Ophelia

“No,” you lied, pretending to pay close attention to the vinyl spinning across from you, “Yes. What’s taking Murray so long?” 

Steve answered with a shrug, glancing around the booth the two of you were currently holed up in. “You’re just like Robin. So antsy.” 

“Well, Robin is currently having a fancy dinner with her girlfriend, while I'm stuck in a stuffy booth with my boyfriend waiting for a psychotic man to smuggle us in intel.” You huffed, body slumping in the chair. “We haven’t been on a date in ages.” 

Your boyfriend’s face softened, pushing himself off the shelf to stalk towards you. “Baby-“ 

“And I know it’s selfish of me to be saying that when the world is basically ending, but-ugh.” You cut yourself off with a groan, watching as he held his hand out for you to grab. You folded your hand in his, letting him spin you out of the chair, pulling your body taut to his. 

“It’s not selfish.” He swore, smiling as your hands wrapped around his neck. The gentle sound of Kim Carnes playing in the background. “Come on, dance with me. We can have our own date here.” 

You didn’t even have time to protest, Steve taking your body against his swaying messily to the music. 

“Okay, okay.” You giggled, doing your best to keep up with each time he tried to spin you in the tiny room. At one point, he kept you latched to his side, leaning over to push the volume control button up. A wide smirk on his face before he spun you around again. Both of your smiles were wide, lost in the joy that radiated off of each other. 

“She’s got Bette Davis eyes.” Steve sang off-key, pulling you back from a spin. His front pressed against your back, the two of you swaying along as the song ended. Both of you are out of breath, bodies wracked with giggles. A sweet reprieve of love, one that neither of you realized you needed. 

“I love you.” He whispered your name, his warm breath against your ear making your body shiver. His hands still gripping your jean-clad hips. 

“I love you. Missed this.” You whispered, feeling his lips trail down your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the skin of your neck. This was something else the end of the world didn’t allocate time for; Steve and you rarely got a moment alone. You loved Robin, but if you weren’t so thankful, she and Vicki finally got together, so it meant you two had a night alone. 

His hands reached up your shirt, cupping your breasts through your bra roughly. You were so caught up in his hands, his lips sucking the skin of your neck, you didn’t even realize you were both still very much at the station. 

“Baby.” You whined, pushing pathetically against him. You didn’t want him to stop, but the two of you had to keep the music going. 

“Hmmm?” He hummed against your skin, one of his hands reaching down your stomach, cupping your clothed cunt. Your stomach turned with want, burning with desire. You repeated the pet name, warning him to stop.

“It’s just us in here. I’ll be fast.” He whispered, his hand popping open your jeans. Fingers pressing against the wet patch that had formed against your panties. He pushed his hips against your ass, his hardening cock pressing against you. You could feel your resolve crumbling with each gentle stroke of your clothed heat.

“You have to be fast.” 

“Fuck yes.” He sighed, speeding up the movement of his hands. You were ready to succumb to his ministrations before the silence of the music ending brought you back to reasonable thinking. 

“Wait, we can’t let the music go to dead air. They’ll panic.” You whimpered, trying to think as rationally as you could while Steve’s hands were all over you. The last thing you needed was the entire crawl squad busting in here while your pants were down, literally. 

“Fuck, fuck what’s the longest song we have?” He reluctantly took his hands off you, rushing to the crates in the back. All you could do was hum in thought, your mind running a thousand miles a minute while Steve threw around records, the bulge in his jeans prominent. If you weren’t so wound up, maybe you would’ve giggled at the sight. 

“Fuck uhh Iron Maiden three years ago? They had like a 10-minute song, right?” You offered up, his eyes shining. 

“God, baby, I’m gonna fuck the hell out of you.” He whistled, holding up the vinyl like a championship trophy. “13 minutes and 39 seconds to be exact.” 

Your cheeks flushed at his words, your underwear getting damper by the minute. “Do you think that’s enough time?” 

He scoffed, plopping himself down in the chair. “Look at you asking silly questions. Is 13 minutes enough time to make you come? I could do it in 5. Ridiculous.” He mumbled the last part under his breath, setting the vinyl up quickly. 

You rolled your eyes, still unbelieving that you agreed to this. He shushed you while the on-air light flickered on, the neon lights buzzing. 

“Alright, Hawkins,” Steve’s radio voice echoed through the microphone. “We are setting sail. This next one is on the longer side, but trust me. It’s gonna be worth every single second.” His eyes were on you, while you made a show of pulling the rough fabric of your pants down your hips. 

“Iron Maiden, Rime of the Ancient Mariner, hold on to your sea legs!” And he put the needle down, the on-air light flickering off. The guitar riffs bleeding through his headphones matched the thump of your heart. 

“Gotta make every second count.” You smiled, keeping your shirt on for the sake of emergencies. Steve wasted no time in pulling you to him, your lips meeting with a feverish passion. His tongue explored your mouth while his hands found your hips again. His fingers dancing along your waistline, dipping inside your panties. He swallowed your shocked gasps, his fingertips sinking into your soaked cunt at last. “Oh, baby. You really needed this.” 

All you could do was nod, your head feeling heavy as you leaned against him. He rubbed lazy circles around your clit before he slid two fingers inside you with little resistance. “S-steve.” You stuttered out, keeping an eye on the vinyl grooves. 

“Shhhhh. Don’t focus on that. Gotta get you ready.” He cooed, coaxing more beautiful moans from your lips. Stretching you out as much as he could, given the circumstances. His cock was aching in his jeans, his other hand abandoned your back, fumbling with his zipper. His jeans fell to his knees, his cock sitting large and pretty in his tighty whities you always teased him about. 

Your cunt was clenching around his fingers, desperately needing him. When his fingers pulled out tears almost sprang to your eyes, the emptiness made your head spin. “Turn round, baby.” His saccharine voice spoke. You listened, elbows finding the table, leaning against the control panel. His fingers hooked themselves in your underwear, pulling them to the floor. 

A strangled moan escaped his lips, “Fuck I wish I had time to taste you.” 

“Steve.” You were dripping for him, clenching around nothing while he pulled his cock out. He spat in his hand, rubbing the spit against your entrance. Not like you needed it, but the sensation had your eyes rolling into the back of your head regardless. 

“Don’t worry, baby. I got you. Good girl, just like that, take this cock.” The moment his cock slid in between your lips, you were a goner, your cunt sucking his tip in greedily. With every inch he pushed in, you suckled around him, the sound already obscene. 

When his hips met yours, he let out a pornographic moan. One that you’d keep in your memory for late nights alone. “So fucking tight. Basically squeezing me to death,” He breathed out, “I’m not going nowhere, baby.” He pulled his cock out halfway, admiring his length dripping in your wetness, before slamming back in. Keeping up a steady pace, hitting the deepest spots inside your cunt from this angle. 

“Feel so s’good. Fuck I needed this.” You whimpered out, the faint reflection of the two of you in the glass only spurring you on more. With one hand on your hip, the other cupped the back of your neck, just enough pressure to keep you still. One thing about Steve Harrington was that he knew how to fuck. He knew your body like the back of his hand, and he played it to his advantage every time. 

“I know you did. Letting me fuck you in here. Where anyone could walk in.” He growled, watching your ass ripple with each thrust. You clenched around him at his words, only making a deep laugh escape his chest. 

“Oh, you like that?” He mocked, your head nodding almost instantly. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. All you could feel was Steve’s cock splitting you apart. 

“Yeah, of course you do, my dirty little slut.” A harsh slap on your ass punctuated his words. This wasn’t making love; this was dirty. A primal fuck that the two of you needed so desperately. 

He wasn’t taking your moans for an answer, continuing as his dirty mind ran rampant with each squelch of your cunt around him. “Say it. Say it or I stop.” 

You could barely hold yourself up with your elbows, desperately trying to make sure you didn’t hit any buttons. “I’m your dirty little slut. Please don’t stop. Please.” 

Tears were pricking your eyes at how fast and deep his movements were, the sound of skin hitting skin drowning out the still-spinning Iron Maiden song in the background. “Not gonna stop. Not until you’re cumming around my cock.” 

A particularly deep thrust hit a spot that had your legs shaking, your body almost falling into the control board. Only stopped by Steve’s arm pulling you up to his chest, the position making him deeper inside you if that was even possible. 

“You don’t want all of Hawkins hearing you cum around me, do you?” He laughed, pressing sloppy kisses to your shoulder. “Or do you?” 

All you could do was nod mindlessly, your high approaching like a freight train. “I bet you’d love that, huh? Do you want me to turn the mic on? Let everyone hear how good I fuck you?” 

All you could do was wail, “Steve, Steve, I’m gonna cum.” 

“Yeah, you are.” He grunted, his hand reaching down to rub lazy circles on your swollen clit. “Should we let everyone hear how I make this pussy cream? How only I can make you feel this good?” 

That was all it took for you to fall pliant in his arms, your cunt spasming around him. Your vision went dark, legs shaking as the euphoria washed over every nerve in your body. 

When you came to Steve’s hips were stuttering, his own high approaching. He was whispering small praises into your ears, hands holding your body close to his. “That’s my girl. Did so well for me. Gonna make me come, huh? Love you.” 

“Want it so bad.” You sobbed, your nails digging into his forearms while he stilled, cock twitching, his release deep inside you. Steve’s head shoved deep into the crook of your neck, grunting your name over and over. 

