#fargo s5

“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”

Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son. 

As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter. 

The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.

Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him. 

Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you. 

You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch. 

Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”

Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.

Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”

“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.

Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”

The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.

Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.

You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.

The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.

He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks. 

He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating. 

In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.

Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.

And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him. 

That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.

As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you. 

Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.

You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug. 

“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”

You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”

“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”

You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”

Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.

“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you. 

You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”

“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.

“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”

Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”

He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage. 

“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”

Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”

You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”

“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up. 

“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand. 

Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”

Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.

Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him. 

Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window. 

Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer. 

“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again. 

Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!” 

His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him. 

The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”

“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.

“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”

Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell. 

“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.

“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”

You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms. 

“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”

He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying. 

Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions. 

“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him. 

Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you. 

Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him. 

“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming. 

Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?” 

The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs. 

Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”

He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”

You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.

A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly. 

Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.

You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch. 

Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”

“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”

You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”

Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”

You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”

You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him. 

A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.

You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed. 

You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.

Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward. 

Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter. 

“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”

Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”

“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”

“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”

You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks. 

“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.

“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”

“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”

Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”

You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.

“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.

Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”

“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.

You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."

“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”

“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”

Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it. 

“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.

“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”

“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”

His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”

The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always. 

His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”

His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.

Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone. 

You don’t care. You’re already gone. 

It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears. 

“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling. 

Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”

“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly. 

He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it. 

You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.

“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him. 

He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”

“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”

His chuckle echoes down the hall.

The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.

“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.

“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.

You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.

You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.

The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.

“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.

You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”

You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”

He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”

When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh. 

You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”

“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him. 

Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”

“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”

“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.

“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”

Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”

“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”

“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.

“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”

“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.

Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”

“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”

“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”

“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.

“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”

“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.

“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.

“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”

For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”

“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”

“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.

“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”

The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.

Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life. 

And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.

And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered. 

Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.

With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath. 

His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen. 

Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh. 

Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door. 

You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes. 

It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid. 

After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape. 

Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor. 

You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened. 

Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of. 

Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”

Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately. 

A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.

Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.

He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.

Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.

She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”

You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family. 

But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”

Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator. 

He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again. 

When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”

“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.

You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.

The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly. 

“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”

“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”

He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”

“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”

“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”

You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”

“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.

“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”

You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”

“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”

“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”

“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”

You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.

“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”

Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”

“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”

“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”

Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”

“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.

Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”

You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision. 

You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand. 

So, that night, you don’t go back to your room. 

You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.

You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.

Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.

“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”

You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.” 

Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.

Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”

“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”

Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”

You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”

“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”

“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”

“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.

“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”

“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.

“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.

Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat. 

 It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.

Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore. 

You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you. 

You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won. 

It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you. 

You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.

You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory. 

The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces. 

And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off. 

The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you. 

Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it. 

You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips. 

You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.

Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth. 

His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it. 

Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs. 

Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”

“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”

You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”

His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there. 

“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature. 

“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”

You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.

When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”

“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”

With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”

“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch. 

Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”

“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire. 

“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway. 

“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest. 

You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”

“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?” 

Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”

You give him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.” 

“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”

“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.

Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.

Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”

“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”

Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?” 

You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”

He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”

“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.

Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”

“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.

“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp. 

Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.

“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak. 

“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.” That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting. 

Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.

Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it. 

His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”

His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.

His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”

The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.

And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt. 

He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks. 

“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”

“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”

“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”

Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low. 

Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”

You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”

At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips. 

It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing. 

As in most things, Gator feels different.

It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face. 

Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”

“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed. 

“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered. 

“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows. 

“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”

You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”

He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”

Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts. 

“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”

The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”

You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”

“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.

“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.

“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”

“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”

Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again. 

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.

“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself. 

Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”

Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”

“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”

“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.

“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”

“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”

“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.

“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up. 

“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”

“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.

“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.

Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.

In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.

“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.

You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.

“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”

“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”

“Gator—“

“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.

Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together. 

“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.

You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”

Gator pulls back, looking downright appalled. “What?”

You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”

“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”

“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.

Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”

You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”

Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”

“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”

“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”

“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly. 

He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth. 

“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly. 

You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly. 

“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”

“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”

“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.” 

“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.

“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”

Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”

He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”

“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”

“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.

Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”

His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.

Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him. 

“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you. 

“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”

You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation. 

Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut. 

He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”

With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch. 

“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”

You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain. 

“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”

You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again. 

A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring. 

“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”

“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants. 

He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”

“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”

Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again. 

When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”  

“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”

You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.

The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago. 

“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”

“Shut up,” you breathe. 

“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”

“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”

“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”

He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.” You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”

He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”

“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”

“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”

Gator groans.

“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.

You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”

“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”

“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.

“Yeah, baby?”

You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.

“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.

You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours. 

“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back. 

He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”

Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”

His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.” 

You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”

“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”

“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.

Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”

“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”

Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–

You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you. 

He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion. 

Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp. 

For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too. 

Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight. 

Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.

He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.

“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.

He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.” You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”

Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”

You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am,” he insists, voice low. 

The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off. 

“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe. 

“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”

“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”

You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”

“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”

You huff. “No.”

“Lunch.”

“Gator—“

“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”

“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.

Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”

“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”

“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.

“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.

He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."

You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”

“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”

“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”

You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.

Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”

“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”

“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”

You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”

“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.

“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”

Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”

“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”

“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.

The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.

You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.

When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”

“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.

“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”

You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”

“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”

“I’m not–”

“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”

You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”

Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know?” you press him. 

“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”

You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.

She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?

Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”

Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you. 

“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”

“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming. 

He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”

You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.

“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”

You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat. 

Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation. 

So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”

Your lips move like they’ve been rehearsed. You gesture gently, like every kid in front of you is made of glass. Your skirt hits just above the knee and your legs are crossed and it’s not even sexual, not really, but his brain is already off somewhere it shouldn’t be.

He shifts his stance. Regrets it immediately.

You probably live in some little pastel-colored house with a welcome mat that says wipe your paws and a bookshelf full of weird novels with fairies on the cover. Probably bake muffins on Sundays and drink tea with actual fucking honey. You probably think he’s a dirtbag just for existing in your vicinity.

He’s not offended.

You’re right.

But still. It’s the voice.

The book ends and the twins go running to pick out stickers from the treasure box, but Gator doesn’t move. You stand and straighten your skirt, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and then your eyes catch his.

He grins.

You don’t.

He saunters over anyway.

“Hell of a story,” he says. “That dog ever find the damn dessert?”

You glance at him sideways. “It’s a classic.”

“Sure. Just think he should’ve mauled one of the other puppies, maybe. Add some stakes.”

Your expression is polite. Dismissive. You reach for the stack of books beside your chair.

“You workin’ the front desk too? Or you just hang out back here with the rugrats?”

“I’m on shift until two. Deputy Tillman, right?”

He tips his Stark County Sheriff cap, probably thinking it's funny.

You don’t smile. You barely acknowledge him. Just start shelving books without giving him the time of day.

But he watches the way your fingers move over the spines.

“Y’know,” he starts, leaning a little too close to the cart you’re pushing, “my dad and Karen- well, a couple folks downtown too- they been sayin’ you’re sneakin’ in some woke shit during storytime.”

You don’t look up.

“Stuff about identity and… communism. Sharing and shit.” He makes a face like those are dirty words. “Guess that’s got 'em real nervous.”

Your hand freezes halfway through shelving a board book. You glance over your shoulder at him.

“So… empathy?”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can even try.

“Inclusive language isn’t a threat, Deputy. Telling a group of five-year-olds that it’s okay to be different doesn’t mean I’m handing out Molotov cocktails with the alphabet blocks.”

He blinks.

You turn back to your cart. “But if you’d like to take it up with the Board of Trustees, I’m sure they’d love to hear your thoughts on basic human decency.”

Gator frowns. Rubs the back of his neck. His mouth works like he wants to fire back but knows he shouldn’t.

Truth is, he probably doesn’t even believe half the shit Roy spouts in closed-door meetings. He just grew up marinating in it. And lately it’s started to feel like wearing a uniform that doesn’t quite fit.

Still, he’s got a job to do. And, in this case, the job is making a fool of himself in front of a hot librarian.

“I like the bat pin,” he tries. “Very seasonal. You into all that spooky shit?”

“Kids like Halloween.”

“You ever do costumes?” he asks, casual as hell, leaning one arm on the book cart like he owns the place.

You don’t answer, too busy shelving a stack of paperback Berenstain Bears. He keeps going.

“Bet you’d make a real cute witch,” he says, smirking. “All black and mysterious. Pointy hat. Stockins’, if you’re into that.”

You pause.

He grins wider. “Or like… a sexy librarian. That one’s kinda on the nose, though.”

Still no reaction.

“Or a cat. With the tail. Tight little bodysuit, ears up here—” He gestures vaguely near his head, eyes sliding down your figure. “You know, slutty Halloween classic. Me-ow and all that.”

Now you straighten. Slowly. Turn to face him with the full force of your unimpressed stare. Your voice doesn’t raise, doesn’t change tone. Just slices clean.

“Deputy Tillman, I’m working.”

It goes straight down his goddamn spine.

He blinks. Smiles, wide and wolfish.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Loud and clear.”

You go back to shelving. He makes himself walk away.

He’s still grinning when Jessica runs up to grab his hand, still grinning when Maude tries to show him the glitter sticker she picked out, still grinning when the door shuts behind you and he thinks about your mouth forming his name.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Like, legally, he really shouldn’t be doing this.

But that doesn’t stop him. Never has.

Gator’s halfway down Maple Street in the cruiser, windows cracked, radio turned low, trying to come up with some halfway believable excuse for what he’s about to pull. Something about a neighbor complaint. Suspicious music. Kids tagging garages again. He’ll come up with the details on the porch.

Truth is, he’s been thinking about you all goddamn week.

Your mouth. That little sunflower cardigan. The way your voice went all quiet and scolding when you told him you were working. Like he was some idiot teen chewing gum too loud.

He’s jerked off three times since picking up the girls on Tuesday. Not that he’s counting. Once in the shower. Once in the car on lunch break, parked behind the old grain mill. Once in his room with the lights off and your voice playing on a loop in his head saying Deputy Tillman, I’m working.

He slows when he sees the pastel yellow bungalow with the porch swing. There’s a metal watering can on the steps. A string of paper leaves taped up in the window. He checks the address like he hasn’t already done that three times today.

Heart beating like a fucking idiot, he gets out and walks up to the door.

You open it after two knocks.

You look different in jeans and a sweatshirt. Still soft. Still pretty. Hair pulled back in a way that shows your neck. He tries not to look too long.

“Deputy Tillman,” you say, eyebrows raising slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“Got a call about a noise complaint,” he lies, hands resting easy on his belt like this is official business. “Figured I’d check it out.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You tilt your head. “I was listening to a podcast. About frogs.”

“Yeah? Must’ve been real rowdy frogs.”

Silence.

Then, impossibly, you smile. Just barely.

“Well, come on in then,” you say, stepping aside.

He swallows.

Inside, it smells like cinnamon and apples. There’s a bookshelf lined with worn paperbacks. A little crocheted blanket over the back of the couch. You don’t have the heat blasting, but it’s warm anyway. Cozy in a way that makes his chest feel weird, a way his home never felt.

He follows you toward the kitchen.

“So,” you say, casual, opening a cabinet. “Who made the complaint?”

“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anonymous. Neighbor didn’t leave a name.”

You hum like you don’t believe him, but you’re still pulling down a mug. He watches as you open a tin of looseleaf tea.

“You want honey or lemon?”

He blinks. “What?”

You glance over your shoulder.

“For your tea.”

“You’re—” He clears his throat. “You’re makin’ me tea?”

“Well, you came all the way out here for a noise complaint,” you say lightly, spooning out fragrant leaves like this is the most normal thing in the world. “It’s the least I can do.”

He leans against the counter and tries to play it cool, but something about the way you move is killing him. You’re not even trying. That’s the thing. You’re not trying, and it’s working.

He watches your hands again. The way your fingers cradle the handle of the kettle. The curve of your waist when you reach for the lemon. The pink of your lip when you bite it, just briefly, focused on the steam rising from the mug.

Christ.

You got mugs that match.

You got tea that doesn’t come in a bag.

You smell like books and soap and I’m gonna blow a fuse right here in your kitchen.

You set the mug down in front of him and he doesn’t even know what to say. Just stares at the little swirl of steam and wonders what the hell he thought was gonna happen here.

You sit down across from him at the little kitchen table, resting your chin in your hand.

“So, Deputy,” you say, soft voice like honey dripping off a spoon, “are you gonna need to investigate the rest of the house?”

He looks up.

You blink at him. Sweet. Innocent. Like it’s a real question.

He swallows hard. Tries not to smile like a goddamn cartoon wolf.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back. “Might be protocol.”

You nod. Push your chair back and stand.

“Well,” you say, voice light as air, “the bedroom’s this way.”

And then you walk down the hall.

And he follows, thinking he’s finally about to be in charge of something.

You lead him down the hall like it’s no big deal, like you’re not already two steps ahead of whatever clumsy plan he’s cooked up in that badge-polished brain of his. His boots thud behind you like he’s chasing something he thinks he’s already caught.

You step inside and he follows, dumb and hopeful, eyes skating over the room like he’s casing it for more than just fantasy. He’s already got his hands halfway into his vest when the door clicks shut behind him.

He turns.

You’re standing right in front of it, arms relaxed, head tilted. Watching him.

He opens his mouth. Probably to say something cocky, something crude and stupid like he always does. But before he can get it out, you’re already moving toward him and backing him up until his spine hits the wood of the door.

It’s not even hard, just firm. Unavoidable.

Your hands skim his vest like you’re checking the fit. His breath catches.

He reaches for your waist, lips curving in that smug little grin of his, already talking.

“Yeah,” he mutters against your cheek, voice low and rough. “Knew you’d feel good. Knew you’d come around eventually. Can’t fake it forever.”

His mouth is at your jaw now, sloppy and too eager. His hands go to the hem of your sweater, like he thinks he’s already got you spread across the bed in his head. He noses at your neck like it’s something to claim, muttering half-sentences against your skin.

Then your hand slides down.

You palm him over the front of his camo cargos, slow and certain.

He stutters out a breath like it surprises him, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him with that kind of control. His hips stutter, trying to chase your grip, but you stay exactly where you are.

You lean in close. So close your lips almost brush the shell of his ear.

And then you speak in a tone that’s like you’re reading him a bedtime story.

“Take off your vest and go lie down for me.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.

Then his mouth parts a little, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out except a breathy, choked little “yeah.”

You smile. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just patient.

Like you already knew this was how it was gonna go.

Gator swallows, but his eyes are already a little wide, his pupils already blown.

He doesn't take his vest off yet, but his hands find the hem of your sweater and push up under it. You stop him immediately.

"That wasn't what I asked. Do you need help?"

You sound so calm.

He's looking at you like he wants to eat you, like he's thinking about tearing through all the layers between you. Like he doesn't understand why he's not.

So you guide him by his hand to the bed, undoing his vest as you stand in front of him. It slides off his shoulders and onto the comforter and he looks down at you like he wants to say something. 

"Now, will you sit for me?"

You ask it like a question, but it isn't. He knows it. You know it.

So he sits and looks up at you expectantly.

You smile. Gently, you run your hand along his face.

"There we go," you murmur, thumb rubbing along his stubbled cheek.

He makes a little noise, not quite a whimper. Not quite. He clears his throat immediately, like he was covering up what just escaped him.

"You're awfully quiet, Deputy." You say, the same hand trailing down his chest over his black t-shirt. "Cat got your tongue?"

You can see the way he fights himself not to lean into the touch, and the fact that he doesn't is endearing.

When he speaks, it's clear he's trying to take control again.

"Just thinkin' about what's gonna happen when I get my hands on you," he says, leaning back, arms braced against the mattress.

You smile, and your fingers trace over his chest more. "But you're still following directions, aren't you, Deputy Tillman? That's very good."

The words make him swallow hard, and you can see him tense, unsure of what to say or do, clearly thrown by your response.

"I don't know what you think you're doing but-"

"You don't need to talk, Deputy. Unless you need help. Do you need help?"

He's quiet again, watching you, and it's clear he doesn't know how to respond.

"Answer me. Or I'll stop." You say it firmly, and it makes his mouth open and close like he's trying to think of a snarky response.

Your hand trails down lower to his belt, just sort of tracing the shape but not doing anything more.

"Fuck, okay, I don't, I don't need help," he grumbles, and you can feel the way he's trying not to press against your touch.

"Good boy. Thank you."

It's clear that the phrase startles him, and the way his mouth opens just slightly, eyes going a little wider, makes the whole thing even better. You start to undo his belt, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, but then he snaps it shut again.

"Now, let's see what you've been hiding," you murmur, lowering to your knees in front of him and you move to unzip his cargos next.

"Uh, what?"

"This is what you wanted, right?" You look up at him, after you unzipped his pants, your hands on his thighs.

God he could finish just from that, just from the sight of you between his legs, just from the fact that it's actually happening, after a week of jerking off to the sound of your voice in his head.

"Use your words."

His breath catches. "Yeah. Yeah, it's what I want."

"I know."

His cheeks flush, and he has the urge to hide his face like a fucking idiot, but also, the sight of you there is almost too much to take.

"Do you want me to use my mouth on you, Deputy?"

