#gator tillman blurb

[usedtobecooler]

gator tillman has you bent into a mating press, knees practically knocking your skull as he folds you in two, cock prodding you so deep with each relentless thrust you swear he’s in your damn guts.

“listen to ya, screamin’ and cryin’ for me like a good girl, eh?” gator grins from above you, the slaps of skin on skin practically drowning him out as he sinks into your tight heat over and over, “shit, m’i that good for ya, hon?”

“best fuck i ever had, daddy,” your voice cracks, pleading as the word tumbles from your mouth unexpectedly, but you’re so lost in the throes of it that you can’t find it in yourself to even feel embarrassed. you screw your eyes shut, a lump in your throat as you silently plead that he didn’t hear.

“holy— fuck, oh—“ gator’s voice is high pitched, pinched as he looks at you like he’s been wounded, thrusts shallowing as he furrows his brows momentarily, hands gripping desperately at your naked frame.

gator’s hips stutter, blunt fingernails digging into the fat of your thighs as he cums with a broken grunt. you watch in awe as his eyes roll into the back of his head, plump lips parting in a whiny moan as he rides out the last of his release.

you’d found what makes him tick. maybe before he even realised it himself, causing the unexpected reaction.

the next time, he’s prepared for what’s about to come out of your mouth, the way daddy rolls off of your tongue as he fucks you from behind, has you bent onto your elbows with your ass high in the air, face smushed into the pillow.

“that’s it, say it again,” gator groans, large, veiny hand slapping down on the meat of your ass as his hips punch forward, harder, faster, “what am i, hon? huh?”

“daddy, daddy, daddy,” you’re babbling, arching your back and keening into each rough thrust, desperate for more even as he splits you open, open, open.

gator runs his hand up the back of your skull, fingers splaying in your hair, gripping it tight to snap your head back, hard enough your neck pops with it. you’re letting out the filthiest, most disgusting noises, pleading at him with big, wet eyes.

“that’s right,” the grin is vicious, smug and satisfied, laced with sex and desire and the fiery passion in his eyes makes you fucking melt, “i’m your fuckin’ daddy.”

[wroteclassicaly]

Gator definitely gets off on eating your pussy. Not only lapping up what you give him, but the praises as well.

He’s eager and enthusiastic, a quick learner with your guidance. Mostly your hands tugging that coiffed mane into caramel colored disarray - slick and greasy between your fingers from the gel he layers on top. He ruts his slender hips into the floor, which you permit the poor and pathetic boy to do. He’s uncaring that you don’t shave at times, eagerly inhaling the creamy curls like a wildly starved creature, his nose buried in them, nudging your clit. Learning not to jackhammer your walls with his thick fingers, now that had been a task and a half.

Letting him know that what he’s seen and heard, just because he’s a guy — it doesn’t mean he knows jack shit. And he’s gotten better, to his credit. It’s never reached that point you’d wanted, not until much later.

He was humping himself into your couch cushions, panting and licking at you like he hadn’t eaten in days. His fingers were moving, searching, but when he’d ventured a little farther in, pushed up to scale that thick trigger finger — you’d shot up into an arch that scared his dumbass half to death.

“What?! What the fuck did I do?” Stubble clad face shining with your essence, brown eyes blown to hell, mossy shards laying about in the abyss of the midnight black pupils, he stared, chest heaving in the simple black, tight t-shirt. His uniform attire discarded, with the exception of his pants, boots, and top.

Your answer was to shove his head back down, tugging at the roots, nails clawing at his scalp. Words followed momentarily. “Your finger. Don’t you dare move it, Tillman! Add the other one and curl —“

“Curl? Am I spelling something out, I don’t get it —“ His hand had started to reach for the vape on his tighter fitting pocket, spare set of digits attempting to adjust.

“If you reach for that disgusting ass vape, I swear I will leave you with balls so blue that you’ll lose all ability to function for the rest of the day!” You cut in.

When he’s not occupied with your pussy, of course the idiot wants that gross ass thing. He quickly calmed himself and did as told.

You weren’t aware that he possessed it within him to make your thighs shake or your eyes roll back this much. And as you began to hear the wetness increase between your legs drastically, you smirked and used one hand to drag his spare to your breast, your thighs tightening to hold him and that mouth in place. “I’m gonna fucking soak you.” Was all you got out before one more stretching drag of his fingers over that spot and swipe of his tongue against your clit brought your over the edge, and the translucent liquid spurted from your cunt.

His brown eyes had widened comically, but he regained, following your quick direction not to stop. And that’s when he did something unexpected… by far. He opened his mouth in the direction of your squirt, fucking his hips into the bed in a sloppier, messier direction, hand slapping and squeezing your tit in alternation, fingers not slowing down until you couldn’t take it anymore and you became spent. He came moments later, whining, biting into the meat of your inner thigh, ruining another pair of those Wal-Mart camouflage khakis.

“I thought that only happened in porn? Like a pussy party trick or something.” He’d said, marveling in the after math, blowing a cloud of that acidic fruit in your direction.

You rolled your eyes at his terminology. You didn’t want to let him know you hadn’t ever been able to do it before. After all, he’s still your student.

Yeah, you’re a damn good teacher…

[rustedhearts]

cowboy blues (gator tillman x fem!reader)

summary: you do your best to make sure gator has a perfect birthday—even against the wishes of his dead father.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ rolly's roller wheels blurb commissions!

tags: cowboy!gator (no cops here!), slight angst, fluff, smut (oral f receiving).

for @softagardenblooms! i hope you love this as much as i love you for always being so kind and sweet. yeehaw! ♡

wc: 1,248

the tillman ranch.

“Days off” didn’t exist on the Tillman Ranch. Never have, never will. Gator came to know that well when he asked his father to spend his 13th birthday at the shooting range with his friends instead of cleaning stalls. Roy’s adamant refusal (and insistence on a full day’s work even on the boy‘s big 13) was all Gator needed to know that he’d never be free of the ranch.

