— though none of the options seem good enough.

your phone buzzes at 11:13 p.m.

🦎: you sleepin?

you grin before you can help it. type back:

> no </3

then, a second later:

> not yet.

three dots pop up. then disappear.

then a photo comes through.

you stare.

it’s not graphic. not exactly.

just his bare chest—freckled skin and lean muscle, curly tufts of chest hair just under the necklace you gave him. the gold glinting under the glow of his bedroom lamp. he’s clearly holding the phone up with one hand, the angle slightly from above, the other hand resting low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers.

you stare at it too long.

the cross sits right in the center of his chest. ike you put it there on purpose.

your breath hitches.

🦎: look what i’ve been wearing all day.

you type:

> looks good on u :3

he replies almost instantly:

🦎: course it does. you put it on me.

then:

🦎: been thinkin’ about you all day. ’bout that kiss. you being so sweet for me.

you feel like your body’s full of bees.

you stare at the screen so long it starts to dim.

before long another picture comes in. slightly lower this time. the dip of his pelvis visible. more skin.

🦎: you like this?

you do.

your thighs press together without you meaning to.

you’re quiet for too long again. of course he notices.

🦎: baby?

your face heats.

you chew your lip. then type, quick and stupid:

> yeah. i like it.

he sends another message:

🦎: wish i could see you too. really see you.

pause.

🦎: you ever send pictures before?

you freeze.

> no.

🦎: wanna try for me?

you hesitate. then:

> i dunno. i’ve never done it… i don’t wanna look stupid.

🦎: u couldn’t if u tried

> don’t be sweet.

🦎: not bein’ sweet. just honest.

you swallow hard.

he gives you a second to think, then follows up. phone buzzing with his convincingly soft words.

🦎: you don’t gotta show your face. not even a little. just… what you want me to see. just for me.

you think about it for a moment. that desire to make him happy burning deep in your belly. before you give it a second thought, you sit up in bed. take your tank top off, arms wrapping around your chest to cover you. tits pushed together to make them look a bit bigger. your fingers tremble a little as you lift the phone and snap a photo — collarbones down, your arm hugged around one side, nipples stiff in the cool air.

you send it before you can back out.

🦎: jesus fuckin’ christ

comes through a second later.

then:

🦎: i’m gonna lose my mind over you, sweetheart.

you giggle nervously. cheeks hot. heart reacting to each message he sends.

a beat, then another text:

🦎: can i ask for one more?

you already know what he wants.

and you hate how badly you want to give it.

🦎: tell me no and i’ll drop it

you hesitate. but then you reach for the little stuffed bunny , the one he gifted you. you snap another photo—its head tucked between your thighs, panties pulled tight, a hint of the damp patch showing.

the message whooshes off before you can stop it. your whole body feels like fire.

three dots blink again. then vanish. then blink again.

before you can breathe, your screen lights up—

incoming call: 🦎

your stomach flips. you swipe to answer, press the phone to your ear.

you answer with shaky fingers. you don’t say anything.

he groans. “you tryin’ to kill me?”

his voice is wrecked. hoarse and tight, like he hasn’t let go of his dick since the first picture.

“you told me to,” you murmur.

without missing a beat, it’s like something shifts in gator. lost in his own pleasure.

“that little pussy’s mine, isn’t it?” he grits, low and certain.

your stomach swoops. “it’s yours.”

a sharp hiss through his teeth, like he’s gripping himself too tight. “louder.”

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, but you obey, voice trembling. “it’s yours.”

he groans—loud, guttural, unrestrained. in the background you can hear it, the slick rhythm of his hand working his cock.

“good girl,” he pants. “sweetest thing i ever heard. you don’t even know what you’re doing to me—cock so hard you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

your chest feels too tight. you can’t think, can’t breathe.

“wish i was there,” he goes on, voice cracking, desperate. “wish i had my cock in you right now, stretching you all open. wish i had you under me, taking me so deep you feel it in your tummy. fuck—are you touching yourself for me?”

your throat works, but no sound comes out.

“c’mon, angel,” he urges, voice rough with command. “do it for me. put those pretty fingers where i’d be.”

your breath stutters, heat washing over you as you slide your hand down. the moment your fingers slip into your panties— between your folds, the wet sound fills the silence between you. obscene. sticky. you know he can hear it.

“goddamn,” he groans, the noise punched out of him. “can hear how wet you are. fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?”

your eyes flutter shut as your fingers circle your clit, then sink down, pushing into your tight hole. the stretch makes you whimper, makes your walls clench down around your knuckles as you fuck yourself slow.

“jesus christ,” gator snarls, his voice shaking. “i can hear it—can hear those fingers playing with that sweet little hole. you’re killing me, angel.”

your back arches, sticky arousal dripping down your thighs, every thrust louder than the last, wet and obscene.

“faster,” he orders, voice breaking. “fuck yourself harder. let me hear you open up for me.”

you bite down on a cry but do as he says, fingers driving in and out, messy and desperate. you angle your wrist, pressing the heel of your palm against your clit, and start humping your own hand—rocking your hips down hard, using yourself the way you imagine you’d use him. the lewd smack of your wet cunt against your palm is shameless, filthy, loud enough to make him groan ragged into the receiver.

“fuck, baby, i’m close,” he grits out. “you’re gonna make me cum if you just say my name. need to hear it. need you begging for me. tell me who’s makin’ you feel good.”

your toes curl, body trembling as you rut against your hand, soaking yourself, chasing it. “gator,” you whimper, voice broken. “feels so good—god, i want you so bad. wish it was you, wish it was you inside me, stretching me open, making me feel good.”

he lets out a noise—half growl, half moan—that sounds like he’s tearing himself apart. “fucking hell, angel. you keep begging like that, i’m gonna lose it—gonna cum just thinkin’ about you makin’ a mess all over my big fucking cock.”

your body jerks, thighs squeezing tight around your own wrist, grinding down frantically. you’re whining now, messy and high-pitched, rocking against your slippery hand like you’ll die if you stop.

“gator—please.. need you, need it—, i’m gonna—”

“that’s my girl. my angel. nobody else gets you like this, you hear me? nobody. you’re mine.”

you gasp, choking on the wave building in your body. his rough, filthy voice drives you over the edge, and you’re trembling, cunt clenching around nothing as you come. your own release crashes through you in dizzying waves that leave you clawing at the sheets.

for a moment, all you hear is the ragged sound of him breathing. you can almost picture him—sweat on his chest, fist still wrapped around himself, eyes blown wide.

“fuck,” he finally murmurs, voice soft, worn. “you’re mine, angel. mine.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your throat is tight, your chest aching, your thighs still trembling.

there’s silence on the line for a moment—just the shared sound of two bodies wrecked, trying to come back down. then his voice again, softer this time, like he’s curling into something.

“wish i was holding you,” he admits. “wish you were right here. i’d keep you safe.”

your eyes are heavy, body slack, but your heart lurches at the words. too sweet. too much.

it slips out before you can stop it, quiet and breathless: “are you… are you my boyfriend now?”

there’s a pause. his breath catches.

then a low chuckle, tired and warm, though it doesn’t quite answer. “go to sleep, angel. i’ll stay on the phone.”

your chest aches at the way he sidesteps it. but he keeps talking, voice low and steady, coaxing. “just close those eyes. don’t worry about nothing. i got you.”

and you do. you fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, the sound of his breathing the last thing you hear.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

by the time you wake— your body’s still tingling from last night, your mind spinning with the memory of him in every sharp, soft, claiming way. the way he had evaded your question about being your boyfriend, the way he’d told you to sleep, that he’d stay on the line.

and now the morning sun makes everything too real. your phone is silent. no texts. no “morning” messages. nothing. part of you hopes maybe last night was a dream.

you shuffle downstairs, coffee and normalcy in mind. after a few tired good mornings and a kiss to your daddy’s cheek— you take your seat at the breakfast table.

then you see him.

gator. here.

the creak of the screen door makes your fork pause halfway to your mouth. your head turns, slow and disbelieving.

he’s there. standing on the other side of the flimsy mesh door like some shadow you accidentally conjured.

his hair is slicked back with gel, a pair of sunglasses sitting backwards on his ears. sunlight hits the gun holster strapped tight against his thigh, black leather against worn camo. one big hand rests lazy on the doorframe, knuckles grazing the mesh, the other tucked casually into his pocket like he has all the time in the world.

his grin blooms slow, sharp, dangerous. “hey, angel,” he drawls, casual as if he hasn’t just set your stomach twisting into knots.

your body locks up, fork clinking against the plate. heat floods your face, your chest tightening with a cocktail of panic and shame. he’s here.

your sisters are the first to break the silence. perched at the counter with their cereal bowls, they look at you, then at him, then back again—smirks blooming wide like they’ve been waiting for this.