The booth was hot, the air humid and sticky with sex. The vinyl crackling next to you two, the song almost over. 

“And you thought 13 minutes wasn’t enough.” Steve laughed, sweat dripping off his brow and onto your own slicked skin. The two of you were a mess. The booth's glass is foggy at the bottom. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your head before slipping his length out of you, hissing at the friction. His cum dribbled out of you, dripping down your inner thighs, making his over-sensitive cock twitch. “Stop ogling me and get me a towel.” You whined, snapping him out of his boyish haze. 

He rifled through your bag using a wet wipe to clean you up, pulling your underwear and pants up for you while you were on shaky legs. You left your pants unbuttoned, content to plop down in the chair. Watching as Steve fumbled around for his own pants. A record scratch brought you out of your own ogling, switching over to another song. Unbothered with an intro this time. 

“I’ll get us some water. Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough, was I?” Steve was still out of breath, leaning down to press soft kisses to your lips. You shook your head, a wicked grin on your lips.

“Not at all, baby. Though I didn’t know you were so into the idea of Hawkins hearing you split me open.” 

His cheeks flushed, opening the door to the booth. “Shut up. You loved it.” 

Your giggles wafted through the building as he walked into the kitchenette to retrieve cold water for the two of you. The moment Steve tossed the chilled bottle to you, you were chugging it down. 

“I love you, sweet girl.” He smiled, smoothing down your frizzy hair for you. “Maybe if we get a break from sudden death, I’ll take you to a nice dinner. How’s that?” 

Nodding, you leaned into his touch, kissing his hand. “Sounds like a plan, Harrington.” 

Your eyes were staring into his; there was no one else you’d rather face death with than him. These last few years have brought the two of you closer with every obstacle. 

“Yoo hoo!” A loud voice yelled, the front door of the station banging open with a thud. The two of you jumped up, both still disheveled. “I’ve been waiting outside for like five minutes.” Murray was standing there, eyes already narrowing in on you two. If it wasn’t your appearance, or the sheer smell alone, then your completely unbuttoned pants would have given light to what the two of you had been doing while he waited outside. 

Steve was about to speak, getting cut off by Murray’s pointed laugh. “Oh my god. You disgusting kids.” He spoke, nothing but humor in his words. “Meet me outside in a few, and I'll hand over everything. Wash your hands.” He pointed at Steve while you turned around to button your pants back up. Steve was red in the face, holding his hands out like they were poisoned. 

“He has a point.” You broke the awkward silence that had been hanging since the door closed. 

"so you're a farmer?" kurt asks—big brown eyes flickering from you to the monitor in front of him, watching as your pixelated character water a field of cauliflowers.

"yeah," you nod, eyes on the monitor too. "but it's a lot more than farming, you also—"

"and who's that?" kurt interrupts, pointing towards another character hanging out by a motorcycle.

"that's sebastian," you tell him. "my husband."

kurt makes a small noise at the back of his throat—eyes a little wide as he looks at you.

"your husband? babe—that's cheating."

you stifle a laugh, hitting pause before you swirl your chair around to look at him.

kurt knew he was being ridiculous and a large part of him was entirely joking. but the part of him that worried that he was punching severely above his weight? well—that part of him was wondering if he could find a 'kill sebastian mod'.

"it's a marriage of convenience," you tell him. "he waters the plants sometimes."

"i'd water them everyday for you," kurt says, bending down so he could sit between your legs. his favourite place in the world. his hands resting on your thighs and squeezing. "and harvest them for you. even the kale. even though i hate kale."

your lips twitch as you try not to smile.

"i suppose we could start a co-op game—"

kurt didn't need telling twice. he rushed out the room to grab his gaming laptop. absolutely ready to be the best damn stardew valley husband there ever was.

dividers by @pixopix

💌 day nine of the 1k followers special and we have our first kurt blurb!! been a long time coming! also lowkey a love letter to my love for stardew valley HA (especially sebastian—that's my mannn). please enjoy this one 💜

"The light," he says. "It's like—okay, just stay there."

You hesitate. "Kurt, please—"

"Fuck, just—one second."

You don't argue. You never really do when it comes to whatever it is that Kurt does on his socials or when it comes to his obsession with taking photos of everything you to do.

You hear the shutter noise of his iPhone.

He lowers the phone slowly, staring at the picture like he's trying to memorise it.

"See?" he says, turning it toward you.

You don't want to look. Looking at yourself is basically your biggest nightmare.

But you do anyways to keep him happy.

It's just you. Standing there. Mid-motion. Sweater half-on, hair messy, posture awkward.

You immediately notice everything wrong.

Your stomach. The way the fabric pulls. The angle of your arms.

"I look—" your start, then stop.

Kurt frowns.

"You look what?"

"I just look weird," you say quickly, shrugging it off. "Delete it."

"No."

The word comes out too fast.

Too sharp.

You blink at him.

"Kurt—"

"No, I'm not deleting it." He pulls the phone back slightly, like you might try to grab it. "You look—" he struggles for the word, brows pinching together, "—you look really good."

You laugh a little, but there's no humour in it. "I don't."

His frown deepens, like you've just said something confusing instead of something normal.

"Yeah, you do. You always do."

You shake your head, turning away, tugging your sweater down properly this time. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Lie to me, Kurt."

"But I'm not lying to you."

There's a pause.

You sit on the edge of his bed, picking at the sleeve of your sweater. "Kurt, it's fine. I know what I look like, okay?"

He doesn't answer right away.

And when you glance up, he's staring at you in that way he does sometimes—too focused, too intense, like he's trying to solve something.

"Why would you say that?" he finally asks.

You shrug again. "Because it's true."

"No, it's not."

You let out a quiet breath, getting frustrated with going around in circles with the conversation. "Okay."

"No, like—it's actually not," he insists, moving closer to you on the bed. "You're—" he gestures vaguely, frustrated. "—you're literally the most—like, I don't even—"

He cuts himself off, running a hand through his slightly greasy hair.

"You're my girlfriend," he says instead, like that explains everything.

Your chest tightens.

"That doesn't mean I'm pretty, Kurt."

"Yes, it does."

You almost smile at that. Almost.

"That's not how it works."

"It is for me."

There's something in his voice—firm, certain, unshakeable—which is rare for him.

It makes your stomach twist.

"Baby," you say softly, "you've never even—like—been with anyone else."

"But I don't need to," he shoots back immediately.

"That's kind of my point."

"No, it's not," he says, scooting even closer now. "It's not your point, because you're wrong."

You blink at him.

He looks... upset.

Not angry. Not exactly.

Just... off.

"You're the first person I've ever—" he starts, then stops, like the words are getting tangled. "You're my first everything. That means something."

"It does," you say quickly. "I didn't mean it like—"

"But you're acting like I don't know what I'm talking about," he continues, voice tightening. "Like I just picked you at random or something. Look at me! I don't have the option of choosing who I want but you do, and luckily for me you chose me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

Silence stretches between you.

You swallow.

"I just don't see what you see," you admit quietly.

That seems to hit him harder than anything else.

His expression falters.

For a second, he looks... lost.

Like he genuinely doesn't understand how that's possible.

"But you're—" he tries again, softer now, "—you're you."

You let out a shaky breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats, nodding like that should settle it.

It doesn't.

You pull your knees up slightly, arms wrapping around yourself without thinking.

"I don't like how I look, Kurt."

The words feel heavier out loud.

Real.

Final.

He stares at you.

Then at your arms.

The way you're holding yourself.

Something shifts in his expression—uncertain, uneasy.

He moves closer to you again, so close that his should finally brushes yours.

"Can I—" he starts, then stops.

You glance up.

"What?"

He hesitates.

Then awkwardly puts his hand on your thigh.

"Is this—" he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly for a second. "—is this, like, a thing people say? Or do you actually—"

"I actually mean it."

"Oh."

He nods slowly.

Processing.

"That's... bad," he says finally.

You huff out a small laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"No, I mean—like, it's wrong," he clarifies quickly. "Because it's not true."

You look at him.

There it is again.

That certainty.

"Kurt, come on baby..."

"I don't get it," he admits, quieter now. "Like, I look at you and it's just—"

He pauses, pressing his lips together.

"You make sense," he says instead.

Your chest tightens again.

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know, really." he says, frustrated. "It just—does."

He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he's trying to figure out how to fix something he can't see.

"I'm not good at this," he mutters sadly.

"At what?"

"This," he says, gesturing between you. "Talking. Comforting. Whatever this is."

You soften, just a little. "I know."

"I've never had to do it before."

"I know, Kurt."

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly.

"But I want to," he adds quickly. "I just—I don't know how."

That lands somewhere deep.

You rest your chin on his shoulder, looking directly at him without thinking.

"That's okay," you say. "You don't have to fix it."

"I do, though."

You blink. "Why, hm?"

"Because it's making you feel bad."

His answer is immediate. Simple.

Like it's obvious.

You don't know what to say to that.

So you just sit there.

Close.

Quiet.

And after a moment, Kurt turns his face—hesitates—then puts his lips directly on yours.

It's clumsy. Careful. The first time he's ever initiated anything remotely like this.

You can tell he's afraid you'll pull away from his. Like you'll be disgusted for some reason.

But you don't.

He relaxes slightly when he realises.

"You're not allowed to say stuff like that about her," he says suddenly against your lips, his hot breath hitting meeting your own.

