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courtingchaos · 1 hour

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Unclean

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

Warnings: Religious themes, menstruation: sex and talk of, fingering, blood in various places, allusions to physical abuse (not reader) it’s period sex!

A/N: Listen, I am an ex-for-almost-20-years-Catholic who grew up around a lot of Southern Baptist, so excuse my (probable) misinterpretation of Leviticus okay? I just think Roy Tillman is a real Old Testament guy. I’ve had this little one shot in the wings for a while and only got the guts to finish it recently. I’m also deeply aware that I am interpreting this character much differently than the fandom at large so like, peace be with you.

18+ NSFW No Minors

Nothing but low lights behind the pulpit and a few along the aisles to let you see the outline of him in the first pew. Leaned forward, still and quiet in the cold dark that seeps into the small wooden church. Outside, the calvary congregates and converses after their Sunday dinner provided by their shepherd and in here, in the small family chapel, it’s just the two of you in the glow of old bulbs. Warm yellow gives the bridge of his nose a highlight and shines off the sun bleached strands in his hair. When your footsteps reach his radius he looks over his shoulder, tense and sharp, but the golden glow reflects off his eyes to give him a softer look than he deserves.

You stop two pews back and he gives you a once over, nervous eyes flitting from your head to your feet and up again before he begins chewing on his bottom lip. “You go home?”

“Yes.”

“Why you still in your dress?”

“It’s still Sunday.”

He laughs through his nose and turns back to the pulpit, thumb rubbing lightly against his reddened lip. “Did you stop at the house?”

You step forward one more length of pew and stop again to watch him fidget with the vape in his hand. “No, Roy wanted to talk to my father so I came back out here.”

Gator hums, a twitch of his lip letting his displeasure show for just a moment. The smack of the metal against his palm is loud in the small space like the yell you know he’d like to let loose would be. Sharp and mean like his demeanor, trying to be like his father but just south of right.

“Did you eat?” You ask while creeping up beside him. The smoke from the pit nearby has snuck in through the gaps in the doorways and mingled with the dry smell of wood and old hay. This chapel has always reminded you of an attic with its exposed beams but the scent of decades old pine makes you the most nostalgic.

“No.”

“Not hungry?”

He looks up at you before he sits back against the bench, takes in your pieces before the whole of you, eyes flitting again from your open coat to the hem of your dress fluttering just below your knee. Vape set aside he reaches out to drag a finger up from your knee and under that hem where you keep some of your secrets. Lines of ink not even your parents have seen, another cut you’ve inflicted like the hundred others while trying to claw your way out of this compound.

Fingers dig into the back of your thigh to hold you in front of him, lets the heat from his palm sink in while he doesn’t answer you.

“What was this morning about?”

He tilts his head in lieu of opening his mouth.

“Roy was on his ‘god honoring woman’ kick again. Did Karen piss him off last night?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t home.” His other hand snakes between your thighs to hold higher up. “She didn’t look upset.” He drops his gaze then to stare at the yellow flowers dotted over the black fabric of your dress, the one your mother bought you as a threat veiled in a peace offering.

“A little too much Leviticus for my taste.”

“Mm.”

Your coat lands on the floor behind you and his fingers inch higher on the inside of your thigh. He seems fixed on the way your dress bunches over his wrist instead of the soft touch behind his ear where you tuck an errant strand of hair finally falling out of its place. Outside there’s a muffled uproar of laughter that makes you cast a sharp look through the foggy windows and Gator takes the opportunity to move his warmth away to pluck at the buttons at the top of your dress.

“Little low cut for church.”

“My mother doesn’t think so.”

“I’ll thank her later.” An actual smile this time as the first button slips through silky cotton, followed by two more before you stop him. The wood creaks under your knee as you shift your weight to it, sliding it up against his hip. Again his hand finds your thigh, up high to find his favorite ink, a simple black line cross that his thumb rubs small circles into.

He hasn’t noticed yet that you tucked your underwear in your coat before you walked all the way out here. Risky since this morning left you with a bloody visit and now you sit unclean under the rafters his family raised. Your dress slides up easily enough, almost up enough to share your secret, and finally he pulls you close. Tugs at you to get you over his lap, your other knee colliding dully with the bench back.