“wow,” one whispers, her tone dripping with glee. “didn’t know you had friends.”

the other snorts into her spoon, stifling a laugh.

your mama moves fast, spatula in hand, stepping into the tense gap between him and the kitchen table. her voice is careful, measured, but you can hear the caution threaded through it. “may I help you?”

your daddy sets his mug down, eyes narrowing. his voice is a low rumble. “Gator Tillman.” His jaw tightens. “I know who you are. Roy’s boy.”

gator shrugs, still grinning. “yeah, that’s me. figured I’d stop by—was on patrol in the neighborhood, thought I’d see how that one’s doing.”

the room tilts. unease settles like a weight in your chest. your daddy’s jaw is rigid. your mama tenses, every instinct wary of the reputation that precedes him. your sisters can’t stop smirking. they sense it too—the dangerous, almost forbidden pull of him, and the fact that he is Roy Tillman’s son.

gator’s eyes never leave yours, that grin a silent claim, his presence rewriting the morning, making it impossible to breathe normally.

your mama hesitates, lips parting, then—because good manners can be armor—she steps aside. “well… don’t stand out there. come in, have a seat.”

the door squeaks open. his boots cross the linoleum with an unhurried confidence, each step a claim. he drags out a chair beside you at the table, the metal legs screeching across the floor, and sinks into it like he belongs.

you want to vanish, to melt into the floor. to pretend you’ve never met him. last night wasn’t supposed to exist outside of your bedroom. and yet… here he is, as if he has a right to invade your morning, invading the space you thought was safe.

gator leans back, one boot swinging lazily. “you look… surprised.” his tone is soft, teasing, and it makes your pulse spike. “you okay?”

you barely nod, words stuck in your throat. how do you explain last night without revealing everything?

your daddy clears his throat, voice low and deliberate. “i don’t like surprises. not from you, and not from him.”

“understandable,” gator replies smoothly, almost reverently. his eyes flick to you, almost daring you to answer.

your mama finally finds her voice. “well… breakfast is just got done— have you eaten, son?” she says, trying to fill the room with normalcy, but her hand trembles slightly around the spatula. every instinct is shouting caution.

your sisters lean toward each other, whispering, muffling giggles. “he’s… intense,” one murmurs. “look at her face.”

your shame twists tighter. every eye in the room is on you, every glance heavy with expectation, curiosity, wariness. you want to disappear, but you also want him—want him to stay, even though your entire body knows it’s reckless.

gator’s gaze flickers between you and your dad, a silent challenge there, daring yet careful. “i’ll just hang out a minute,” he says. “didn’t mean to intrude.” but the way he says it, like he could stay indefinitely if he wanted, makes it clear this isn’t just a casual drop-in.

you swallow, nerves raw, hands shaking slightly. your body betrays you, remembering every bit of him from last night, every memory that your brain insists is forbidden in this kitchen, under the glare of parental authority and sisters’ smug amusement.

and yet… you want him there. desperately, impossibly.

the smell of his cologne lingers, sharp and masculine, cutting through the warm kitchen air.

your pulse stutters when the leather of his holster brushes your bare leg under the table. it’s nothing—just a shift of his thigh, careless—but it jolts you upright, shoulders stiff. you can’t tell if he did it on purpose. then, slow as a secret, his hand drifts under the table, fingertips grazing your knee before resting heavy on your thigh.

you want to move. you can’t.

your daddy notices the way you sit ramrod straight, suspicion already sharpening his eyes. “how do you know my daughter?”

you scramble for an answer, cheeks hot. “he, um—he comes to bible study sometimes.”

gator’s mouth curves, messy and knowing. “she’s real generous, your girl,” he drawls, giving your thigh a squeeze under the table like a warning. with his other hand, he tugs the chain at his throat, gold cross catching the morning light. your necklace. “even gave me this.”

the room tilts. your sisters nearly choke on their juice, whispering furiously into each other’s ears. your daddy’s jaw ticks. your mama’s expression twitches briefly.

“we’re good friends,” gator adds smoothly, like he’s offering a safe explanation. but his eyes flick to you, heavy, daring. “she’s real kind to me.”

the word friends burns, confusing and sharp, especially with his palm burning into your thigh like he owns you.

your mama, tight voiced, slides a mug of coffee in front of him. “here,” she says politely, though her eyes are watchful.

“thank you, ma’am.” gator takes it with one hand, like he knows how to play the role, his smile bright and polite.

your sisters won’t stop giggling until your mama snaps: “go on, take your breakfast in the other room.”

they shuffle off with smug looks, leaving you pinned between your daddy’s suspicion and gator’s casual dominance. he sips his coffee, boots stretched long under the table, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh like it’s nothing, like no one can see.

you feel like you’re going to come apart. every squeeze sends your heartbeat racing higher, every stroke of his thumb a reminder that last night didn’t stay buried where it belonged.

your daddy leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. his voice is low, deliberate. “so i take it, you are a man of faith?”

your throat closes. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

gator doesn’t hesitate. “wasn’t always— but she’s been opening me up to it all.” his tone is reverent, almost soft—like it’s a confession. like it’s something sacred.

your daddy’s stare sharpens. “that so?”

you want the floor to swallow you.

gator takes a sip of coffee, casual as sin, then sets the mug down with a soft clink. “yes sir. something about hearing her sing at that funeral a few weeks back just put a lot into perspective. the good word means a lot, comin’ from her.” his boot nudges yours under the table, deliberate.

there’s a beat of silence that’s almost painful. then:

your daddy leans forward, forearms braced against the table. “listen, son,” he says evenly, “i know your daddy. don’t want no trouble from his boy.”

gator’s hand tightens on your thigh under the table, a warning, a promise. his grin is slow, dangerous. “no trouble, sir. wouldn’t dream of it.” his voice softens, almost earnest. “just thought i’d stop in. was already in the neighborhood, like i said.”

the excuse is flimsy, and everyone knows it. but he says it like gospel truth, and it hangs there in the air, daring anyone to challenge him.

your mama’s lips press tight, attempting to ease the heaviness in the air she pipes. “coffee’s getting cold, nothin’ worse than that.” her eyes flick between you and him, suspicion flickering with something else—worry.

gator leans back, casual, his hand still a brand against your thigh. “yes, ma’am.”

every second at the table feels like a trap, like the whole family is watching you unravel, and the worst part is—he knows it.

the clink of silverware fills the silence for a moment, but your daddy doesn’t let it stretch too long. he clears his throat, fixes his gaze on gator across the table.

“so,” he says, voice even but edged, “how long you been runnin’ patrols round here?”

gator doesn’t miss a beat. he sets down his coffee, leans back in his chair with that careless sprawl. “few months now. shift me around where they need me. figure it keeps things… interesting.”

your daddy hums, slow and deliberate. “interestin’ ain’t always good. neighborhood’s been quiet. don’t see the sense in stirrin’ it up.”

gator’s grin flickers, something sharper beneath it. “wasn’t lookin’ to stir nothin’, sir. just thought i’d check in. say good mornin’.” his hand squeezes your thigh once under the table before pulling away, deliberate, like a secret parting shot.

your mama sets down her fork a little too quickly. “well, it’s kind of you to stop by,” she says, her voice thin, polite in that way that means she’d prefer he didn’t.

your daddy studies him a long moment, then nods once. “kind’s one word for it.”

your appetite’s gone, every bite of food turning to dust in your mouth. when the silence stretches too tight, you blurt, “i’ll walk him out.”

your mama looks relieved, your daddy skeptical. but he doesn’t stop you.

outside, the morning air is cool against your skin, dew from the grass cold against your bare feet. a relief after the heat of the kitchen. gator walks beside you, boots crunching over gravel, that smug, dangerous grin tugging at his mouth. his patrol truck gleams in the driveway, the sheriff’s emblem bright in the sunlight.