Not even on his birthday.

So, when his father died, it didn’t even occur to Gator that he no longer had to uphold the rule. He no longer had to work holidays or birthdays, no longer had to “man up” when all he needed was a lie down. But some part of him felt like Roy would still know. Like his spirit would come and kick him in the ass out on the field.

Like when Gator made it to Hell, Roy would be waiting with a special kind of torment.

“The ranch won’t go to shit if you take one day off,” you tried to insist. “C’mon, you deserve a nice birthday. A half day!”

But Gator just shook his head, lips latched around the mouth of a beer bottle. It popped free with a noisy swallow.

“No can do, sugar. Already got the guys workin’ overtime.”

And you huffed and pouted about it, upset that you couldn’t properly shower your man with love on his special day. But no one seemed more torn up than the birthday boy himself.

He trudged to work that day, but gritted his teeth and “took it like a man.” All morning as he brushed out the stalls, he heard his father’s voice in his head. Shaming him for getting sentimental, scolding him for finding too much importance in himself. Vanity’s a sin, son. God don’t look too kindly on men who think too much of themselves.

Ironic. Even Gator could scoff at that now. Though he fought the urge, every fiber of his being ached to be with you today. Just you, just him, tangled together mouth-to-mouth. He was a simple man, and sex was the perfect birthday gift.

But Gator still needed to outgrow his father’s shadow looming over him.

But it would be a cold day in hell before you allowed your man to spend the day in a hot stable shoveling shit rather than somewhere more enjoyable.

He took his father’s death pretty hard, and now he struggled to find joy where he used to. He called it the cowboy blues, but you knew better. And you’d do your damndest to prove that you could bring the joy back.

Starting with a perfect birthday.

You instructed a young rider to hurry into the stables with an emergency. Some frantic stuttering, some incoherent rambling and panting. Gator would assume the worst: that you were somewhere hurt and needed him. He always thought you needed him, and you let him believe it.

It worked out in your favor this time, because when he came running into the house—boots clomping in a run, work gloves on and trucker hat muddy—he found you unharmed in the kitchen.

Unharmed and half naked. Well, entirely naked save the flimsy ruffled apron tied around your waist.

He scuffled to a stop in the doorway, pinkness flooding to his cheeks.

“H-honey?” He swallowed. “What’re you doin’?”

You shrugged, playing with the strings of the apron. “Just bakin’ my man a birthday cake. You want a taste, hon?”

Gator’s eyes dragged over your body, inhaling deeply. He placed his gloved hands on his hips, a glazed look glinting in his eye.

“Oh…sugar, you know I gotta—“

“Gotta what? It’s your birthday, Gator. You don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want to.”

His eyes flashed to yours, brief hesitance brewing in his brows. He brought his lip between his teeth and dropped his hands. His gaze slowly slid downward again, head tipping to get a peek under the lacy hem of your apron.

"That so?" he mumbled.

"Mhm."

"Since s' my birthday...does that mean I get whatever I do want?"

You tugged the first knot of the apron strings free, keeping your eyes narrowed salaciously on his. "Depends. What is it you want, Gator?"

Gator plucked the gloves on his hands by the fingertips until they slipped free, landing with a smack on the kitchen tile. His hat followed, flung aside to let his hair loose. He took a large stride forward, dirtied boots clunking. All that ranch work started to pay off on his firm biceps and wide shoulders—you shuddered in anticipation of the first touch from those rough, callused hands.

They slid over your hips first, gentle and coaxing until you pressed your palms against his chest. They roamed lower, sweeping over the swell of your ass until they found the fat of it, squeezing both globes eagerly. Your lips parted with a sharp gasp, quickly swallowed by Gator's mouth slanted over yours.

"Want..." Gator could barely separate himself from your lips long enough to speak, words squished and smushed between tongue and flesh. "You...mm...on...table."

Despite the instruction, he guided you backward and lifted the small inch to the tabletop. Once seated on the cool surface, he broke from your mouth to nudge your shoulders. You lowered back, splaying flat. Gator flipped the hem of the apron over your stomach and smoothed his hands over your inner thighs, using his explorative and needy touch to spread your legs.

One finger swept through the slickness that awaited him, a chuckle filling the kitchen at your immediate squirming.

"This is all a man needs, sugar. His wife spread open on the table...all for him."

When all you could do was gasp and writhe, coached to excitement by his prodding and massaging touch, Gator's eyes flashed to yours again with a cocky grin.

"Really know how to spoil me, darlin'."

You heard the thump of his knees on the kitchen floor before you felt the heat of his mouth, attaching itself to your core and forming a suction that took the light out of the room. His fingers gripped at the fat of your thighs with greed, disrupting blood flow and bringing a soreness that would last days. But the pleasure lapping and nipping between your thighs was enough to soothe it all away.

You worried you weren't doing enough—it was his birthday, after all. Right now, this seemed entirely about you.

But through the blurred daze of pleasure, you took a peek at the man between your legs—gripping onto flesh for dear life, moaning and groaning between the loll of his tongue and pull of his mouth—and knew he was just as delirious with delight.

Gator stood to his feet with a glistening chin and ridiculously tight tacticals, which he rubbed at with a groan as he positioned himself between your trembling knees.

"Thank you, sugar," he sighed, thickened with relief. He smoothed the gelled hair back from his eyes and let his eyes roam over you again.

"You're...welcome," you breathed, still flushed and unsteady.

The tinkle of his belt buckle knocked against the table, zipper snicking with its quick release.

"Ready to spoil me some more?"

Your grin was nearly giddy. "Whatever you want, birthday boy."

It took another two hours to free yourself from the kitchen long enough to show him the real present: a sparkling new truck parked on the lawn.

He made good use of that spacious truck bed, and decided maybe birthdays were better spent off the ranch.

[ssweetleaf]

Gator's the kind of pervy who would take your used panties all the time, whether you know or not

YOU GET IT, ANON!!