"Fuck, yeah, yeah, I want you to, I want- "

You smile up at him.

"Then ask for it."

He's looking at you like a deer in the headlights, like his brain can't even compute what's happening. You wait patiently, not breaking eye contact.

"I don't beg," he finally blurts out, desperate, and it sounds almost painful, but his eyes are on your mouth, on the way you're just sort of waiting for him to comply. He's not sure why but the fact that he's sitting there, his dick twitching under the weight of your gaze, is making him even more turned on.

"Well, then I guess you're not getting it, Deputy."

You move to stand, and the panic sets in almost immediately.

"Wait, fuck, please. I- I'll beg, please," he says quickly, his voice strained, and god it shouldn't be hot, shouldn't be, but he's not really thinking about it.

"Oh?"

"Please, please I want- I want your mouth on me," he mumbles, eyes downcast, and there's something in his voice, something soft and desperate that wasn't there before.

"That's a start," you say softly, and now you're looking at him with a fondness, and your hands are working his cargos off. "Lift your hips for me."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's automatic, the words and the action, and it's clear that he wasn't planning on saying that, based on the way his eyes flick away from you. But he complies anyway, lifting his hips off the bed.

His cargos are down, and his black boxer briefs are tight, and his erection is clear and straining against the fabric. You move to palm him through the briefs, and his breath catches.

"Fuck, please," he whimpers.

"What do you want?" You look up at him.

"Please, can you- fuck, I'm so fucking hard."

You smile. "You'll have to be more specific, Deputy."

"Can you- fuck, just suck me off already," he blurts, and he's flushed, the color rising in his cheeks and ears.

"That sounds an awful lot like a command, Deputy."

He groans. "No, fuck, it wasn't, please. Please suck me off. Please."

"I think I like the sound of you begging. Maybe you should keep going."

He huffs. "I want- I want your mouth," his voice is strained, and his cock is twitching, and his breathing is a little more labored. "Please, please can you- can you just put me in your mouth? I've been thinkin' about your lips all goddamn week. Please, please just do somethin' already."

His words are rushed, and the fact that he's actually begging makes heat rush straight between your legs.

"Well, color me surprised, I didn't think you'd actually fold that easily." You say it lightly, like his pleading isn't having any effect on you, and when you speak, his eyes meet yours, and there's a vulnerability there that wasn't there before.

You palm him gently again, and the way he groans makes you bite your lip.

"Please." His voice is soft.

"Look at you," you say, and there's something in your tone, something warm and approving, and you can see the way it hits him.

"Please."

You lean forward, and your nose grazes the outline of his cock. "Well, since you asked so nicely."

He lets out a breath through his nose and you smile, mouthing along his length through his briefs, and the way his hips jump is almost enough to make you laugh.

"Fuck," he mutters, and the word comes out choked.

You hum, and the vibration makes him let out a small moan, one that he immediately covers up.

"What was that, Deputy?"

"Nothin', nothing, I'm-"

You lick along the outline of his cock, and his breath catches, a soft, choked sound escaping him.

"Fuck, oh my god," he murmurs.

You smile, and it's a little wicked, and it's enough to make his cock twitch again.

"Do you like that, Deputy?" You're teasing him, and it's clear, and he can't help but groan, his face flushed and eyes downcast.

"Yeah, I do, fuck, please don't stop," and he's practically rambling, like his mind can't process the fact that his cock is leaking and you haven't even taken his briefs off yet.

"Hmm," you say, and then you pull his briefs down, and his erection bobs out, flushed and red and dripping precum. He's so hard and he's so desperate. God, if anyone could see him like this, he's not sure he'd survive.

"Oh, wow," you breathe, and the way you're looking at him is almost too much, and he swallows hard.

"Please," he croaks, and the desperation in his voice is obvious.

"You're so pretty, Deputy," you murmur, and then your lips are ghosting the tip, and his hips buck, and the sound he makes is high and strangled.

"Men...  men aren't supposed to be pretty," he manages, and his voice is unsteady, like he's repeating something he's only heard and doesn't actually believe.

"But you are. Look at you."

You're just mouthing little kisses along his length now, and it's making him crazy.

"M'not pretty," he manages.

You hum against his shaft and it makes him jerk.

"S'true, I'm not. Men aren't, fuck, they aren't-"

"Shh, Deputy, you're okay," and your voice is soothing and gentle.

"I'm okay," he echoes.

"Mm-hm."

You take his tip in your mouth, just sucking softly, and the groan he lets out is long and needy.

"Please," he chokes, his voice cracking.

"Shh," you say, and then the hand not resting on his thigh comes up to stroke the base of his cock, and the noise he makes is desperate.

"Holy fuck, oh my god, please," his words are tumbling out, like his brain has completely shut off.

Your lips slide down lower, and your tongue moves along the underside of his shaft, and the choked moan he lets out is obscene.

He's trembling a little, and the hand not in his hair is clenching the comforter, and the sight is beautiful.

"Shh," you say, pulling away with a pop. The sound he makes is involuntary.

"Please, please, oh my god, oh my fucking god," his eyes are closed, and his brow is furrowed, and his breath is coming in shallow little pants.

"Gator."

The word comes out softly, gently, but his eyes snap open. There's a vulnerability there, something a little wide and shocked.

"I'm gonna go nice and slow, and I want you to count. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," and his voice is low and breathy.

You lean in again, taking him slowly, his breath catching.

"One," he manages, and his hips are trembling.

"Good boy," you murmur, pulling off, and the praise makes his breath catch.

"Two."

You move back in, sucking along his shaft, the noise he lets out is long and low.

"Thr-three."

You work him deeper, a desperate, needy groan escapes him.

"Four."

His voice is soft, like the numbers are something to hold on to.

"Five," he gasps.

Your hand reaches up to rest on his chest and the contact makes him groan again. The way his hips jerk makes you smile.

"Six."

His breaths are ragged and labored, the sight is a beautiful thing as you look up at him, your mouth full of his cock. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, just slightly, like his mind can't even process what's happening. His usually slicked back hair is slightly messy from him running his hands over it.

"Please, please, oh my god, fuck, seven, fuck," voice is a little higher, a little more unsteady, and the fact that his control is slipping is delicious.

You start to work his cock faster, and the choked moan he lets out is loud.

"Fuck, please, please, please. Eight. Nine, oh my god, nine." 

He's stuttering, his eyes closing.

Your mouth is moving, and the sounds are lewd, and the fact that you're doing this to him, the fact that you're the one who is in charge, the fact that you're the one bringing him apart is making him crazy.

You're bobbing, the hand that was stroking his base is moving lower to massage his balls, eliciting a strangled and desperate noise.

"Fuck, ten, oh my god, eleven, fuck, twelve, oh my fucking god, thirteen, fourteen," his brain is melting, and it's the prettiest thing.

Your other hand reaches up to gently run down his torso, underneath his shirt, and the contact makes his body shiver.

"Fuck, oh my god, fifteen. God, god, sixteen, seventeen, fuck, eighteen, nineteen..."

His cock twitches in your mouth and you moan a little around him. The sound is enough to make his eyes snap open, the noise that escapes his throat a strangled, choking sort of sob.

"Shit, fuck, fuck, oh my god, I'm, shit, twenty, oh my fucking god," and the words are a jumble, and his hips are jerking, and his thighs are trembling, and it's obvious how close he is.

When your nails scratch down his torso just a little, his back arches.

"Oh, god, oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god, please…"

It's the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, fuck, oh my god, please." His words are rushing out as his hands clench.

You're moving faster and the wet sounds are filthy, the way his breath is catching is perfect. You look up and catch his eyes with your own, making him spill a litany of curses and prayers, his voice breaking deliciously.

You can tell he's close. You pull off just enough to say "ask me nicely," and the whine he lets out is pathetic, like the act of speaking is impossible.

His voice is broken, like he's never asked for anything before. “Please.”

"Please what, Deputy?" Your words are a purr.

"Can I- fuck, can I cum? Wanna cum so bad, wanna cum for you…”

"Eyes on me." You say softly, before sticking your tongue out and stroking him slowly.

"Yes, fuck, please, thank you, yes.” The gratitude is a little surprising, a little sweet.

He cums in hot spurts, his eyes a little wet. You have a hard time catching all of it in your mouth, so some leaks out.

"Thank you, thank you, holy shit." He looks completely wrecked.

You swallow and the way his cock twitches makes him let out a desperate whine.

"That was so good, Deputy," you murmur, wiping the corner of your mouth. "You did such a good job."

The phrase is enough to make his eyes widen a little, his chest heaving, and it's clear to you then that praise is a shock for him.

"Did a good job," he echoes, and the words are soft, like he's testing the sound of them.

"You did. You did a great job." You place a soft kiss to his now limp cock. "So good for me."

"Yeah," he manages, and it's obvious he's trying to process what's happened.

You start to get up, watching him as you do. His gaze is on you, and it's clear that the fact that you're still clothed, while he's half bare and panting, is starting to sink in.

"I think I might take a shower," you say casually, walking towards the bathroom.

"Wait, wait, are you—you're leaving?"

The way he says it is vulnerable, a little uncertain. 

You turn around then.

"I think the only noise complaint was coming from your mouth, Deputy."

His eyes widen a little.

"Get yourself cleaned up. You know the way out."

"But-"

You're already stepping into the bathroom, closing the door.

There's a pause, and the silence feels heavy.

He swallows, clears his throat, runs a hand down his face. Sits there, half-naked and dumb, his mouth hanging open, his brain still fuzzy.

He doesn’t have to be here.

In fact, there’s probably some minor infraction happening across town. Like someone jaywalking, or the high school kids smoking behind the Taco Bell again. And yet, Gator’s cruiser is parked right outside the public library like he’s got a goddamn overdue research paper.

He told Roy he was “checking on a community concern.” Left it vague on purpose. It’s not even a lie, technically. The concern is that his brain hasn’t stopped replaying the sound of your voice saying “good boy” on a loop for seventy-two hours, and if he doesn’t see you again soon he might actually melt into the vinyl seat of his patrol car.

When he walks in, you're behind the main desk typing something into the computer. Sweater again, this one pale blue with little cloud buttons. Your hair’s pulled back. Glasses on.

You don’t look up when the door chimes.

You don’t flinch when he walks past the kid’s section.

You don’t even blink when he leans one elbow on the counter and says, “Afternoon.”

You glance up, totally placid. “Deputy Tillman. Everything alright?”

He swallows. Your voice is light. Polite. Absolutely fucking criminal.

“Uh, yeah. Just followin’ up on that… noise complaint.”

You blink. Tilt your head a little, a quirk he won’t admit he finds cute. “The frogs?”

“Right. Rowdy bunch.”

You nod once, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. “Well, I haven’t played any amphibian-themed podcasts at top volume lately, if that’s what you’re here about.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Community check-in, then. Public safety and such.”

“Mmm. Of course.”

You go back to typing.

He stands there like a dumbass, just watching your fingers move across the keyboard like they didn’t make him beg a few nights ago. Like you didn’t lick the tip of his cock and praise him like he was something worth praising.

The contrast is making him crazy.

You glance up again. “Did you need help with something?”

He clears his throat. “Thought maybe I’d, uh, do a walkthrough. Safety inspection.”

“Of the library?”

He nods, almost too fast. “Uh-huh. Could be… fire hazard, exposed wiring, structural…” His eyes flick to a clearly labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door behind the desk. “Mold.”

You blink once, slow. “Right. The hidden black mold epidemic in rural North Dakota.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

A beat. Then you close the lid of your laptop and gesture toward the hallway behind you.

“Well, you’re welcome to take a look around, Deputy. Just don’t get lost in the archives.”

He nods, stepping around the desk like he belongs there, like he’s not just following the smell of your perfume and the ghost of your mouth on his cock. The hall is narrow, lined with staff posters and a flickering light overhead. You’re already walking ahead of him, casual as anything, hands in the pockets of your skirt.

And then you stop in front of a half-closed door marked “STAFF WORKROOM.”

You glance over your shoulder. “This one’s usually the messiest. Just FYI.”

He swallows, heart knocking around in his chest like it wants out.

“Appreciate the warning,” he mutters, trying to sound casual, but his voice is already lower, rougher. Hungry.

You open the door.

You step inside.

He follows.

And just like that, you’re alone again.

Same silence. Same still air.

Only now there’s a copy machine humming in the corner and the scent of dust and paper and whatever lotion you’re wearing.

He turns toward you. You’re already shutting the door behind you.

The door clicks shut and the lock slides into place like a punctuation mark. Gator stands there, hands on his hips, trying not to stare but already failing. He doesn’t know what he expected. A dusty filing cabinet. Maybe an unplugged laminator.

You don’t say anything at first. Just turn around slow, eyes dragging over him like you’re measuring something. He feels like a piece of furniture.

A big, twitchy, half-hard piece of furniture. 

“Deputy,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

 He licks his lips. “Think so.”

You move slowly across the room, like you’ve got all the time in the world. Pale blue sweater, neat little collar poking out, sleeves pushed to the crook of your elbows. You’re not even trying to be sexy. Which makes it worse.

Gator’s eyes drag down you. The way your skirt shifts when you move. The soft curve beneath the waistband. He swallows, shifts his stance. Tries not to imagine what your tits look like without the sweater in the way. Fails immediately.

Bet they’re soft. Bet they’d fill both hands just right. Jesus. Stop. Focus.

But he doesn’t look away.

You pause, fingers absently straightening a stack of construction paper. Not a single glance in his direction. You’re letting the quiet stretch, just to see what he does with it.

And Gator? Gator’s dumb enough to fill the silence.

“You always keep the door locked on inspection tours?” he asks, voice a little rough.

You hum like you’re thinking about it. Still not looking at him. “Only when I know you’re gonna stare at my tits again.”

Gator chokes.

You finally turn.

Eyes calm. Voice sweet.

“Been catching you,” you continue, stepping toward him, “Every time you think I’m not looking.”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

You stop in front of him, just a little too close. Close enough he can smell whatever lotion you’re wearing. Close enough he can see the edge of lace peeking from under your sweater collar. His brain drops the rest of its vocabulary.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “Just figured you should know I notice.”

Your hand lifts—gentle, light—and smooths the edge of his collar. He’s standing still now, statue-stiff, cock already heavy in his pants. It's fucking humiliating.

“But if you’re gonna gawk,” you murmur, “you might as well be useful about it.”

You’re already backing him toward the chair.

He doesn't resist, just lets himself be guided. Just like in your bedroom.

You nudge him into the seat and lean over his shoulder, voice soft against his ear.

"Don't move, Deputy."

Then you straighten, step back, and slowly unbutton your sweater, placing it neatly on a stack of books like you have all the time in the world.

The white camisole underneath is thin and sleeveless, and the fabric clings to the shape of your body, tracing the line of your bra and the dip of your waist. Gator can see the curve of your breasts and the outline of your nipples through the thin cotton.

He doesn't move, just watches, transfixed.

You step forward, one hand on the back of the chair and the other sliding across his chest, up his shoulder. You lean down, the soft fabric brushing his cheek.

"Doing okay, deputy?"

He's not.

He can't remember what words mean, or how his hands are supposed to work.

"Uh-huh," he mutters.

"You want to touch? Just a little?"

He nods, dumb as a stump, eyes locked on the way the fabric clings to your curves. You reach for the hemp of your camisole, lifting it up slowly, inch by inch. Your navel, the line of your waist, the bottom swell of your breast, the underside of your collarbone. All the way to the neckline, pulling it over your head.

You go to take your glasses off next but he touches your free hand. "No..."

"No?"

He licks his lips. "Please... leave them."

You pause. "Alright."

Gator swallows, hands hovering uselessly, palms sweaty. You lean forward and his breath catches, eyes roaming over the soft lace of your bra that barely contains the curves of your tits.

You set the camisole with your sweater, careful and precise. You straighten. Turn.

"Hands."

He obeys, setting his big palms on your waist, callused thumbs brushing the soft skin just above the skirt band.

"Good boy."

He shivers, cock jerking against his zipper.

Your fingers are gentle on his, guiding them to your breasts, pressing his hands over the lace.

His breath catches, eyes wide and mouth open, thumbs already tracing the edge of the fabric. You hum, low, approving.

"That's it," you murmur, letting him squeeze, feeling the warmth of your skin.

Your hands move, guiding his upward, slipping the straps off your shoulders, sliding the cups down until his palms brush bare skin.

Your eyes lock on his face, watch him react.

It's everything he wanted and nothing like he expected.

The weight of your tits in his hands, the way they fill his palms, the softness, the heat. He strokes the pads of his thumbs across your nipples, watching them pebble beneath his touch. You inhale, slow and deliberate, moving to straddle him in the chair. Your skirt bunches up at your hips as you hover there, not fully letting your weight settle against him yet.

His hips buck up almost involuntarily, like he's chasing the feel of you. You tut, soft and gentle. "Keep your hands here."

He nods, and you reward him by grinding down just enough for him to feel the heat of your pussy.

"That's it," you whisper, rolling against him again, slow and steady. "You're doing so well."

His fingers tighten, and he has to bite back a groan. You lean forward and press a gentle kiss against the side of his neck. "Want more? Ask nicely."

"P... please."

Your nails rake up his arms, just hard enough to leave marks. "Please what? Be specific. You can do that, can't you?"

"Let me..." he mutters, breathless, voice trailing off.

"Let you what?"