“was real nice of your mama to feed me,” he says casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a live wire in the middle of your breakfast table.

you hug your arms tight over your chest, glancing toward the window where you know your daddy’s watching. “you shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

gator’s laugh is low, warm, curling around you like smoke. “didn’t hear you tell me to leave.”

he stops by the car, one hand resting easy on the roof, the other reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his thumb lingers, slow and deliberate against your cheek.

you lean forward a touch, heart thudding, so close you can smell the sharp tang of his cologne, the faint bite of coffee on his breath.

“you looked real pretty sittin’ there at that table,” he murmurs, voice honey sweet, meant for you alone. “all mine, even with your daddy right there. had me thinkin’ about last night the whole damn time.”

your cheeks burn, pulse fluttering wild. you want to pull back, to run, to deny the way the words settle deep in your stomach—but you don’t move.

“don’t look so spooked, angel,” he murmurs. “i’ll see you soon.”

the words are sweet as sugar, poisonous as arsenic. you can’t breathe around them.

your pulse stutters, the weight of him heavy in your chest, your daddy’s shadow stretching long in the kitchen window.

and then gator slides into the driver’s seat, boots and holster first, grin flashing through the open window. “be good, now.”

the patrol car rumbles to life, rolling away slow. you’re left bent halfway down, breathless and trembling, shame and want tangled so tight you can’t tell one from the other.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

when you step back into the kitchen, the air feels heavier, thicker. your mama’s already cleared gator’s empty mug, her lips pressed into a thin line. your sisters are still gone—thank god— and daddy’s is standing tall. displeasure smeared across his face. he stands at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking you like a hawk.

you sink into your chair, hands twisting in your lap, stomach still churning with the ghost of gator’s touch.

“what was that?” your daddy asks finally. his voice isn’t raised, but it’s sharp enough to cut.

you swallow hard. “nothin’. he just stopped by.”

“he ain’t the type to just stop by,” he says, jaw tightening. “and he sure as hell ain’t the type I want sittin’ at my kitchen table.”

your chest constricts. “you don’t know him,” you blurt out, the words tumbling before you can catch them. “he’s not—he’s not like his daddy.”

your mama sits down across from you, her eyes soft but worried. “sweetheart, it’s not that simple. his name carries weight. people see him with you, they’re gonna talk. and not kindly.”

heat floods your face. shame, anger, longing—all knotted together. “we’re just friends,” you insist, though the words taste like ash. last night’s breathless moans echo in your head, the way his voice had broken when he claimed you. “he comes to bible study sometimes. he—he’s different with me.”

your daddy’s brow furrows, suspicion written in every line of his face. “friends don’t look at each other like that.”

your heart stutters. “you don’t know him like I do,” you whisper, too quiet, but they both hear it.

silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. your mama reaches across, fingers brushing your hand. “we’re not tryin’ to trap you, baby. we just want you safe. and with him…” her voice falters, breaking off. “with him, I’m not sure you will be.”

you want to argue, to scream, to tell them they’re wrong—but the words stick. because deep down, you’re not sure either.

and still, you feel his voice in your ear, the soft rasp that had left you weak kneed in the driveway. i’ll see you soon.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

after this morning— you’ve spent all day avoiding your parents, skirting the kitchen, ducking out of the living room, staying holed up in your room where the walls feel safer than their eyes. every glance, every sigh from downstairs has you stewing in the confusion of their displeasure. you even prayed on it, hoping for some clarity, some sign that you weren’t completely insane for feeling pulled toward him despite all the warnings.

the sun sinks lower, shadows stretching long across your floor, when your phone buzzes. one word. come.

your pulse spikes, chest tightening. you slip into your shoes, heart hammering against your ribs. you tell gator to park halfway up the street—just far enough so the truck won’t give you away—and then you’re out the door, moving quickly, quietly. the night air wraps around you, cool and electric, as you run toward him, every step fueled by reckless longing and the ache of knowing you shouldn’t.

he’s leaning against the hood of his patrol car, boots scuffed, one hand lazily resting on the roof, hair messy in that careless way that somehow looks deliberate. when he sees you, that grin spreads—half dangerous, half sweet—and your chest tightens, the flutter in your stomach answering before your brain can.

“you made it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “good girl.”

“i… i couldn’t not,” you whisper, moving closer, sweating a little from the night heat—and from the way he’s looking at you.

he pushes off the truck bed, standing close enough that the warmth radiates against your arms. “you still mad at me?” he asks, tone cautious.

“no,” you murmur, cheeks warming. “just… surprised. it was a shock, seeing you at breakfast like that. but… it felt good, seeing you in person.”

he grins, that dangerous, teasing grin tugging at his lips. “good,” he says softly. “you looked… perfect sitting there, even with your whole family watching.”

you glance down the empty street, feeling a little flutter in your stomach. “my little sisters… they think you’re cute.”

he chuckles low, warm. “doesn’t surprise me. i’m hard to resist.” his grin softens, and he steps closer, brushing a stray hair from your face. “you weren’t mad though, right?”

“not mad,” you insist, looking up at him. “just… startled. and a little proud, maybe. proud you came.”

he tilts his head, studying you, thumb brushing lightly along your arm. “good. that’s all i wanted—just you. no awkward breakfast table, no questions, just… us, even for a little bit.”

the two of you walk into town together, side by side, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement. he lets you pick the spot, leaning into you casually, fingers brushing against yours every now and then. every touch makes your heart jump.

at the little ice cream shop, he holds the door open for you, flashes a grin at the clerk, then turns to you. “you pick first, angel,” he says, voice soft.

you stare at the array of treats, overwhelmed, but he’s patient, leaning back on the counter, casual, but every glance flicks to you. finally, you pick cookie dough ice cream in a waffle cone—and he chuckles, muttering, “perfect choice.”

he orders something for himself, and you find a little corner outside, sitting on the low curb. he nudges the cone toward you with his elbow, just enough for a playful touch. “here,” he says, smile soft. “don’t eat it all in one bite.”

you giggle, tasting the ice cream, the flavor almost sweeter than the moment itself. he watches you like it’s the only thing that matters, that grin that makes your stomach flip.

there’s a beat of silence before he breaks it.

“you’re quiet,” he says, voice teasing, but gentle. “thinking about somethin’?”

you shrug, “just… how weird it is. being out here with you. like… sneaking around. and… after this morning.”

“after breakfast?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, a soft laugh in his tone.

“yeah,” you admit, biting your lip. “seeing you at the house… it was kind of a lot. but… it felt nice too.”

he grins, and your chest tightens. “good,” he murmurs.

you sit together, eating ice cream in comfortable silence, the night stretching around you. small touches, shared smiles, quiet laughter—the kind of stolen, reckless sweetness that makes your chest ache with longing and delight.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

after some time, it all winds down and you slide into the truck beside him, the coolness of the leather seat hitting your legs.

“thanks for coming to get me— i had fun.” you hum, sinking down into the leather.

he grins, that crooked, dangerous grin. “good. figured i’d make a morning mess of things, might as well end the night sweet.” his eyes flick to yours, the streetlight catching the glint in them.

he shifts in the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting near your knee. the engine hums softly, headlights painting long shadows across the cab. you brush your hand along his thigh, careful, letting your fingers linger. he doesn’t flinch. instead, his thumb finds yours, brushing lightly, teasing.

“gator…” you murmur, voice small in the quiet hum of the truck. he hums softly in acknowledgment, leaning just a touch closer. “what do you… what do you think about… us?”

he tilts his head, studying you with that crooked, dangerous grin. “us?” he echoes, voice low, careful, like he’s weighing every word.

“yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “i mean… tonight’s been… nice. i just… wanna know what you think.”

he chuckles, slow and low, that sound that makes your chest flutter. “reckon i like it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along the back of your hand again. “like… being with you. having you close. don’t need a name, don’t need rules. just you.”

you feel a tiny sting in your chest—wanting more than “just you”—but you tuck it away, forcing a soft smile. “me too,” you whisper.