It’s like a switch with him sometimes the way his mood will turn. Sour petulance that makes you roll your eyes will break for roaming hands that map out your body. Sullen quiet suddenly loud with his wants, with his questions, with his panting and moaning. Any place he can have you but more often in places that would bring down his father’s ire if you were found.

Flush against him now he pulls you down to meet the seat of his hips before he pushes your dress up around your waist and pauses mid grope to laugh.

“Does your mother approve of this too?” Fingers move again along the crease of your hip until they reach soft curls. He catches your eye and doesn’t look away as he dips his fingers into your heat, his lip caught between his teeth again, this time with a smirk. He pushes up slow, thick fingers dragging against oversensitive flesh, his palm flat so you can grind against him. Words seem caught in his throat, probably something goading and whispered, something laughed out on a breath. You know he wants to make you blush about how wet you already are and how loud you’re panting but he changes his angle and moves his hand, pulls it back in front of himself and stops to stare at the red staining his fingers.

“Oh.” You don’t pretend to sound surprised. He frowns but doesn’t push you away like you thought he might’ve, instead he seems frozen in place and you don’t miss the blush beginning to trickle down his cheeks. “It’s okay.” You grab his fist hovering between you. “It’s okay.” You repeat and he looks at you then, wide eyes searching for something. Leaned in close you bring his hand up slow, up towards his lips parted around a whispered sound of protest.

“Is-isn’t this breaking a r-rule or something?”

He doesn’t curl his fingers away when you press them to his mouth, a long line of blood from his cupids bow to his chin. With your free hand you fumble with his belt and his pants, keeping his doe eyed gaze glued to yours.

“Your father walks in here without burning.”

Confusion has nestled its way into his features, eyes squinted at you until you wedge your hand in between thick fabric and hot skin. His gaze droops when you pull him free, mouth splitting open with a quiet gasp. You move then, sitting up on your knees to look down on him wanting and blooded, dragging your hands down his long arms along the back the of the pew outstretched to grip the hardwood with white knuckles. Fear, you think at first, from the wild print you’ve left on his face. Anxiousness maybe that he might be found like this, not just compromised but marked now, cut off from the flock finally.

“Gator…” You barely whisper and he’s chasing you upwards. Against the restraints of your hands on his wrists he pulls when your lips don’t descend to meet his.

A choked off whine, “Please.” His hips wiggle between your knees for some kind of friction, anything to get closer. “C’mon, come back.” He pleads through clenched teeth, tacky red turning matte on his full lips. It draws you back in and he smiles when you close the distance with a brush of a kiss, something light that makes him huff before you consume him.

He doesn’t taste like when you bite your cheek or suck on a paper cut. It’s a foreign taste on a familiar tongue, faint passion fruit from his habit and a metallic tinge that makes you groan into him. He feels good. Pinned like a fluttering moth looking for an escape, for a saving grace that he seems to find in your lips and the dip of your tongue. His breath comes in sharp puffs through his nose smushed against your cheek and again you hear him whine when you don’t let him raise his hands.

A shake of his head to break the kiss to get his point across to take a deep breath-

Outside there’s heavy footfalls on the old wooden steps. Both of you freeze like deer, your eyes trained on the heavy door and his boring through your chin, waiting to bolt at the first sign of discovery.

Muffled voices, a click of metal and your heart in your throat when this unsuspecting intruder has a change of pace. A muffled question. A pause. Quiet laughter and parting footsteps.

Your fingers simply drape and Gator takes the opportunity to surge into you. Hands grabbing at your hips to hold you closer, pushing you down on him. He guides himself in with his thumb, a quick brush over that ache of yours amplified through thrill and nature.

You miss him watching your face scrunch up in apprehension. Lips parted like his, pink lipstick smudged with blood, only you hiss out an “easy” that he answers with a shush. Lets his hands run back up under your dress to find his favorite little scar of ink, smearing red along the way. Almost dry now but his fingerprints in your mess between the two of you make him forget his reservations for a few minutes. He forgets the crowd outside and the house ten minutes away. Pushes the expectations away. He instead watches you relax into him, the way your hands unwind from his shirt only to feel them slide up behind his neck to wind back up in his hair. Your tongue rolls over your bottom lip before you bite down on a moan when he bucks his hips up gently.