SMUT 18+ below

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Gator’s hands ruched up the delicate material, his callused hands a great contrast to your lacy panties— ones you had been wearing the other day, on one of the few little dates you had with him before throwing them in your washing hamper.

He’d taken you home after one particular drive-in date, walked you to your door like a gentleman, and you thought absolutely nothing of it when he asked you if he could quickly use your bathroom— a trusty toothpick lazily resting between his teeth, something that never failed to make you swoon.

You nodded and told him where your bathroom was and it was mere minutes before he came back, giving you a big smooch and a promise to call ya later.

Yeah. What a gentleman, you thought.

So, hours later, you hadn’t a clue what Gator was up to in the stuffy confines of his room, your used panties in his hand that he’d conveniently stole on his little trip to the washroom— his daddy sound asleep in the next room over and he willed to stifle his grunts and moans.

He brought your pretty panties to his nose, inhaling the sweet smell of your mound, nuzzling into the crotch of your panties, right where your pussy lips rested, a big hand wrapped around his swollen cock, pumping his fist up and down, up and down, squeezing the tip whenever he inhaled your scent.

“I know your game, baby,” he huffed, tilting his head back and sighing, just wishing it was your much smaller and softer hand instead of his own, “tryna act all innocent—shit!”

Little beads of pearlescent pre-cum dribbled from his slit, sliding along the cracks on his fingers and over his knuckles, messy and crude, he imagined you there with him, sucking him down your throat, no need for mess when you cleaned him up so nicely with your tongue.

“You’re a dirty girl really, I fuckin’ know it,” he used your panties to fold around his cock, using them like his personal flashlight, rutting his hips up into them fervently.

send me asks!

[cozymaples]

gator who fucks into you from behind, deep and slow with his arm wrapped around your waist. gator who insists that his shift that starts in an hour isn’t as important as hearing you cum for him. gator who’s fingers rub against your clit at a rapid pace, contrasting with his thrusts, just the way you like it. gator who’s getting a high off of you chasing your own, all caused by him.

“good girl,” he coos, pressing kisses against your neck as you twitch beneath him, gasping and panting as you come for him. “fuck-!” you whine, clutching desperately at his arm-the sheets-anything to ground you. he holds you steady, praising you through your orgasm. “uh-huh, there she is. so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.” you pant, exasperated, finally rolling on your back to look at him. lovestruck and fucked out, you can’t help the grin that spreads across your features. “sun hasn’t even risen yet, cowboy.” you tease. “surely you’re not complainin’,” he notes, raising his brows. you shake your head. “never.”

“good.” he says, knowingly. he grins, standing up to start getting ready for his day. “feel bad about wakin’ you all the time,” he says, “gotta fuck my girl back to sleep.”

[indiefilmfatale]

Can you do a smut piece where steve and gator are absolutely destroying fem reader, maybe some spit and breeding kink in it?

yo we're doing these as separate headcannons bc i can't mentally comprehend clonecest in my horny little peabrain. gator loves spitting and stevie loves breeding you, oooobviously

it's really hard for gator to be soft. he just gets too excited in all of your heat and musk and his hard cock rubbing gently against the cloth of his army pants

like he barely participates in any foreplay because he can smell your cunt through your panties and can't help but shove you down on the bed and tear your underwear off in one foul swoop

and you're into it, but it doesn't exactly give you enough time to arouse yourself enough to be ready for him

to compensate, he kneels before your spread pussy, and lets a long string of spit dribble from your mouth and directly onto your clit

you're dizzy from the sight and feeling from it, head swirling, but he's too busy unzipping his pants and pulling his cock out-- not even bothering to take them off

and he just slams into you, causing an immediate whine in you as he splits your body with his cock with a coarse groan

he's pounding into you, hard and deep and you don't have time to adjust to his size before he's grabbing you by the throat and bringing his face close to your's

"goddamn, yur takin' me so well baby— shit." his hips are relentless and only quicken at the sound of you moaning at his words. "you sound so fuckin' pretty, open your mouth. open,"

but you don't really need to try, because his hands have moved up to your jaw and is squeezing your face so your lips pucker open

this time he spits aggressively in your mouth with a hard puh sound and you can taste the watermelon vapor in his saliva

"so good for daddy, that's it," he can feel your core tightening and throbbing around him, and he's done for

your back arches and the feeling of his tight grip on your throat and his big cock hitting you in the exact right spot... it's all too much. you crumple underneath him, orgasm clobbering you and you wrap your legs tighter around his hips with a "fuck, oh my god, i'm cumming..."

"that's it, honey, good girl, cum all over my cock.”

the slick of your orgasm creates these slopping pounding sounds as his thrusts grow faster and wetter as he chases his orgasm

he stops suddenly, shaky moans spilling from his mouth as his grip around you loosens and he buries his face in your neck

when he's calmed down, he climbs off of you immediately, leaving you as a limp body damp on his bed. he zips his pants, wipes his chin, mumbles a "thanks, darlin" before sitting back down at his desk and goes back to cleaning his gun

steve on the other hand is anything but aggressive

he prefers to take his time getting you nice and wet before he even thinks about taking care of himself-- kissing slowly down your body, palming at your nipples as he lovingly suckles on your clit, watching every wave of pleasure hit you

rubbing his groin against the end of the bed just enough to alleviate the throbbing agony of his hard untouched cock

and after he's sure you've cum at least once from his mouth, he kisses and licks and sucks his way back up to you, slipping his boxers off in the process. you can feel his sprung cock pressed against your wet core and you're all open and ready for him

when he pushes into you, it's slow and unsure and paired with a series of gasps at the relief

"n-not gonna last long, i'm sorry." he stutters, as if he hasn't already given you what you needed