“my girl,” he murmurs against your hair, kissing the top of your head, voice soft, southern, a little rough. “missed you more than i thought i would.”

you giggle, breath hitching. “i… might’ve missed you a little.”

he smirks, leaning back just enough so he can pull you towards him. strong arming you over his thighs so you can straddle his lap, chest pressed against his, arms still draped around his neck. “little, huh?” he teases, thumb brushing your side, careful, teasing, almost reverent. “might have to remedy that.”

your stomach flutters, and your face warms. the night air in the truck feels charged.

he leans closer, eyes dark and intent. “tell me you want me,” he murmurs, voice low, just enough to make your stomach twist.

you bite your lip, cheeks heating. “i… i do,” you whisper, barely audible, trembling just a little.

his grin quirks, dangerous and soft all at once. “say it like you mean it,” he urges, hand brushing along your side, gentle but insistent.

“gator— i want you,” you murmur, heart hammering, hands reaching for the back of his neck.

he hums, low and satisfied, before tipping his head and pressing his half chapped lips to yours. the kiss starts slow, teasing, as if he’s savoring the moment, but quickly deepens. his hands cup your waist, thumbs brushing along the curve above your hips, steadying you as you shift on his lap.

your fingers dig into his cotton covered shoulders and he groans softly, pressing closer, tongue teasing yours. you gasp into the kiss, knees pressing against his thighs, his chest vibrating with a low hum that makes your stomach flutter.

“shit,” he breathes against your mouth when he pulls back just a fraction, forehead resting against yours. “you’re perfect.”

you shiver against him, the hum of the truck around you fading as the world narrows down to his lips, his hands, the way he makes you feel… wanted, safe, and impossibly alive all at once.

your chest stays pressed against his, the hum of the truck around you. gator’s hand rests on your side, warm and steady, fingers brushing lightly, teasing, asking for permission without words.

“gator…” you murmur, breath hitching, not totally sure where the sentence is leading.

he tilts his head, lips just brushing yours, a slow, deliberate press. “told you i’ll be gentle with you” he murmurs, low and rough. “you just gotta let me.”

you bite your lip, cheeks flaming. “i want you to—” you whisper, soft but sure, and he grins, easing into a deeper, careful kiss. that familiar fiery ache building in the pit of your tummy. similar to that of those few calls.

his other hand slide under your shirt at your waist, thumbs tracing along your sides, careful and teasing. you sigh into the kiss, nervous but eager. his teeth graze your lower lip, a little daring, and you gasp, heart thundering. spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his tongue lazily licking into your mouth.

the taste of ice cream and his vape mixing between the two of you.

“that’s it… that’s my girl,” he hums against your mouth, voice heavy, southern rough, making your knees weak.

your breath hitches when you shift in his lap, thighs tightening around him. the hard line of his cock presses up against you through his jeans and you can feel the twitch of him underneath, the way his hands grip tighter at your waist like he’s holding himself back.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice ragged. “you feel that, angel? that’s what you do to me.”

your face burns, but you can’t stop the way your hips roll forward, dragging across his lap. the thick ridge of him grinds right where you’re aching, pressure against your soaked panties, and you gasp into his mouth. the sound makes him groan, deep and guttural, his chest vibrating against yours.

“gator—” you whisper, breathless, fingers clutching at the hair at the back of his neck.

“shhh,” he soothes, though his tone is tight, rough with restraint. “i got you. just lemme take care of you.”

his hand slides lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt, calloused palm dragging over your thigh. the heat of him is dizzying, and when his fingers finally press against the damp cotton of your panties, you jolt, a broken whimper falling from your lips.

“jesus christ,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across the soaked fabric. the friction is obscene, your slick squelching under his touch. “you’re dripping already. been sitting here like this for me?”

humiliation and need twist together in your gut. your voice comes out thin, desperate. “…yeah.”

he groans like the confession wrecks him, forehead pressing to yours. “look at me,” he demands, low and steady. you force your eyes open, his gaze burning into you, dark and reverent. “good girl. ain’t nothin’ to be shy about—means you want me bad as i want you.”

his thumb pushes harder, dragging against your swelling clit through the soaked fabric, and you rock down against his hand helplessly. the wet squish of it fills the cab of the truck, shameful and loud, your panties sticking to your folds with every grind.

“that’s it,” he breathes, mouth messy against yours, spit wetting your chin. “hump my hand, angel. wanna hear how sloppy that little pussy gets for me.”

your hips move without thought, rutting against him, your slick soaking through cotton until it’s sticky and translucent under his fingers. you moan into his mouth, wet and whiny, thighs trembling as you grind down harder.

he presses two fingers beneath the edge of your panties, slipping them against your swollen folds, and the squelch of your arousal makes him groan out loud. “fuck me—soaked all the way through. my messy little thing.”

your eyes squeeze shut as his fingers glide through the mess, catching on your entrance. when he pushes in, the stretch of his thick fingers makes your breath break, your walls clamping down tight, sucking him in with an obscene sound.

“ohhh, there it is,” he grits, watching your face. “tight little hole squeezin’ me like it’s hungry for my cock already. fuck, angel—listen to that.”

the lewd sound of your cunt milking his fingers fills the truck, sticky and filthy, your slick dripping down his knuckles as you grind against his hand, chasing it.

“gator,” you whimper, rocking down shamelessly, your panties shoved aside, his palm grinding your clit as his fingers pump inside you. “feels so good—need you so bad. want your cock, want it so bad.”

he snarls, low and ruined, his cock straining hard beneath you. “keep beggin’, baby. beggin’ all sloppy on my fingers like that—fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it.”

his fingers drive into you, knuckles deep, every thrust wet and messy, the slap of his palm against your swollen clit making your whole body quake. your walls clamp down tight, sucking at him greedily, slick pouring out around his hand, soaking his wrist, dripping down onto his jeans.

“fuck, angel,” he groans, his forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking. “you’re squeezin’ me so hard—gonna cum all over my hand, aren’t you? filthy little thing.”

your thighs tremble, your breath coming sharp and broken, your belly twisting up tight. you can feel it—right there, right under the surface, your body begging to break.

but just before the coil snaps, you whine, desperate, pulling up off his hand. his soaked fingers slip free with a lewd squelch, strings of slick clinging as you scramble against his chest.

“gator—” you gasp, voice raw. “need more—need you.”

your hands fumble at his waist, tugging at the thick leather of his belt. your fingers shake, clumsy, slick still coating them, making the buckle slip. you whimper in frustration, rutting helplessly against his thigh as you paw at it. some part of you feeling the need to rush as if you don’t have all the time in the world.

he catches your wrists, stilling you, his chest heaving. amazed by this sudden shorten in you— his eyes are wild in the dim light, pupils blown wide. “slow down, angel. breathe.” his thumb strokes your pulse point, rough but steady. “you want my cock?”

you nod so fast it makes you dizzy. “yes—please, gator, i want it, want you inside me.”

his groan is low and feral, like he’s barely holding himself together. “goddamn,” he mutters, thick fingers working his own belt loose with practiced ease. the clink of the buckle echoes in the truck’s cab, sharp and heavy, making your stomach flip.

he shoves his jeans down enough to free himself, and your breath catches hard.

he’s huge. thick and heavy, veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed and slick, precum already pearling at the tip. dark hair curls at the base, damp with sweat, his cock slapping up against his stomach when he pulls it free.

your thighs clench instinctively, empty hole quivering around nothing. “oh my god…” you whisper, dazed, your mouth parting at the sight.

he grins, feral and crooked, gripping himself at the base, giving you a slow stroke that makes his whole body shudder. “too much for you, songbird?” he teases, voice hoarse. “gonna stretch you wide open.”

you stare breathless, eyes fixed on him. you whine, needy and trembling, grinding against his thigh. “please—gator, i need it.”

he watches you squirm in his lap for a moment longer, then shakes his head with a low laugh, like he can’t believe you. “nah, can’t have you ridin’ me all crooked in this seat,” he mutters, already shifting you off his thighs.

before you can protest, his big hands grip your waist and guide you down across the bench seat, laying you out flat. the cracked leather is cool under your back, but he shrugs off his jacket and bunches it under your head, careful, like he can’t stand the thought of you being uncomfortable.

