petalborn

[petalborn]

the preachers daughter!reader x morally corrupt gator fic i’m cooking up in my head rn

[petalborn]

More post canon blind gator pls hes so cute need him……

sighsssss i love gator pre and post blind but i cant stop thinking about how him being blind forces him to become soo much gentler

He still wears the badge. Still tucks the pistol against his ribs, even though he doesn’t aim it anymore. Still stomps through town like he’s got something to prove, like he isn’t counting your footsteps as you walk just ahead of him. Like he isn’t mapping the world through the way your weight shifts, how close your voice is when you call his name, how your keys jingle just before the elevator dings.

He knows the rhythm of you better than he knows anything now. Three short steps, pause—door. Four long strides and a creak—couch. That soft hum you always do when you’re making coffee. The smell of that hand lotion you think he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t need the cane when you’re near. Doesn’t need directions, either. He just listens for you and follows.

“Slow down,” he grumbles as you round the corner too fast. “Can’t see, remember?”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t even touching the cane, Gator.”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t need it when you’re here.”

He’s got one hand brushing the brick wall, the other stretched out loosely in your direction. Not grabbing. Just waiting. You sigh and take it, fingers warm around his callused palm. He relaxes immediately.

At home, he’s quiet in the doorway. Doesn’t like to ask for help, but he also doesn’t like bumping into things, so he just stands there until you come to peel his vest off, guide him past the table legs, help him sit. You put his boots by the door without being asked. He never says thank you, but his hand finds your waist and lingers there for a second longer than it needs to.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You okay?”

His jaw ticks, but he nods. “Long day. Don’t wanna talk.”

He does, eventually. Usually after dinner, when your knees are touching and your voice is soft and low and safe. When the air’s full of nothing but night sounds and your thumb’s brushing lazy over the back of his hand.

Sometimes you catch him reaching when you leave the room. A twitch of fingers over the blanket. A murmur: “Where’d you go, sugar?”

He’s softer now. Still sharp, still all teeth when he needs to be, but when it’s just you, he’s all warm hands and leaning into the sound of your voice, into your heartbeat when you let him rest his head on your chest.

He never says it outright, but you know he’s scared. Not of the dark—but of being alone in it.

So you stay.

And in the quiet, he whispers,

“Don’t go far.”

And you promise,

“Never.”

[petalborn]

Oh, are we talking about that gator guy bc I have THOUGHTS

Gator who talks a big game but stutters when he comes

Gator who comes in his jeans the moment he catches sight of you naked

Embarrassed and frustrated Gator trying to save face by treating you rough as his come soaks a wet spot on the front of his jeans

Etc etc minute man!Gator is what I'm saying

UGH LIZ YOU GET MEEEEE and he gets so frustrated bc of it.

it started as a joke.

just a theory, really—after that first time, when he came in his jeans like a teenager the second you took your shirt off. you’d barely even touched him. and sure, he tried to save face, grabbed you rough, kissed you hard, promised he’d “make it up to you”— but the damage was done.

you knew.

and now it’s a game.

you drag him shopping under the pretense of “needing your man’s opinion,” parading around in a crop top and a skirt so short it barely qualifies. every time you bend over, his jaw tenses. his nostrils flare. he shifts behind you like he’s adjusting his belt, like he’s not fighting a losing battle just to keep his cock from twitching against the inside of his zipper.

and he always loses.

“you okay back there, lizard?” you ask innocently, glancing over your shoulder as you tug a hanger from a bottom rack.

his glare is glassy, thin. “you’re playin’ with fire, pretty girl.”

you just smile. “looks like you already got burned.”

he has to go wait in the truck after that. again.

but dinner is your favorite.

long table. the whole department. food, drinks, chatter, laughter. and gator sitting beside you, all buttoned up like he’s not a mess under the surface. like you don’t already have your hand resting high on his thigh, thumb brushing against the outline of his cock in soft, rhythmic strokes no one else can see.

he’s tense. silent. eyes locked on his plate like it’ll save him.

and then you shift a little closer, lean in like you’re whispering a joke—but instead your pinky dips just under his belt.

“you okay, lizard?”

you feel him jerk. hear the tiniest hiss of air.

and then—

“shit—” he coughs, loud and sudden, grabbing his beer like a lifeline as he bends over in his seat. “fuck, went down the wrong pipe.”

you smile sweetly. hand still resting over the obvious bulge now blooming dark on the front of his jeans.