You frown in confusion. "About who?"

He pulls away fully and looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

"About you."

Your breath catches.

"That's—" but you stopped yourself, your words dying off.

He tightens his grip on your thigh, just slightly.

"Because you're mine. You're my favourite person in the world, and the most beautiful person I've ever known." he adds.

And there it is.

That edge.

Soft on the surface.

Sharp underneath.

You don't pull away.

You don't say anything.

Because part of you—

the part that hates mirrors and photos and the way clothes fit—

likes the way he says it.

Likes being something someone else sees as perfect.

Even if you don't believe it.

Even if he doesn't know how to say it right.

Even if it comes out wrong.

"I'll figure it out," he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. "How to make you see it."

You don't know if that's comforting or not.

But you let your head rest against his anyways.

And he stays very still—

Like he's afraid that if he moves, you'll disappear.

The photo of you on his phone still exists.

But neither of you bother to notice, because in that moment, the beginning of working on each other together and separately is more important.

"Hi Gator," you grin at him through the peek he finally allows, "I just cooked dinner and I made enough for two. Wanna come in?"

Gator's shellshocked, blinking in confusion at you. He peers out the window and sighs.

"Where're your shoes, sunshine?"

You glance down. "Oh. Forgot 'em," you shrug your shoulders. "Dinner?"

"'m on patrol."

"You don't have a grandma who lives on this street?"

Gator looks at you like you have three heads. "What?"

"You're here a lot, I thought you may have had a grandma who lives on the same road as me."

"No, sunshine," he mutters, yanking his car keys from the ignition and pushing open the driver's side door. You move aside for him to get out. "This is just my... new patrol spot."

"Oh, okay."

Gator follows you into your house, trying not to scold you when you don't lock your door (which he does for you). Your house isn't as messy as he would've anticipated it to be, though it's surely an amalgamation of your eccentric mind, all bright colors and art everywhere.

You prepare two bowls of pasta with meat sauce, handing Gator's to him in a pastel blue dish that's far too small for his hands.

"Can't stay for long." he says, following you to the velvet green couch in your living room.

You hum with a nod and stuff a forkful of pasta in your mouth. If Gator's being honest, he knows you're not always fully... there, sometimes a bit too far gone in the clouds, so he's not sure how delicious this food will be. But the thought of turning you down wasn't something he could stomach, and he refused to be the reason why your pretty, pouty lips downturned in a sad little frown.

Except, when he takes a bite, he's shocked by how delicious it is.

"What the fuck?" Gator asks, words muffled by the spaghetti stuffed in his cheeks, "This is so good."

You grin, dancing a little in your seat, and he wants to pin you down against the length of your sofa because you're unbearably cute and it's a little ridiculous.

“Gimme’ a french fry.”

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

A night like tonight typically went as follows:

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

wyd tn?

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

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

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

come over?

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

You really hadn’t a single clue why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too bad you’re my ride.”

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

“No you won’t.”

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

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

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

“What’s it gonna take, huh?”

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

 “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Besides the text from Gator, which never arrived.

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

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

You couldn’t help him either.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

To the girl that thinks roses are worthless.

Crazy bout you,

G.

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

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

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

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

“Gator?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t be a jackass. They’re pretty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re finally admittin’ it.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Huh?”

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

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

“Gator,” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still don’t know what you mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’done bein’ a stubborn brat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?” he hums, mouth clearly occupied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s’at feel? Talk ta’ me.”

“You— God, Gator, feels s’… so good.”

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

“Mmmhm.”

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

And it kind of made you sick.

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

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

Every last bit of him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’— tease,” you spit.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not ‘till you beg fer’ it.”

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

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

“Yeah? S’at what you want?”

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

“You’re so— annoying.” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christ, yer’ fuckin’ soaked.”

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

You needed more.

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

“Whatdaya’ want from me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator snickers.

“Takin’ that as a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then一who’m I t’argue?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Missed me, huh?”

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

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

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

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

Gator Tillman is hugging you.

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

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

“Dick,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked… beautiful. 

You’d really been meaning to tell him that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah that— s’not what—”

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

“What? Whatdaya hummm-in’ for?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well can’t’cha make an exception?”

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

“Nope, sorry.”

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

“Ya sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, indeed.”

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

“Y’meant that shit?”

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

“‘Meant what?”

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

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

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

“I love you. So much more.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“G’mornin’ princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

“We’ll workshop it,” you shrug.

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

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

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

They stand tall with their arms crossed over their vests, their heavy boots making them look entirely out of place against the pale floor. They glance at you as you walk up, their eyes tracking your movement, but they don’t stop you. 

They already know who you are. After all, the preacher’s daughter doesn’t go unnoticed in town.

When you push the heavy door open and see him sitting there on the narrow hospital bed, you can’t deny that your heart squeezes tight in your chest. 

He looks so different, yet so painfully familiar. 

His upper lip has a nasty, swollen split with a dark red line of dried blood, looking as if he took a direct hit straight to the mouth. A heavy, purplish bruise covers his cheekbone, already deep and dark, looking like it will only get worse and turn yellow-green over the next few days.

But what hits you the hardest aren’t the bruises or the cuts. It’s his eyes — or rather, the thick white gauze wrapped firmly around his head, covering the place where they used to be.

The nurse who called you earlier had already warned you about it over the phone, but seeing him like this in person is entirely different. Hearing a description over a static-filled phone line doesn’t prepare you for the reality of seeing a man who usually moves with so much confident energy sitting completely helpless in a sterile white room.

“Oh, hello,” the nurse says, turning around as the door clicks shut behind you.

She uses your name, and the moment the word leaves her lips, Gator’s entire body stiffens. He straightens up in the bed, his shoulders locking. His head tilts and turns toward the sound of your voice, moving instinctively as if his eyes could somehow pierce right through the thick layers of cotton and tape.

The nurse quickly walks over to you. She takes you gently by the arm, guiding you toward the far corner of the room, away from the bed. She leans in close, keeping her voice down to a low whisper.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, her eyes filled with quiet stress. “I know all of this is very sudden and confusing, but we had to call you because—”

You gently shake your head, cutting her off before she can apologize any further.

“It’s okay. Really,” you say softly. You nod your head over toward the bed, looking at him. “So… how is he?”

The nurse sighs, turning her head to look at Gator. There is a deep, genuine pity in her eyes as she watches him sitting there in the quiet.

“He’s gonna need a lot of care,” she admits in a low whisper. “The wounds on his face and body are deep, but physically, he’ll heal up fairly quickly. The issue isn’t just his recovery.” She turns back to face you, her expression grave. “The real problem is who is going to take care of him when he leaves. His father is already in prison, and when we tried contacting his other folks, none of them were willing or able to step up and—”

“I’m blind, not deaf,” Gator’s rough, raspy voice cuts through the quiet room.

Both you and the nurse freeze, turning your heads to look at him. His voice sounds dry, like sandpaper rubbing together, but the defensive bite in his tone is unmistakable.

You let out a long, slow breath. 

“Let me talk with him a second,” you tell the nurse.

She looks at you for a moment, then nods in understanding. She steps toward the door, giving a small signal to the police officers outside to give the two of you a moment of privacy. As the door quietly clicks shut behind her, the room suddenly feels much larger and far too quiet.

You take a step forward, your boots squeaking faintly against the clean floor. You walk slowly, carefully, as if any loud noise might startle him. You stop right in front of the bed, looking down at his face. 

The idea that he can’t see you — that he can’t look up and catch your eye like he always does — still doesn’t quite make sense in your mind.

“Hey…” you say softly, your voice tender.

Gator lowers his head a little bit. 

You can tell he feels embarrassed, maybe even ashamed to be seen like this — broken, bruised, and stuck in a hospital gown. But underneath that shame, you can see a tiny shift in his posture. He settles down just a bit. You know him well enough to recognize that, deep down, he’s deeply relieved to hear a voice he actually knows.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, his voice low and flat. He keeps his head down, staring blankly at the blanket covering his lap.

“Yeah, well,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light to hide how hard your heart is pounding. “Seen as I’m apparently listed as your emergency contact on your phone, it felt a little rude not to show up.”

He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, shaking his head.

“About that…” he starts, his fingers twitching against the thin hospital blanket.

“It’s fine, Gator.”

“No, I just… I put your name down a long time ago without really thinking about it,” he says quickly, his words tumbling out as if he’s trying to defend himself. “It’s not like I sat down and thought, ‘Oh yah, I definitely want her to be the one to get called if everything goes south.’ You know? It was just a random night, I needed to put someone down, and—”

“Oh,” you interrupt, stepping back half an inch and turning your shoulders away from him. “Well, in that case, I guess it doesn’t matter if I just leave then.”

“No!”

The word rips out of his throat before he can stop it. His arm shoots out blindly, his hand moving fast through the empty air. His fingers catch the side of your hip first, gripping the fabric of your jeans, and then quickly slides to your arm until his rough palm clasps tightly around your forearm.

He freezes, breathing heavily through his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, his fingers digging into your arm just enough for you to feel his tension. “I can’t… I can’t see where—”

“I know…,” you whisper gently.

You move your arm, sliding your hand down into his. You slip your fingers between his, entangling them completely. His grip on you is tight, almost desperate, his knuckles pale under the dim hospital light.