"Please... I wanna... want your nipples."

"To do what, exactly?"

"Suck 'em."

"Mmmm, good boy."

His hands shake as you guide them behind your back. He fumbles with the clasp, and when he finally manages it, his breath catches in his throat as you slip your bra off your arms.

He leans forward and his mouth is on your nipple, tongue tracing the sensitive skin, his breath hot and fast. You sigh, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.

"Just like that."

His teeth graze your skin and you arch against him, grinding down as he sucks, hands tight on your waist. He groans around your tit, muffled and hungry.

Your breath catches as his grip tightens.

"Fuck..." He releases your nipple with a pop, breathing hard, mouth open. "I... fuck, sorry, I-"

"You really like those, don't you?"

His face is red. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes.

"Yeah."

"Good. They're nice, aren't they? Soft and warm."

"Mhm."

"Why don't you kiss the other one and show me how much you like it?"

He licks his lips, glances up, and then leans forward again.

You can feel him trembling, breath ragged and desperate. His lips are soft, almost hesitant, but when he wraps his mouth around your nipple, you can't help but gasp, arching into him.

He moans, the sound muffled around the flesh in his mouth, and sucks. Hard.

One of his hands is on your waist and the other is kneading your opposite breast, pinching and rolling.

You start to grind on him again, and this time he arches up, meeting the movement. You can feel his cock through his pants, hard and hot, rubbing against panties.

He releases your nipple, and you shiver when he exhales.

"F... fuck..."

You smile, tugging his hair and guiding his head back to your breast. "Good boy. You're being so good. But I didn't say you could stop."

He doesn't, immediately returning to sucking and nipping at the flesh, making you gasp and writhe against him. He groans around you, and his hips buck up again.

The chair squeaks, and his hands are on your hips now, gripping so hard you can feel his fingers twitch and you wonder if he'd be holding onto you the same way if his belt was undone.

He's still thrusting against you, the rhythm growing unsteady, and you stroke your hand through his hair while you praise him. "Such a good boy for me, aren't you? Getting so excited you can't sit still."

He makes a desperate noise and tries to grind against you harder. You tug his hair, just enough to get his attention. "Eyes on me, Gator."

He looks up, switching to the other nipple and licking eagerly, his gaze focused on yours, the picture of obedience.

"There you go," you breathe, your own hips moving faster, seeking more friction. "So eager, so good."

He knows he's going to cum in his pants and he can't find it in him to care.

Your fingers dig into his scalp and the muscles of your legs are starting to shake, but Gator's still latched onto your tit, sucking and nipping, lost in the feel of you.

You grind down harder and he arches up, meeting the rhythm. His breath hitches, and his whole body is trembling.

"You can cum," you murmur. "It's okay. I know you want to. Cum for me, baby. Cum in your pants. I know you'll be a good boy and clean up afterward. You want to, don't you?"

His moan is muffled by your tit, but the vibration makes your pussy clench.

"That's it," you encourage, voice breathy and shaking. "That's a good boy. Let go. Cum for me. Cum all over yourself."

You can feel him shaking, feel his hips jerk and his grip tighten.

He lets go, cums so hard he can't see straight, whines like a dog when his hips stop moving.

"There you go," you whisper, still rolling against him, chasing your own orgasm. "You're so good, Gator. So good."

He moans, face buried in your tits, still shaking. Your voice is shaky, but he can tell you're trying to stay calm, stay in control. It only makes him hotter.

He's dizzy. Breathless. He feels like he's been wrung out and tossed in a heap.

You kiss his forehead before you untangle yourself from him, and the gentleness of the gesture makes his chest hurt.

You pull your bra up, putting your cami and sweater on with the same care you took taking them off. You don't speak until you're fully dressed, hair neat, and glasses straight.

"Well," you say, voice light, casual. "I'd say that was a successful inspection. Thank you, Deputy. I'll leave you to clean up after yourself. Don't forget to lock the door on the way out."

Then you walk out.

And just like that, Gator's alone in a library staff room, sticky and spent and trying to catch his breath.

His first thought is, holy shit, that just happened.

His second thought is, what the fuck does he do next?

He shifts, hissing a little at the mess in his boxers, and takes a moment to just breathe, replaying the last few minutes. Your hands, guiding his across your tits, your hips rolling against his cock, the feeling of your hands in his hair.

Fuck.

He needs to move.

Now.

He pushes himself up and grimaces at the state of his pants, sticky and uncomfortable, and he's suddenly struck with the urge to laugh. Here he is, a grown man, getting off in his work pants because some girl told him to.

The girl who is currently out there, behind the main desk, probably acting like nothing happened.

Gator shakes his head, straightens his shirt, and tugs the hem of his jacket down, trying to disguise the wet spot.

It's a lost cause, but maybe no one will notice. He's just gonna have to hope for the best. And also, probably, that none of the town gossips are lurking near the reference section today.

Because if he gets seen like this?

The rumor mill will grind him into paste.

He can hear them now, all of the old biddies at the coffee shop, sitting around the tables and sipping decaf with extra foam, talking about the state of his fly and the state of his dignity.

All he can smell is spilled vodka and cucumber melon body spray.

It assaults his nose as one of the girls is on his lap, straddling him like it’s a job (which, to be fair, it is) but she’s doing that fake moan thing in his ear like she actually gives a shit. Gator exhales through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, past the glitter and the strobe lights. His buddies are hooting and hollering in the next booth over, trying to shove bills between a brunette’s ass cheeks. Sheriff’s department morale night.

Fuckin’ great.

She’s pretty, he guesses. Long lashes. Little shorts. Tits pressed up under his chin like a goddamn buffet. She keeps asking what he wants her to do and it’s supposed to be hot, supposed to make him feel powerful, wanted.

She’s pliant. Willing. Waiting for direction.

And he’s bored out of his goddamn mind.

His cock hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t even twitched. It’s like his whole body knows something his brain doesn’t want to admit.

He shifts under her, lets her grind against him a little more. Tries to focus. Tries to pretend it’s working. She leans in and whispers something about the champagne room and he almost laughs.

He could fuck her. Right now. Right outside in his truck if he wanted.

Bet she’d let him pull her panties to the side and bend her over the hood. Probably wouldn’t even blink. Would make some fake little gasping sounds and call him daddy and let him talk dirty right into her throat.

He should want that.

Jesus, he used to want that.

He pulls on his vape instead, a bitter strawberry cloud filling his throat. She’s still moving on him and he just stares past her at the neon Bud Light sign behind the bar, wondering why the hell his skin feels too tight.

You flash through his head before he can stop it.

Your voice. Your hands. That soft cardigan with the sunflowers. The way you looked at him like you were peeling him apart one piece at a time. The way you told him to lie down like he wasn’t even in the goddamn room unless you said so.

He exhales slow, lets the vape hang between his fingers.

"You're not hard," she pouts, tilting her head like maybe that’ll change something.

"No shit," he mutters.

She blinks. Smiles again. Still trying. “We could—”

He doesn’t let her finish.

Gator plants both hands on her hips and lifts her off like she weighs nothing, setting her to the side like she’s a gym bag. Her eyebrows shoot up but he doesn’t even look at her. Just stands, adjusts his belt, and heads for the door.

One of the guys yells his name, but he waves them off. Another hits the table, laughs loud. “Tillman’s too fucked up to function!”

He doesn’t correct them.

Out in the parking lot, the wind hits him like a bucket of water. Cold. Sober-ish.

He lights a cigarette, something he hasn’t done in a while since he got this stupid strawberry thing, and smokes it down like it was nothing. Then climbs into his truck with a slam of the door. The upholstery still smells like grease and fast food. He doesn’t even turn the heat on.

His leg’s bouncing before he’s halfway out of the lot.

God, what the fuck is wrong with him?

You. That’s what.

You, standing in your kitchen acting like tea is some kind of sex drug. You, pulling your glasses down just a little to look at him. You, locking that goddamn workroom door like it was nothing.

He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter than he needs to and now he’s hard. Not when some perfect piece of ass was grinding all over him, but when he thinks about some fucking sunflower buttons on a sweater.

Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the strip club. Maybe it’s the fact that the last time he came from a woman was with your voice in his ear and his pants still on.

He sucks on the vape again. Harder.

You’re in his head like a fucking landmine.

By the time he pulls up outside your house, his palms are sweating. Lights are off except for the warm little glow from the porch. Same paper leaf garland. Same ceramic pumpkins from Target or wherever the hell people like you shop. You’re probably asleep. Probably curled up under a quilt with some weird fantasy book and a mug of herbal shit that smells like orange peel.

Gator kills the engine. Sits in the dark. Lets the silence press in tight.

His dick’s still hard and aching just from thinking about you in pajamas.

He hits the vape again.

Then again.

Then, finally, he gets out of the truck.

You can’t sleep.

It’s almost one in the morning and the chamomile isn’t doing shit, but you make the tea anyway.

Old habits.

The house is still except for the kettle and the wind tapping against the windows. You’re in an oversized t-shirt and socks, hair tied up and glasses slipping down your nose. You figure maybe a book will help, or a walk around the living room. Maybe if you just sit with it, your mind will settle.

Then comes the knock.

Three sharp raps, straight to the center of the door. Not loud. Just confident.

You don’t jump. You just sigh.

You already know who it is.

You open the door with the mug still in your hand, steam curling into the night air.

And there he is.

Not in uniform. Not in anything even close to it.

Same camo cargos he probably rarely washes, black leather jacket, and a backwards mesh hat that makes him look about five years younger and ten times more pathetic. The porch light casts a yellow haze over his face. His eyes are bloodshot. His cheeks pink from the cold. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to fidget, like if he shifts too much you’ll see the hard-on pressing against his fly.

You raise an eyebrow. Keep your voice even.

“Deputy Tillman. What brings you by at this hour?”

He exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t even try to be smooth or come up with an excuse

“I’m pissed,” he blurts.

You blink. “Okay…”

“I’m fuckin’ pissed at you,” he repeats, louder now, shifting from one foot to the other like he’s trying to work something out of his system. “Can’t even jerk off without thinkin’ about your voice. Got this chick grindin’ on me for half an hour at the strip club and nothin’. Not even a twitch. She’s hot, too. Like, normal hot. Tits out, moaning in my fuckin’ ear, beggin’ me to take her in the private rooms or whatever. And I got nothin’. Zilch. Fuckin’ dead inside my own pants.”

You stare at him over the rim of your mug.

He keeps going.

“You wanna know the worst part? You didn’t even do anything last time. Just told me what to do. Like I was one of those little kids in your storytime circle. And I came so hard in my pants I thought I was gonna pass out.”

He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising with every word. You don’t say anything. You just wait.

“And now I’m fucked,” he says. “Now I’m hard all the time. Or not hard at all. I don’t even know anymore. I just know you ruined it. You got in my head with your little teacher voice and your fuckin’ soft hands and now I can’t think straight.”

You tilt your head slightly. “I think you might be having a crisis.”

He looks miserable. And furious. And still hard.

“I am havin’ a crisis,” he snaps. “And I need you to do somethin’ about it.”

You sip your tea. Hold his gaze.

Then, without a word, you open the door a little wider.

He doesn’t ask questions. Just steps past you like he belongs here, like this is where he was always meant to end up.

You shut the door behind him and start walking toward the hall. He follows without hesitation, boots heavy on the hardwood.

No words. No teasing.

You don’t need to say anything.

You just lead him to the bedroom.

Inside your bedroom, you set your mug down on the nightstand like this isn’t the end of the fucking world. Like you’re not about to peel him apart in the dark with a whisper and a fingertip.

The room smells like you- a hint of whatever perfume clings to your sweaters.

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like you’re trying to figure something out.

He’s standing there like a goddamn idiot. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders squared too tight. Whole body is twitchy like he’s waiting for a command, like he doesn’t know what to do unless someone tells him. His dick is still hard and his throat is dry and there’s something itchy trying to crawl out of his chest.

You come to him slow.

Touch his face like he’s made of glass.

And ask, real soft, real serious, “Why do you hate this so much?”

He swallows. Tries to laugh. It doesn’t land.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, eyes flicking away from you. “That’s the problem.”

You keep looking at him.

He shifts.

“It’s just—” he starts, then stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Men are supposed to be strong. That’s what my dad always said. Like, if you give someone the reins, you’re fucked. That’s weakness. That’s—”

He doesn’t finish.

Because your mouth is at his jaw.

Just a ghost of a kiss. Barely there.

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He should stop this. He should say something mean or horny or stupid just to make the feeling go away, but all he can do is stand there while you unzip his jacket. Carefully. Like it’s not even a piece of clothing, just another layer to peel back.

You drape it over the chair. Take his dumb hat off next and toss it somewhere out of sight. Your fingers graze his scalp.

He wants to say something but his voice won’t work right. There’s a burn building behind his eyes and he swallows it down like hot bile.

“Take your boots off,” you murmur.

So he does. Awkwardly. One at a time. Leaves them by the bed like a kid coming in from the cold.

You don’t ask him to sit. He just does it. Drops onto the edge of the mattress like his knees gave out.

And then you climb into his lap.

It’s slow. Sure. Like it’s just a thing you were always gonna do.

You kiss him again, this time at the curve of his neck. Up along his jaw. His hands hover at your thighs but he doesn’t grab, doesn’t grope, just holds still like he’s afraid he’ll mess it up.

And then he notices.

You haven’t kissed him.

Not on the mouth.

Not once.

And he’s not even the kind of guy who gives a shit about kissing. That’s for girls in rom-coms and teenagers with prom corsages and people who read those shitty sex advice columns in Cosmo. He’s not that guy.

But suddenly he wants it.

God, he wants it.

He shifts up toward you, just a little, like maybe you’ll meet him halfway.

You don’t.

You pull back, just enough to keep the distance.

“Kissing’s too intimate for what this is,” you say, matter-of-fact.

It hits him like a brick.

His mouth opens, shuts. He lets out a noise, part groan, part whine, something that feels embarrassing the second it leaves his chest.

“I don’t care,” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard because he means it.

He doesn’t care if it’s too intimate or too soft or too fucking vulnerable. He wants to kiss you. He wants to be kissed. He wants to come home to you and have you make him tea and rub the knots out of his shoulders and tell him he’s good. He wants to sit on this stupid bed and let you undo him like a fucking bedtime routine.

You study him for a long moment, and something in your face makes him start talking again. Words tumble out, low and rough, like he’s afraid they’ll rot if he keeps them inside.

“I don’t wanna be like him,” he says. “My old man. With the young wives and the bruises nobody talked about. He calls it love, but it’s just noise. I can’t—” He stops, jaw tight, searching for the right piece of language that never seems to fit. “I don’t wanna grab at people just ‘cause I can.”

Your hand is still at his cheek, thumb just below his eye. He looks younger than you’ve ever seen him. Almost fragile. The words keep coming, halting but honest.

“I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know how to do the… gentle part. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—” He laughs once, humorless. “I just need to feel like I ain’t wreckin’ everything I touch.”

The air in the room feels different now, quieter. He’s still talking, softer.

“I could try,” he murmurs. “If you’d let me. I could learn. I swear I could.”

He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, mouth parted like he’s still trying to apologize for existing. It isn’t lust anymore. It’s just raw need to be seen as something more than the badge he didn’t earn, more than his last name. More than a fuck up or a loser.

You hesitate. Long enough for his breathing to start to shake. Then you lean forward, so close that your forehead touches his. He stops talking. The silence stretches until it almost breaks.

And then, finally, you kiss him.

It's soft, and his lips are so eager for it that you want to laugh. He doesn't try to take over, he just melts under the weight of it, like he's been waiting for permission. You let your hands cup his face, and you can feel him shaking, almost imperceptibly.

"Good boy," you whisper. "You're being such a good boy for me. You're so good."

He's so responsive to praise, it makes your head swim.

You can feel his breath catch, his lips part. You keep kissing him, deep and slow.

His arms wrap around your waist, but he's not trying to move you, not trying to take. Just holding, like he's trying to convince himself he's allowed.

It's intoxicating.

The way he just leans into it, letting you lead, the way his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. You speak to him in between kisses.

"You just want to be good don't you? That's all you want. To please me, make me happy, make me proud. Don't you?"

His hands grip you tighter, a little desperate. He's nodding before you even finish, breath catching as you kiss the corner of his mouth. "Please."

It's barely audible.

"Please, yes, I wanna..."

"Shhh."

Your hands slip from his face, moving down his shoulders, tracing the planes of his chest, your fingers splayed. You press closer, feeling his erection through his pants.

He whimpers, and it's still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. You palm him through the fabric, as his eyes flutter shut. You don't know how long he's been hard for, but you know he's sensitive.

"You know..." You start, truths spilling out of you. "I'm very aware of your reputation."

He chokes out a breath, but doesn't respond, and you continue.

"Everyone in this town knows how you are. But none of them matter." You move your hand lower, tracing the outline of his cock. "I don't care how many people you've fucked or how hard you've fucked them."

You press the heel of your palm against him and he groans.

"I bet it feels so empty..." You continue. "Doesn't it? Those girls don't matter. They're nothing but a body and a warm hole to fill. They'll spread their legs for anyone with a badge and a nice truck. That's not what you want. That's not what you need."

He moans, grinding into your hand, trying to seek out friction.

"I... please... I need-"

You lean forward, pressing another kiss to his lips, and when you pull back, your eyes are locked on his.