“there,” he says, voice rough but steady, gaze raking over you. “look at you. laid out all pretty for me.”

your thighs fall open automatically, skirt hiked up, panties shoved to the side and clinging to your slick folds. his breath hitches at the sight, cock twitching against his stomach.

he crawls over you, bracing a hand by your head, the other still wrapped around the thick base of his cock. “gotta get it wet first,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the heavy length down against your pussy.

the head catches on your swollen clit, smearing precum and slick across your folds. you gasp, whole body arching, nails digging into the seat as he grinds slow, deliberate, the weight of him sliding through the mess between your thighs.

“fuck—” he hisses, jaw tight, cock dragging through your wetness with every roll of his hips. the sound is obscene, slick squelching, your pussy lips parting around the veiny shaft as he ruts against you.

“gator—” you whine, hips jerking up, chasing the friction.

he presses harder, grinding his cockhead against your clit until your eyes roll back, your thighs trembling. “jesus, listen to you,” he groans, eyes half-lidded, sweat beading on his brow. “you hear that?” the wet slap echoes in the cramped cab, filthy and lewd.

you nod frantically, lips parted, a whimper spilling out. “feels so good,” you gasp, voice high and broken. “please—please put it in.”

he just grins, sharp and merciless, rutting against your folds with another slow drag that makes your whole body quake. “not yet, angel. lemme savor you.”

you can’t take it anymore. the steady grind of his cock through your folds has you trembling, your clit aching from the heavy drag of his head. you reach between you, fingers fumbling, desperate to guide him where you need him most.

“please, gator,” you beg, voice broken, shaky. “need you—inside, please—”

his hand closes over yours, steady and firm, and he guides himself down, cockhead nudging a trail of slick at your entrance. the blunt tip nudges, pushing just enough to make you gasp.

“shhh,” he soothes, thumb brushing your cheek, though his own voice is rough, wrecked. “lemme in nice and easy, yeah? nice n’ slow. don’t fight me.”

the pressure makes your eyes flutter shut. you whimper, back arching, your pussy already clenching down before he’s even inside.

“look at that,” he groans, easing forward, the fat head splitting you open. “barely in and you’re squeezin’ me like a fist.”

your mouth falls open. “ohmygod—ohmygod, it’s too—”

“no, baby. you got it. you can take it.” his words are gravelly encouragement, his hand stroking your side, grounding you as he inches deeper. “breathe. let me stretch you.”

the stretch is unreal, every ridge and vein dragging against your walls, your slick coating him as he slowly feeds you more. you babble nonsense against his neck, fingernails biting into his shoulders, overwhelmed by just how big he is.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses, hips stalling to let you adjust. “never had anything this big, huh?”

he knows the answer to that.

you shake your head frantically, tears prickling at your lashes. “s’too much—but feels—oh, god, gator—it feels so good.”

he presses another inch in, groaning at the way your body clenches to pull him deeper. “that’s it. just like that. takin’ me so pretty. don’t stop now, angel—let me all the way in.”

inch by inch, he pushes forward, the thick stretch burning and perfect until your body finally swallows him whole, your pussy quivering around the fat base.

“there we go,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading on his brow. “took every damn inch.”

you’re wrecked beneath him, gasping, trembling, still twitching around his cock like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.

“so full,” you whimper, lips brushing his jaw. “gator—it’s so much, can feel you everywhere.”

he groans at your words, holding himself still inside you, jaw clenched tight. “jesus christ, babygirl… you’re gonna ruin me.”

he pulls back just a little,then rolls his hips forward again—slow, deliberate, the thick drag of his cock pulling a strangled moan out of you.

“fuck, listen to that,” he grits, the wet suck of your pussy obscene in the small cab. “you were made for this cock.”

your thighs twitch, hips jerking up to meet him instinctively. “gator—oh my god—”

he bends down, catching your mouth in a messy kiss, spit-slick and desperate, before trailing lower, lips hot against your jaw, your throat, then down to your chest. he noses your shirt up, hungry, and drags his tongue over one peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

you cry out, arching into him, walls fluttering around his cock at the wet pull of his lips on your skin. “feels—feels so good, oh god, please don’t stop—”

he groans against your breast, teeth catching the sensitive bud before releasing it with a wet pop. “fuck, you taste sweet everywhere, baby. can’t get enough of you.”

then he rocks his hips again, deeper this time, and the careful restraint he held at first snaps. his thrusts start to pick up, steady, harder, making the whole truck creak with the force.

“shit—look at you,” he rasps, eyes darting down to where your pussy’s stretched around him, wetness coating the thick base. “squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move. takin’ it all the way like my perfect little thing.”

your head tips back against the jacket, moans spilling from your throat, tears pricking at your lashes with the overwhelming stretch and fullness. “gator—please—faster,”

his mouth is everywhere—sucking marks into your chest, dragging over your collarbone, biting lightly at your throat as his hips pound into you harder. the sound of his balls slapping your ass mixes with the wet squelch of your pussy, filthy and loud in the small space.

“can’t be gentle with you, baby,” he growls against your skin, breath ragged. “not when you’re fuckin’ milking my cock like this. feels too good—jesus christ.”

you babble beneath him, incoherent pleas spilling out with every deep plunge into the base of your tummy. “oh god, yes, yes—so full, so deep—fuck, gator—i can’t, i can’t—”

he grips your thigh, pushing it up higher so he can rut into you deeper, harder, splitting you open with every stroke.

“you can. you’re mine,” he pants, teeth dragging your earlobe, voice rough and thick with lust. “gonna fuck you till you’re cryin’ on my cock, angel. take every inch and beg me for more.”

your nails rake down his back, blunt and desperate, your whole body trembling under the steady force of his thrusts. the wet slap of him driving into you fills the cab, the truck rocking faintly with every push.

“gator—ohmygod… feels—too much..” your voice cracks on the edge of it, breath hitching as that coil inside you winds impossibly tight.

he presses his forehead to yours, teeth gritted, hips grinding deep before pulling back to slam in again. “don’t you fuckin’ hold it—cum for me, angel. wanna feel you come undone on my cock.”

his thumb slides down between you, rough pad finding your clit, rubbing circles just hard enough to make you see stars. you choke on a cry, back arching off the seat.

“that’s it—let go for me, my girl. my sweet fuckin’ girl.”

it hits all at once, blinding, every nerve sparking as you clamp down around him, pussy spasming in hot, needy pulses. the world narrows to the stretch of him inside you and the white hot snap of pleasure tearing through your body.

you sob into his shoulder, legs trembling, walls fluttering around his cock as if you’ll never let him go. “oh god—gator—gator—”

his thrusts grow sloppy, rough, chasing his own end through the vise of your climax. “fuck, that’s it—jesus, you’re milkin’ me. can’t hold it—”

he buries himself to the hilt, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick, flooding you with every twitch of his cock.

his hand grips your jaw, forcing your tear-streaked gaze up to his, eyes burning into yours. “say it,” he growls, voice wrecked. “promise me—your pussy’s mine. all of you’s mine.”

you nod frantically, babbling through the aftershocks. “yours—yours, ’m yours, gator”

he groans at your words, grinding one last time, making sure you take every drop. “that’s right,” he pants, collapsing against you, lips dragging over your cheek, your temple, anywhere he can reach. “my girl. my fuckin’ girl.”

the cab fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint creak of the leather seat, the sticky wet mess between your thighs. you’re trembling beneath him, but he strokes your hair, your side, grounding you even as his cock twitches inside your oversensitive walls.

“ruined me for anyone else,” he murmurs, almost tender now, mouth brushing yours. “and i ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

the space smells like sex and sweat and him, thick and heady in the warm night air. your body feels wrung out, boneless under his weight, every nerve buzzing with the aftershocks. gator kisses your temple, your damp hair sticking to your forehead.

“easy now,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentling, the way he always shifts with you. he presses one last kiss to your mouth before pulling out slow, careful, both of you hissing at the sticky drag.

he shoves a hand under the seat, rummaging, until he comes up with an old, soft t-shirt. you barely have the strength to lift your head, but he props you back on the seat and crouches over you, folding the fabric.

“just lemme get you cleaned up, angel.”

the first swipe between your thighs makes you jolt, flinching at the burn of oversensitivity. a little whimper spills out, thighs twitching.

“shh, i know,” he soothes, thumbing your hip, slowing down, wiping more carefully this time. “hurts a little when you’re fucked out like this, huh? almost done.”

he cleans himself with a quick pass, tossing the shirt aside, then shrugs out of his jacket. he balls it up, slides it behind your head like a makeshift pillow.