You pull a small plastic chair closer to the edge of the bed and sit down beside him. You don’t let go of his hand.

He lets out another long, shaky breath, his head dropping back. He shakes his head slowly, the bandage around his eyes moving against his hair.

“Who survives in prison being blind?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The anger is gone now, replaced by a cold, terrible reality.

“They don’t even know if you’re going to prison yet,” you tell him softly, trying to sound far more confident than you actually feel.

Gator lets out a short, bitter laugh. He shakes his head again.

“Course I’m going,” he says quietly. He pauses, his thumb rubbing uselessly against the side of your hand. Then, under his breath, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, “And I got it comin.”

The words hit you right in the chest. You press your lips tightly together, feeling a hot, painful knot forming in the back of your throat. 

You look away from him for a second, staring at the gray window where the frost is thick on the glass, trying desperately to keep the tears in your eyes from falling. You refuse to break down in front of him right now. He needs you to be steady.

The quiet in the room is broken a moment later by a soft knock on the door. The nurse opens it slowly, stepping inside. Right behind her, the two police officers follow, their heavy belts clanking as they walk. They look at you, offering a small, polite nod of acknowledgment.

You start to stand up from the small plastic chair, but you don’t let go of Gator’s hand. His grip tightens slightly the second he hears the heavy footfalls of the officers entering the room.

“We gonna need you to sign a few papers before we move forward,” one of the officers says, pulling a clipboard out from under his arm. His tone isn’t mean, but it’s dry and mechanical — just another part of his daily job. “We’ve already tried reaching out to every single one of his listed relatives and contacts. None of them are willing to take responsibility for him, which means house arrest is completely off the table. Because of that, we’re preparing to transfer him to the medical ward at the detention facility later this afternoon—”

“What if he comes with me?”

The words fly out of your mouth before you even have time to fully think them through. Your sudden, hasty offer cuts the officer off mid-sentence. 

It’is completely out of character for you — you are usually careful, cautious, and deliberate about every choice you make. But this didn’t come from a place of logic or careful planning. It came straight from the deepest, most raw part of your heart.

Beside you, Gator’s hand instantly squeezes yours so hard it almost hurts. His brow furrows deeply. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out. He remains completely frozen, listening intently.

“I mean…” you press on, taking a small step forward while keeping your grip firm on Gator’s fingers. “Is that an option? Is it possible?”

The officer stops, looking down at his clipboard, then glances up at his partner. The two men exchange a brief, silent look.

“Well… yeah,” the officer says slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “Technically, yes. A judge will have to review the paperwork and make the final decision on his custody, but if an individual with a clean record agrees to act as a primary caregiver and host, it can be filed. It’s definitely something that can be done.”

Gator leans closer to you, his head tilting toward your shoulder. His voice is very low, frantic, and laced with a sudden, sharp panic.

“What about your dad?” he whispers tightly. “What’s he gonna say?”

You look at Gator’s battered face — at the stitches on his lip, the deep bruises on his cheek, and the thick bandages hiding his wounded eyes. You think about the cold, lonely prison cell they’re ready to drag him to before his wounds even have a chance to close.

“That’s a problem for later,” you answer him quietly, your voice steady and unshakable.

You turn your attention back to the officer, meeting his gaze with total determination. You tighten your grip on Gator’s cold hand, feeling the warm pulse beneath his skin.

“Come on,” you say softly, leaning down close to Gator’s ear so only he can hear you. “Let’s get you home.”

—

Gator is not a light man. Even beaten down, bruised, and drained of his usual restless energy, he is tall and heavy and built. His heavy leather jacket drags against your shoulder, his dead weight leaning hard into your side as his boots scrape uselessly against the concrete steps.

“Watch the step,” you whisper tightly, adjusting your grip around his waist. Your fingers dig into the thick fabric of his jacket. “Two more steps, Gator. Just lift your feet.”

“I’m liftin’ ’em,” he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He tries to pull himself up using the handrail, but his balance is completely shot without his sight. His shoulder slams heavily into the wall with a dull thud. He curses under his breath, a sharp, bitter string of words, his jaw clenching hard.

You finally reach the top step. 

Your small apartment sits right at the end of the narrow hallway. It took you months of quiet fighting, endless arguments, and tears to get your father to agree to let you get this place. 

In your father’s eyes, a young woman living on her own was a tragedy waiting to happen. “Living alone just increases the temptation to sin,” he would tell you every single Sunday over dinner, his voice stern and cold as he stared at you across the table. “A woman needs a household to keep her mind pure.”

It had worn you down to the bone, but you had stayed patient. You nodded, you smiled, you kept your head down, and bit by bit, you persuaded him to let you take this tiny one-bedroom unit above the old repair shop. 

It wasn’t much — just a cramped living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom that barely fit a full-sized mattress — but it was yours.

And now, here you were, bringing the most notorious deputy in the county through the door in the middle of the day.

You fumble with the ring of keys in your pocket, your fingers numb from the cold. The metal keys clink together loudly in the quiet hallway.

“You could put a little effort into this too, ya know?” you sigh, finally getting the key into the deadbolt and turning it with a heavy click.

The door swings open into the dark, quiet apartment. The air inside is warm, smelling faintly of your cologne, dry heat from the clinking radiator, and old coffee.

Gator stumbles over the wooden threshold, his heavy boot catching on the edge of the small welcome mat. He sways instantly, his hands shooting out into the empty air, reaching wildly for something to hold onto until his fingers catch the frame of the door.

“I could handle myself a whole lot better if I knew the layout,” he snaps, his tone sharp, though the wobble in his knees completely ruins the bravado. “But seeing as you never let me come in through the front door, then it’s not really my fault.”

You catch him by the arm before he can trip over his own feet, taking his full weight back onto your shoulders. You can’t help but shake your head, a soft, weary breath escaping your lips.

Well, he has a point there.

That was the one secret your father never found out about. Ever since you moved into this place a few months back, Gator Tillman had a habit of showing up. 

He’d park his county patrol car down the block, out of sight beneath the bare oak trees, and sneak up the metal fire escape in the dead of night. He’d tap on your bedroom window with his knuckles, wearing that heavy sheriff’s vest, his uniform hat cocked slightly to the side, smelling of tobacco smoke, cold winter air, and cheap cologne.

He never came through the front door. You would never allow it. 

If the elderly neighbors down the hall saw the Sheriff’s son walking out of the preacher’s daughter’s place at three in the morning, your father would have had you moved back home before sunrise.

“Well, it’s not my fault you’ve got such a bad reputation, Tillman,” you murmur, bracing your legs as you drag him past the tiny kitchen counter toward the small living room.

With a heavy grunt, you guide him down until his knees hit the edge of the worn cushion, letting him sink onto the sofa.

Gator drops heavily onto the cushions. The old thing squeaks in protest under his weight. He leans his head back against the wall, breathing heavily through his mouth, his chest rising and falling beneath his coat.

“Like that isn’t the main thing that drew you to me anyway,” he says, his voice falling right back into that familiar, arrogant drawl. A faint, crooked smile tries to form on his face, but it cuts off immediately as his split upper lip stretches too far, making him wince and pull back with a sharp hiss.

You roll your eyes, leaning your hands on your hips as you stand over him in the dim light.

Still, despite the sharp ache in your chest as you look at his face, a tiny part of you feels relieved. It’s good to see a little bit of his old, insufferable self shining through the wreckage, even if it’s just a front.

For a minute or two, neither of you says anything. The only sound in the small room is the clinking of the old water pipes in the corner and the heavy, uneven sound of Gator’s breathing.

You stand there in the center of the room, looking down at him.

It feels completely surreal to have him here like this. On those old nights — the nights when he used to climb through your window — he would practically take over the whole room the second his boots touched the floorboards. He’d throw his heavy gun belt onto your desk with a loud metal clatter, kick off his boots, and stretch out across your small bed like he owned the entire building. 

He was loud, he was cocky, and he was always talking about what he and his dad were building out on the ranch. 

He moved with a restless, arrogant energy, like a man who believed nothing in this world could ever touch him because his last name was Tillman.

Now, he sits hunched over on your secondhand couch, his broad shoulders pulled inward as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.

His uniform jacket is gone. His dark hair is messy. And worst of all, the upper half of his face is dominated by thick, white layers of surgical gauze and medical tape, wrapped tightly around his head to cover the deep wounds where his eyes used to be.

You swallow down the knot in your throat, trying to keep your hands from shaking.

“Let’s get that jacket off you,” you say quietly, stepping closer to the couch.

As soon as you move over him, Gator flinches. His body goes rigid, his hands snapping up defensively in front of his chest.

“It’s just me, Gator,” you say softly, keeping your voice calm and steady. “It’s just me. Relax.”

He pauses, his fingers twitching in the air before he slowly lowers his hands back to his lap. He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, turning his face slightly toward the floor.

“Yah,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a low, embarrassed murmur. “Right.”

You reach down and gently grab the sleeves of his jacket, pulling the fabric off his shoulders. He sits there quietly, letting you pull his arms out of the sleeves, completely obedient in a way that feels utterly wrong for him. You fold it and lay it across the arm of the chair nearby, then reach down to unlace his muddy boots.

When you touch his ankle, he stiffens again, but he doesn't pull away this time. 

Your eyes focus on the ankle monitor for a second, but you quickly clear your throat. You slip the boots off his feet, setting them neatly by the front door.