"It's okay to want to be taken care of, Gator. Let me take care of you."

He nods, breathing harder, and you pull back, moving to unbuckle his belt.

He watches, eyes wide, as you unzip his fly, and tug his pants down. He lifts his hips, eager to comply, and the fabric slips over his ass, his thighs. You slide his boxers off next, and his cock springs free.

"Such a pretty cock. So hard for me." You wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly, watching his face. He moans, low, hips arching toward your hand. "Take your shirt off."

He doesn't hesitate. The tee joins the pile on the floor. His arms are toned, corded with muscle, and you take a moment to run your fingers over his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the freckles on his shoulders.

He's beautiful.

You stroke him a little faster, and he lets out a noise that's half moan, half whimper. He's fully naked under you and you haven't even taken off a piece of clothing.

You move up his body, straddling him, and grind against his bare cock. You're wearing cotton panties, the soft fabric rubbing against him.

"Look at me."

His eyes lock on yours.

"Are you gonna cum? From a little friction? A few strokes?"

He swallows hard. "Yes."

"Well...we can't have that." You say, easing off of him, standing in front of him as he sits there, naked and pathetic in the most gorgeous way. His big eyes stare up at you, full of need. "You showed up really late, Gator. And I can tell you've had a few drinks. And your breath tastes like cigarettes..."

He winces a little.

"So, you're gonna have to make it up to me."

You lift off your large shirt and drop it on the floor, standing there in your panties and nothing else, before letting you hair down and setting your glasses on the nightstand. You take his hand and gently pull him to stand up, putting his calloused hands on your breasts as you speak.

"Everyone knows Gator Tillman fucks fast and hard," you begin. "But they also know he isn't a giver."

You reach down and cup his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"You're going to learn how to fuck someone properly. And you're not gonna cum until I tell you."

He nods as you turn the both of you around, taking a seat on the bed, legs spread.

"On your knees."

He wants to protest, wants to say he's not gonna lick you out like some dog or something equally as crude, but the words die before they leave his tongue. It was true, he never even thought to do it, he was too busy thinking about how to get his cock wet. 

You sit, legs spread, the fabric of your panties damp. He licks his lips, looking at the wet patch, and then up at you. You smile.

"Knees."

His throat goes dry, and his body moves without his mind telling it to, sinking onto the hardwood. You guide him between your legs, his hands on your thighs.

"Take my panties off."

He doesn't speak as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband and tugs them down, slow, like he's unwrapping a gift. You raise your hips, helping him slide them off. Then you lean back on your elbows, hair falling around your shoulders.

"Gonna be bad at this," he mutters, staring at your bare pussy.

"It's okay. You'll figure it out."

He takes a breath and moves forward, his hands sliding up your thighs. His thumb finds the apex of your folds and he swipes up, slow. His voice is rough when he speaks. "You're already wet."

"Mhm. How does that make you feel?" God, your voice is so gentle, that slight condescending tone.

"I... I dunno." He lies.

"Yes you do. Tell me."

"Like you want me," he mutters. "Want me bad."

"Do I?"

"Mhm. Can't wait for me to eat your pussy."

"You sound pretty sure about that. Have you ever eaten a girl out, deputy?"

His mouth opens, but he can't think of an answer. Not a truthful one, anyway.

"That's what I thought."

Your hand is gentle on the back of his head, and you guide him forward, toward your pussy. He can feel you, wet and hot and waiting. His pulse is pounding in his ears.

He's never done this. Not really. Not even with his high school girlfriend who liked to boss him around. She didn't want his mouth anywhere near her pussy. He remembers that much.

You're not asking.

Your thighs are warm beneath his hands. He can smell the soft lotion you wear. Your fingers tighten in his hair.

"Prove that pretty mouth can do so much more than talk shit."

And his mouth is on you.

It's warm and wet and his nose is pressed against your skin, and it's not what he expected, not at all.

You're guiding his head, just a little, just enough that his stubble is scratching the inside of your thighs and the tip of his nose brushes your clit and his mouth is making these soft little noises like he's drinking straight from the tap.

He's never felt a pussy this close before. It's different. Slicker. Hotter. You're already wet, and the smell is intoxicating, sweet and musky and raw. He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to look at you while his tongue darts out, but he can't keep it up for more than a few seconds before he has to close his eyes and inhale the scent of you.

"There you go," you breathe, the pressure at the back of his head relaxing, letting him explore. "Such a good boy. Don't overthink it. Just use that smart mouth."

He moans, and his cock twitches, heavy and aching between his legs.

He keeps licking, his tongue flat against the apex of your folds, the taste coating his tongue and filling his head. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, doesn't know if he should try to spread you or grip your thighs, doesn't even know if he should be looking up or focusing on what he's doing, but you haven't told him to stop yet.

"You're holding back." You groan. "Don't think that's fair to me, after how good I've treated you. Don't be shy, Gator. Put your whole mouth on me. Suck and lick. I know you've wanted to taste me."

He doesn't respond. He just follows the direction, his lips wrapped around your clit. He sucks, and your breath hitches, the first sign of anything other than control. It's intoxicating, and his own dick is painfully hard, bobbing in the air, neglected.

He pulls off your clit and drags his tongue lower, feeling the wetness coat his chin. He dips his tongue into your entrance, and you moan.

"That's it," you whisper. "Just like that. So good, Gator. You're being so good for me."

Your hands are gentle, guiding his head back up to your clit, and he groans as you roll your hips, grinding against his mouth.

His hands move, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, and he can feel your body start to shake.

He sucks, hard, and his own cock aches at the way you whine. Your thighs squeeze around his head and he keeps licking, the slick wet heat making him dizzy.

You're close, he can tell. You're trembling, rolling against his mouth, and the soft noises coming from you are the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard.

He closes his eyes and sucks, trying to keep his rhythm, and then you're there.

You're gasping, body going tight, and your hand is pulling his hair so hard it hurts. But he doesn't care, he keeps sucking, licking, groaning against you, because you're grinding on his mouth and your cunt is wet and hot and perfect and you taste so fucking good he could do this forever.

You ride his face, and he's lost in the sound of you.

Your nails rake across his scalp and it makes him moan again, the sound muffled, but it's the only noise in the room, aside from the slick sounds of him eating you out.

When you're spent, you relax, legs slipping down onto the bed, and Gator pulls back, breathing hard, eyes dark, chin glistening. Once your breathing steadies, you brace yourself on your elbows, looking down at the man between your legs.

He looks a mess, panting and hard and desperate. His hair is disheveled and his cheeks are flushed and his cock is leaking.

"Look at you," you coo, reaching down to run a finger along his bottom lip, collecting some of your wetness.

He shudders, eyes falling shut, and he leans in toward the touch.

"You're so pretty on your knees," you say. "I think you might be prettiest this way."

He groans, his own cock twitching between his legs, and you let your eyes trace down the lines of his chest, down to the swollen red tip, shining with pre-cum.

"You want to cum don't you? I bet you've been hard since before I took your pants off."

He doesn't answer, just nods, and you tilt his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Get on the bed baby. Lay down."

His hands grip your hips as he rises to his feet, and you can see his muscles working under his skin. He's a beautiful man, all lean muscle and strength. He's bigger than you, taller, but you don't feel intimidated. He could pick you up and toss you around, but you know he won't.

Not unless you asked.

He turns and sits, and then lays on his back. He looks so big on the mattress, all those broad shoulders and corded muscle, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the thick length of his cock jutting up, curved slightly. You can't help but admire the view.

"I could cum just from lookin' at you," he mutters.

You don't respond. Instead, you climb onto the bed and straddle his hips. You can feel him, hot and hard, and his hips buck, just a little.

"Please." He says, the word barely audible.

"Patience."

You grind against him, his cock slick from his own precum, and his jaw clenches.

"You want me to ride you?"

"Fuck."

You raise an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."

"Yes. God, yes."

You rise up, just a little, and then sink down on him. The slide is slow. You're still wet from his mouth, and your breath catches when his cock pushes into you.

He groans, and his hands clench the sheets before you move them to your hips.

You take him slowly, sinking down until your ass is pressed against his thighs. You can feel him twitching inside of you, his whole body shaking.

"Look at me." You command.

His eyes lock on yours.

"I can't-"

"You're not allowed to cum. Do you understand?"

He nods, his grip on your hips tightening. You start to move, rising up and sliding back down, and his jaw is clenched.

"You look so good beneath me," you murmur.

His throat works as he swallows, and his eyes are fixed on yours.

You reach out, running a finger along his lip. He sucks in a breath and opens his mouth, letting you slip two fingers inside.

He doesn't hesitate, taking the digits in, closing his lips around the intrusion.

"I'm on the pill." You say softly, working your fingers in and out, watching his lips. "But you should ask before you cum inside me. Is that clear?"

He can't answer, not with your fingers in his mouth, and his hips buck involuntarily, making him groan.

"Is that clear?"

He nods, eyes wide, and you pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva.

"Good boy."

You keep moving, rolling your hips, the slide easy, the stretch delicious. You work him harder, riding his cock, and the sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy.

He's shaking, gripping your hips, eyes still locked on yours. He's not moving, not thrusting, just following your lead. His lips part and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, his cock throbbing inside of you.

You're so wet, the slide so smooth, the angle hitting your clit just right. You're already close, and the way he's watching you, like he's trying not to get burned, makes the pressure build.

You keep working yourself, rolling and rising and falling, and his whole body is tense, muscles straining, the tendons in his neck standing out. You're so close and you want him to cum with you, to fill you up.

"Cum," you murmur. "Cum now. Right now. Don't think about it. Just cum."

His eyes flutter closed, his hips arch up, and then he's spilling into you, his hands gripping you so tight it almost hurts.

"Yes," you breathe through your own release. "Just like that. That's it. So good."

He moans, low, his whole body shaking. He doesn't even have to think about it. Your voice is a command.

And his body responds deliciously.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, as the last of his release leaves him. "Jesus. Jesus."

You ease off him slowly, the mess of his cum spilling down your thigh. You lay on your side, placing gentle kisses down the column of this throat as his head is still thrown back, panting, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I..."

"Shhhh. Relax. Take a deep breath."

"Fuck."

"Shhhh."

He lets out a low groan and takes a deep breath, chest rising, then falling, then rising again, until his pulse steadies and his body relaxes, sinking into the bed. You lean on your elbow and run a finger across his jaw, the slight stubble scraping at your skin. His eyes open, half lidded, and his gaze fixes on yours.

"Fuck," he mutters again.

"Did you enjoy that?"

He huffs, almost a laugh, and the corner of his mouth curls up. "Mhm."

"How much?"

His eyebrows lift, but his gaze stays on the ceiling. "More than I thought possible."

"You can look at me, you know."

"Don't know if I can. Kinda afraid I'm dreamin'."

"Well, if you are, then you might as well enjoy it."

He sighs, and turns his head toward you, meeting your eyes. He doesn't speak, and neither do you, just studying his face.

His expression is almost blank, eyes dark, mouth still parted, cheeks still flushed.

"What happens now?"

The words come out quieter than he means them to, and you blink.

"That's up to you."

His face shifts, brows pulling together, lips twisting in something close to a pout. It's almost comical, given who he is.

"Don't play dumb," he says. "You know what I mean."

Your hand traces up the curve of his bicep, across his collarbone, then along his cheek, fingers grazing his stubble. He sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. You study his profile, the line of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the soft, dark hair falling loose around his ears.

"Look, I'm not askin' to date you," he mutters, like that makes it less serious. "I just—"

"You need someone," you murmur.

His throat tightens, his cheeks warm. He's not used to feeling this raw. This open. It's terrifying.

"Yeah," he admits, and the word cracks a little. "I need someone."

Your hand is soft on his chest, right above his heart.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the ceiling. The sheets are tangled, the air thick, and you’re right there, breathing slowly beside him. Your hand found his chest like you were checking to see if his heart still worked.

It does. Too much, maybe.

He turns his head a little, just enough to look at you. You’re watching him like you’re waiting to see if he’ll bolt or break.

He feels like doing both.

He wants to say something, but the words line up wrong in his throat. He thinks about what he said earlier, about not wanting to be like his dad. About needing someone. It sounds stupid now. Childish. Like something you’d hear on a late‑night call‑in radio show between country songs.

You just keep your hand where it is, fingers resting right above the spot where his pulse won’t settle.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he says quietly. “But when I’m with you, it feels like maybe I could get it right. For once.”

Your thumb brushes his skin, barely there. He exhales, slow and shaky, like the air’s been trapped in him for years.

He thinks about the noise of the strip club, the lights, the girl with too much perfume, the emptiness that followed. Then he looks at you, in this soft, dark room, and something inside him goes still.

Maybe it’s not about being in charge. Maybe it never was.

He shifts closer. Not for sex. Not for anything he can name. Just to feel the warmth of your body and the weight of his own breath starting to even out.

“Don’t know what happens now,” he murmurs, voice thick.

“Then don’t think about it,” you answer. “Just rest.”

He wants to say thank you. He wants to say don’t stop touching him. He wants to ask if this counts as love, if it could be, if maybe he didn’t fuck it all up already just by showing up at your door like some broken animal in heat.

Instead, he says the only thing he can get out.

“I don’t wanna go back to bein’ the guy I was before this.”

Serves him right, you had thought. Though part of you ached, not quite yet freed by the torture you were condemned to.

All he had done day after day was shove you around and order you to his dirty work. And such lonesome never came as any surprise, not when you were left with a lease on a house you could no longer tend to, and police officers urging you to find lodging. And so you did.

Comfort came in the company of an elder woman in the middle of town. The suburb was gentle, much like you had been used to as a child you’d imagined, semi-detached houses lined the street, with fences of steel and wire, hardly white picket, but families flooded every one. All of them loud, aware, loving. She had not such luck, her husband also dead, abandoned by her sons, and a ripped flyer flapping on the outside of the gate asking for help.

Simple laundry and grocery shopping help.

Company.

That’s what it really was. And you had taken it as soon as you saw it, snatching it from the wire with a trash bag full of clothes and necessities shoved in your hands, red and stiff from the biting cold.

The lady was kind, mostly quiet, but offering with a good pot of stew always left boiling on the stove, and in return of your chores, your stay was welcome in the stuffy, moth-ball smelling room just down the hall from hers.

And you were alone, together, until you weren’t.

Not until he, showed up. The boogeyman, the creature of a man who had walked in with the door unlocked, snow tracking his worn boots across the wooden floor. He didn’t claim the house, nor give either of you reason for his stay, nor did he ask to. Only few words, soft and chilling with no menace.

I live here now.

The look you and old woman shared was one startled and unsure, but you found it best not to argue, his large frame towering in the doorway between wooden beams. His clothes were something ragged and old, a dark brown and pale green kilt dragging at his knees, and a haircut you’d have imagined seen nowhere from before the early eighties.

Though after a while, you were glad you didn’t argue. He proved useful, and oddly, kind. He didn’t talk much, though when he did it was strange, broken syllables coming out drawn and long, half uttered sentences far too straightforward than you had been used to.

He settled himself into the room farthest from you and the woman, a dusty, dark room near empty with just a bed and a rocking chair. The bed, from what you could see peeked through the crack of the door, stayed made, unused. Like the man didn’t sleep. The cracking of the chair rocked like a tap dripping, shuddering the house all the way from the upstairs.

The Widow.

That’s what he called you, and that’s what you were. Simple and plain just as he was. Though it wasn’t spoken as you were titled with it, burdened as a reminder, it wasn’t something that belonged. A Spider. Something natural and intelligent and cunning. And spoken in his matter of fact terms, the low gravel of his voice and the ancient tongue of his accent, it had almost made you proud.

Proud of what you were, who you were.

Ole Munch, he told you his name was. Rather fitting, for how odd the man was. ‘Oola Moonk’ it came to be pronounced, but you preferred ‘Oola’ and he had not reminded you, or maybe not cared to correct you. He answered to it every time, the steady turn of his head with the same pull of his eyes landing on you.

His hands reached for what you couldn’t, a simple plate form the highest shelf, or the heaviness of a door getting in your way, packed from the snow. He was there, always. So much so you wondered how much he watched. And yet you were entirely unaware.

Ole studied you, from the very moment he passed in the doorway, announcing his arrival before turning right to the stairs, to every morning and night you had greeted him. Awkward and on guard still, but something poked deep within your chest. Something clinging about his presence.

And from what you could tell, he did not mind your own. When he was around of course, often slinking away into the darkness when the old woman had settled for bed and you had laid underneath your covers, listening.

Sometimes he told you he was leaving, no reason, or destination in it, other times he didn’t. But he waited, waited for the very moment all of the lights would turn off and the doors would close. A humble kindness.

He noticed the very things others did not.

“From what?” He moved behind you, chest looming few inches from your back, your breath catching a you had folded the last of laundry from the dryer. You took in the space he had not, a finger only pointed to your arm. A large scar there. Long and curved, raised by the slightest rosy and etched.

“My hus— my ex husband.” Your head turned, breathing sharply as you corrected yourself, your voice wasn’t small, only recalled as your finger traced it, his head leaning over your shoulder to get a better look. He did not ask further questions, the way your face scrunched told him all.

“A widow weaves her web, but she is more than it. It does not finish. She rebuilds.” His voice pressed over your shoulder, your eyes meeting for a fleet of second, his chin tilted high, unmoving as you ducked back. And then he was gone.