"fuck me like you want, stevie. do whatever you want to me." you whisper past his hair and into his ear

he settles into a steady, agonizing rhythm and angling his hips upward so the tip of his cock rubs against your g-spot

but just because he's soft, doesn't mean he can't direct you to give him exactly what he wants, even if his words are snuggled between helpless moans and grunts

"can you.. mmph.. cum again for me babe? fuck— squeeze that perfect pussy around my fuuuck... fucking cock? mm-hm?"

and when you do, he's breathless. mouth open, heaving against your mouth, each exhale complimented with the perfect moans that grow higher in pitch with every thrust

you grip his back muscles and press him even closer to you as you cum, your tits pressing firmly against his chest as you spill pretty moans and convulse your thighs until their shaking

"i'm gonna-- i'm gonna-- please can i cum in you? please let me fill you baby, please please please." he's whining

you just nod feverishly as his cock warmths your cervix with his orgasm, his thrusts growing sloppy and slow.

then he kisses your sweaty forehead and rests his entire body on top of you, only pulling out of you to lower himself slightly and lay his head on your chest as you both catch your breath

[chestharrington]

will you do a gator blurb of him driving you home drunk (and handsy) from a party 🤭🤭

ANYTHING FOR YOU MY QUEEN 🥹 and I even gave u little wattpadcore fake text messages awwww. Anyways this is very short sorry pookie