“I’m gonna go grab some water and some clean towels from the bathroom,” you tell him, standing up. “I need to clean up around those bandages. The nurse said we have to keep the edges dry and clean so it doesn’t get infected.”

As you turn to step toward the bathroom, Gator’s hand suddenly shoots out blindly into the empty space between you. His broad palm sweeps through the air until his fingers collide with the fabric of your jeans. His grip is tight and frantic.

“Don’t—don't be long, alright?” he says, the cocky drawl completely vanishing from his tone, replaced by a raw, desperate edge that makes your heart ache. He sounds like a child trapped in the dark. “Just... hurry up, would ya?”

You stop, looking down at his large, bruised hand wrapped around your leg.

“I’m just going to the sink, Gator,” you whisper softly, reaching down to place your hand over his cold knuckles. “It’s three feet away. I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds on for a second longer, his thumb pressing into your denim, before he slowly relaxes his grip and lets his hand drop back to his knee.

“Yah,” he clears his throat, trying quickly to put his tough mask back on, though his voice cracks slightly. “Yah, fine. Take your time, then.”

You walk into the small bathroom, clicking the light switch on. The bright, yellow glare of the bulb reflects off the small mirror above the sink.

You lean over the porcelain basin, resting your hands on the cold edges, and take three long, slow breaths. 

You look at yourself in the mirror. 

Your eyes are tired, dark smudges hanging beneath them from the sheer stress of the last six hours. You had gone from sitting quietly in your apartment reading a book to standing in a cold hospital hallway listening to police officers debate whether to throw a blind man into a county jail cell.

You turn on the hot tap, letting the water run until it steams. You fill a plastic basin with warm water, grab a small bottle of mild antiseptic liquid from the medicine cabinet, and pull two clean washcloths and a fresh roll of white gauze from the drawer.

When you walk back out into the living room, Gator hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting dead still on the sofa, his head tilted slightly toward the hallway, listening intently for the sound of your footsteps.

You set the plastic basin down on the small coffee table in front of him. You kneel down so you are eye-level with his face.

“Alright,” you say quietly. “This might be a little bit uncomfortable at first.”

You dip one of the soft washcloths into the warm water. You gently reach out, resting your left hand on the back of his neck to steady him, while your right hand brings the damp cloth up to his face.

The second the warm cloth touches the deep purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone, Gator flinches sharply, pulling his head back.

“Jeez,” he grunts, his brow furrowing beneath the thick bandages. “Watch it, will ya?”

“I’m being as gentle as I can, Gator,” you say softly, not pulling your hand away from the back of his neck. Your thumb slowly rubs the tense muscle right at the base of his skull, feeling the tight knots of stress locked in his shoulders.

He lets out a low, grumbling breath, but he stops pulling away.

You move the cloth carefully, cleaning around the dark, angry split on his upper lip. The skin is swollen and raw, stitched up with black thread near the corner. You wipe away the crusty, dark blood that had dried against it.

Every time he winces, his hand twitches against his thigh, his fingers gripping his pant leg so hard his knuckles turn white.

“How bad does it look?” he asks quietly after a long silence.

You pause for a second, your fingers hovering over his temple.

“You’ve looked better,” you admit softly, trying to sound lighthearted. “The lip’s pretty swollen. Cheek’s black and blue.”

A tiny, bitter huff of air escapes his nose — not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Yah, well,” he mutters. “You should see the other guy.”

The joke hangs in the air for a second, heavy and awkward, before it completely falls apart.

You both know there wasn’t a "guy" he beat up. 

You both know what happened out on those snowy roads, even if neither of you wants to say the names out loud. 

You know about the strange, terrifying man who had come for him — the man who had left Gator broken and sightless as retribution for the things Gator had done for his father.

You move the washcloth up toward his forehead, carefully cleaning the skin right along the top edge of the thick white bandages.

The hospital staff had done their work well enough, wrapping his head securely to protect the raw, hollow wounds underneath. You don’t dare touch the heavy inner padding — the thought of what lies beneath those layers makes your stomach turn with a deep, nauseating sorrow — but you carefully replace the outer strip of gauze that had gotten frayed and dirty during the ride over.

As you wind the fresh white cloth around his head, your fingers brush through his dark, messy hair. It’s softer than it looks, free of the heavy grease and hair product he used to pile into it when he was playing the big-shot deputy.

Gator stays completely still while you wrap the tape, his eyes hidden, his chest rising and falling in deep, quiet rhythms.

For a few minutes, sitting there in the dim yellow light of your apartment with the snow beating against the window pane, it almost feels peaceful. It feels like the old days — just the two of you tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden far away from your father’s watchful eyes and his father’s dark, oppressive shadow.

But the peace doesn’t last long. It can’t. Not with everything that happened.

You finish taping the edge of the bandage, letting your hands drop into your lap. You pick up the dirty washcloth, rinsing it out in the basin of water. The water turns a light, pale shade of pink as you wring the cloth out.

You look at him sitting there, his hands resting on his knees, his face clean now, though still terribly bruised.

The quiet in the room suddenly feels far too heavy. The questions that have been burning in the back of your mind ever since the news broke across the county start pushing their way to the surface. 

You had spent weeks listening to rumors at the grocery store, watching the local news reports about the missing women, the armed standoffs, the federal agents filling up the county diner, and the terrible things that had taken place out at the Tillman ranch.

You set the washcloth down on the wooden edge of the stool.

“Gator?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense up instantly. He can hear the change in your tone — the sudden lightness leaving your voice.

“Yah?”

You hesitate, pressing your lips together. You look down at your hands, then back up at his bandaged face.

“Why did you do it?”

The question falls softly between you, but it hits the room like a heavy weight.

Gator’s head tilts back slightly. His jaw tightens, the muscles along his cheeks twitching.

“Do what?” he asks, his tone turning flat and defensive, instantly building up that familiar, prickling wall he always uses when he feels cornered.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Gator,” you tell him, your voice steady, though your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. “The farm. The house. Dot…. all those people your dad had you hunting down.”

Gator lets out a loud, harsh laugh through his nose, turning his head away toward the far wall.

“I was a deputy,” he says sharply, his voice rising, trying to regain that old, authoritative bark he used when he wore his badge. “I was executing lawful orders for the Sheriff’s department. Taking care of business for the family. Protecting our land. That’s what a deputy does. That’s what a son does.”

“That wasn’t deputy work, Gator!” you say, stepping closer, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and deep sadness. “You kidnaped people! You helped him lock people away! You helped him turn that entire ranch into an armed fortress! You killed people, Gator!”

“We were protecting what’s ours!” Gator snaps, his hands slamming down onto his knees as he tries to stand up.

He rises quickly, but without his sight, his balance immediately betrays him. He sways dangerously to the left, his leg crashing right into the edge of the coffee table. The plastic basin rattles loudly, warm water sloshing over the side and spilling onto the floorboards.

Gator curses loudly, reaching out wildly to steady himself against the wall. He stands there, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling over his forehead, looking completely lost and furious.

“You don’t know anything about it,” he spits out, his raspy voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like out there! You sit up here in your neat little apartment thinkin’ everything is real simple — thinkin’ there’s good guys and bad guys! My old man... he built everything we had! Everything!”

“He’s a monster, Gator!” you shout back, the words tearing out of your throat before you can stop them.

The room drops into a sudden, terrifying silence.

The clinking radiator seems to freeze. The wind outside rattles the window glass.

Gator stands frozen against the wall, his mouth slightly open, his bandaged head turned toward you as if you had just struck him right across the face.

You swallow hard, feeling tears burning behind your eyes. You take a step toward him, but you keep your hands down.

“He is, Gator,” you say softly, your voice breaking down into a quiet, painful whisper. “Look at what he did to this county. Look at what he did to those families. Look at what he’s doing to you right now. Where is he, Gator? Where is your dad while you’re sitting here blind on my couch waiting for a judge to send you to prison? Is he coming to help you? Is he calling the lawyers?”

Gator doesn’t answer. He turns his head away, his breathing ragged and sharp.

“He’s in a federal holding cell,” you continue quietly, step by step walking closer to him until you’re standing right in front of his shaking frame. “He abandoned you the second things went south out on that road. The nurse told me... she said when they tried to reach out to his legal team, they didn’t even ask how you were doing. They didn’t care.”

“Shut up,” Gator mutters under his breath. It’s not the angry shout from a minute ago. It’s a small, weak plea. “Just... shut up.”

“Why did you follow him so blindly?” you ask, reaching out gently to touch his jaw. “You knew what he was doing was wrong. I know you, Gator. I know you’re cocky, and I know you act like a jerk half the time, but you aren’t evil. You aren’t like him. So why? Why did you do all of it?”

Gator stands there for a long time, his body trembling beneath your hand.

He tries to speak. He opens his mouth, his chest expanding as if he’s about to launch into another loud, arrogant speech about duty, about the Tillman name, about being a real man out on the range.

“He... he needed me to—” Gator starts, his voice loud, but the sentence immediately dies in his throat.

He stops. He shakes his head, trying again.

“If I didn’t... if we didn’t hold the line, then—” He cuts off again. His hands fly up to his face, his fingers clutching at the air near his ears, pulling at his hair in absolute frustration.

He tries so hard to find the words — to pull out the rehearsed excuses his father had drilled into his head for years. 