He had a habit of such things. And you had come to decode every one of his sayings, not as difficult as it first proved to be.

And just as he had noticed, he seemed similarly protective, over the house, over the old woman. Over you. Guarding, he had called it, ‘Like a dog in the yard.’ But the way he moved, slow and steady, it felt almost shielding. Neither of you had gone out much together, and you preferred to stay indoors any way, but the one time you had, was met with a young scraggly man who claimed to be the owner of the house you were staying in.

The shovel scraped hard across the pavement, leaving a trailed line from the road to the door, a makeshift path surrounded by blankets of freezing white. It had been one hell of a chore for the day, one you’d taken upon yourself in order to even get out of the house for the lady to get some groceries. A path she had walked nearly every day. And just as you turned, the buttons of your woollen coat done up tight—

“What the fuck are you doing?” A measly voice called out, your back straightened as you cocked your head, balancing against the shovel.

“I uh.. shovelling snow?” You looked around, huffing a small, obvious laugh, eyes landing back onto him. He was scrawny, long blond greasy hair tangling at his shoulders, a cigarette hung between his lips.

“Yeah, no fuckin’ shit. Who are you?” He stepped toward, striding toward you.

You opened your mouth to speak, grimacing at his rudeness, but he stopped you short.

“You know what, it doesn’t matter.. where is she?”

“Indoors.”

Your fingers planted tighter around the shovel’s handle, bones cracking lightly from the cold, a presence standing just short of your side. A familiar step crunched forward, slower, more calculated than the asshole stood in front of you.

“This is what the old crone has going on now, a freakshow and a maid?” His eyes raked over you, and the tall man beside you, his tone spitting and careless. Your fist clenched tighter at that, the insult, about the same woman who had taken you in.. and you had only guessed from then on.

Her son.

“You have no right to talk about her like that.” You spat back, feet planting harsh into the damp concrete.

“Or what?” The curve of his lips slanted smugly, taking a long drag of his cigarette, and at that you started forward. Rather, you tried, a hand clamped around your forearm, tightened and careful.

“Shut up.” You looked back at him, though his words weren’t for you. He did not look at you, eyes casted solely onto the man in front of you, stumbling back onto slightly.

“I didn’t ask you, shitbird.” He quipped.

“Shut the fuck up already.” Ole grimaced, the deep lines of his faced carved tight and red in the cold, barely bothered by the man’s empty threats.

“Oh fuck this.. ma, what is going on?” The man pushed past you both, the grip loosened on your arm, gaze piercing back into yours after it had followed him inside.

“Time should not be wasted. They take too much up themselves.” He analysed, hand falling, hovering just so in the air and flexing as you took yours to your side. There was a pause between you then, and you gave him a small nod, understanding even with the eyes rolling back into your head.

He wasn’t wrong. Even if you both knew one thing, he deserved that swing you were about to give him.

“A boarder, you holdin’ out on me ma.. how much is he paying ya?” That’s the last you heard, trudging your way back inside into the warmth after a few moments. The woman had looked past the younger man, indeed her son, to you as she smiled softly shaking her head. A look of knowing, as you gave her an apologetic one back, and you don’t want to overstep more than you were about to. You reached the stairs, climbing them just as Ole moved in after you, the door closing heavily behind him, a short glance to the back of your head before turning into the hallway toward them both.

Your back fell into the covers of the bed, swarming you in a warmth, your hands splayed over your stomach, slowly picking at the skin, tangled in attempts to keep the heat in. You listened in, their conversation muffled between floorboard and pipe, and the incessant nagging in the back of your mind.

It may have been curiosity, morbid and intrusive, or the fact that in such closeness you had grown comforted by the company around you. The older woman yes, sweet and kind as she was, she was strong, and had taught you more in the past few weeks than most had in your lifetime. But the other one, that’s what was more, it was him.

He was odd yes, peculiar in all the ways you thought seemed ancient. But part of you burned at the thought. His voice, his gaze, the coded manner of speaking that was something thoughtful. That feeling in your chest had settled elsewhere, deep in your belly, a flush that you couldn’t quite name, but it burned. And from that, you longed for it, his touch.

The man took off not long after, a scuffle of boots and an air of silence leaving him. The door only closed once, though it opened again. And you didn’t hear from her son after that.

All of you took yourself to bed early, rather the two of you that slept did. She had said goodnight to you in the hall, catching you just as you made your way to the bathroom, the soft cling of your sleep shorts a welcome comfort in contrast to the scratch of heavy itchy cotton.

—

You weren't sure how it happened. But there was an ache in you that you couldn't quite break from. Like a coil that tightened itself around you, working it's way up every inch of your body, your nerves pressed tigher with every movement and thought you attempted to push back.

Until you refused to, refused to deny yourself any longer. 

Your fingers trailed down your body, taking your own time, feeling down the curve of your breasts, running along your stomach down beneath your sleep shorts. The covers twisted under you, shrugging with every rise and fall of your chest and arch into your hand as you began to fuck yourself, running your fingertips through your folds, damp and needy. You needed this. You bit back a moan as you circled your clit, tugging the coil tighter inside of you, rubbing slow at first and then harsh, testing a finger into your entrance and curling. 

He was there. In your mind, igniting your body more than your touch had. And you had imagined it was his, bigger than yours, swarming your body as he ran his hands down it, gripping and grasping at your frame as he did your arm in the yard. You pushed two fingers in, thrusting them lightly as your other fingers worked at your sensitive bud, mouth falling slack as your head rocked back agaisnt the covers, knees bent up as you angled deeper. His breath breathing along your skin, tongue working along your skin, fingers pressed tight into your cunt. The thought made you salivate, wettening the back of your dry throat as you came with a strangled moan. 

It was him that did undid you, even if he had not touched you. Yet.

—

It became routine after that, a nagging that never ceased. His presence was enough, stalking around every corner, watching through the windows, a hand when necessary, but never beyond it. And somehow that worked you up more, agitating you in every way that felt wrong, and right. And so you kept it quiet, attending to your tasks as well as you could, day in and day out.

Laundry, kitchen, cleaning, shovelling, repeat. 

And when the house fell quiet, and night appaorched, surrounding you all in darkness. You too did the same. Your hands dipped between your legs, drawing whine and moan unkempt from your lips without resolve, your arousal coated your fingers, dripping juices from your weeping hole, and down onto the mattress.

You were lost in it, in every thought, every image that you dared not to speak aloud. It wasn’t shame, perhaps guilt, greed, of what you could not take and yet wanted to.

Wants that no other person should know about. That no one should know about. And yet they did. Eyes were on you, you felt them form every corner, burning into you from the walls and dark corners of every room. And in your lonely hour, the only seemed to sharpen.

A pair, heavy set, near black, haunted just outside of the door. The crack in it left opened, it had not been a conscious thought, nor as you had pulled yourself to the comfort of covers and warmth. Barely room for a breath between it, darkness meeting darkness, your body only silhouetted by the twinkle of moonlight creeping through the window. Worn boots scuffed across the floor in complacent strides, the sound of crusty creak of the door being pushed open just enough to move through.

Though only your moans filled your ears, muffled whimpers of desire, your own undoing as you pumped your fingers deeper, curling and prodding you flesh, pressure building enough to foracsblt snap, but nothing came of it. You worked at yourself harder, a hand cupping your breast through the thin material, swiping a finger over your swollen clit, but it was of no use.

“Temptation is not weakness, it is restraint.”

Fuck.

Your body jolted, your hands tugged from the waistband over your shorts as you moved to sit up. He stood over the bed, unmoving, the blackness of his pupils studying you all over, and you had never felt so bare. He had seen it all, the man before you, more than he had when his ears pricked up at your moans, standing entirely unaffected, the way his head tilted at you, for longer than you had realised.. longer than you imagined. The writhe of your body, the sheen of flush that marked your body in your desperation.

Your knees knocked together, shuddering at the thought, and you swallowed it down, patting the bed with red hot heat flushing your cheeks. An awkward offer, but the only one you had managed, your throat impossibly dry.

He hesitated for a moment, moving only a single stride before dipping the mattress beside you. There wasn’t any need for explanation, his body rising at least a head over yours as you sat next to one another. You had been this close before, always stepping between each other in hallways, moving about the house in rhythm, but this was different.

You wiped a hand over your face, a low exhale breathing from his nose where he was at your side, hands placed into his lap, over the cotton of his kilt. From that angle you could see how frayed it was, ripped and torn, the scuffed and scarred fingers striking the material gently. A breath sucked from your mouth, closing your eyes before opening them again, to meet his, already looking.

“Did you.. see?” You called out to him, feet dangled from the bed, meeting the floor where his crossed it.

“Yes.”

He left no time to let you down easy, to even dance around the idea, and though the flesh at the back of your neck ran colder, you hadn’t hated the idea. Somehow it eased you more, you weren’t imagining it all, those eyes on you weren’t just in your head. Like you had been told many times before. It was real, he was real, and he did not falter at it. There was no judgement, only honesty, and the flicker in his eyes through the dim light casted into the back of your heads, it told you were both one and the same.

The moonlight shadowed his face, leaving most to your imagination and how you remembered it, the scent of woodsmoke and ash filling your nostrils from the closeness. He almost looked pretty, all long limbs partially comfortable.

“The air has changed, thick now.”

You nodded, and he hummed. Hardly loud enough to even make a sound, the bed dipping once more form the release of his weight. But he didn’t leave, not yet, instead he moved to the floor. A heavy thud of his knees shoved to the wood, hands reaching the sides of the bed, where his fingers move to your shorts. You jutted your hand out, grabbing his wrist as he guided it to between your legs. He held your gaze for a moment, slowing as you did, your fingers not quite tight around his skin.

“Sweetness when her hive is stirred, but there is no nectar, only a bite.” His fingers worked methodically, different to your own, longer, slender, the rough pads of his fingers unhooking at the waistband as he had seen you push through it. He took his time, and paused, waiting, listening.

He did not ask, did not need to, but he gave you enough time yourself. To scream, to shove him off, to pull away, but you did not. It beckoned you. Another one of his metaphors muttered, one you had barely registered before the words trailed off, and you had not found it in you to speak some more.

He had made up his mind, as had you.

The material was peeled away, snaking down your legs and dropped to the floor and the tugging in your belly deepened, overcome much like the thoughts you’d had plagued yourself. And that alone that was his signal, the gentle exhale from your breath, wanting an aching.

His tongue darted out in one steady motion, testing through your folds as he parted your legs. Your body arched at the long stripe he licked up your cunt, broad and teasing without meaning to. A feat for a man who had been left without, it was sloppy and inept, with every heat of passion on his breath huffed into you. Like of a man not only starved but denied, once he may have known such a way, you’d imagined, but for now there was only remembering. And he learned quickly, dragging his tongue into you with a clumsy skill, making no other sound other than the wet pattering at your slit.

“Fuck.. there, that’s it.” You whined, breathing shakily, guiding just as he did the same, his hands shoved tight at your thighs, widening them to keep them open. Wet muscle lapped at you, tasing and devouring, tracing every curve and finding every piece that hit nerves sending you bucking into his face.

Your fingers tangled into the hair of the man before you, like one did at an alter, collecting every drop and savouring it onto his tongue from your already dampened cunt. It was messy and torturous, the unkempt work of a feral starvation, his nose pressed harsh to your clit, nudging as he sucked you down onto his mouth, fingers pressing deep into the flesh of your thighs.

He ushered you through your high, the coil, tightened from days of yearning and an edge you couldn’t quite break from, crashing over you in a wave. He licked at you, searching, like finding a missing piece, the first traces of a meal he had been without for centuries. And most likely had been.

But he remembered the feeling, every lap of sweetness, every suckle sending you the release your hand could not give you. His tongue stayed pressed to you, flicking and swirling over your sensitive bud until you shivered, your head thrown to the covers you had fell back onto. The electric shocks graced through your body, your thighs releasing and draping boneless over the bed as he stood.

Two fingers swiped back through you, sticky and cool as the air whispered back over your bare core. He brought them to your lips, arm stretching over your half naked body as he pushed them into your mouth, your tongue flattening onto his digits, tasting yourself.

“She can taste it.”

Sweet and sinful.

He left then, rising to his feet like a prayer just sealed and nothing more. His eyes followed, the exhale of tense muscle at his chest just visible through the low light. And through it, a sly look of appease, at himself or you, you could not tell.

Both.

And then turned on his heel, making no other move toward you, ducking out of the room simply licking the wetness from his lips as he caught his breath. Boots stomped back along the floor and into the hallway, silent and still, your breath catching in your ears as you eased.

He had taken what he wanted, and you had been given the same. Or perhaps it was that he had found you in such a state and offered to help.

Though you didn’t find it in you to care. You were blissed and sated, a blush creeping your cheeks at the knowledge.

—

Something shifted in the house when she was killed. ‘To the wind’ he had told you, carrying her body in from the street just as dusk had settled. You had been upstairs at the time, clearing some of the clutter she had asked you to help her sort. Old pictures in broken frames, trinkets and silver candlestick holders. Nothing special, all dusted and rust covered, but you paused over them, taking your time. She had promised to help you, and you had waited for her, when she would return from her round of groceries.

That’s when you had heard it.

A round of guns, shots ringing down the street in a cascade, firelights cracking into the night. So much, for Halloween. It was said that the veil between life and death was thinnest then, and it must have been true, because whatever gang or bandit had gone after someone, it had taken her in their place.

No others came by, no police or neighbours, just silence, more than before. This time more unsteady. You had not know entirely how to grieve, but you had felt it, an emptiness inside the walls of the house, and in your chest.

And you weren’t the only one.

The tartan crimson coat she had worn, matted fluff at its collar, he had taken it upon himself to wear. He spoke to himself often, louder after that, reminiscing in sonnets and speeches, mentions of sin and revenge, of when he was a boy and the man that was. And it was the only thing other than your footsteps that had echoed the halls of the house.

And though neither of you spoke of it, you grieved together. The rocking from upstairs continued, your duties did as well, and life resumed in the days that followed, the same itch biting at you as it did before.

Desire.

Burning hot and wanting. The itch not yet scratched, not completely, only heightened. His presence followed you, even when he wasn’t there, eyes that peered through the windows late into the night after he had left, the heavy stomping behind you, his frame placed into the small, rickety chair at the table as you prepared what was left of the food on the stove.

He did not eat, and you hardly did yourself. But his gaze sharpened, and your hands trembled.

——

The lamp flickering down the hall broke you from your thoughts, a finger of whiskey from the cupboard left in the crystal glass in your hand. It was late for it to be on. Usually he would be out, or sitting eerily in the dark. You swirled the liquid in the glass before drinking it down, and smacking it to the table, the burn licking at your throat.

You did your best to stay away, not knowing where to turn, what to do, or what to say. And his presence hardly helped giving you the right signal, though one thing was known. A need.

You moved through the corridor, a warmth settling in your chest, and a wanting in your bones. Your fingers traced the bannister, steadying you through every step, the whiskey warming your stomach, and perhaps prickling your courage. Not that you were scared, only curious.

Gentle ticking, clicking to the floor. A tap, tap, tap creaking the wood came from behind the door and you already saw the image, gripping the oak to allow yourself entry. It pushed from your hands as you stepped into the room, a damp smell filling your nostrils.

He was there. A hand swamped over each arm of the rocking chair, staring into the air, only moving by the slightest dip is his knee. He noticed you before he saw you, counting the familiar steps down the hall until you had reached the door. You felt his eyes on you as you entered, glancing around the room taking in more of it as you realised you hadn’t really been in it before.

It was plain, covers till untouched as you had noted beforehand, a smell bedside table and few paintings hung at the walls. His head turned, face like stone, the golden glow illuminating his rugged features.

He looked more handsome in such a way. He was already, striking features of his pointed nose and strong jaw, the light bringing him perfectly into view as you settled before him, watching through the window. The street was quiet, lights at every house turned off and doors closed, blanketing the area into stillness.

“Why did you come here?” You asked him, eyes distant as you kept looking away, though his remained on you.

“A man walks until someone opens a door. He could ask the same.” He replied, a shrug in his voice though his shoulders did not rise. He continued rocking, less focused on the timing, and more on you.

You huffed a laugh, offering a small smile as you faced him, balancing onto your heel, “Not much different. Running from the same things I suppose from fear.”

“You are less afraid, one would notice.” Your eyes met through the thickness in the air, dust particles floating past your face through the shine of the lamp. He wasn’t wrong, and you weren’t afraid of him, far from it, and he knew it. There was a pull between you, one that even as you had gravitated, had been left unspoken.

“Not for a long time..” You countered.

He said nothing, the shuffle of his feet planting slightly wider. An invitation, with no enticement, only that.

And in your courage, the stillness of the night descending around you, the quiet tone of his voice beckoning you and the silent understanding. You stepped forward, feet padding the floorboards with every balance.

The chair still rocked as you stepped between his knees, fingers tightening just so as he took in your scent. Whiskey, want, sin.

The first crack.

His eyes didn’t leave you, not once, he didn’t even move a muscle, only the gentle rocking from his heels pressed to the floor slowing.

“You’ve decided something..”

“Maybe.” It didn’t need to be said what it is, his face stayed forward, raised by an inch of that to fully see you. Taking you in. As his gaze dropped, cataloguing. The flex of your fingers, the knock of your knees as you edged them closer, the pupils blown.