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, some sexual situations but no smut

~~~~~

Sat on a barstool and drinking vodka sprites like they were water, you should’ve known better than to open your phone. Over the course of fifteen minutes, you’d managed to text Gator thirty-five times— a colorful assortment of gibberish and the rare coherent sentence. You decided to throw one final Hail Mary with clumsy, drunken thumbs.

Well, it wasn’t your most poignant message of all time, but it certainly got the point across. After all, you’d gotten your fair share of ‘you up?’ and ‘showering without me?’ texts from him. Within a minute, he finally responded to your onslaught of texts.

Well, it wasn’t a no. You hopped down from the barstool, wobbling slightly, and pushed through the patrons to squeeze into the women’s bathroom. After a tiny wait, you convinced yourself this was absolutely the best choice. You locked the handicap stall and pulled out your phone, trying your best to find a decent angle.

With a clumsy hand, you tugged down your tank top and snapped a few quick photos of your tits, which you sent him without a second thought.

You managed to finish one last vodka sprite at the bar before your phone buzzed in your pocket. A one word text from Gator.

You closed out your tab and stumbled towards the car outside, wearing a stupid, giddy smile at the sight of Gator glowering in the driver’s seat. He unlocked the passenger side door and you practically fell inside with a drunken giggle.

“Knew you’d come,” you said, leaning in to brush your lips along his jaw. “Wanted you so bad all night, baby.”

He sighed in annoyance and pushed you back into your seat firmly before you could fully climb into his lap. You kept your eyes on his as he reached over to buckle you into the seat. A soft gasp escaped you as his hands brushed across your hips, holding you still as he fumbled with the belt.

“Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ mess, you know that? You smell like a liquor store.” You let your hands wander, teasing him through his cargos while he made sure you were buckled properly. He groaned at the feeling, then glared down at you. You giggled as he grabbed your hands and placed them back into your own lap. “Just stay still, alright? Jesus Christ.”

You gave an exaggerated pout and crossed your arms. “You didn’t like my pictures?” When he didn’t respond, you gave an exaggerated sigh. He paused at the stoplight and you tapped his shoulder very politely. “Is this better?”

You lifted your top, flashing him for the briefest moment before he yanked your top back down himself. His expression remained so serious that it made a flurry of giggles escape you.

“You’re such a good officer, Gator,” you cooed, running your hand along his muscled biceps then across his chest where his scratchy vest was. “So responsible and serious. Lemme thank you, baby.” You moved your hand back to his lap, letting your pretty manicured fingers dance along his thigh.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t even try.” He didn’t even bother glancing in your direction, so you moved your hands obediently back to your lap. The light turned green and he practically floored it. Outside, the lights of downtown streaked by like comets— an entire light display just for you. But all you could do was stare at how fucking handsome he looked.

“You’re gorgeous,” you said with a wistful sigh. “Does anyone ever tell you that?” When he shook your head, a frown played at your lips. “Well, they should. You’re so handsome, baby.”

He sighed and gave you a sidelong glance., the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. “You’re real needy right now, huh?”

You nodded, trying your best to give him big puppy dog eyes. He patted your thigh and leaned over to kiss your forehead at the next stop sign, which made giddiness course through your very being.

He parked in front of your house, and opened the car door like a gentleman. You were stumbling as you walked beside him up the cobblestone walkway, which was annoying because you were trying your very best to look completely sober.

He got you into bed with as little resistance as possible, which wasn’t saying much. You kept trying to feel him up while he was helping you into pajamas, so he eventually gave up and only took off your shoes and jeans. Then was brushing your teeth, which was worst of all.

But the plush of your mattress and blankets was like a siren call once you got in— eyes fluttering sleepily the second your head hit the pillow.

“C’mere—“ you whined, grabbing at the air in his general direction.

He sighed. “I told ya, I’ve got work.”

“Skip,” you insisted, giving him your best pout until he relented. You were grinning like an idiot as he shirked off his clothes and climbed in beside you— your own personal space heater. “Thank you,” you hummed, resting your head against his chest.

“Yeah, whatever,” he sighed. He could act as indifferent as he wanted, but it didn’t change the secret smile he wore once your eyes fluttered shut. He kissed the crown of your head, and shot off a text that an emergency came up that he had to take care of.

It was only mostly a lie, but he’d deal with that in the morning.

[mimixmunson]

❀ masterpost ❀ blurbs ❀ ao3 ❀

minors do not interact, this blog is 18+

About me:

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Mimi. 21. UK. Smut enthusiast. Eddie Munson’s cumslut. Steve Harrington’s fleshlight. Resident knismo of the Steddie fandom.

Asks/dms/requests

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ My asks are open! I am taking requests.

Who/what do i write?

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ I only write for fictional characters, I will not write anything about celebrities. It makes me uncomfortable. I only really write for Stranger Things, especially Eddie Munson. I can write Steddie and Steve Harrington too. For some reason people seem to like me writing Gator Tillman from Fargo season 5 so you may see that here too! Another thing to note is that I mostly write smut, but sometimes fluff. With this I also write tickle fiction because I have a weird interest in that, if that’s not your thing please just ignore those posts!!

super cute divider by @cafekitsune !!

pinned post last edited - 01.04.24

[gabessock]

AUGUST WEEK 1 RECS

if you want me to add a fic on this please comment :)

smut:

marriage pact by fantasylandloser , pt2

magic hour by stevenose

unholy by imjuststeddietrashatthispoint (gator tillman)

aftercare stevie by allsmilesreally7 (blurb)

bestfriend!stevexbestfriend!reader by purplehazed-h

redemption by eddiemunsons80sbaby

the wrong side of the tracks by schoopsahoy

just like heaven by ssweetleaf , pt2

fluff:

sparksfly (steves version) by ghost-proofbaby

series:

all i really want is you by loveshotzz (not finished)

dont call me ‘baby’ by katyswrites (not finished)

love story by forevermoreharrington (finished)

a friend from work by sammyboyimagines (finished)

dont delete the kisses by stevenose (not finished)

@fantasylandloser @stevenose @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @allsmilesreally7 @purplehazed-h @eddiemunsons80sbaby @schoopsahoy @ssweetleaf @ghost-proofbaby @loveshotzz @katyswrites @forevermoreharrington @sammyboyimagines

[wroteclassicaly]

maybe I'm late to kink hour but cmon Gator has a spit kink

Oooh, he probably has so many kinks he’s never been able to try, tbh. But we’ll focus on this one for now ;)

Warnings: Spit, spit kink, & language. Kinda smutty, but no actual smut?

It starts off with normal banter and moves quicker than anticipated. You’ve been annoying Gator in the office all day, even following him outside to bitch. No one else got involved with helping him at home, not really. So you’d rode in the patrol car to his place, pissed and bitching about the cold and the snow (despite being used to it), and why he can’t get someone else who will tolerate him.

“People are busy, s’ why they aren’t around. You know that.”

“Probably one of the reasons, is because of that nasty fucking thing.” You sneer, criticizing with a gloved hand towards his gross flavored vape.