He wants so badly to say the words that will make him sound like the brave, tough deputy he always pretended to be. He wants to explain that he was just being loyal, that he was being strong, that he was being the son Roy Tillman always demanded he be.

But the words won’t come.

Every single excuse he tries to form turns to dust in his mouth the second it hits the cold reality of the room. 

He can’t say he was protecting the ranch, because the ranch is destroyed. He can’t say he was serving the law, because he broke every law in the book. He can’t say his father loved him, because his father isn’t here.

“I just...” Gator stammers, his voice dropping an octave, cracking down the middle. “He said... he said if I couldn’t handle it... if I couldn’t do the job...”

He stops again. His broad shoulders suddenly slump downward, all the fake posture and manufactured bravado draining out of him like water running down a drain.

“He called me soft,” Gator whispers, his raspy voice trembling so violently it’s hard to hear him over the wind outside. “Every time I hesitated... every time I asked a question... he’d look at me like I was nothing. Like I was just some useless kid he was stuck with. He’d tell me my mother made me weak. He’d tell me if I couldn't take care of business, he’d find someone who could.”

Gator’s hand reaches out blindly, grabbing the front of your sweater, clutching the fabric tightly in his fist as if he’s drowning.

“I just wanted him to look at me and say I did good,” Gator chokes out, his head dropping until his forehead presses hard against your shoulder. His entire body shakes with heavy, silent sobs. “That’s all. I just wanted him to think I was a real man. I did everything he asked me to do. Everything. Even when my stomach felt like it was turnin’ upside down... even when I couldn’t sleep at night... I just did it. And he still... he still didn’t give a damn about me.”

You close your eyes as tears finally slip down your cheeks. You wrap your arms around his broad, shaking back, pulling him close against you.

You hold him tight as he breaks down in your small living room. The grand, terrifying legacy of the Tillman family — the fear that had held the entire county in a chokehold for years — collapses right here into the arms of a terrified, broken boy who just wanted his father to love him.

You stand there together in the middle of the room for a long time, holding onto each other while the cold wind batters the building outside.

You know that pain. You know it in a completely different way, but you know the terrifying weight of living beneath the thumb of a father who demands absolute control over your soul. 

Your father used the Bible, Sunday sermons, and cold, suffocating guilt to keep you quiet and obedient, making you feel like every independent thought you had was a sin that would drag you straight to hell. 

Gator’s father used violence, guns, and the toxic myth of family legacy to turn his son into a weapon.

Both of you had been built by men who viewed their children as property rather than people.

Slowly, Gator’s heavy shaking begins to subside. His breathing slows down, turning into long, shuddering gasps. He stays leaning against you, his forehead resting heavily on your shoulder, his hand still loosely gripping the front of your sweater.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your shoulder, his voice completely raw, stripped of every ounce of pride he ever possessed. “I’m real sorry.”

“I know,” you whisper, resting your cheek against his dark, messy hair. “I know you are, Gator.”

“I ruined everything,” he says quietly, shaking his head against you. “I’m gonna go to prison. I’m never gonna see anything again. I’m useless.”

“You’re not useless,” you tell him firmly, pulling back just enough to hold his face between your hands. Your palms rest against his warm, bruised cheeks. “You made terrible choices, Gator. You listened to a man who didn’t deserve your loyalty, and you’re gonna have to face the consequences of what you did. But you are not useless. And you aren’t going to face it alone.”

He stays silent for a second, his head tilting toward the touch of your hands, as if absorbing the warmth from your skin.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks softly, his voice full of genuine confusion. “After everything I did... after never even lettin’ me come through your front door... why did you bring me here?”

You offer a small, sad smile, even though he can’t see it.

“Because somebody has to show you what real care looks like,” you tell him gently. “And seeing as I’m your emergency contact, I guess I’m stuck with you for now.”

A faint, trembling breath escapes his lips — the closest thing to a real smile he’s had all night.

“Yah,” he whispers, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “I guess you are, then.”

You slowly guide him back down onto the couch, making sure he sits down safely without bumping into the spilled water on the floorboards.

You fetch a fresh towel from the bathroom, wiping up the small puddle near the coffee table, then grab a heavy, knitted blanket from the foot of your bed. You spread the warm blanket over his lap and legs, tucking the edges around his feet.

Gator doesn’t fight you on any of it now. The exhaustion has finally caught up with him, pulling his broad frame down into the soft cushions. 

The sheer physical and emotional drain of the day has left him heavy-lidded and quiet.

“You need anything else?” you ask softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch beside his hip. “Some water? A painkiller?”

“No,” he mutters, his head leaning back against the wall. “I’m alright. Just... stay here a second?”

“I’m right here,” you say.

You slide your fingers into his hand, entangling them completely. His grip on your fingers is gentle now, no longer frantic or tight, just a warm, steady pressure holding you in place.

Outside, the storm continues to blow across the frozen streets, driving heavy white snow against the trees. The world outside is cold, harsh, and waiting for the morning light to bring the police, the legal papers, and the uncertain future that Gator will eventually have to face.

But inside the small, warm apartment, sitting together in the quiet space beneath the yellow lamp, the room is quiet.

“You know what the worst part of all this is?” he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the radiator.

You look at him

“What is it, Gator?”

He swallows hard, his throat moving with a tight, painful gulp.

“It ain’t even the thought of prison,” he whispers, turning his head slightly away, as if embarrassed to admit it. “And it ain’t even bein’ stuck in this damn dark all the rest of my life, neither.”

He stops, his jaw clenching tightly. He takes another shaky breath before continuing, his words tumbling out low and raw.

“It’s thinkin’... I’m never gonna see your face again.”

The words hung in the warm air of the small room, hitting you straight in the chest with a sudden, sharp ache.

“Gator...” you begin, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“No, listen to me,” he insists, his voice trembling slightly. “All those nights... when I used to climb up that fire escape and tap on your window... I’d stand out there in the freezing cold just waitin’ for you to pull back the curtain. And when you did, you’d give me that little annoyed look, like you were mad at me for showin’ up, but then you’d smile. Just a little bit.”

A small, bitter huff of air escapes his nose.

“I took it for granted,” he admits quietly, staring blankly straight ahead into the blackness behind his bandages. “I thought I’d always just be able to look at ya. I thought I’d always have my eyes, and I’d always be able to see you standin’ there. But now... it’s just black. And I’m scared, okay? I’m scared that as the months go on, as the years go on... I’m gonna start forgettin’ what you look like. I’m gonna forget the shape of your eyes. I’m gonna forget your face.”

You sit there watching him, feeling a warm tear slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. You just look at this arrogant, foolish, broken boy who has lost everything, sitting in your living room grieving the one thing he had loved quietly in the dark.

You take a slow, deep breath, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“No, you’re not,” you said softly, your voice clear and steady.

Gator’s head lifted a fraction, his bandaged face turning toward the sound of your voice. 

“What?”

“You’re not gonna forget my face, Gator,” you tell him gently. You reach out, placing your hands over his large, trembling wrists. “You’re just gonna have to learn to see me a different way, then.”

He frowns, his brow furrowing beneath the white gauze. 

“What’re you talkin’ about? I can’t see nothin’.”

“You’ve got hands, Tillman. You’re just gonna have to learn to recognize me with ‘em.”

Gator stiffens, pulling his hands back a couple of inches, looking suddenly flustered and uncomfortable.

“I don’t... I don’t wanna look like an idiot,” he stammers, his raspy voice rising slightly in panic. 

“You’re not gonna look like one,” you murmur, taking both of his large, calloused hands in yours. “Come here.”

You bring his hands up through the quiet space between you, guiding his broad palms until they are hovering just inches from your face.

“Go on,” you whisper softly, resting your left hand against his wrist to steady him. “Take your time.”

Gator hesitates for a second, his chest rising and falling heavily. He swallows hard, his fingers twitching in the air. Slowly, cautiously, as if he is touching something delicate made of thin glass, he lets his broad fingertips settle against your skin.

His fingertips touch your chin first. They are cold from the room, rough and hardened from years of manual work, but his touch is impossibly light.

“Start right here,” you whisper, keeping your voice barely above a breath so he can focus.

Gator’s hands tremble slightly, but as his skin makes contact with yours, he settles down. His long fingers begin to move slowly, tracing the line of your jaw. He feels the soft curve of your chin, moving his thumbs up to trace the sides of your jawline heading up toward your ears.

“You got a small jaw,” he murmurs under his breath, his tone dropping into a focused, quiet whisper. “Feels... real soft.”

“Yah,” you murmur softly, smiling just a bit. “Keep goin’.”

His thumbs slide inward, gently tracing the shape of your lips. He feels the bow of your upper lip, the softness of your lower lip, tracing the outline over and over until he knows the exact width of your mouth.

As his thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, he pauses.

“You’re smilin’,” he says quietly, his tone a mix of surprise and wonder.

“A little bit, yah,” you admit. “How’d you know?”

“I can feel the skin pull right here,” he mutters, his thumb gently pressing against the small dimple near your cheek. “I remember that.”

A tiny, genuine breath of relief escapes your chest as you watch his face. The tense, worried lines on his forehead are starting to smooth out. He is concentrating so hard, his bandaged head tilts slightly, mapping every millimeter of your face in his mind.

He moves his hands higher, his broad palms resting gently against your cheeks. His thumbs met in the middle, tracing the bridge of your nose, feeling the slight slope of the bone, sliding down to the soft tip.