“You are taking something.” He stated plainly, etched with a ragged lilt.

“Yes..” You croaked shamelessly, though you should have felt it with him seated before you, saying next to nothing but observing. The weight of it stinging across your face as something paused between you. The rocking stopped, the rounded wooden legs of the chair creaking to a halt, the quiet thickening.

He drew heavy breath that almost deterred you, recalculating your moves, until he spoke.

“Then take it.”

He spoke with a certainty. It wasn’t a beg, or a pleading for you to take him, take what you wanted, but it was an allowance, with him at your disposal. The roughness of his voice edged then with something more, a wanting.

The breath sucking through his nostrils as you came closer, crawling up into his lap. Each of your knees planted either side of him, bone braced against the hardened wood of the chairs sides, biting the sensation that crept between your legs. His arms stayed where they were, encasing you both even as you rover above him, head tilted up against the head of the chair. There was time for contemplation, a lot of it. But you did not take it.

Your lips reached his, unhurried but eager, at first without connection, the soft plush of your lips meeting his chapped and aching. You pressed one after another, kissing at his mouth until his began to shift beneath yours. They curved into one another, tearing and swiping tenderly as your hand cupped the side of his face. You thumbed it slightly, rubbing circles, tangling up into the unwashed threads of his bangs. He shuddered at that, your tongue poking against his as he let you lick into his mouth, his tongue exploring back.

Just like his scent, he tasted of ash and smoke, like the embers stoked from a fire, a warmth pressing in between your lips and your thighs. Heat pooled into your core, slowly grinding onto him from there he sat, the tightness of the chair leaving you near no room to move, building every bit of friction through material. The belt buckle of his kilt graced the inners of your thighs, thick rough fabric rubbing on the underside of your cunt through material. your nose bumped his, grinding down onto him.

“Need this..” You mumbled against his lips, the other hand gripping at his shoulder, the heaviness of the coat that clung to his body already fallen away, leaving him just in the tightness of his shirt, long sleeves scratching your sides as you wriggled.

“Yes..”

He called back, surprisingly. It wasn’t a moan or even of the sort, only an agreement, and one you both took gladly.

His fingers traced delicately, working their way between you, sliding the silk of your thin nightgown up toward your stomach, revealing the skin of your navel. And how you had thanked yourself in that moment, less nonsense to tug with, and he had seemingly thanked you for it too, running a sharp finger along your slit, slick coating through the fabric of your underwear.

Another finger hooked at the other side, dragging up your hips, pimpling along your flesh as the fabric was shoved to the side, cool air hitting your cunt. A moan bubbled up from your chest, burning your lungs as he reached you, fingers pressing between your folds. They were cold, shocking your body as he ran them between your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading you wide.

He watched as he did in, taking in the glistening of your heat in his hand, lips just parted. In awe it would look like. But he listened, the hitch of your throat as his thumb moved to your clit, fingers pushing into your hole. He began to pump them, pulling them in and out of you as you arched into his hand, fingers gripping tighter at the barely covered flesh of his shoulders. Your mouth opened, a silent gasp escaping your lips as your eyes closed, nodding gently at the pleasure he was giving you.

It felt good, unbearably so. His fingers curled tightly inside of you, dragging up into your cunt with a wasteless desire?? He thrusted them slowly, inching you closer, drawing you to him into the palm of his hand, your head falling forward just as your lips connected back to his.

Crooked teeth gnashed against yours, fingers toying with your clit as he drew you to your high, juices spilling out of you and down onto the bend of his wrist. He swallowed your moans, tongue and teeth catching you coming undone.

You didn’t beg, you wouldn’t, and you didn’t need to. You had done your fair share over time, thoughts of your previous marriage blurring into a nothingness that was replaced by the man beneath you, and his initiative.

Just as sin worked its loving tendrils around the vulnerable and shamed, words were not necessary. Instead, it would come naturally as all things did.

His hand at your side, the one not carefully pulled from you slipped at the blemished silver buckle at his waist, clinking open in one singular swipe. You held onto him as his knees shoved up, firming you to him as he sunk down into the chair. He looked peaceful, the tension in his back softening just by a touch. Only to be broken with the fervour that he fucked you with.

A hand braced at your hip, not tightly, but enough, snaking its way around your waist. He was hard, the length of him pressed at your entrance as you sunk down onto him, the harsh pull of vein sliding into you. His teeth gritted into a hiss as your mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut at the burning stretch you enveloped him with.

He smoothed into the walls of your cunt, filling you to the brim as you pressed yourself all the way down. Your eyes met finally, chin tilted toward the ceiling as he looked at you, darkened blues finding yours, a glint in them, an unfamiliar one. Like something broken, finding home again. You moved first, moaning at the push of him inside of you, hot and heavy punching deep into you.

The pace you set was rhythmic, chasing and fulfilling with every breath that you took him with. His arm curled tighter at your back, hand pressing just over the curve of your ass, a thumb poking into the dimple, anchoring. Though he did not just observe this time, for once, it was like he was alive, and in this time. His other hands placed over the flesh of your stomach, splaying at the skin where he was inside of you.

Studying.

A heavy hand clasped underneath your thigh, just as he pressed down onto the bulge, a sudden impatience racking his body, hips driving up into you from beneath, pressure from every side pushing onto your heat. He wanted this, even if he didn’t say it, his eyes faltered and fluttered, curses in a language you didn’t recognise falling from lips through your moans. You rocked into eachother, the crack of the chair scraping the floor as you connected, cunt sucking him greedily as the flood at your core pulled at you, eating at your very skin.

“I’m gonna..” You whined, eyes meeting his as your forehead rocked, sliding next to his as your breaths mingled, a heavy rumble vibrating his chest and into yours through silk. “Fuck..” A finger, long and protruding circled over your clit, harsh and fast, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air as the dampened room scented with your sex.

You fell limbless into him, fingers curling at the skin of his neck as you rested, his cock twitching inside of you as he spilled free, neither of you bothering to move.

He did not coddle you, or hold you entirely. The arm circled around you retreating to rest back onto the arm of the chair, but he did not move you. His chest rose and fell against yours, your ear pressed into the wall of him, the steady thrumming, proof he was alive beneath you.

“We are even now.” He recognised. The pair of you taken things both, not that you owed it. There was no debt between either of you, only an understanding. You both took what you wanted.

Your senses fixated through the daze, nodding lowly. You breathed deeply once more, a familiar smell reaching you. Gunpowder, acrid like solvent. He had smelt of it before, the first time you had met him, not long after you had turned up on the same doorstep as he did.

It was a known smell, yes, but this was different. Your senses mixing with a realisation it took you back to. The same stench that had filled your home the night it was revealed your husband had died. Though he had been found in a ditch miles away. Someone had brought that smell into the house The same that was on his skin, clinging to it.

And as you had the closest look of him, chin poking into his collarbone as you looked up, he looked back down at you. It was him.

You didn’t startle, or begin to inch away. There was no fear, in fact the opposite. An understanding as always, and a heat punched into your chest. Leaving you to wonder, just how long he had watched you, followed you, chasing you to the same house you had seeked out for help.

And there in the house of a dead woman, not claimed nor owned, it left the pair of you, running from whatever it was you knew before, the washing away of sins leaving something knew.

A widow weaving her web around the very one sworn to protect it. And he would, as a man should.

It’s another of Roy’s events to promote himself to get elected next year, and this one is to celebrate the great harvest from the last season, a harvest that was so gracious that some of the best are displayed around the fair. 

A beautiful street fair was organized in a grand land of the Tillman’s, normally used for festivities just like that one. There are many food booths and amusement rides, with country songs playing from the booths' sound boxes, along with a lot of live music around the fair on small stages, alongside the main one.

There is a festive atmosphere in the air, with children laughing with their parents, kids running towards amusement rides like the carousel, older teens giggling at each other, couples holding hands. 

Even though with the lightness of the moment, while Roy does his political thing around the fair, greeting families and elders and lecturing between concerts at the main stage, trying to buy votes and wooing some voters for his next election campaign, he designated Gator to guard the fair.

Gator has a team of deputies working with him to make the fair safe and enjoyable for everyone. They were divided into smaller groups and spread throughout the event to conduct patrols. They are in their duty clothes, usually beige or military cargo pants, a neutral shirt, a bulletproof vest over it, and some even carry a gun or a baton at their waist, as well as tasers.

Gator and a smaller group of debuties, four of them, are leaning back in a knockdown booth, looking around for any suspect moves, being from some drunk dude, or someone trying to jeopardize Roy’s election.

Gator is smoking his vape lazily while one of his feet is on the wall of the booth, looking at the crowd, scanning faces. And then his eyes land on you, finding your eyes already on him. 

You pass with your two girlfriends in front of him and his men, your eyes locked on his face since you found him five minutes ago. You check him out, looking him up and down, with a smirk on your lips as you bite your lower lip.

Gator follows you with his gaze, smoking out his vape, checking you out as well, oogling you shamelessly, pushing off the wall and straightening up, not breaking eye contact until you turn your head and get lost in the crowd.

He smiles smugly to himself, lifting his chin a little bit, proud of the attention he received from you, on how you were looking at him with those malicious eyes of yours. He shakes his head slightly, adjusting himself in his cargo jeans, trying to turn back to do his job, which seems impossible now.

Around 15 minutes later, Gator and his boys walk past the crowd to their next stop, close to one of the small stages. When he is walking ahead of his team, leading his men with them forming a line behind him. Meanwhile, you are walking towards him through the crowd.

His eyes widen slightly in recognition, then get a little dark at the sight of you again. Lifting his chin again, he smirks cockily to himself while keeping his eyes glued on you; he even puffs his chest a little. 

You are talking over your shoulder to one of your friends behind you, leading your little group as well, while holding her hand to guide her through the crowd. And you turn ahead of you, your gaze finds his instantly. 

Gator notices how your breath hitches just a little, but quickly your mouth changes into a naughty smile, holding his gaze, your eyes showing a mischief that sends a wave of desire down his pants again.

You pass by his side again, but since there are a lot of people around, too crowded, and he would even think that you want to even if it isn’t, you pass really close to him, brushing your arm against his, your fingers touching, even hooking slightly against one of his as well, for just a fraction of a second.

Even after you pass through him, he watches you go over his shoulder. You glance once to see if he is watching you, smirking proudly when the answer is positive, turning your head ahead again.

Even if you are not looking at him anymore, he can’t seem to be able to take his eyes off you. Gator even slows his pace, making the line behind him with his workmates slow down and be called to hurry again. He shakes his head, putting his mind in place, at least mildly, and returns to his initial pace again, heading to the designated stage.

Eventually, Gator gets him and his men to their next spot at the side of a small stage. He finds his spot at the edge of the stage, he stands with his legs slightly apart, one hand at his back while he vapes with the other. 

He doesn't pay much attention to the band playing, mostly bouncing his head slightly at the beat of the song. He is just looking around the crowd in front of the stage and in the surroundings when his eyes find you again.

You approach the area around the stage with your girls, giggling and smiling lightly, probably from something they must have said. 

Now that he can take a proper look at you, he pays attention to what you are wearing: a brown pair of cowboy boots that go to the middle of your leg, a pair of dark blue skirt jeans that go until the middle of your thigh, and a white sleeveless vest with buttons in front of it.

When he notices you are not wearing a bra under your vest, with no sign of a lace or a bra strap, and your nipples are slightly hard against the clothing, he wets his lips and bites his bottom lip. 

He watches you, the way you move your hips at the beat of the country song, your hands up in the air, excited, the way your feet do some dance moves along with your friends, making all of you laugh in delight.

Gator is not even trying to be subtle; he is no longer worrying about doing his job. The only thing he can pay attention to now is you. 

After a couple of minutes, you turn fully towards the stage, clapping your hand and cheering at the band when they finish a song, and you find him beside the stage, shamelessly looking lustfully at you.

Gator catches the moment your eyes land on him, and in how you bite your lip and grin at him, making his cargo pants become slightly tight around his groin again. When the next song starts to play, you start moving, dancing, without taking your eyes from him.

Still smoking his vape, he glues his eye on you like a hawk; the need in his eyes is undeniable. You continue to look directly at him, your hands sliding up and down from your sides, following the curve of your body until up your hair. 

You slide your hands up, tangling in your hair, lifting your chin slightly with your lips a little apart, eyes still locked on his. You move your hips during the process, following the rhythm of the music.

You turn your back to him, looking over your shoulder just one time to see if he is still watching you, and with your back to him, you swing your hips, twerking quietly even, shaking your ass at the beat of the song, dancing with your friends while doing this little show for him.

Gator frowns in lust and desire when you turn your back to him. His eyes go dark; he wets his lips and looks with such thirst that all the world around you becomes a blur, his attention only on you.

The way you ass move, your hands running around your side, makes him think of your hands being his. Makes him think about how it must be the sensation of his hands holding your waist while you grind against his hips. Makes him think about a lot of things he can do with you.

But when he is about to imagine these numerous and delicious scenarios, his pants get even tighter on his groin. Even so, with possibly a visible boner he doesn't care about trying to hide, a guy approaches you from your side.

His breath is taken away when the guy places his hand on your lower back and whispers something in your ear. You glance over your shoulder at Gator, and when your eyes meet for just a fraction of a second, the mischief in your eyes is enough to make Gator’s head spin.

You turn back to the guy, smiling widely, placing both of your hands over his shoulder while he pulls you to dance with him, a hand on your lower back while his other hand has a beer can, his back facing Gator.

Gator is not necessarily jealous, because how could he be? He doesn't know you; he has never seen you before tonight, but even so, something is unsettling resting on his chest. Rejection? Fear? Envy?

He swallows drily while watching with his full attention as you spin and laugh with the guy speaking too close to your ear, saying some shit to make you giggle like that. Though your laughs are for the guy, your eyes never leave Gator; your eyes have been locked on his since he first approached you.

Gator looks suspiciously at you for some seconds, his face becoming a scowl, his wrinkles between his eyebrows so deep, and his nostrils so wide, that it is noticeable how pissed he might be. 

But then he notices something, putting his vape, way back, forgotten between his fingers, away in his front pocket, to watch the show with full attention and curiosity, using his investigative skills to read the situation.

You start to dance as you did before, but now your hands are replaced by the guy’s hands, dancing along with you. You are facing Gator again, your back barely brushing the guy’s chest.  Your eyes locked on Gator’s.

Your gaze from before intensifies, darkening a little, and then it clicks. You are dancing to Gator, seducing him, doing in a minor intensity with the guy what you are willing to do with Gator.

His hands hover over your body, your curves, brushing slightly along your arm, his lips brushing slightly at the hair at the side of your head.

Every time the guy tries to be too smart, touching in places close to where you are needy for Gator, or even gripping you, you slap the guy’s hand away. 

The only person allowed to touch you like that tonight is Gator, and no one else, and Gator notices it just by the way you part your lips slightly, looking directly at him, biting them with lust and need.

Eventually, you turn your back to Gator again, your hands resting lazily on the guy's shoulders. Gator has had his eyes locked on you since the beginning, but now, with a different feeling inside of him, there is no doubt that he will have you for himself tonight.

When you glance over your shoulder to see if he is still watching you, you smile widely and slyly to yourself when the answer is positive. When you face the guy in front of you again, he leans in to kiss you. You dodge, pulling back from him, smiling politely at him, and shaking your head in denial.

Gator notices the rejection hits the guy, and, with an angry look on his face, he starts talking back to you as you are about to leave. 

He grabs your forearm, spinning you to face him again. But before Gator could step in, you punched the guy hard and straight in the nose, and he instantly starts to bleed and groan in pain. 

This all happened so quickly, in less than five seconds. 

Besides his father, who thinks women must be submissive and men should be the ones to protect, Gator always had a soft spot for and huge respect for women who know how to throw a punch. 

So when he sees you defending yourself since he can’t at the moment, his dick gets so hard that it's painful.

You glance at Gator after you punched the guy, and he mouths to you to leave, firmly. When you nod in response, taking his order, already grabbing your friends by their wrists, you get lost in the crowd again. 

Gator lets you vanish, then points to the punched guy and announces to his team that he is going to see what happened there, taking the quest to resolve it.

Gator walks lazily towards the guy, grabbing his vape from his front pocket again while his thumb from his free hand is tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Something’s wrong here, big guy?” he asks, uninterested, blowing smoke at the corner of his mouth, looking away at the guy with scorn.

“That bitch just punched me in the face!” The guy exclaims, his hand under his nose, still whining a little from before, blood starting to dry beneath his touch.

When the guy calls you that, Gator freezes, his vape lifting halfway through his mouth. He turns his head slowly back to the guy, chuckling bitterly at him. Gator straightens up, not caring that the guy is taller than him; he is not letting him call you that.

He looks dead at the guy, putting the vape away in his front pocket again while his other hand rests threateningly at the holster where his gun is at his thigh. “I saw you, fucking piece of shit, grabbing her arm because you couldn’t handle a no from a lady,” Gator says menacingly, hissing through his teeth.

“So don’t be a little baby crying about receiving what you deserve,” he takes a step closer to the guy, who widens his eyes in fear, “and I better not find you again tonight, or I’ll take you to a five-star hotel to watch the sun rise behind bars, you hear me?”