This wet heat, new to him in this taboo, draws him in when you roll your hips in earnest suddenly. You’ve angled him to find that magic spot he’s usually still searching for by this point, your head rolling back on your shoulders to ride your knees raw against the wood. The deep heat of you almost scorches him, a small voice in the back of his thoughts reminding him of hellfire and naked founts.

“Fuck.” Said out loud in the hopes of chasing away a voice tinged with vitriol and a release of the climbing pleasure up his spine. You writhe in his lap and he gropes at your hips, slides long fingers down and under to grab at your thighs. Slick with sweat you slip in his grasp, heavy breaths blown over his locks when you finally reach behind him to hold onto the bench.

The open top of your dress brushes his face enough times he bites at the buttons, finally catching them between his teeth. Through his lashes he watches your face, glued to the peek of teeth behind your lips. The way you glitter in low light and muggy air. The dip of your collar bones when you roll your body into his and he can feel you tighten all around him, core and arms and air.

A not gentle hand suddenly wrapped around his jaw, fingers prodding into his mouth to hang and pull. Wandering lips messily find his own and then trail off over his cheek to end at his ear, your peak whined against him. Pulsing that makes him hold you closer so he can chase after you to find his own end.

He’s been on the precipice since you threw your coat on the ground and all it takes is a few gentle thrusts before he chokes on a groan and suddenly he feels bottomless. No floor, no bonfires, no congregants too close for comfort. Just your face in his neck and the shared messy warmth pressed between you two.

There’s a swing of headlights over the front of the chapel that breaks whatever tandem calm you two have created. Separated wordlessly with barely a glance at the extra mess, Gator quickly readjusts his pants and you snatch your coat on your way to the small ladies room in the foyer. More muffled voices tonight that intrude on your privacy while you scrub smudged lipstick off your face and rebutton your dress, jumping only a little when there’s a knock at the door.

“You fall in?” Your father jokes on the other side.

“Give me a minute!” You snap while trying to slide your underwear back on. A final look before you walk out to make sure the surface of you is presentable, no visible marks or smudges. Out in the entryway your father gestures at you to follow and Roy gives you too long of a look when he waves. You wonder if he can see it all over your face even though you scrubbed the evidence off. Wonder if he can smell it on you two like a predator sniffing out wounded prey.

Can he see your handprints all over his son? Invisible blood that marks him different now. The tang of sin sits all over your tongue and when you run it behind your teeth to savor you catch Gator staring again. Catch him watching your hands twist in your coat pockets and his eyes flit back up to your mouth. You can feel the faded touch of him worrying at your tattoo even across a courtyard.

“Hey Gator?” You holler at him while climbing into your father’s truck. “Don’t forget dinner.” A simple smile for him before you slam the door, a break in the tension and your phone is vibrating seconds later. You wait to look until your home but it still makes you laugh even when you’re starting your laundry.

Thank your mom for me.

#Gator Tillman #Gator Tillman Fic #Gator Tillman x Reader #My Fic #My Work #Gator Tillman Smut

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courtingchaos · 9 hours

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fire, baby love

pairing(s): eddie munson x gn!reader

summary: On Sundays, you and Eddie get high together. (aka, an old blurb i spruced up and put on AO3)

words: 1.1k

warnings: smut, body worship, blowjobs, ball play, high sex, substance abuse, smoking, just taking eddie apart and making him cry iykyk

It goes like this: on Sundays, you and Eddie get high together. You strip down, you lay around in his room while you have the place to yourselves, and you just indulge in everything, all at once. Usually, this leads to sex. Not always, but… well, you were hoping that it would today.

Like you couldn’t have planned it better, Eddie is totally naked and laid out on his bed. You’ve both smoked a bit (that new supply he got from Rick is supposed to be good stuff, and he wanted to try it out with you– and yes, it turned out to be very, very good), and he’s a little bit calm and content. And like clockwork, you’re straddling his thighs and letting your hands wander all over his chest, and he’s loving it. He loves the way that you always get a little bit handsy when you’re high, and you love the way his eyes go all glassy, and he watches you with this sort of dazed, wistful smile like he barely believes you’re real.