Then, his fingertips move up to your eyes.

He hesitates for a second, his fingers hovering over your eyelids.

“Close 'em,” he whispers softly.

You close your eyes, letting out a quiet breath.

Gator gently lays his fingertips over your closed eyelids. He feels the soft, delicate flutter of your long eyelashes brushing against his calloused skin as you blink softly beneath his touch. He traces the shape of your eye sockets, the gentle curve of your eyebrows, feeling the fine hairs beneath his thumb.

“Your eyes are closed now,” he mutters softly, his fingers lingering over your brow.

“Yah,” you whisper into the quiet room. “So we’re both in the dark right now.”

A faint, soft breath escapes his lips at that. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands move higher, sliding up past your forehead and into your hair. His long fingers comb through the strands, feeling the length and texture, letting the soft hair slide through his rough knuckles.

“Your hair’s softer than mine,” he observes quietly. “Smells like that citrus soap you keep in the dish.”

“It’s lemon,” you tell him gently.

He slides his hands back down, letting his palms cup the sides of your neck. His thumbs rest lightly over your pulse point, right beneath your jawline. He stays still like that for a long moment, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his hands.

“You’re real warm,” he says softly, his voice sounding deeper now, calm and steady.

You take his right hand, guiding it down from your neck to your collarbone. He traces the sharp, delicate line of the bone beneath your sweater.

“You took your rosary off..." he points out. You just hum, offering no explanation as to when or why.

He moves his hand over the curve of your shoulder, feeling the width of it, then slides his broad palm down the side of your arm, tracing the shape of your elbow, your forearm, down to your wrist, feeling how small your arm feels compared to his heavy grip.

He moves his hands to your waist, his palms resting against the sides of your ribs over your sweater. He feels the narrow shape of your waist, the gentle flare of your hips, learning the exact proportions of your body through the slow, steady movement of his hands.

Every touch is tender, careful, and deeply respectful. There is no rush in his movements, no arrogant posturing, no slick confidence. It’s just Gator, quiet and attentive, memorizing every line, every curve, and every soft inch of you with his hands.

Finally, his hands come to a rest around your waist again, his thumbs tucked lightly into the fabric of your sweater.

He sits there for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, his bandaged face turned toward yours, just inches away.

You slowly move closer, leaving a soft kiss right in the corner of his mouth.

“Got it memorized yet, Tillman?” you ask softly, reaching up to lay your hands over his wrists.

Gator lets out a slow, contented breath.

“Close,” he whispers, a tiny, faint trace of his old smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Might need to check again tomorrow just to be sure.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. 

“Yah, well. I suppose we can do that.”

The heavy wall between you is completely gone now. The fear, the anger, and the dark shadows of the past feel far away, pushed back by the warmth of the small room and the quiet comfort of being together.

You rest your shoulder against his chest, tucking your head comfortably in the notch beneath his chin.

Gator pauses for a second, adjusting to your weight against him. Then, slowly, he wraps his long, heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close against his side. His broad hand rests flat over your hip, holding you secure and steady against him.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head, his dark hair brushing against your forehead.

Underneath your cheek, you could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. It’s slow and calm now, free of the frantic panic from earlier.

“You okay like that?” you ask softly, pulling the thick blanket up over both of your shoulders.

“Yah,” Gator whispers into your hair, his voice heavy with deep, peaceful exhaustion. “I’m good. Real good.”

Gator tightens his arm around you just a fraction, tucking you closer to his chest. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, his body finally relaxing completely as deep sleep pulls him under. You close your eyes, resting your hand over his arm, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing as the night rolls quietly on.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Gator had texted you earlier, something simple and almost shy for him: Come over. Stay the night. Dad’s gone till tomorrow. No emojis, no crude jokes. Just that. And you’d said yes before you could overthink it.

Now you were here, parked behind the big barn so no one driving by on the county road would spot your car. The house was quiet except for the creak of floorboards under your boots as Gator led you upstairs. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles in a way that felt new, gentle, almost careful.

His bedroom door clicked shut behind you, and the rest of the world fell away.

It wasn’t a big room. The ranch house had that lived-in, slightly worn feel everywhere, but Gator’s space felt like a time capsule. Posters of classic muscle cars and heavy metal bands curled at the edges on the walls. A shelf still held a few dusty toy cars from when he was a kid, lined up next to empty beer cans and a half-dead houseplant someone had probably given him as a joke. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, and the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, golden glow that softened all the hard edges.

Gator stood there for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water? Or… I got soda in the fridge downstairs.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “I’m good.”

He nodded, but his shoulders stayed tense. You’d seen him cocky a hundred times, strutting around in his deputy uniform, cracking dumb jokes, trying way too hard to be the big man his father expected. Tonight he just looked… young. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.

You reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair off his forehead. “Hey. It’s just me.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “That’s the problem.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he leaned in and kissed you. It started soft, almost hesitant, his lips moving against yours like he was testing the waters. Then you sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest, and something in him unlocked. The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You tasted the faint mint of his toothpaste and the underlying sweetness that was just Gator.

Clothes came off gradually, between kisses and quiet laughs when his belt buckle got stubborn. He tugged your shirt over your head, reverent fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder. You unbuttoned his flannel, pushing it off his shoulders, then reached for the hem of his white t-shirt.

He caught your wrists gently.

“Wait.”

You paused, searching his face. His cheeks were flushed, eyes darker than usual. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Just…” He exhaled through his nose, looking away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” You freed one hand and cupped his jaw, turning him back to you. “Talk to me.”

Gator swallowed hard. For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, like he was ripping off a bandage, he grabbed the back of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one motion.

The sight hit you like a quiet punch.

His chest and stomach were lean, corded with muscle from ranch work and whatever half-assed workouts he did to impress his dad. But when he turned slowly, offering you his back, your breath caught.

Scars.

Dozens of them, crisscrossing his skin in pale, raised lines. Some thin and straight, like from a belt or a switch. Others thicker, jagged, as if something had torn instead of sliced. A few looked old, faded to silvery white; others still carried a faint pink edge, newer. They mapped his shoulders, his spine, the backs of his ribs. One particularly nasty one curved over his left shoulder blade like a brand.

You’d known Roy Tillman was a hard man. Everyone in the county knew. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

“Oh, Gator…” The words slipped out soft, full of something you couldn’t name yet.

He didn’t turn around. His voice came out tight, almost defensive. “Yeah. Not exactly pretty, huh? Figured you’d see eventually if we kept doin’ this, but… tonight’s different. You stayin’ over and all.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I got jumped by a bear or somethin’ dumb.”

You stepped closer until your front brushed his back. Carefully, giving him every chance to pull away, you laid your palms on his scarred skin.

He flinched, just a tiny twitch but didn’t move.

Your fingers traced one of the longer lines, feather-light. “These are from him?”

A long pause. Then, barely audible: “Most of ‘em.”

You pressed a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades, right over a cluster of smaller marks. His skin was warm, smelling faintly of soap and the outdoors. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t gotta be sorry. Ain’t your fault.” His voice cracked just a little. “Just… didn’t want you lookin’ at me different.”

“I’m not.” You kissed another scar, then another, working your way across his back with slow, deliberate affection. “I’m looking at you, Gator. The guy who makes me laugh even when I’m mad at him. The guy who drove twenty miles in a snowstorm last week just to bring me soup when I was sick. The guy who’s trying so damn hard even when the world keeps kicking him.”

He turned then, capturing your face in his hands and kissing you fiercely. There was gratitude in it, and relief, and something deeper that neither of you had named yet. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

“You don’t gotta say stuff like that.”

“I want to.” You guided him toward the bed, and he let you, sitting on the edge while you knelt between his knees. Your hands never left his skin, stroking up his arms, over his chest, avoiding nothing. “You’re more than what he did to you.”

Gator’s breath hitched when your lips found a scar on his collarbone. “I ain’t… I ain’t good at this soft shit.”

“You’re doing fine.” You smiled against his skin. “Lie down.”

He obeyed, stretching out on his back. You climbed up beside him, pulling the covers over both of you before settling half on top of him, your head on his chest. His heart hammered under your ear.

For a while you just lay there, listening to the wind and the occasional creak of the old house. Your fingers kept moving, light circles over his ribs, tracing the edges of scars you could reach, then smoothing over unmarked skin like you could erase the memory of pain with touch alone.

“You ever talk about it?” you asked quietly.

He snorted. “With who? Dad? Yeah, that’d go over real well.”

“With me. Or anyone.”

Gator was quiet so long you thought he might not answer. Then: “He always said it was to make me tough. Make me a man. Said the world out there’d eat me alive if I was soft.” His hand found your hair, playing with the strands absently. “Guess I believed him for a long time. Still do, sometimes. That’s why I act like an asshole half the time. Figure if I’m loud enough, mean enough, nobody’ll look too close.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes. “I see you. The real you. The one who’s scared and funny and kind when he thinks no one’s watching.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “You’re too good for this place. Too good for me.”

“Stop that.” You leaned up and kissed him softly, then again, until he relaxed beneath you. “I’m right where I want to be.”

The kisses grew slower, deeper. Not rushed like your usual hookups in the truck or against the barn wall. This was unhurried, exploratory. You mapped every inch of him with hands and mouth, paying special attention to the scars, kissing them, whispering nonsense words against them, letting him feel cared for in a way you suspected no one ever had.