The guy doesn’t even say a word, just nods and steps away slowly, getting lost in the crowd just like you did earlier. When he loses sight of the guy, Gator returns to his team. “C’mon, let’s do another route,” he instructs, already heading away, his men following him behind.

After a couple of minutes walking through the ground, heading towards the Ferris wheel, Gator catches you in the crowd again, some meters ahead of him. You are in a table along with your friends drinking a beer, when your eyes find him as well.

You grin widely at him, then you turn to your friends, leaning over the table to whisper to them. Gator sees your friend glancing towards him, then turning back to you with a knowing look, taking a lipstick and a little notebook from her bag, and giving them to you.

Gator looks at the scene with curiosity. You write something down, ripping the paper off the notebook, and giving the lipstick back to your friend. You stand up, fixing your skirt, and start to walk towards him. Just like before, you pass by his side, but now you place the note on his hand when you walk past him.

Gator grabs the paper from your hand and takes his chance to lace his finger around yours for just a second before letting go. He tucks his hand into his front pocket, heading to the Ferris Wheel, glancing over his shoulder to find you doing the same, winking at him with a laugh leaving from your lips.

Gator smiles to himself, looking ahead again, puffing his chest again. He and the boys arrive at the wheel, staying at the side. After a minute there, he turns to his boy beside him, “I'm going to take a shit, man, something I must have eaten something bad, might take a while,” he lies, patting his colleague’s shoulder while already walking away before his deputy could say something.

When he is far enough from the Ferris wheel, he grabs the note from his pocket, opens it, reads it, and finds your handwriting in red lipstick: “meet me at your car ♡ ”.

“How the fuck this girl knows my car?” he murmurs to himself, shrugging just afterward, putting the note in his back pocket, and heading to the parking lot, a smug and excited smile on his lips.

About five minutes later, outside the fair, walking in the parking lot, at the back and dark part of it, his Jeep comes into view, and a gorgeous girl is sitting on the hood of it: you, scrolling through your phone. 

You lift your head from your phone when you hear footsteps approaching. You grin widely, and you see Gator coming towards you, so you put your phone away in your back pocket. You straighten your posture, your elbow resting on your knees, your legs on the car's bumper.

“Took you long enough, officer,” you tease, watching him get closer, stopping just a couple of steps in front of you. 

Gator has his thumbs tucked into his waistband, looking down at you, admiring you as you sit on the hood of his car, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“It’s deputy, ma’am,” he corrects you, taking a step closer, resting his hands on your knees, not taking his eyes off you.

You raise your eyebrow, smirking, “Oh, so you are the kind of guy who likes the titles you have, deputy?” You chuckle, oogling him, wetting your lips slightly, parting your legs to receive him between them.

“I like to call things the name they owe, actually,” he says suggestively, taking another step forward, your knees brushing just above his waistband around his hips, his hands sliding up from your knees to your thighs.

“Is that so?” you smirk, chuckling, hooking your finger under his belt buckle and pulling him properly between your legs, his knees touching the front of his car, your faces just apart enough to look at each other, “so which one is for me?” you whisper seductively, looking from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes.

Leaning over you, whispering against your mouth, his hot breath brushing against your lips, "for now?” Gator chuckles, “You're mine,” and crashes his lips against yours.

He places one hand at the lower part of your back, pulling you at the edge of the hood, your legs instinctively wrapping around his legs, pressing his hip against yours. His other hand tangles in your hair while you hold him by the straps around his sheriff vest, pressing his body to yours.

Gator groans at the back of his throat, tilting your head by gripping a little harder at the roots of your hair to deepen the kiss. You gasp against his lips, making him smirk cockily against your lips.

“You like that, huh?” he holds your hair tighter, pulling your head back, your lips parting, desire in your eyes, no words needed to confirm his statement.

His eyes go darker, and a wider and sly smile appears on his lips. His other hand goes to your hip, his thumb grabbing the front while the others spread above the curve of your ass. He notices your phone there, grabs it, and tucks it into the back of his pants, then returns to hold you.

Gator holds you firmly while grinding against you, looking at you. You moan when his erection brushes against your panties, rolling your eyes back. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs painfully, continuing to grind you, “you're so responsive,” he says breathlessly, then crashes your mouths again, open just like yours from your moans, both tongues crushing and rubbing inside each other's mouths.

You hum into his mouth with need, sending warmth waves directly to his cock. You hook your fingers on both sides of his cargo pants at the belt loops there, pulling him impossibly closer, willing to feel his hardness against your damp panties.

Gator bites your lower lip when he feels your heat through his pants, kissing you harder, cradling the back of your neck while deepening the kiss. 

He slides his hand slowly from your hip to your thigh, his big hand sliding until the hem of your skirt, then going up beneath it, his hand running up to the waistband of your panties.

You moan into his mouth, pressing against him. Gator smirks against your lips, kissing down from your mouth to your cheekbone, jaw, until getting to your neck.

He pulls your head back by your hair, sucking, nipping, and kissing your neck open-mouthed and wet, his tongue spread wide while sucking. 

You bite your lips, squeezing your eyes while moaning sweetly against his ear, making him thrust against you instinctively, taking a gasp from you.

While devouring your neck, leaving sucks marks all over your neck, marking you down, he hooks two fingers around the waistband of your panties.

“Can I?” he whispers while breathing against your ear, sending a jolt of desire through your core. You can't respond properly, too dizzy, just nodding back at his question.

“Use your words, baby girl,” he commands against your neck, sucking a little harder, making you gasp, squeezing your eyes even more, your grip on his vest tightening.

“Yes, please,” you plead in a whine, making him chuckle against your ear again, making you shiver down your spine just from his breath against it.

“Good girl,” he praises you, licking with his tongue spread wide at the column of your neck from your collarbone to your ear. He pulls the panties down your hips slowly, you lifting your hips to help him.

Gator pulls back from your neck, looking at you while he slides your panties to your knees. You open your eyes, breathless, seeing blurry, with him being the only thing in focus in your gaze.

He let go of the back of your neck, grabbing the other side of your panties to slide them off, stepping back. Without breaking eye contact with you, he kneels on the grass under his feet, pulling your panties down through your leg, passing through your boots, until he takes them off.

Still looking at you, he brings your panties to his face, shutting his eyes when he inhales your smell while groaning at the back of his throat, his eyes full with lust when he opens them and looks up at you again.

“If you smell like this,” Gator takes your panties and tucks them in his back pocket, “I can't wait to see how you taste, doll.” he grabs the hem of your skirt, pulling it over your hip, exposing your pussy to him.

“Oh Lord, you are dripping,” he whimpers painfully when he looks down at you, at your shining pussy so wet with your arousal, your own breath getting heavier just by seeing him looking at you like this. 

Gator grabs both your legs, resting them over his shoulders. He pulls the hem of your skirt up until your waist, holding your thighs firmly. He locks his eyes with yours, kissing up from your knee to the inside of your thigh.

You throw your head back, your mouth apart, moaning sweetly at the feeling of his hot lips against your thigh, getting closer to where you need him the most. You pull yourself up in one hand against the hood while the other tangles into Gator's hair.

You look down on him with half-lidded eyes, biting your lower lip with desire, “You always fuck random girls at the hood of your car in dark parking lots?” You tease, chuckling weakly, feeling too dizzy to react with anything other than that.

Gator chuckles against your groin, feeling the heat radiating from your pussy on his cheek, still not breaking eye contact with you, “No, just the dirty ones,” he smirks to you just before diving on your pussy.

You throw your head back, shutting your eyes and crying out at the feeling of his mouth down on you. He licks your folds from your entrance to your clit, humming against your core, vibrating through your body, and sending shivers down your spine.

Gator savors you, his nose deep on your pubis, sliding his tongue inside of you now and then, rolling his eyes back just by the taste of you on his tongue.

After tasting you and getting drunk on your arousal, he sucks and licks your clit, his tongue spread against it, rubbing it. 

He can't take his eyes off you, not only because he wants to see you writhing because of his mouth, but also to study you, to learn about you.

He watches how you react with different pressures of his tongue on your clit, and where and how you like it the most. He watches the way you tighten the grip on his hair when he licks you just right, drooling all over your pussy.

Shamelessly, you moan loudly, looking down and finding him looking with such attention towards you. You bite your lips at the sight of this man in a deputy uniform, on his knees, devouring you.

Gator grinds once against the bumper of his car to try to get some friction to his painful cock, trying to get some relief for himself.

One of his hands holds tighter on your hip while he releases the other from it. Still with his eyes on you, he takes his hand with two of his fingers sliding slowly inside you so easily from how wet you are for him.

“Ooooh fuuuck,” you whimper, buckling your hips towards his fingers and mouth, but he holds you down with one hand on your hip, pinning you against the hood of the car.

Gator curls his finger when he feels your spongy spot inside of you, pressing it, massaging deliciously, making your legs press against his head from the pleasure.

“That's it,” he praises against your core when he senses your walls clenching around his fingers, feeling your thighs getting tenser around his head, your breath hitching, your eyes squeezing shut, the grip on his hair tightening, “I got you, come for me, gorgeous.” 

You feel the heat spreading from your core, up from your back to all over your body. Your body tenses fully, a strangled moan at the beginning of the release, becoming louder and guttural while you continue to come against his mouth.

Your hand on his hair is holding tighter, making him wince slightly from the pain, but this just adds more pleasure to him, while he still rides you off from your high, rubbing inside of you and your clit just slightly and slowly.

When your legs start to get shaky from overstimulation, and your breath follows with a high-pitched whine, Gator pulls back his mouth and slowly pulls his fingers from your core. You whimper slightly, from the overstimulation, but also from missing him inside of you already.

You almost cry out from the view of him between your legs, his nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin shining from his saliva and your arousal. You are wrecked, but he is just as wrecked as you.

Gator carefully takes your legs off his shoulder. He brings his fingers to his mouth, eyes still on you, while sucking your arousal off them. 

You bite your lips, whining just by seeing him humming around his fingers, you press your thighs together, feeling another wave of desire rushing inside of you.

He stands up from the ground, a smirk on his face when his eyes drop to your shaky legs pressed together. Gator looks up at you again, one hand coming between your legs, spreading them for him to get closer to you again, while his other hand cradles the back of your neck.

He pulls you into a hungry kiss, you tasting you in his tongue that curls against yours. You groan against his mouth when you taste yourself, your hands going to his belt, starting to unbuckle it.

Gator chuckles against your mouth by the sound of the metal of his belt and the rubbing of your hands against his pants. He slides his free hand on your ass, squeezing it, making you gasp between kisses.

Without breaking the kiss, he palms your ass fully, pulling you off the hood of the car, standing you up. Gator presses you against the bumper of the car, his hand squeezing all your ass, moaning painfully against your lips. You feel the cold of the core in the parts you are bare, gasping slightly.

Gator pulls back, both of his hands going to your waist, where your skirt is lifted. You move your head forward, searching for his lips by reflex when he pulls away. Before you could protest, he spins you, making you face his car.

Gator grabs both of your wrists with one of his hands, holding you in place with them at your back. He presses your body against the bumper, pressing your back against his chest, pushing his boner against your ass, his free hand holding your hip firmly.

“See how hard I am for you, sugar?” He murmurs against the shell of your ear, biting your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. 

Gator kisses your neck, sucking and biting it, with his tongue out, savoring all he can of you, taking his time with you, thrusting at you, looking for some friction for himself.

“I saw you punching that guy, how you can take care of yourself," he confesses while, with his free hand, he finishes the work you started, “so I was wondering…”

Gator finishes unbuckling his belt, now zipping down his pants, “if I can take care of a good girl like you.”

You press your ass against his hips, feeling the cold of a part of the zipper of his pants but also the warmth at his lower belly and the fabric of his briefs against you, “I've been thinking about it since the first time I saw you,” you confess, looking over your shoulder at his eyes.

Gator chuckles, leaning to bite your earlobe one last time, soothing just after sucking a little, until with the hand on his pants, he pins you down against the hood of his car, your hands still locked with his on your back, your ass on full display for him.

You gasp at the movement, your cheek pressed against the hood of the car while looking back at him over your shoulder. Without releasing your wrists, you see him grab his wallet and take a condom out of it. 

When he finds you looking at him, he smirks, dropping the wallet on the floor while putting the condom right above your butt cheek.

Without breaking eye contact, with one hand, he takes off his pants and briefs just enough to release himself, just a little above his knee. You can't see, but you feel his dick slapping your ass when he takes his boxers off.

You roll your eyes back, biting your lips while humming in desire. Gator's eyes go darker at your reaction, holding his cock by the base and rubbing the head against your butt cheek.

You feel the wet sensation of his pre cum at your skin, making you whine, “Seems like you're dripping as well, deputy,” you say breathless and need, shutting your eyes.

Gator smirks mischievously, letting go of his dick, now resting against your ass, and two of his fingers sliding between your folds. He moans gutturally, his eyebrows furrow, and his mouth forms an o.

“Jesus Christ, sugar,” he says in awe. The wet sound from your pussy, showing how wet you are for him, fills the air around you. You moan sweetly at the sensation of his fingers on you again, your head spinning.

He slides two fingers easily inside of you, moving his hand up and down inside of you, the wet sounds becoming louder just like your moans.

“You are so ready for me again,” he fucks you with his finger for some more seconds until taking them out, making you whimper from the absence, but before you could properly protest, he smacks your ass, making you bounce against the car and gasp in surprise and need.

Gator smirks proudly to himself at your reaction. He tightens the grip around your wrists, while looking back at you, he grabs the condom with his free hand, ripping it with his teeth. He spits the plastic away, placing the condom at the head and sliding it down his cock.

“I always wondered if men like you have a kink for arrest play,” you tease, chuckling, watching his arm move in a stroking motion to wrap the condom around his dick. “Guess I'm right.”

Gator raises an eyebrow at you, chuckling with amusement, finishing to put the condom on and looking back at you, “I like to put naughty girls in their place,” he smirks wider, rubbing the head of his dick through your folds, moving his hips slightly, making both of you moan at the sensation.

“God, you look so hot like that,” he palms your ass, squeezing it, spreading it apart, and then smacking it again, squeezing again just afterward, his hand rubbing against your ass, soothing it. 

You gasp and moan when he hits you again, you sliding against his dick, seeking some release from your pleasure, throwing your hip back against his hips, feeling brushing your butt against his pubis.

“I wish I had my cuffs with me,” he admits, leaning towards you, pressing your butt against him while sliding his hands beneath your vest. He runs his nails against your back beneath your vest, leaving weak red paths along the way down your spine, “but I'll still teach you a lesson either way.”

Gator hums in approval, smacking your ass again, making an o with his lips again, biting his lower lip, appreciating the view of your ass like this to him. You bounce against his car, his dick sliding lazily between your wet, dripping folds, while seeing you move along with him.

“You are all talk and no real action, deputy,” You tease, smirking, still looking at him, humming slightly at his dick sliding between the lips of your pussy, “I'm starting to think I misjudged- ooooh fuck!”

Before you could even finish your sentence, looking in disbelief with a smug smile on his face while you accuse him with such dirty words, Gator holds the base of his cock, placing him at your entrance, and slides into you all at once easily, balls deep.

“What were you saying, princess?” He teases back, rubbing your ass, chuckling cockily at you while letting you adjust to him, while also gripping harder on your wrists.

You can't think straight, you half moan and half whine at the fulfillment you are feeling with him inside of you. Your walls take him so well, you are so wet that he slides into you so effortlessly, even though you notice he is not a small guy.

“You are always this cocky?” You can't help yourself by teasing back. And you receive back him pulling back just enough to thrust hard but not fast into you again. You roll your eyes back just before squeezing your eyes shut, your lips parted from the moan that just left your lips.

“Just when I know I’m doing a fucking great job,” he answers while thrusting you again. It's not fast, not exactly rough either, but he thrusts hard. The sound of your hips clapping along with the filthy sounds of your wet pussy makes you feel dizzy.

Gator looks at his dick disappearing inside of you over and over again in awe. He holds you by your ass, holding your wrists at your back still. 

The dirtiness of the scene: your skirt pulled up to your waist, your bare ass on display, his dick deep in you, the red mark of his hand on your ass, your hands behind your back… if he died now, he would not complain at all; he would go happily.

Gator finds a comfortable pace and speeds up a little, thrusting harder as before. You and he moan with pleasure, your ass hitting against his hip, when he also smacks your ass.

“Fuck, doll,” he moans, strangled, glancing from your ass to your face, his vision getting blurry from the desire, “you squeeze my dick just fine,” he moans, letting go of your wrists, gripping your hips by both sides, fucking you hard.

Released from his grip, the car bouncing beneath your body, you lift on your arms, your back arched at Gator, looking over your shoulder, moaning filthily at him, now having a great view of him fucking you from behind, and just by seeing it, you moan even more.

He looks up at you, locking his eyes with yours. You both moan at each other, being the other one the only thing in focus, the only thing you can both sense, hear, and smell.

“I saw you dancing with that bastard,” he starts, fucking you harder, a little faster, smirking just by seeing your eyes shaking from pleasure along with your moans, “this was what you were imagining?” he asks between moans, smacking your butt again, “me fucking you like that? Touching you like that?”

“Yeah, fuck,” you whine loudly, glancing from him to where your bodies meet, your vision blurry, becoming cock drunk. You drop your head, moaning loudly, gripping the air at the hood of the car.