“lay back, babygirl.” his palm strokes your belly as he eases you down across the seat, tugging you against his chest until you’re tucked in the curve of him.

your cheek presses to his sternum, ear catching the steady thud of his heart. he wraps one strong arm around your back, the other hand threading gently through your hair, slow and steady until your eyelids start to droop.

the night hums outside the truck, crickets and cicadas fading under the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“gator…” your voice is drowsy, almost slurred, too tired to keep from spilling the truth. “feels safe here.”

he kisses the crown of your head, squeezing you closer. “good. ‘cause you’re mine now. safe’s all you’ll ever be with me.”

his chest rumbles with the low drawl, vibrating under your cheek, and before long you’re drifting, lulled by his warmth and the steady cradle of his arms, falling asleep wrapped up in gator tillman— the rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and the gentle weight of his arm keeping you close, until sleep pulls you under, quiet and inevitable, in the truck idling softly at the far end of your driveway.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

the next morning..

sunlight filters weakly through the truck’s windshield, the faint hum of early sunday morning still in the air. your chest rises and falls steadily against gator’s, his arm draped lazily across your shoulders. the night’s warmth lingers, tangled with the faint scent of his cologne and the memory of soft kisses pressed to your hair.

suddenly, a sharp banging on the driver’s side window jerks you awake. you blink up groggily at the familiar, thunderous face of your daddy, frowning and red faced, knuckles pounding against the glass.

“get. out. of. that. truck!” he bellows, voice raw with righteous fury.

your eyes widen, heart flipping. you stir slightly against gator’s chest, whispering a panicked, “oh fuck…”

gator stirs, lifting his head just enough to squint at your dad through the glass, a lazy arrogant grin tugging at his mouth. “mornin’, sir,” he drawls, voice still thick with sleep. “sleepin’ in’s a crime?”

your daddy’s jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “i don’t care about sleepin’ in! you’re—” he stops, eyes narrowing as they land fully on you, curled up in gator’s lap, half-buried in his chest, hair messy, his deputy jacket crumpled around you.

you tug at gator’s shirt, cheeks flaming, whispering, “i… i didn’t think he’d be up this early…”

gator hums low, thumb brushing gently along your arm, that crooked grin softening just a touch. “relax, angel. he’ll calm down.”

your daddy’s knuckles rattle the glass again, furious but speechless for a beat, just staring. your stomach twists—equal parts embarrassment, panic, and something else you can’t quite name—as gator murmurs in your ear, quiet and teasing, “don’t worry, darlin’. we’ll handle it.”

you push gently against gator’s chest, sitting up straighter. “i… i should go,” you murmur, cheeks flaming, voice small but firm. “don’t follow me.”

he hums low, a little teasing, a little stubborn. “sure, angel… if that’s what you want.” yet, almost immediately, he swings his legs over the side of the truck and follows, boots crunching against the driveway gravel.

your daddy’s voice cuts through the morning air, sharp and commanding. “hey! y’all—almost late! get inside and clean up, now!”

you straighten quickly, fumbling with your jacket, murmuring, “yes, sir…”

gator falls a step behind, hands in his pockets, grin still in place but a flicker of something more intense in his eyes.

“gator,” you say, tone firmer, “i said don’t follow me.”

he stops, tilts his head, that crooked grin teasing. “i’m just making sure my girl gets in safe, that’s all.”

“i can get in safe myself,” you insist, meeting his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady even as your pulse races.

he leans just a touch closer, and for a heartbeat, the air between you feels charged—like it could spark. you press your palms against his chest, feeling the heat through his shirt. “don’t… don’t push it,” you whisper.

he smirks, but the tension is clear. “ain’t pushin’, just… holdin’ on a second longer,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth.

your daddy steps up from the porch, towering over you, facing gator, finger poking hard into his chest. “buzz off, Tillman,” he growls, tone sharp enough to cut through the morning chill. “my daughter’s going inside, and you stay put.”

gator freezes, then slowly leans back a hair, still close enough that you can feel his warmth. his grin softens, just a little, and he mutters, “yes, sir.”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body still humming with tension. gator lingers a moment longer, gaze on you, then steps back, letting your daddy shepherd you inside.

once you’re through the door, you lean against the frame, heart hammering, feeling the aftermath of the almost clash. gator’s still out there, boots on the porch, grin faint but eyes boring holes through the oak, a silent promise that this isn’t over.

you stand with your back against the stained glass front door, until you hear his engine rumbling low and dangerous. you hear him go, chest tight, stomach fluttering, a mix of longing and relief.

inside, your daddy’s voice booms through the hallway, harsh and edged with righteous anger. “you got somethin’ to tell me, girl? about last night?”

finally heading into your bathroom— you freeze, hands hovering over the sink as you start washing your face, trying to keep your voice calm. “n-no, sir… nothing, i swear. we’re just… friends.”

he strides into the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. “friends don’t sit in a man’s lap like that. friends don’t let themselves get… defiled. it’s shameful. it’s not right. you hear me?”

your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. “he’s… he’s respectful. i promise. i—i don’t—i mean, it’s nothing like that.” your voice trembles despite your effort, eyes stinging. “we just… talked, that’s all. just talked.”

your daddy steps closer, looming like a mountain, voice lowering but still sharp. “don’t let this slide, little girl. you’re a preacher’s daughter for christ’s sake. you behave like one. can’t be lettin’ some Tillman boy—” he stops, takes a breath, shaking his head, “…you know what i mean. keep your heart and your body sacred.”

you swallow hard, nodding, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. “i… i understand, l. we’re just… friends. really.”

he glares a moment longer, then finally shakes his head, muttering, “don’t make me have to preach to you about this again.”

your hands grip the sink as your chest rises and falls rapidly. you feel the sting of near tears, not from shame alone, but from the ache of missing gator, the pull of last night’s warmth, and the suffocating weight of your father’s words.

after a beat, you take a shaky breath, splash water on your face, and murmur softly to yourself, “we’re just friends… just friends.”

your heart is still racing, and even as you tidy yourself and pull on your Sunday dress, a small part of you aches for the crooked grin and low, southern voice that had made last night impossible to forget.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

you step out of the house, nerves still raw, the morning sun harsh against your eyes. the crisp Sunday air does little to cool the heat in your cheeks. your daddy’s parting words echo in your head: just friends… keep your heart and your body sacred. you repeat it over and over, like a mantra, willing yourself to breathe steady.

the drive to church is quiet, the streets almost empty, the hum of distant traffic the only sound. your mind spins with last night, with gator, with the tension at home—but you tell yourself firmly: just friends. that’s all.

when you push open the heavy doors of the sanctuary, your stomach lurches. he’s there. front row of the pews, boots planted wide, arms crossed, that crooked, dangerous grin still tugging at his lips. he leans back, casual, smug—like he’s been waiting just to see you step in. his eyes catch yours almost immediately, sharp and hungry, and he gives a small nod, just enough to make your pulse spike.

“gator…” you murmur under your breath, trying to keep your voice calm, but your stomach flips. he doesn’t answer, just watches, patient and teasing, like he’s claiming every inch of your attention without touching you.

you move toward the choir loft, adjusting your dress, forcing your shoulders back, chanting silently: just friends… just friends…

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink fast. just leans back in the pew, boots tapping lightly against the floor, eyes never leaving you. a slow smirk curls his mouth when you meet his gaze, and your chest twists with that familiar mix of thrill and unease.

as the music starts, and the organ hum fills the room, you take your place. every note you sing, every vibration from your chest, feels magnified under his watchful eyes. you can feel him there, waiting, enjoying the show, smug and sure, like he’s the only audience that matters—and like he knows exactly how it affects you.

and you can’t help it. your voice falters slightly on the first line, not from nerves but from the knowledge of him just a few pews away, quiet and predatory, a smoldering reminder of last night.

as gator leans back in the pew, watching you sing, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. he thinks of those late night calls—the confessions, the shared frustration of being trapped under someone else’s rules—and he knows, just knows, that’s why he can’t stay away. he’s drawn to you because you understand him in ways no one else ever could.

even as the sermon begins to bleed into the background, your heart beats fast with both pride and a little guilty thrill, knowing gator’s there—front row, watching, waiting, making your chest tighten in ways you aren’t supposed to admit, even silently, to yourself.