His accentuated jawline tightens, freckles bouncing with the movement of his skin as it stretches across the bone. A cloud of vapor expands into winter’s frost, polluting the air with an acidic fruit scent. You make a gagging noise, egging him on when you see how pissed he’s getting. You don’t realize, that in the midst of enjoying his unease, he loses his temper and reacts. With a quick movement of hair gel gleaming under the winter sun - his calculated movements catch when your mouth opens next to mimic him.

His lips part and he leans, spitting a wad directly into your mouth. You’re appalled at first, shocked, literally choking on - not your own saliva, but his. And it tastes exactly like the item he inhales one more hit off of, before blowing it into your face.

Are your eyes watering? Ears ringing? Blood rushing? Yes, but not because of sadness, anxiety, or anger. No, it’s a buried emotion of what you’ve gambled on since you’ve known him, and among the bodily exchange - a realization. You liked it. You feel claimed, rather than mocked.

“That taste good, babydoll? You’re lucky I wasn’t chewin’.” His boots crunch in the snow as he attempts to walk away, but you reach out and grab his leather clad arm, squeezing.

You aren’t sure what you attempted to accomplish? A half assed remark, a berating lashing? As Gator turns and receives your physical message, he raises a brow, bordering on amused, annoyed, and ready to fight. But what he sees isn’t what he’d expect in a million years. You don’t spit, you swallow - straight down, your pupils expanding rapidly, eyes darting towards his mouth, still wet with projectile.

He’s got power. All the power here in this moment, but more importantly — you accepted what he gave and then you imprinted on him, the mold of keys to open previously locked doors between the two of you. His fingers reach out and dig the class ring (similar to his own, that he keeps put away) from beneath your blouse, that’s visible through your partially zipped coat. He tugs you closer, his frame smelling of cologne, copious amounts of hair product, and that damn vape. It’s overwhelming and you can’t focus, not even to answer him.

“You really liked that, didn’t you?”

You avoid his gaze.

“Come on now, darlin’. You afraid to look at me again? Because I don’t know if you were there with me a minute ago, but you were eyein’ my mouth like it was a sugar coated carnival prize.”

Still nothing. He wants more. He needs more.

That crafted nose nuzzles its way behind your ear, hot air on your neck that travels straight to your nipples and curls your toes as they sit in your boots. His voice is a low whisper, a damned rasp.

“You know what else I could spit on?”

// Eat me paragraph //

[rustedhearts]

hunger (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve comes home from jail again with a certain hunger in his eye. but all hungry dogs have teeth that bite.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ but i love him to death ✶ main masterlist

tags: smut right out of the gate here, lads; mentions of suicide/thoughts of suicide; presence of knives + guns; this is essentially gator tillman; unprotected and kinda fucked up sex; toxic (borderline abusive) relationship

rural midwest. winter, 2007.

A beam of blue light fell over the tattered quilt holding your body: a lump under the covers, padded with layers meant to conserve warmth. A snowstorm beat against the windowpanes, bringing the darkness of the night to a hazy, fuzzy grey. Steve always liked how snow fell in the night—how it could turn even the darkest of hours to light.

He staggered into the room with slow, careful steps, watching the bed quilt rise and fall steadily over his shoulder as he dropped his items on the dresser. They used to give him plastic bags like all the other inmates—but when the door started rotating regularly for Steve, he just scooped his stuff from a plastic tub and went on his way.

Three pocketknives, a wallet falling apart at the seams stuffed full of cash and Playboy cards, a silver chain with a thick cross pendant, a lighter, and a silver bullet from a '76 Colt inherited from his daddy smudged with grease and dirt and whatever else might enter Steve's pocket. The bastards took his Menthols.

Steve wiggled out of his coat, letting it fall to the floor. He came undone, layer by layer, and pulled the cross over his head. He brought it to his lips and kissed it quietly before letting it fall to his chest. A couple nights, weeks—hell even a few hours—in the clink always brought him back to God.

And that's how you found him when you turned on your side: bare-chested in only a pair of plaid boxers. He had deep violet bruise on his left rib. The pink scar sliced over his right side shimmered in a silver light against the whiteness of the snow beaming through the drapes. His face was empty, but you knew what was going through his head.

"Steve."

He lifted his eyes, following your whisper to the bed. You peeled back the blankets on his side in invitation. He looked at the empty mattress space for a long while, then toward the cross above the bed. He swept a chapped palm over the top of his buzzed head and stepped forward, boots clunking heavily along the floor. The mattress jostled when he sank down, hunching to yank at his laces and kick his boots away.

You laid back, prepared to welcome him with a sweet, sleepy kiss hello—but he was slipping under the covers and crawling over you, a heavy weight pressing down and grabbing at your jaw with a firm hand. He pulled your head his way and swallowed your mouth with greedy tongue and nipping teeth. The taste of him, the prick of five o'clock shadow gathering around his mouth and along his chin, the stench of his car on his hands—it yanked you from slumber with as much force as Steve's hands pulling now.

Your panties first, twisted and tangled around your knees so he could fit his hand between your thighs. They were so warm and soft under the blankets, and he couldn't help the need to trap his wrist between them and shove two fingers in. You gasped against his mouth, sharp and white-breathed. He squished his other hand a little tighter around your cheeks, giving it a shake to shut you up.

He didn't want to talk. He never did.

The silver cross around his neck tapped into your chin with every push of his fingers in and out, bodies rocking together against the pull of his touch. He kissed when he could, sloppy and untimed. He huffed hot breaths into your open mouth when he couldn't, watching through a pair of bleary eyes as your face scrunched up.

You latched onto his arm when you were close, nails piercing warm skin. He slipped his fingers from between your legs and shoved your thighs apart, sitting back just far enough to let the covers slip down and uncover your bodies. Your panties were kicked somewhere toward the end of the bed now, t-shirt pushed up under your chin to pull your breasts into the cold. He pinched them your nipples peaked in the cold, but he was far too hungry to worry about waiting for you to stop shivering.

Steve plunged in: one rough push that catapulted you toward the headboard and knocked the cross against the wall. An elongated groan filled the room, hoarse and guttural and all Steve. He slipped his hand from your face down to your neck, where his thumb punctured the space against your windpipe and held it tightly in place. You tipped your chin up to tell him it was alright, and he lunged forward to collect your mouth again.

He gave short, rough little thrusts that had you squeaking against his mouth, teeth clinking and bumping together. He was making it known: this was not for pleasure.

This was for possession.

You were his. You were his when he went away, and you were always his when he came home. You were his in the cold, his in the heat, his when he thought about taking that pistol in the top of the closet and putting it between his eyes to put everyone out of their misery. His for all time.

His forever—even the day you'd eventually decide to leave.

Steve brought his hand back up to your jaw again, cupping it in his palm and digging his fingers into your cheeks. You pinched your eyes shut when the blunt edge of his nails scraped at your skin. Sputtering when his teeth sank into your neck, whining when he smacked his hand against your thigh and soothed it with the same heavy hand.