Gator can't see your face properly, so he notices he really wants to see your face, how he wants to see how you break because of him. “I have an idea,” he announces, pulling you to his chest.

He holds your hips firmly, kissing your neck, hearing your breath heavily, while he painfully slides off of you, both of you whining and whimpering from the absence of one another.

He lets go of your hips, pulling his pants and briefs just enough for him to walk properly. With your legs a little shaky, you rest your hands on the hood. 

Gator wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you by his side to steady you, walking towards the back seat of this car while searching for his car keys in his front pocket.

He beeps the car open, unlocking it and opening the door for you. “Such a gentleman,” you tease, chuckling, crawling into the car while he enters just behind, kicking his boots off, and sliding his pants all the way down as well.

While taking off his clothes, he sits in the middle seat at the back, grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap. “Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle, taking his hands away from you.

While confusion starts to appear on his face, you get down from the seat to kneel on the car floor, tucking your legs beneath the passenger and driver's seat, your hands over his thighs with his hard dick just a few inches from you.

“Now it's my turn to take good care of you, deputy,” you say sweetly to him, grabbing him and pumping him above the condom, working him up, feeling him pulsing under your touch, “you have another with you?” you refer to the condom.

Gator, biting his lips while humming with need, nods. Without taking his eyes from you, he grabs one from a secret spot he has at the back seat, grabs the new condom from there, and places it beside him on the seat.

“Good boy,” you smirk, taking the condom off him and dropping it on the floor beside your knee, and stroking him again, now skin to skin, feeling his veins on the palm of your hand while you slide up to his head until his base.

Gator whines and curses under his breath at the praise and the way you are playing with him, his hand coming to the roots of your hair while the other one places at the back of the seat beside him, gripping it tightly, his knuckles turning white. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips part from the sweet sounds he is making.

You lock your eyes on him when you lick from the base to the head, your tongue spread wide along his length. You feel his grip on your hair tighten, and you smile to yourself, your eyes glued to his face, and you can tell how lost he is in you already.

You lick the head with the tip of your tongue, licking his pre cum, swirling your tongue around it. Gator throws his head back, moaning breathlessly, gripping harder at the back of the seat to not hold your hair too tight, hurting you, but little does he know you like it a little rough.

You chuckle against him at his reaction, “Eyes on me, deputy,” you call for his attention. His eyes fall back on you, his eyes barely open, his face wrecked just by the movement of your tongue around him. And when he looks back at you, you sink into him.

You wrap your lips around his tip, going down on him, your gaze locked on his, humming around him, vibrating through his body.

Gator holds your hair tighter and moans in a whine as if he is in pain, feeling your warm mouth taking him. He sees you sucking your cheek into your mouth, continuing to suck him down, moaning more fiercely around him every time his grip tightens on your hair. 

He notices your jaw relaxing and sinking more into him, until your nose hits his pubes, the tip of his dick hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes water, gagging a little.

“Oh, baby girl,” he whimpers, cradling the back of your neck, holding you while you go up and down on him. “Oh fuck,” he moans sweetly, getting lost in the feeling of your mouth around him, your warm mouth, the vision of your eyes getting watery because of his cock.

You moan against his dick, your eyes rolling back from the pleasure of having his disck pulsing inside of your mouth. You love the way he, just slightly, jerks towards your mouth, making you gag just enough to send a shiver down your spine, and small tears rolling down your cheek.

“Such a good girl taking me like that,” he praises you when you start to drool around his cock, dripping into his lap, humming with approval, his hand following your head's movements while he wipes the tears off your face with his thumb.

You grab the condom beside him, ripping the plastic around it while still sucking Gator. You take your mouth out of him slowly, making him whimper from missing your warmth around him. You grab his base and slide the condom down until it reaches your hand.

“Now it's my time to fuck you, deputy,” you declare while climbing on top of him, straddling him, one leg on each side of his hips, your knees resting at the seat of the car. 

You grab his dick and place it at your entrance with one hand, while the other one holds his shoulder, with him holding you by your hips with both hands to help you.

Gator pulls back, breathless, sweat accumulating at his hairline, willing to look at you. Your eyes lock while you sit into him slowly, doing your best not to roll your eyes back to keep them on him, placing your now-free hand at the back of the seat behind him.

You both part your lips in a strangled moan, and when you take him fully, balls deep in you, you both become breathless. You adjust to him with your eyes shut while he rubs your hips to soothe you, and you breathe deeply.

“You okay, gorgeous?” He asks softly, the first time you've heard him speak like that since the beginning of it, one hand coming to your face, rubbing your cheekbone, a little concern in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you chuckle breathlessly, leaning into his touch, opening your eyes even if dizzily, “just getting used to you,” you chuckle weakly, “I feel you everywhere,” you confess, chuckling, cock drunk.

Gator smirks, between an amused chuckle, holding your jaw with his thumb, tilting your head, “good, because I couldn't take you out of my mind all night,” he confesses, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb, looking at how heavy your breath is.

“Good, because I have you in my mind for a couple of weeks already,” you whisper weakly, looking at him while taking his thumb into your mouth. Meanwhile, you start to move your hip slowly against him, rolling your eyes back while moaning around him. 

Gator moans a little louder at the view in front of him, along with you riding him. He presses his thumb against your tongue while holding your hip tighter, guiding you.

“Fuuuuck,” his breath hitches when you begin to suck his thumb, moaning around it while moving against you, your eyes rolling back at the double stimulation.

Eventually, you open your eyes and start going up and down on him slowly. He takes his thumb off your mouth with a wet pop and grabs both sides of your hips, looking up at you, moaning as you sink on him in that delicious speed.

He gets lost in you for a while, both your hands grabbing the back of the seat beside his head, while his hands help you go up and down on him.

Gator dives into the feeling of you around him, you being the only thing he can process, how your pussy takes him, how you get him balls deep on you every time you sink into him again and again.

He loves how you moan sweetly, tilting your head to the side without taking your eyes off him, your lips parted, drooling a little even, that he quickly captures with a wet kiss at the corner of your mouth.

He loves the way you whine slightly every time the tip of his dick hits deeper on you, some tears accumulating at the corner of your eye, that he carefully brushes away with his thumb.

Both of you get lost in each other for a while, unable to think straight or of anything else besides one another. On how his hands burn against your skin, on how his brows furrow when he feels something intense while riding him, making you both chuckle at it.

After a while, Gator looks down at your chest and sees your breasts bouncing beneath your vest. You notice his interest in your chest, smiling brrsthalessly, leaning your body back a little to give him better access to take it off.

He looks up at you, receiving a nod and a malicious smile from you in return. Gator smiles deliciously, landing his eues on your chest again.

You sit on his lap, moving slightly, weak sounds leaving both of you, while he unbuttons your vest, starting at the bottom. He glues his eyes on you while opening your vest slowly, both breathless, until he unbuttons the last button on your vest. 

When Gator takes his hand off your clothes, your vest covers just enough to cover your nipples, letting your cleavage on display.

He whines in pain, holding your ribs just below the curve of your breasts, leaning into the valley between them while rubbing the soft skin under them. With his tongue spread, he licks from the bottom to the top of your cleavage, licking and kissing open-mouthed all the way up.

Gator slowly takes your vest off your shoulders, dropping it at the seat behind him. Then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer to him, your chest pressing against his bulletproof vest. 

You throw your head back, your hands tangling into his hair with sweet moans leaving your mouth. You kiss the top of his head while he continues to savor you, going from your collarbone to your back to your neck, his fingernails running down your spine more freely now, making you moan.

Eventually, Gator slides down from your collarbone to your nipple. His eyes up to you now, he swirls your hardened nipple around his tongue, sucking it sweetly while one of his hands cups your other breast, rubbing your nipple under his thumb.

“Fuck,” you whine, rolling your hips by reflex because of the feeling of his warm mouth on you again, making him gasp against your breast.

He is speeding up to invite you to match his pace, and when you get it, you match his energy, holding your half top still while rolling on his lap while he enjoys your breasts. 

“What’s your name?” you ask breathlessly, your head thrown back, “I realized now I don’t know it yet,” you confess between a moan, holding his hair tighter, pressing your mouth parted at the top of his head, rolling fast on him, getting intoxicated by him.

“Gator,” he answers breathless, a little muffled against your nipple. He pulls back, still rubbing your other nipple, looking up at you, “What about yours, princess?”

You say your name in a whine, your knees growing weak from riding him that long. Gator notices you getting tired, moaning your name sweetly while pinning his feet on the floor, holding your hip a little up while thrusting into you.

“Oh, Gator,” you moan loudly when he thrusts deep and hard into you. Your hands are cradling his head, your mouth parted, just like his. He holds you in space while fucking you, your foreheads pressed together, moaning into each other.

Gator moans your name in a gruttual moan. You both lock eyes with each other, pulling back just enough for that, moaning each other's names, and getting closer to your climax.

His breath starts to hitch while a heat starts to bloom from your lower belly up to your chest by the constant friction of your clit against his pelvis. Your walls clench around his cock meanwhile he starts to pulse inside of you.

“Don't stop,” you beg, whining loudly, your body tensing up, your orgasm building up.

“I won't,” he groans in response, “Come for me,” he cries out your name, his thrusts becoming erratic, “fuck, come for me, gorgeous”

Your moan becomes strangled, your eyes locked on his, then you come for the second time tonight. Your eyes roll back, and you shut your eyes just afterward, moaning loudly, your walls clenching hard around him, your grip on his hair tightening.

Gator thrusts two, three more times, lost at the sight of you unraveling in front of him, looking at you with awe. His thrusts fumble until he comes just after you, riding you off your high until he hits his.

His stomach tenses, his hips lifted from the seat, deep in you while he comes, the grip on you tightening, probably leaving marks of his fingers. He moans a little strangled, your name leaving his lips like it's something divine, seeing stars, his head spinning from his release, and you clenching around him.

You both slowly come down from your high. He sits back in his seat, wrapping his arms around you while you crash and lean against him, his head pressing against the shell of your breasts, breathing in your smell, a mix of sex, sweat, and your perfume, while hearing the fast beat of your heart against his ear.

 Your arms wrap around his neck while you rest your cheek against the top of his head. Both of you are breathless, hair damp with sweat, clinging to each other, calming each other's nervous systems just by breathing in each other.

After long minutes, you both pull back to look at each other. You run your fingers through his scalp while his hands slide down your hips, doing idle patterns with his thumb against it. 

You look at each other for a second before leaning forward to kiss, this time slowly, properly savoring one another. Your lips move softly against the other, you cradle the back of his neck while he widens his hands across your back, pressing you even closer against his chest.

Your lips move lazily together, humming weakly and gladly at the feeling of you touching like that. It’s a calm kiss, no rush, either hungry, just savoring the other after an intense moment between you two.

You rest your foreheads together after a while, breathing weakly against each other's mouths. “I should get back to my guys,” Gator says just above a whisper, breathing heavily.

“And I should get back to my girls,” you add just as weakly. You both pull back, calmer now, you rub his scalp while he rubs your back up and down with his fingertips, making you smile slightly at the sensation against your skin.

“Give me your phone,” he says quietly, sliding one hand up to rub the apple of your cheek with his knuckles.

You chuckle at the request and the gesture, leaning into his touch, “I'm not from here, actually. I'm from Minnesota, I'm on a trip with my friends for a month,” you say quietly, adding just after.

“We can make a deal,” you suggest, grinning, enjoying the game you are planning, “if you see me around town until I leave at the end of the month,” your eyes shine with the idea, “I'll give you my phone.”

“Is that so?” He laughs beamingly, amused by the suggestions, enjoying this pursuing journey. Gator rubs your cheek again, with his thumb now, cupping your face and pulling you to a kiss, pressing his lips softly against your lips to give you a little peck.

“I'm in, I like the idea of hunting you down,” he laughs with mischief, pinching your side, making you squirm on his lap, giggling.

“I'm not easy to find, deputy,” you say slyly, but grinning widely, rubbing his hair at the nape of his neck.

“And I don't quit easily either, gorgeous,” he says in a whisper, leaning closer to your mouth again, “I'm a winner, and I'll get your number as my prize,” he declares, pressing your lips together again, sealing the promise.

your find yourself pacing outside of the room you knew doctors were treating him in. the wound wasn’t severe enough for surgery—thank god—but they still needed to stem the bleeding and close up the entrance and exit wounds.

your hands shook and your heart hammered in your chest as you waited. you hated the feeling of worry that had settled in your chest. the feeling that was seeping into every pore, every nook and cranny in your body. making you feel restless.

you should be attending to other patients. you knew that. but your colleagues—all of whom seem to know that you cared about gator tillman more than you cared to admit—held the fort. they steered patients away from you. they didn’t ask you to return to work. they just looked at you with sympathetic eyes.

it took the doctors nearly forty minutes to stitch up the wounds. apparently gator kept complaining. was incredibly fidgety. kept asking for you. that’s what one of the doctors told you.

your face had burned at that comment. your stomach had turned. your heart doing stupid things in your chest that scientifically didn’t make sense.

“thank you,” you murmured to the doctor before you slipped into the room.

gator didn’t immediately look up. too busy scowling at the plate of food he had been given.

“you gotta eat,” you say by way of announcing yourself. your voice shaky when you finally use it.

gator looks up then—his expression shifting the second he sees you. you see it for a split second—how relieved he looked. how there was a flicker of vulnerability in his big brown eyes. how he looked like a scared child for the briefest of seconds.

but then his face shifts again—back to his usual self. even if he was shirtless with a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.

“fancy seeing you here, sweetheart,” he greets you—a smile stretching across his lips despite the clear pain he was in.

“i work here,” you remind him when you approach him—your eyes on the bandage. trying not to look at the dark smattering of coarse hair across his chest.

“no shit,” he hums.

“want my attention that bad?” you ask in an attempt at a joke. trying to ignore the tightest in your chest at the small specks of blood—his blood—on the sheet beneath him.

“i’d take ten more bullets for you if you keep looking at me like that.”

it was meant to be joke—you knew it was. but it made your eyes sting.

“don’t say things like that,” you mutter, eyes flickering up to meet his.

gator then does something he rarely did—he listens. he stills. studies your expression for a long moment before he glances back at the tray of food on his bedside.

“you don’t happen to know if they do steak here?” he asks. you knew he had seen your tears and you were grateful that he hadn’t commented on them.

“no,” you tell him quietly, sniffling a little as you blink away your tears. “just chicken and vegetables for you.”

gator scoffs, eyes flickering from you over to the plate of roast chicken, potatoes and broccoli. “maybe if you feed it to me, i’ll eat it.”

the idea makes the corners of your mouth twitch. gator notices. makes the pain in his shoulder feel pretty insignificant in comparison to making you smile.

“the doctor told me you were asking for me,” you say after a few moments.

gator doesn’t falter, he smirks a little.

“yeah—i asked her where the hottest nurse in all of stark county was,” he says without missing a beat.

if he wasn’t injured—you might have slapped his chest playfully the way you usually did. instead—you crack a smile and gator swears it was better than any painful relief he had been given so far.

“you gonna take care of me now, sweetheart?” he asks you, still smirking in that annoying way he did. but now—it seemed softer. less arrogant, more—something that made you feel warm inside. “because you touch me in that little uniform of yours, i might lose it.”

you snort out a laugh but your face feels warm. you hope he doesn’t notice. but of course he does.

“maybe a little,” you tell him before you turn and head towards the cupboard where fresh sheets were kept.

you feel gator’s eyes on you the entire time—not because he was checking you out.

okay—maybe he was checking you out a little bit.

but because he didn’t want you to leave him alone.

“you’re coming back, right?” he calls after you—despite the fact you were only on the other side of the room.

"yes, gator," you say gently. "i'm coming back. just going to change your sheets. there's blood on them."

"good," he grunts as he tries to move his shoulder a little. pain cuts through him but he manages to hide it with your back turned. "fancy changing my hospital gown while you're at it? pretty sure i got blood on that too. though, i will worn you—i've got nothing on underneath."

you return to his bedside and for a split second—your eyes flicker down. your face warms. gator notices.

"careful," you tell him gently as you help him sit on the edge of the bed so you could change the sheets. gator grumbles but he lets you touch him—guide him. not like how he had swore blind at the doctor who had stitched him up. or how he had glared at the first doctor who had assessed his wound. how he had muttered threats of violence under his breath.

"were you worried about me?" he asks once you gently help him lay back down against the bed. your hands on his skin making him feel grateful he was alive.

your eyes meet his and there isn't a doubt in his mind that you had been worried. but he doesn't press you further about it. just silently reaches to grab the hand that had been resting on his chest and brings it up to his lips to kiss your palm. you let him—heart hammering against your chest.

"quit worrying," he tells you in that gruff voice of his that did nothing to distract you from the gentleness of his touch. "m'right here, sweetheart."

"i know," you whisper, squeezing his hand once before you let go. your face undeniably warmer than before. "just don't go making a habit of getting shot, okay?"

gator smiles up at you. "i'll not try to sweetheart."

dividers by @zclhs

💌 day thriteeen of the 1k followers special!! last day tomorrow 🥹 crazy because i am nearly at 1.6k followers 😳

💚 also gator is back 🥹 second time writing for him and forgot how much i loved him! more to come for gator TRUST! also please let it be known that I have ZERO medical knowledge. especially gun shot wounds so let’s just ignore all the (likely) very incorrect medical stuff going on here. okay? okay.