“poor baby,” you murmur, just for him. “you get too excited again?”

his ears are pink. his hands clenched.

and when it’s time to leave, he snatches your purse off the floor and holds it over his lap, face like stone.

“don’t say a word,” he grits out.

but you lean in anyway, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whisper:

“you gonna cum in your pants again next time i call you lizard?”

he groans, low and broken.

and you know the answer’s yes.

———

the next weekend, he catches you in the hallway while you’re still pulling on your earrings, all pretty and smug like you’ve already won.

he’s flushed, agitated, shifting on his feet like something’s bothering him.

and when he finally speaks, it’s not what you expect.

“don’t do it tonight,” he mutters.

you blink. “don’t do what?”

his jaw works. he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“you know what i mean,” he says, voice low. “that shit you do. the—lookin’ at me like that. touchin’ me under the table. wearin’ shit that makes me—fuck, i’m not… i’m not doin’ this in front of your friends again.”

you cock your head. step closer, slow.

“gator,” you murmur, “are you begging?”

he glares, but it’s weak. there’s heat in his cheeks and a soft, miserable curve to his mouth.

“yes,” he grits out. “okay? yes. i’m begging. don’t fuckin’ make me embarrass myself tonight.”

you hum, thoughtful. trail a hand down the front of his shirt.

“we’ll see.”

he shudders. already halfhard.

[petalborn]

AHHHHHHH I WAS PERFECT!!!!!!! - 🍓

GLAD U LIKED IT BABY, the thought of steve going primal with hi’s possessiveness ugh i love it. he can be so meannnn without intending to

[petalborn]

how do you guys feel about baron from marmalade

[petalborn]

If there’s one thing about Joe Keery it’s that he will always play a pathetic loser wet cat of a man and it will always be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

[petalborn]

Joe Keery as Baron

Marmalade (2024)

Dir. Keir O'Donnell

[petalborn]

i’m so normal about him

[petalborn]

when i stop being lazy i’ll update my masterlist and make it more neat i promise

[petalborn]

Gator being the softest sweetheart are you and only you when no one is around

byeeee i love soft gator

gator doesn’t know how to cook. not really.

he can reheat leftovers, sure, and he once made scrambled eggs so rubbery you used one to patch a door draft. but pancakes? that’s advanced.

still, he’s in your kitchen at 6am in full sheriff gear—vest on, camo pants dusted in flour, badge slightly askew—muttering to himself as he tries to pour a heart shaped blob onto the pan.

he squints. cocks his head. the shape in the pan bubbles into something vaguely geographic.

“that’s a heart,” he tells himself, even though it looks more like Florida having a stroke.

he flips it anyway.

his tongue pokes out in concentration as he dusts powdered sugar over the mess, not realizing he’s knocked the container against his vest until there’s white powder all down the front of him. it clings to the fabric, gathers in the creases of his pants, even settles into his hair a little. he looks like a very disgruntled, camo clad beignet.

you walk in, bleary eyed and barefoot, freezing in the doorway when you see him—hulking, battle ready, armed with a spatula and completely dusted in sugar. smoke curls from the pan. a plate of lumpy pancakes sits on the counter beside a slightly wilted daisy, clearly stolen from your neighbor’s garden.

he probably climbed the fence to get it.

“…what are you doing?”

he grunts. doesn’t even look at you.

“makin’ my girl some breakfast.”

you blink at the misshapen blob on the plate. “…is that supposed to be a heart?”

“It is a heart.” he says it like he’d stake his life on it.

you try not to laugh. “Gates, it looks like you traced it with your eyes closed.”

he glares at the pan like it betrayed him, plates the pancake anyway, and jams the daisy into the stack like garnish. then he sets it down in front of you and crosses his arms, jaw tight.

“Eat.”

you sit. take the fork. murmur a soft, teasing, “yes, sir,” just to see the tips of his ears go red.

it’s… bad. a little raw in the middle. but it tastes like nerves and love and the softest part of a man no one else ever sees.

he watches you eat like your opinion matters more than any badge or title he wears. the tension only eases when you grin, cheeks full, and tell him,

“you’re sweet.”

he huffs, embarrassed. shifts his weight. “only for you.”

you tilt your head, smiling at him with syrup on your lip. voice honey slow.