Oh, he loved you so terribly.

You came with a high-pitched squeal, and it was pathetic how you could've done so from just his rough huffing and manhandling alone. Steve on the other hand, was nowhere near done. And he pushed through all your squirming and whimpering, pulling your head back into place by your chin every time you tried to shy away. He watched heat swell in your face until sweat beaded at your head and neck, pooling in the crevice behind your knees. And when a tear dripped down your cheek, he licked it up with a hot mouth.

The salty taste of it on his tongue and the sound of your quiet whining had him convulsing between your legs. His hold weakened around your face, limply falling around your throat when he sank down and nuzzled into your neck. You took a moment to catch your breath, and then scratched at his scalp with your nails gently. Pressed a kiss to the top of his ear, pulsing and beat-red.

"Glad you're home," you whispered in the half-dark.

Steve lifted his hips until he slipped free, rolling onto his side of the bed with limp weight. He groaned as he shifted around, finally deciding on a side comfortable enough to close his eyes.

You fumbled for your panties under the bed and took them to the bathroom. You kept the light off.

✶ ✶

In the morning, you fixed Steve a hearty breakfast that warmed the kitchen with flour and bacon grease. He shuffled awake around ten o'clock. trudging into the kitchen with a scowl and puffy eyes. His cross gleamed in the white light of a snowy morning on his way to the cupboard.

"Morning," you murmured sweetly. "There's coffee on the warmer if you—"

But Steve was cracking open a can of Budweiser and gulping it down on his way toward the kitchen table, where piles of unopened mail addressed to him sat in heaps. Few envelopes were ripped apart on the other side, and Steve snatched at one that was undoubtedly addressed to him.

"Why'd you open this?" he grumbled, pulling the folded sheet of paper out.

You placed another spatula of bacon on a paper-towel lined plate and glanced his way. "It's the gas bill, Steve. I...I didn't know how long you'd be away this time, and I didn't want—"

"Does it have your fuckin' name on it?"

Heat swelled in your cheeks. You turned back to the skillet sizzling on the back burner. Clearly, there would be no sweet good morning kisses or a lull of quiet after such an intimate night.

Steve huffed, flicking the gas bill toward the end of the table. "Don't worry about shit that isn't yours to worry about."

You clicked the burner off and brought the plate of bacon to the table, setting it a little roughly in front of Steve. "I'll let them shut the gas off next time, Steve."

"Why d' you always gotta be fuckin' smart?" Steve scowled again, and you curled your fingers tight around the porcelain plate of pancakes you were carrying over.

"Do you want coffee?"

Steve sighed exasperatedly, snatching a piece of bacon and ripping the top bite off. "No, just—fine, whatever."

You poured two mugs and grabbed extra plates, bringing them to the table. You remained quiet as you sipped your coffee and stared at the remnants of mail on the wood.

"When's your court date?"

Steve tossed you a look, tossing more bacon on his plate. "You really wanna fuckin' talk about that?"

"Just want to be prepared," you explained, cupping your hands around the warmth of your mug.

"Again, not your business—"

"No, but it is my business Steve. You really don't think any of this affects me? Every time you go to jail, who do you think takes care of shit here?"

Steve turned in his chair, cocking his head. "Oh, so that's it? You think you're some big boss when I'm not here? That you run shit—"

"I didn't say that—"

"Let me tell you, sweetheart, you don't run shit. This is my house, this is my business—"

"Then maybe I should just go stay with my mom for a bit."

The proclamation hung there for a bit. You stared at the dark pool of coffee before you, and Steve dug holes into your head. He shifted in his chair and snatched at his beer, taking a loud swig of it before it slammed down again. He slapped a few pancakes onto his plate and wiggled his fork through the pile. Another tired sigh.

"Don't say stupid shit like that."

You picked at a piece of bacon and watched it crumble into bits. “She’s been wanting me to come home for a while.”

“Well that’s great,” Steve huffed, teeth scraping his fork as he wolfed down half a pancake. “How’s that supposed to make me feel?”

You dropped your chin into your hand on the table and shrugged. “Didn’t know you felt things, Steve.”

It was quiet a moment. The light above the sink buzzed behind you. You tapped your finger on your mug and swallowed. Steve worked at the pancake packed in his cheek with slow chews.

His chair flew back and clattered to the floor. You hurried to your feet and backed away toward the hall. Your tapping finger knocked over your mug of hot coffee in the commotion, browning the mail in a puddle. Steve reached for you in one large leap your way, but you sprinted to the bathroom and slammed the door.

From the other side, Steve’s stomps were thundering. The door rattled with his pounding, and you kept a hand firmly around the knob in case the lock didn’t hold.

“They’ll call the cops again, Steve!” You warned him.

“Open this fucking door,” he growled back.

“Fuck you—“

“Fuck you! Bitch,” he grumbled, kicking the door for good measure before his steps faded away.

You waited for them to find a place with your head against the tiled wall. They wandered for a while, pacing and rummaging. He slammed a few cabinets and threw a few things, grumbling as he went. He paused in front of the door after a noisy trip to the bedroom, and you pulled off the wall to stare at his shadow in the beam of light on the floor. Whatever he was going to say or do, he decided against, and stomped away. The front door slammed moments later.

✶ ✶

You did it. You packed a bag. Stuffed it full of clothes and all your necessary things—and then you stared at it on the end of the bed. The quilt had lost its color from all the washing. The pillows were limp and flat. The nightstand collected piles of dust around your things that never moved.

You packed a bag, but you couldn’t leave.

You laid down instead, crawling under the quilt with an aching need. The house ticked with a stilling silence. You watched the snow fall against a grey sky until it stung your eyes. You thought of digging out your diary from the box under the bed and reading all about your early days with Steve to remind you just why you should stay. But you knew you’d find a million more reasons to go. And the bed was so warm, and you were so tired.

Ironically, you just wanted Steve.

He came home as the sun was falling down, kicking the door shut with a quiet clamp. He came stomping into the bedroom with slow, meticulous steps. He was letting you know he was no longer angry. Every move came with a metallic clink from the zipper of his camo jacket and his half-closed pocketknife on his thigh.

The door chittered on its hinges when he nudged it open. You tried not to stir as he moved in closer. The bed dipped with the weight of him, tipping you off kilter.

“Got you these.”

The soft leg of a brown teddy bear touched your arm, and when you turned he was holding a pair of red roses. You accepted them gingerly, pressed onto your back. Steve gnawed on his bottom lip, pulling off a string of skin. The tops of his ears were nipped raw by the wind, cheeks rosy from the cold. He had a new scrape on his left knuckle over the inked cross.

“Didn’t mean to call you a bitch, baby,” he mumbled, scratching at his scalp. “You just…you really fuckin’ get me goin’, you know? You-you piss me off.”

You played with the tiny soft ear on the teddy bear, heart pulsing in your throat. “Sorry.”

Steve sighed, pulling at a loose thread in the quilt near your arm. “Just don’t go, honey. Y’ can’t leave me. Okay?”

You glanced at him, holding the teddy bear on your hip. “Okay.”

The hiss of snow tapping at the glass filled the quiet of the room in the lull. You reached out and placed your hand on his arm, thumb stroking the head of the serpent scaling his thick limb. He watched you all the while, sucking the blood pooling from the broken skin of his lip.