the song dies down as the congregation bows their heads for the opening prayer, you lower yours, hands clasped tightly, trying to center yourself. the familiar words feel heavier than usual, a rhythm meant to steady you, but your ears pick up the faint scrape of boots on the floor. your chest tightens.

gator doesn’t bow. his head stays up, eyes locked on you, unwavering, the corners of his mouth tugged just so in that crooked grin. the heat of his gaze presses against your skin in a way that makes your stomach twist, a delicious, nervous flutter that leaves you almost lightheaded. your hands curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing into your palms as your voice wavers through the first hymn.

you catch your daddy’s eye from the pulpit, sharp and simmering. he notices you noticing gator, notices gator noticing you, and his jaw tightens. for a fraction of a second, the preacher’s face flickers with frustration, a flash of how dare you, before he smooths it into calm authority and continues, head raised, keeping the congregation none the wiser.

as the sermon begins, he shifts slightly, changing his tone and direction. the words now circle temptation, desire, the battle of heart and flesh. “we are tested every day,” he intones, voice steady but firm, “and it is not always the fire we see that burns the brightest. it is often the quiet glance, the soft word, the presence of someone who pulls at the soul, who tempts our hearts to stray from the path we’ve sworn to walk.”

your chest tightens further, and your lips press together. gator doesn’t flinch. he leans back just enough to look impossibly casual, but every detail of him—the angle of his head, the glint in his eyes—screams you, and only you. a tiny, involuntary shiver runs down your spine.

your daddy’s words, aimed at the congregation, feel pointed, layered. and though he maintains his composure, his usual preacher’s flourish carries a subtle edge, a warning, a boundary clearly meant for you to recognize. you straighten slightly, trying to refocus on the sermon, to sing through the prayers and hymns without letting your pulse betray you.

but even as your voice rises, soft and steady, you can feel gator’s gaze like a weight pressing against you, thrilling and unsettling in equal measure. it’s all consuming, and you bite your lip, holding back a breathy laugh—or maybe a sigh—as the preacher’s voice mixes with the quiet hum of gator watching you, front row, smug and unyielding.

your heart races, your palms sweat, and even the careful control you’ve built through years of church discipline feels like it’s slipping just a little, all under the watchful, dangerous charm of gator tillman.

⸻

the final hymn fades, the congregation rises, murmuring quietly as pews scrape against the floor. you follow the usual rhythm, hands clasped, voice soft, carrying the last notes just long enough to feel complete. the preacher offers a brief benediction, words of peace and blessing, and then the crowd begins to disperse.

you linger, as always, sweeping the hymn book holders, straightening hymnals, wiping down the edges of the pews with a practiced hand. your movements are methodical, almost automatic—years of routine—but tonight they feel hollow, the warmth of gator’s gaze still pressing behind your eyes.

you glance toward the front row, half-expecting him to still be there, but the seat is empty. the smug assurance, the dangerous charm—it’s gone. vanished the moment the congregation’s chatter filled the aisles, leaving you with the soft ache of disappointment tucked deep in your chest.

your hands pause over a hymnal, lingering longer than necessary. the truck, the night, the way he watched you sing… all of it clings to you. a small, frustrated sigh escapes, and you shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand.

daddy lingers in the church vestibule after the service, fussing with loaner bibles and muttering about straightening chairs. you know it’s not about order. it’s about keeping you here. keeping you close. keeping you away.

the door creaks, warm afternoon air spilling in. you glance up—your stomach drops. gator’s there.

he looks a little too casual, leaning against the doorway. your breath stutters.

“afternoon, sir.” his voice is polite, smooth as honey but thick with grit. he nods toward your daddy. “ figured the two of us could talk.”

your father stiffens. his hand stills on the pew. “i have no words for you”

gator’s eyes flick to yours, quick and soft, before settling back on him. “respectfully, sir… i have some things you oughta hear.”

your heart lurches. your fingers twist into your skirt.

daddy steps forward, broad frame blocking you, voice sharp. “boy, you best just head home. we’ve seen and heard enough from you.”

gator swallows, jaw tight, but his voice stays steady. “ain’t tryna cause no disrespect. i just—” he breathes out hard, runs a hand over his hair. “i love her. i’m not here to hide it.”

the words slam into you. your chest seizes. daddy’s face darkens.

“love,” he repeats, slow, heavy. “that what you call it? draggin’ her into sin? temptin’ her away from god’s will?”

gator shakes his head, takes a half-step closer. not threatening, but sure. “no, sir. what i feel for her— it’s real. i’ll treat her right. better than right. i’ll take care of her.”

daddy scoffs, bitter. “you ain’t got nothin’ to offer her but ruin.”

gator’s eyes flash, but he reins it in, voice low. “maybe you don’t believe me. maybe you never will. but i ain’t lyin’ about this—” his gaze finally locks on yours again, raw and unwavering. “i love her. and i don’t want nobody else.”

your breath shudders out. your daddy looks between you, suspicion flaring. his mouth pulls tight, voice like gravel. “you stay away from my girl. the lord sees the truth, even when men lie with their tongues.”

gator nods, slow, like he’ll take the blow. but his last words stick, sure and stubborn. “not lyin, sir. not about her. never about her.”

the silence after feels like lightning, every nerve in your body screaming with the weight of what just happened.

your chest is tight, like there’s not enough air in the church to breathe. your daddy’s shoulders are squared, his jaw locked, the same way it gets before he scolds the congregation, and gator—gator’s not backing down. not this time.

“you’ll stay away from her,” daddy spits, taking a step forward.

gator’s chin lifts. “can’t do that, sir.”

it’s the sound of your father’s boots scraping on the wooden floor that makes something snap in you. before you can think, before fear can hold you, you’re moving. your feet carry you fast, heart pounding, and you wedge yourself between them.

“stop.” your voice is thin, shaking, but it rings in the empty sanctuary. “both of you—stop.”

daddy’s eyes widen, like you’ve betrayed him just by speaking. gator’s hand hovers near your back, steady but not touching, his presence like a shield behind you.

“baby girl,” your father warns, his voice low, dangerous, “you don’t know what you’re doin’.”

“i do.” your throat burns, tears hot in your eyes, but you don’t move. you stand tall, as tall as you can with your knees trembling. “i know what i want. and i want him.”

your daddy’s face twists, fury and hurt tangled together. “he’s gonna drag you to hell.”

“no,” you choke out, the words tumbling fast now, raw. “he loves me. i feel it. i know it’s real. you can’t tell me it’s not—” your voice breaks, “you can’t keep me caged here forever.”

the air is heavy, buzzing. your father shakes his head, muttering scripture under his breath like it’s armor, like it’ll keep him from hearing you.

behind you, gator finally speaks, voice deep, sure, unshakable. “she ain’t alone, sir. not anymore.”

you feel it—the weight of him standing tall at your back, his heat, his strength. your daddy looks past you, eyes narrowing, and for a second you think he might swing. your body tenses, braced for it, but you don’t move. you stay right where you are, your chest pressed to gator’s, his presence like a wall at your spine.

“please,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the strain. “just let me choose.”

your daddy’s hand snaps out, rough fingers curling around your arm. it’s not the first time he’s held you too tight, but it still makes your stomach drop. his voice is sharp, final.

“you don’t know what you’re sayin’. i won’t let you shame this family. i won’t let you shame me.”

“stop!” you cry, trying to wrench your arm free, the sting of his grip making your eyes blur.

before you can even stumble back, gator’s hand closes around your waist, steadying you, pulling you just out of reach. his other hand clamps around your father’s wrist, grip like iron.

“don’t,” gator growls, low and dangerous. “you don’t put your hands on her.”

the heat in his voice makes your whole body quake. your father jerks, tries to yank his hand free, but gator doesn’t budge. for a moment, it’s pure tension—two men locked in a battle of wills, your pulse a drum in your throat.

“you think you’re a man?” your father snarls, spit flying. “you’re nothin’. filth. a goddamn lizard. and i’ll be damned if i let filth lay claim to my daughter.”

gator steps forward, dragging you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his height towering over your daddy. his eyes blaze, jaw flexing.

“she ain’t yours to keep,” he bites out. “she’s her own. and she’s mine if she wants to be.”

your heart lurches at the words—mine if she wants to be—your body pressed so close you can feel every inch of his promise.