“yeah, i know, Gates.”

[petalborn]

Djo Glastonbury

[petalborn]

honestly love the idea of switch!steve & switch!reader fighting over dominance hehe

18+ switch!steveeee ugh. he’s so use to girls just giving in to whatever he wants. he loves that shit. but even more he loves the way you make him fight for it. tbh this is more sub!steve

he starts the way he always does.

leans back on your bed, spreads his thighs wide, unzips his jeans like he’s doing you a favor. cocky grin, lazy voice, one hand behind his head like he’s the fuckin’ king of the world.

“go on, babe,” he says, nodding down at the bulge in his jeans. “been thinking about your mouth all day.”

you smile sweetly—crawl between his legs, slow, let your hands drag up his thighs just to feel him twitch. you do love sucking his dick. but not like he thinks. not the way he’s used to.

he lifts his hips to help you tug his jeans down, lets out a soft hiss when his cock springs free—already hard, flushed, leaking.

“that for me?” you murmur, licking a slow stripe up the underside of the veiny rod.

he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck yeah, all for you. now c’mon, don’t tease.. just—”

his hand goes to the back of your head, trying to guide you down like he always does.

but you stop.

you pull back just enough to stare at him, cock resting against your cheek, hand wrapped tight around the base.

“uh-uh,” you hum, voice light. “you don’t get to fuck my mouth, stevie. not tonight.”

he blinks, confused. “what? baby, come on, you know i like it deep—just let me—”

you tighten your grip, make him whimper.

“you don’t decide what you get,” you say sweetly, tapping his tip against your tongue. “you don’t get to push my head down like i’m some eager little slut who’s lucky to suck you off. you want my mouth? you’re gonna earn it.”

his jaw tightens. “jesus christ,” he mutters, hips twitching, like he doesn’t know if he wants to fight you or fucking beg.

so you make it harder.

you lick the tip, slow and messy, swirl your tongue around the leaky head like you’re savoring it. you keep your eyes on his the whole time, watch the smugness fade into something helpless.

you kiss down the side of his cock. suck one of his balls into your mouth, soft and wet. and when he moans—loud, unguarded, hips jerking—you pull away entirely.

“you’re so impatient,” you pout, stroking him slow, twisting your wrist just right. “what happened to the king of hawkins, huh? used to girls choking on your cock, begging for a taste—and now look at you. leaking all over yourself and whining just because i won’t deepthroat you.”

“i’m not whining,” he lies, breath hitching. “fuck, baby, please—please just put it in your mouth.”

you raise an eyebrow, thumb grazing the soft spot of his cock right under the head. “put what in my mouth?”

his throat bobs. “my—my cock. fuck, your mouth feels so good, i just—please. please, baby, want it so bad.”

you hum, pleased, and finally take him in—just the tip, nice and slow. he gasps, hips jerking, but you flatten your palm on his stomach and hold him down.

“don’t move,” you murmur. “i’ll stop.”

he freezes.

you take more—slow and messy, spit dripping down your chin, one hand still stroking what you don’t fit. you hum around him just to feel him twitch. his thighs are shaking now, whole body straining like it’s taking everything in him not to buck up and fuck your throat.

“feels so good,” he chokes, eyes fluttering shut. “oh my god, baby—please don’t stop, i’m so fucking close—”

you pull off again.

he cries out.

“no, no no no no no—please, i didn’t mean to, i wasn’t gonna come, just—please,” he babbles, face flushed, cock throbbing, chest heaving. “don’t stop, i’ll be good, just need your mouth, please, you’re driving me crazy—”

you smile up at him, cruel and sweet. press a kiss to the flushed tip and whisper, “say it. say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” he gasps, instantly. “i’m fucking yours.”

“good boy.”

then you take him back in—fast and deep this time—and don’t stop until he’s mess of pitiful sounds, hot spurts spilling down your throat with his hands fisted in the sheets, sobbing your name like it’s the only word he knows.

[petalborn]

DJO Paris, FR — June 23, 2025

[petalborn]

hiiii ima a bit shyyy can i use 🍓???

also AHHHH think of it like this!!! stevie x reader in a YellowJackets scenario but Steve is part of the Varsity basketball team going to nationals and reader is the team manager. Steve’s team tries their best to be respectful of Stevie’s girl but theyve been stuck out in the wilderness for a year. Stevie being so possessive 🥴🥴🥴

AHHHH hi 🍓 baby im sorry this took me forever. i think it stumped me a bit. BUT I HOPE U ENJOY IT.