It’s easy to just turn your brain off and go with the flow. You trace your fingers over his tattoos, because you just love them so much. Dragging your nails through the dark hair on his chest and lightly down his ribs, he squirms a little bit because he’s ticklish there. He giggles a little, and blushes, but you find it so fucking adorable that you don’t even bother saying anything, you just lean forward and kiss him sweet and slow, because it’s what he deserves.

Meanwhile, your hands still drag lower and lower, until your fingers skim over the thatch of dark hair on his groin and his hips are trying to shift up, up, up, so that you’ll touch his cock. Eddie whines in the back of his throat, sounding petulant and uptight when you don’t, because his cock is so achingly hard for you and he needs it, “right fucking now, don’t you know that?”

You tsk at him, shaking your head just a bit, letting your nose just barely bump his. You’re not in a rush like he is, so you just skim your lips down his jaw and to his throat, leaving little kisses as you go like whispers on his skin. You want to take your time, want to worship his body and let him feel all the love you have for him.

Eddie squirms every time your lips plant a kiss, because he’s impatient as hell and not quite sure what you’re doing, what your end goal is, but he’s getting a little blissed out by all the attention. He’s so sweet like this, hissing when you dart your tongue out to trace one of his tattoos, and stuttering out a little, “Fuck, sweetheart, what’re you-?” in his raspy voice, thick from smoke and arousal.

“I just love your body, Eds,” you tell him. You keep moving down, your lips skimming across his skin and fingers dragging up his sides, making him twitch and groan.

Eddie’s hand finds the back of your head, fingers playing with your hair because he really doesn’t know what else to do with them– he’s curious to see where you’re going with this. You seem content to just mouth at his stomach, dipping your tongue out to lick at his skin every once in a while, and the heat and softness makes him moan.

And you do love his body, love having him completely naked like this so you can admire the softness of his stomach and the hair that trails down from his navel into the thatch at the base of his cock. It's like seeing a painting hidden away in a lesser known alcove of a museum, one that few people frequent so that the art is more intimate to you.

The lines of his hip bones dipping into a V that brings your attention down towards his cock, swollen and pink and pretty, the red tip leaking with pearly precum and curving up from his unruly curls, his balls resting heavy between his legs. You know how sensitive he is there, how he howls when you mouth at them the way you’ve been doing to the rest of him, and you think that he finally figures out your game when you drag your lips over his hip bone and skim around his cock.

“Wait wait wait, shit-” He doesn’t want you to wait, not really, he just has to prepare himself before you put your mouth on him. But you don’t give him the opportunity, and he just moans so brokenly when you wrap your lips around one of his balls, sucking gently and swirling your tongue, getting them wet just the way he likes. His eyes go wide a little too late, his body flushes and you know that he’s feeling pulses of heat surge just under his skin, his toes curling and legs twitching, like he’s already overstimulated and you just started.

“Hold still and be good for me, Eddie,” you tell him sweetly, giving one teasing lick to the base of his cock before you return to his balls.

He’s making pornographic little whimpers now that wouldn’t do anything to maintain his badass tough persona if anyone else were to hear them, but you love them because of it. You love that he’ll let you spread him open and see him laid bare like this, with his hands grasping at the sheets and at your head, trying to force you where he wants you but never quite getting you there.

Once he can’t hold still anymore and he starts bucking up into thin air, that’s when you move your tongue from his balls up the underside of his cock, and give a gentle suck just to the head, watching his sweaty chest heaving as he struggles to maintain his composure– there really isn’t much of it. Eddie looks gorgeous with his hair all damp and plastered to his forehead, his cheeks rosy and his eyes gone completely black with want, and you wish you had your camera with you so that you could snap a polaroid of him like this.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” you coo at him, and his brows furrow, in a disbelieving way that seems halfway to crying. It's equally heartbreaking and heartwarming, because you think he should have heard it more than he has, but you’re more than happy to make up for lost time.

So, when you suck his cock into your mouth, he loses that last little bit of composure, along with a few tears he was holding back.

#where the gif of that guy smoking at his computer #seriously #this cathartic you know?#damn #fic #nothing scratches and itch quite like body worship

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