“Got the court thing sorted out. Don’t want you worrying.”

You glanced up at him again, nodding. Getting it “sorted out” meant he paid someone off. There seemed to be an agreement between Steve and the officers that knew him well.

“Okay…wanna lay with me?”

His eyes darted around the bed. His boots were still on, camo jacket unzipped. He smelled like new Menthols, and you could see the outline of a pack in one of his thigh pockets.

“For a minute,” he said, laying back on the pillows beside you. “Gotta take care of some business tonight.”

He tucked his hands behind his head and you curled into his side. You didn’t even mind that he didn’t hold you—he was here, breathing beneath you, warm and tender, and that was all that mattered.

You were his. Every time, no matter what.

[ssweetleaf]

hi i’m sophie! would i be able to request anything about riding gator for the first time? maybe he’s real big and you need some encouragement 🫣

SMUT 18+ below

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Your thighs were flush against his, knees digging into the mattress, aching already from your constant hovering— not yet breaching the distance between you two because of how nervous you were. 

Gator’s cock was heavy against his stomach, twitching every so often, impossibly hard and ready, already leaking pearlescent little droplets of pre-cum that had you mindlessly salivating when you caught sight of it.

And it wasn’t that you weren’t turned on, you absolutely were— your slick arousal slipped down your thighs as proof, soaking his skin and your poor clit was throbbing, just begging for attention, like the mere touch of the rough pad of his thumb.

He was just so big.

“What is it, hon?” he hummed, a big hand reached out for you, smoothing against the supple skin of your ass as a sort of comfort. “Can see ya thinkin’ too hard.”

You bit the skin of your lip, casting your gaze downward, trying hard to keep the sight of Gator’s too big cock out of your vision.

“You’re just—” you hiccuped, hands slipping from his shoulders and making their way to your sides before he grabbed your wrists, keeping you there, wanting you to stay flush with him, to feel your skin on his and to quench his thirst for your touch. “Just so big.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, cocking a brow at you, trying hard and miserably failing to keep his smirk at bay.

“S’not funny, Gator— you might split me in half!” You pouted, smacking at his pec, huffing at the now constant pull at the corner of his lips.

“Baby, I’ve fucked you before, remember?” He mocked, hand still smoothing over your skin, your back this time.

“That’s different,” you whined, pout still prominent and you nuzzled your face into his neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his cheap cologne before sighing out. “M’scared I won’t be able to take you this way, daddy.”

Gator tried to ignore the jump of his cock from your little nickname for him, carding his fingers through your hair and shushing your silly thoughts of getting split in two.

“Of course you’ll be able to take me, honey,” he cooed, “you’re my best girl, remember? Ya always take me so well, even when I rough ya up a little.”

Your hips shifted at his words, cheeks searing in a flush, and the tip of his cock bumped at your clit from your movements, a soft whine escaping the confines of your throat at the act.

His voice was low, heavy on the shell of your ear.

“Daddy’ll guide ya, hon— no need to worry.”

send me asks/my inbox is open

[eddiemunsonw]

Princess

Gator Tillman x fem!reader blurb

Summary: He's there for duty, but then you are there, you know?

CW/Disclaimer: No special warnings needed I believe

Author's note: I think sometimes this loserboy can have a little bit of rizz if he isn't shut down right in the same second. Y'know, the silence can either fuck him over or give him cocky confidence. Which is kind of what's happening here.

Words: 777

A sigh escaped your lips as you dunked the last pieces of glass in the trash. Thankfully, aside from a few broken pieces of glass and a slippery slope of olives spread around the aisle, nothing eventful had happened at the robbery, if you could even call it that. It seemed more like a kid that had been pressured into a dare to steal something and had massively fucked up by tripping over their own feet and knocking off some products. Still, you had to call someone in. Letting these things go unnoticed would only make you an easy target. Which is why you weren’t surprised when the Sheriff had sent his son your way.

Gator Tillman came to a screeching halt in front of the shop, music blazing through the speakers. You rolled your eyes and folded up your dishrag as you walked to the back to wash your hands. Behind you, the bell to signal someone entering the shop clanged. You took your time to get to the front, already hearing several “hellos”, patience dropping with each new one.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” you mumbled, holding back a sigh. Gator frowned and already opened his mouth to retort something towards the rude greeting he received until his eyes landed on you.

“That’s no way to talk to— Oh… well would you look at that,” he smirked and moved closer to the counter you stood behind. “If I’d known this place was run by a pretty bird like you, I would’ve stepped in long ago.”

“Well… What do you need, Tillman? The kid’s probably still a minor, I don’t know if the security footage is—”

“Hush, darlin’, there’s no rush on the matter at hand. Rather… I’d like to hold yours for a moment, may I?”

He held out his hand, palm upwards for you to lay your hand in it. You frowned at this weird request of him wanting to shake your hand. Maybe to introduce himself formally, which made no sense considering everyone knew Roy Tillman, which meant everyone also knew his son. However, when you extended your right hand, he tutted.

“I understand the confusion but I wanted to see somethin’...”

He beckoned for your left hand and in your confusion you held it out for him wordlessly. A soft smile introduced itself on his face as he took hold of your hand, thumb dragging over your knuckles. You vaguely noticed his hand was warm and his calloused thumb didn’t feel all that unpleasant.

“Ah… look here,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you it seemed. He looked up, his thumb still circling a repeating pattern over your knuckles as he spoke.

“No man claimed you just yet? Any suitors?”

A dry chuckle left your throat. First of all, no one could claim you. You decided to humor him a little though.

“No one’s stupid enough to try,” you said with a shrug. It was up to him however he took that bit of information. He hummed lowly, eyes flicking back to your hand again, slowly following the path towards your wrist, up your arm… slowstop at your chest, back to your face.

“We’ll see about that, sweetheart. No boyfriend? Man with a plan?”

“None of the sort, no.”

His thumb came to a stop at your ring finger, tapping it without removing his gaze from yours this time. It was your own gaze that shifted as his thumb rubbed the spot with meaning.

“I’m telling you now, I’ll be putting a ring on that finger of yours, darlin’.”

Another chuckle, one of disbelief, escaped your throat.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He smiled and finally let go of your hand to take his vape out of his pocket. You watched as he brought it closely to his lips, halting right before.

“For you, Princess,” he stated before taking a slow drag of his vape, eyes never leaving you, “anytime.”

Only now you realized that your heart rate had picked up just a notch and you weren’t sure whether you wanted to curse him or yourself for it. He leaned forward to say something else just as his radio went off. He snapped his lips shut and listened to the static voice coming in.

“Duty calls. I’ll see you around,” Gator said as he swiftly turned on his heel.

Just as you thought he was going to leave, he suddenly cocked his head back.

“You got beef jerky and Dew?”

“Sure do.”

“Good.”

And with that, he left with what felt like the promise of a marriage involving a whole ton of beef jerky and Mountain Dew. What a Tuesday.