Gator’s hands roamed your back, gentle despite their calluses. He murmured your name like a prayer when you kissed the worst scar on his shoulder. When you finally settled over him, taking him inside you with a shared sigh, it felt like more than sex. It felt like coming home.

You moved together in a slow rhythm, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. His eyes stayed open, locked on yours, raw and unguarded. Every thrust carried quiet emotion: thank you, I see you, I’m here. When you came, it was with his name on your lips, and he followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he shuddered.

Afterward, you stayed tangled up, your head back on his chest, one leg thrown over his. His fingers drew lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.

“You’re stayin’ the whole night?” he asked, voice sleepy and hopeful.

“Mhm. Unless you kick me out at dawn.”

He huffed a laugh. “Not a chance.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle and the wind. You traced one of the scars on his side again, feeling the raised tissue under your fingertip.

“Does it still hurt? Any of them?”

“Sometimes. When it’s cold. Or when I think about it too much.” He shifted, pulling you closer. “But right now? Nah. Feels… better with you touchin’ ‘em.”

Your heart squeezed. You pressed another kiss right over his heart. “Good. Because I plan on touching them a lot.”

Gator’s chuckle rumbled under you. “Greedy.”

“Only for you.”

He tilted your chin up for another kiss, sweet, lingering, full of all the things he couldn’t quite say yet. When he pulled back, his expression was softer than you’d ever seen it.

“I ain’t used to this,” he admitted. “Somebody lookin’ at all my ugly parts and not runnin’.”

“They’re not ugly.” You rested your palm flat over a cluster of marks on his ribs. “They’re proof you survived. Proof you’re still here, still trying. That’s beautiful to me.”

His eyes shimmered again. He blinked hard, then tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders like he could shield you both from the world outside this room. “You’re gonna make me go all soft, woman.”

“Good. You deserve to be soft sometimes.” You snuggled deeper into his side. “And I’ll be here to remind you.”

Gator didn’t answer with words. Instead he held you tighter, his breathing evening out as sleep started to pull at him. Just before he drifted off, he mumbled against your hair, “Thank you. For stayin’. For… seein’ me.”

You smiled into the darkness. “Always.”

The ranch house settled around you, old timbers groaning like they approved. Outside, the North Dakota night stretched endless and cold, but inside Gator’s room, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the scars felt less like wounds and more like roads that had led you both right here to this quiet, affectionate moment where fooling around had quietly, beautifully, become something real.

You fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart, your hand still resting protectively over the map of his past, promising silently to help him write a better future.

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

“Gimme’ a french fry.”

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

A night like tonight typically went as follows:

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

wyd tn?

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

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

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

come over?

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

You really hadn’t a single clue why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too bad you’re my ride.”

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

“No you won’t.”

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

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

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

“What’s it gonna take, huh?”

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

 “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Besides the text from Gator, which never arrived.

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

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

You couldn’t help him either.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

To the girl that thinks roses are worthless.

Crazy bout you,

G.

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

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

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

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

“Gator?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t be a jackass. They’re pretty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re finally admittin’ it.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Huh?”

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

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

“Gator,” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still don’t know what you mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’done bein’ a stubborn brat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?” he hums, mouth clearly occupied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s’at feel? Talk ta’ me.”

“You— God, Gator, feels s’… so good.”

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

“Mmmhm.”

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

And it kind of made you sick.

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

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

Every last bit of him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’— tease,” you spit.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not ‘till you beg fer’ it.”

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

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

“Yeah? S’at what you want?”

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

“You’re so— annoying.” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christ, yer’ fuckin’ soaked.”

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

You needed more.

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

“Whatdaya’ want from me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator snickers.

“Takin’ that as a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then一who’m I t’argue?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Missed me, huh?”

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

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

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

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

Gator Tillman is hugging you.

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

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

“Dick,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked… beautiful. 

You’d really been meaning to tell him that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah that— s’not what—”

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

“What? Whatdaya hummm-in’ for?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well can’t’cha make an exception?”

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

“Nope, sorry.”

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

“Ya sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, indeed.”

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

“Y’meant that shit?”

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

“‘Meant what?”

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

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

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

“I love you. So much more.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“G’mornin’ princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

“We’ll workshop it,” you shrug.

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

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

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

his hands were calloused, worn out, appearing to be more like a tool than a part of something, a someone who was once a kid. holding his hand was like touching something rough. it had unnatural marks, made by someone who did things he wasn't proud of, or by something that thought to be someone. pretty much like battle leftovers, a tangible reminder that monsters can look like fathers.

sure, gator had some scars sprinkled across his body like glitter after a party: you never knew where you'd find the next one, and most were so small you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention to it. but you always did.

you never talked about these marks.

he never offered you an explanation, either.

yet, you knew. it was impossible not to. roy tillman was a hard man for hard times; the thing is, he made up the hard times. roy saw everybody as an accessory or a target. gator was just both.

therefore, you kissed his scars.

he shivered under the weight of your tender lips.

you let him get away with it.

and gator touched you back like you were the first thing he could ever call his. maybe you were.

his marred hands touched you in many ways: possessive grabs to your waist, deep fingers inside your dripping pussy when he was getting you ready for his cock, clumsy and impatient tugs when he wanted to take off your bra, soft pulls when he pulled your hair, wishful holds when he brought you near, lust-driven squeezes when he put his hands on your tits, a teasing palm when he slapped your cunt, rude fingertips when he grabbed your jaw like he wanted to imprint his digits on you. but, sometimes, his touch was gentle despite the tough hands. he'd let you lean into it.

it was calm. it was too soft for men like him.

but you didn't say it.

still, he glared at you like he knew.

some things are better left unsaid.

when gator kisses you, it feels like the man he could've been. if his dad wasn't roy tillman. if his mother stuck around. if he had a fair chance with the world. if he wasn't born being fed violence for breakfast.

in your bed, he was that man. a better version of himself. perhaps his true version, you don't know. you doubt gator knows either— too many voices in his head, most of them sounding like his dad. they talk down on him, take something good and twist it until he comes out looking like he could uphold the tillman last name.

when he's with you, he's just gator. maybe you're the water he floats in, maybe you are the prey he's gonna kill when he's done playing around.

when he touches you, it doesn't matter.

his calloused hands feel soft on your skin. gator pulls you to his lap and you ride him. the deputy's lips are on you in no time, wrapped around your tit. he sucks on it and leaves tender bites that make you whimper. His free hand squeezes your left breast a bit too rough, but you couldn't care less, holding tight to his shoulders while you go up and down on his cock.

“gator.” you moan, and it's the only time he actually believes his name makes sense. when you are dizzy with pleasure, fucking on his dick like you're gonna die without it.

“I know, dollface.” he mutters as your walls clench around him. fuck. if anyone ever touched your tight cunt, he'd kill them on spot. that was his sweet thang, only his. “so needy, mama. don't worry, I'll fill you up nice. gonna leave ya dripping. anything for that pretty pussy. it always get so wet for me. I love it.”

the words hang in the air. gator always talks too much, his mouth works faster than his brain can fathom. somehow, love has been slipping into his luxury haze more often lately. never directly, but never missing an appearance as if he couldn't run out of things to love about you.

you don't mention it.

but when gator comes, his hands are on your waist and he squeezes so hard it will leave marks. his hands guide you on your back. his hands clean you up when his mouth doesn't say anything. his hands brush against your arm when he thinks you're asleep. his hands pull you to his chest.

his hands never lie.

so, yeah. there are a lot of things to like about gator.

but when he's tongue-tied, when his eyes get dark, when he gets bloody, when he runs away like a coward, when everything else fails him.

his hands always remind you what, who he keeps a hold on.

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man, it feels good to be back. :) hope you liked it! PLEASE LIKE & REBLOG.

when you're not working at the tiny bookstore in town, you spend your time laying out in the small patch of grass that somehow constitutes as a front yard. it pisses gator off because it's not even fenced in and, more often than not, you fall asleep in the hazy afternoon sun, sometimes even into the evening and once, to 8 pm, and he almost got out of his truck and pretended someone called him to do a wellness check on you just to usher you into your house.

roy checks in often, but gator always has nothing to report. he's positive you're not up to anything, especially after looking you up in their system. (he felt a little bad about that, but he was also desperately curious about you.) he learned that you inherited your house from your grandma, which made sense as to why it looked so... matronly, you moved to lehigh earlier this year, you're two years younger than gator, and you have a squeaky clean record.

eventually, roy forgets about you. he doesn't need gator trailing you anymore, but gator can't stop thinking about you, so one day, before heading into work, he goes into the bookstore you work at. he pretends to look at the nonfiction section, even though gator's pretty sure he hasn't read a book since maybe middle school, if that. really, he's looking for you, and sure enough, you're ducked down in the far right corner of the small store, petting a fat, furry orange cat.

gator clears his throat when he sees you.

the cat meows.

you turn around, scooping the cat up into your arms.

"oh! it's you." you say, shuffling over to the cash register and plopping the cat down onto the counter.

gator furrows his eyebrows. the cat plunks its butt down in front of him, as if it's expecting him to start petting it. he stares back, unimpressed.

"you're the one who's been following me." you tack on, grabbing a misplaced book from the front table. "from the police department. i've noticed you. i was wondering when you were finally gonna say something."