“gator—” you whisper, your voice trembling, and finally your daddy’s eyes flick to you.

“i’m not a child anymore, daddy. you can’t scare me into stayin’. you can’t scare me out of lovin’ him.”

your voice cracks, but the words are steady, the first time you’ve ever said them out loud. it feels like a dam breaking, spilling years of silence into the open.

your daddy’s face twists, red creeping up his neck. “you don’t know what love is. he’s filled your head with lies, with sin. he’ll drag you down to hell with him.”

behind you, gator bristles, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your hair. “ain’t no lie in me wanting her. nothing sinful bout the way i take care of her.”

“take care of her?” your daddy spits, stepping forward, shoulders squared. “you’re a coward. a sinner. you think you can stand in my house—my church—and lay claim to what’s mine?”

gator’s laugh is humorless, sharp. “she ain’t yours. never was. you just been keeping her locked up like property.” he shifts his stance, towering, muscles coiled tight. “you want a fight, old man? i’ll give you one.”

“stop!” you cry, your hands clutching gator’s arm, tears streaming hot and fast. “please, both of you, stop—”

but neither man breaks their stare. it’s a standoff, fire meeting fire, and you can feel the world tilting, about to split wide open.

then your daddy’s voice cuts low, cold as stone. “you want him so bad? then choose.”

your breath leaves you in a rush, the words slamming into you like a blow. choose. your heart races, your chest heaves, your tears blur both of them into shapes of rage and desperation.

gator’s hand finds yours, warm and trembling, and that’s all it takes. your choice has already been made.

“fine,” you sob, squeezing his hand tight, voice breaking. “then i choose him. i choose gator.”

your father’s face goes slack, shock and fury warring in his eyes, but you don’t wait to see which wins. gator’s already pulling you with him, his grip sure and unyielding as he drags you down the aisle.

your shoes skid against the worn wood floors, your tears still falling, but you don’t look back. not when the church doors slam behind you, not when the cool air rushes your face, not when gator throws open the door to his truck.

“c’mon, angel,” he mutters, voice thick, shaking as he helps you inside. “we’re getting outta here. we’re gone.”

the door clicks shut behind you, and gator slides in beside you, boots thudding softly against the floor. his hand finds yours again, fingers curling tight around yours like a lifeline. your chest heaves, and the heat of tears still lingers on your cheeks, but there’s relief now, too. a fierce, fluttering kind of relief.

you fumble for your phone, going to text your mama— thumbs trembling as you type,

> i love you so much… please don’t be mad

you hit send before second-guessing yourself. the little vibration against your palm feels like a lifeline. your eyes sting, the tears threatening to spill, and you press your forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to steady your racing heart.

gator leans over, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. “hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “don’t let it get you. it’s okay to feel all that, angel.”

you sniffle, trying to blink away the hot streaks, and he shifts closer, draping an arm across your shoulders, pulling you into him. you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the low hum of the truck around you. it’s grounding, safe, like the world has shrunk to just this moment.

“we can go wherever we want,” he whispers, lips brushing the top of your head, voice rough with that lazy southern drawl. “don’t gotta look back. don’t gotta worry about anyone else. just us, okay?”

you tilt your head up slightly, letting a small, shaky laugh escape through your tears. “okay,” you murmur, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. the brief pinch of doubt fades, replaced by the thrill of freedom, choice, and the knowledge that you made it.

gator’s grin is crooked, eyes softening. “that’s my girl,” he says, squeezing your hand. “we’ll figure it out. wherever you wanna go… we’ll go.”

you pull back just a little from his chest, blinking up at him, still shaky but smiling through the lingering tears. “i… i’ve never been to the beach,” you admit quietly, voice small, almost sheepish.

gator’s grin widens, eyes lighting up with that mischievous glint. “never been to the beach, huh? well… then beach it is,” he says, voice low and teasing, like it’s a promise.

you bite your lip, looking out the window as the sun catches the edges of the trees passing by. “but… we don’t have anything—no towels, no swimsuits, not even a toothbrush. nothing.”

he shrugs, casual, almost like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “ain’t a problem, angel. i’m sure california’s got stores too. we’ll figure it out.” his hand drifts to your thigh, warm and reassuring, and your stomach flutters.

“i can’t believe we’re doing this,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him.

“believe it,” he says, voice warm, confident, full of that calm you to your bones energy. “just us. miles of road. and whatever we want at the end.”

Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.

And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.

No, gross in the way he looks at you.

His gaze is… devouring. 

Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.

His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it. 

And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.

Your friends noticed it immediately.

The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.

“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”

“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.

You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.

He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.

“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”

But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”

Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”

He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it. 

But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.

You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense. 

And he liked that. He liked it way too much.

Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.

As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.

 “Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”

“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.” 

Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.” 

“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?” 

“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.” 

You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’. 

Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”

You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.

Men like him have always existed.

Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide. 

He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.

Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world. 

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.

His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth. 

And he never tries to hide it.

Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand. 

You always catch it. 

The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him. 

He’s touchy, too.

Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.

The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.

He’s just one of those guys.

He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.

He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.

He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.

He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that. 

His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.

And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear. 

He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”

It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.

You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.

Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.

You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.

He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.

He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.

Which is exactly why nobody could know.

It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen? 

Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights. 

Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there. 

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—” 

“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.

Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.

Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.

If anything, it only spurred him on. 

“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”

“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”

“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”

“Fuck off,” Is all you say.

It started earlier that night.

You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.

You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.

Watching.

He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.

“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.

Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.

But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.

“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.

You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.

The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring. 

He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.

Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.

“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.

You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”

“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.

You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.

“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”

Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.

“What? I just bounce it right in?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”

“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.” 

“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden. 

You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.” 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.

But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back. 

His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively. 

“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles. 

“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.” 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table. 

“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation. 

He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”

You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.

You can’t believe you listen to him.

You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again. 

“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends. 

“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.

You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before. 

Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically. 

“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips. 

You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench. 

You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.” 

He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.

You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.

You’d have to agree.

You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.

Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.

You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves. 

Almost everyone had gone to bed. 

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know. 

Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more. 

When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders. 

You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.” 

He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying. 

For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.

He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”

“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.

Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.

You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”

You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.

“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”

You can’t help it. “What do you want?”

He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.

God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.

A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.

Yeah. He’s fucking weird.

And just… crude, and touchy.

But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.

He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second. 

And maybe that’s why you ask him— 

“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves. 

Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest. 

“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered. 

“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?” 

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself. 

“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.” 

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.

Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.

You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now. 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent. 

Good. He should shut up more often, you think. 

Before he can say anything, you lean in again.

This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it. 

You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm. 

He nods so fast it’s pathetic. 

“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing. 

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges. 

“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender. 

His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–” 

You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel. 

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.

You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs. 

His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.

He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.

You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat. 

His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin. 

“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.” 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. 

He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…” 

You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat. 

Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed. 

At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you. 

God, you’re pathetic.

His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.

You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic. 

You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds. 

You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts. 

“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are. 

“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”

You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in. 

“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?” 

You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips. 

He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?” 

He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.” 

His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…” 

You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges.  “Right there, right there…” You mumble.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.” 

You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him. 

“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”

“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.

Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him. 

“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?” 

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave. 

“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out. 

You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach. 

Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.

His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair. 

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…” 

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away. 

You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.

Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him. 

And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.

Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. 

His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek. 

“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.” 

You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand. 

Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.

Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.

He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines. 

You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.

You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected. 

You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender. 

Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded. 

Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening. 

His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you. 

“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice. 

You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward. 

With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control. 

He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath. 

Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids. 

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need. 

One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—” 

You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.

“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.

You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you. 

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—” 

“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it. 

His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.” 

You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely. 

“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—” 

You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”

He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal. 

Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah. 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken. 

“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.” 

That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him. 

You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—” 

Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard. 

“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire. 

He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more. 

“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—” 

He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined. 

“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.” 

He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.

“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust. 

Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw. 

He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly. 

Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold. 

A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.

Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust. 

Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”

Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.

“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.” 

You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh. 

“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.” 

You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside. 

“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.” 

Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly. 

“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity. 

“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?” 

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.” 

For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?” 

Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.

You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy. 

And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—

Because you know he’s right.