18+, steve au, biting, dub con kind of? steve doesn’t wait for clear consent, outdoor sex obvs, kinda mean steve

you were only supposed to be gone a week. nationals in oregon. just a flight, a few games, the usual chaos of wrangling sweaty boys and writing stats on your clipboard.

but the plane crashed.

and it’s been a year.

the boys changed. leaner, hungrier. some mean. some quiet. all of them looking at you now like you’re the last soft thing left on earth.

but steve?

steve got worse.

still sweet to you—only you. but dangerous now. still calls you baby, still zips your hoodie for you, still tucks his jersey around you when you shiver at night. but his eyes don’t leave you. ever.

he watches everything.

especially the way the others look at you.

and tonight, when one of them touches your arm—laughs too loud at your joke—it’s like something inside him snaps.

he doesn’t say a word. just grabs your wrist after dinner, drags you into the woods with a grip like iron. far past the tents, deep into the dark. your breath comes in clouds. pine needles crunch underfoot. you can’t speak.

and then he shoves you up against a tree.

“you think that was funny?” he snarls, voice low and trembling with fury. “letting him touch you? you forget who the fuck you belong to?”

your mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

he kicks your legs apart. rough. impatient. presses his chest to your back and drags your shorts down with one hand, the other braced beside your head, caging you in. the bark scrapes your chest, your thighs, but all you can think about is the way your pussy pulses—already slick, already aching.

you shouldn’t want this. not like this. not when he’s being so mean, so rough, not when you haven’t even kissed—but you do. your cunt clenches around nothing and your belly twists, hot and tight, with need.

he spits into his palm and strokes himself once, then presses in.

you gasp, loud and sharp—because he’s big. thick and unrelenting, stretching you open in one hard, brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. your cunt is already soaked, making everything messier, louder, easier—but the stretch still burns, sharp and dizzying. he doesn’t wait. doesn’t ask.

“c’mon baby, lemme in,” he snarls, hips slamming forward. “take what’s yours.”

his hand moves to your throat. not choking—just holding. grounding. the other grabs your hip, holding you still while he fucks you with messy, punishing strokes, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of anyone else out of you.

“let ‘em hear,” he growls, voice ragged. “let ‘em fucking hear you.”

and you do. you can’t not.

because it’s too much. the rough bark under your palms. the filthy sound of his cock splitting you open. the soft slap of skin, the wetness between your thighs—how soaked you are, how your pussy clings to him with every thrust. it’s all building, fast, a slow, unbearable rise in your gut, like raindrops filling a bucket.

his fingers find your clit and it’s over—his callused fingertips rubbing perfect, punishing circles, and the pressure in your belly bursts, flooding through you so violently your knees nearly buckle. the strong arm around your midriff being what keeps you upright.

you cum with a cry, body spasming, slick gushing around his cock, your gummy soft walls squeezing him so hard he chokes on his own breath.

“shit, baby.. fuck—” he growls, panting against your neck. “that’s it. that’s my girl. felt that. you’re so fuckin’ wet.”

he doesn’t stop until he’s spent, hips jerking as he empties inside you with a loud, broken moan, arms wrapped around your middle like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. he bites your shoulder again—hard, like it’s instinct—and you whimper, overstimulated and still twitching.

and then he pulls out.

you gasp, spine arching at the loss— hot and wet and sore and so empty it makes your head spin. your pussy clenches around nothing, puffy and spent, leaking down your thighs. he watches it. breathless. obsessed.

his fingers trail down, gather what’s dripping from you, and shoves as much of it as he can back inside. like he’s marking you.

“don’t ever let ‘em touch you again,” he murmurs against your skin, almost gentle now. “i’ll kill ‘em. swear to god, i will.”

and when he pulls your shorts back up and carries you toward camp—limp, quiet, still throbbing between your legs, there’s not a doubt in your mind:

you’re his.

you’ve always been his.

and out here, that means everything.

[petalborn]

she gave out that ass like a cou-𝘱𝘰𝘯

[petalborn]

gator tillman brain rot still going strong

[petalborn]

three requests in the queue i’m so ahead of the game today