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peachesofteal · 21 days

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ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here

Six thirty in the morning might be your favorite time of day.

It’s the before.

Before anyone else comes in, before the morning rush, before the chime of the front door’s bell, before the shop is filled with lines of people, before it all upends you.

At six thirty in the morning, you sit in the back, perched on the prep table, with a fresh cup of coffee. You leave the side door open, screen separating you from the world, fresh air mixing with the smell of strawberry basil scones, cinnamon coffee cake and mini kolaches, fruited with whatever jam you’ve managed to throw together. Steam rises, semolina spills, the sun dawns, and the world wakes… all well after you’ve had your breakfast.

This corner of the city is busy, and the shop always hums like a well-oiled machine in the dregs of a rush, the front counter team churning out specialty coffees and teas effortlessly. It’s cyclical, similar faces every day, morning commuters rushing in and out, locals settling in a nook with their laptops and lattes, people swinging in for a quick bite. You hide in the back, usually, elbow deep in sudsy warm water with your mountain of dishes, answering the occasional shout of 'do we have more of-' and 'just sold the last-'

This morning in particular, cranberry orange scones, pumpkin muffins and mini quiches are the only things left cooling on the speed racks, waiting patiently for their turn to be placed in the display case, an endless cycle of replenishment lasting until the rush dies down, morning fading into afternoon, triple shot monstrosities turning into decaf coffees.

It’s laborious, this routine. Five, six, sometimes seven days a week, going to bed with the sun, rising before it. Your wrists ache from rolling dough, cutting dough, scraping dough. Your back weeps when you lift the bowl from the mixer stand every morning, and your joints fare no better. You need new boots, and new insoles for your new boots, and probably a new standing mat, though you know your boss will never go for it.

You’re tired.

The exhaustion settles into your bones easily today, wearing you down until you’re allowing your eyes to close, wilting atop the butcher’s block-

The shop phone rings.

You heave yourself down and swing through the double doors to the front, scrambling for the classic corded receiver, nearly fumbling it in your hands.

“Hello?” Shit. You always forget to answer with the shop’s name. You’re not exactly the customer facing part of the operation. “Galaxy’s.” You correct and… wait.

There’s no response.

You think you can hear someone breathing, something rustling, but it’s too faint and difficult to make out.

“’Lo?” You try again, but still, there’s silence. It’s an unending moment, you on one end… who knows what on the other, and you hold your breath, straining to hear, to listen.

The line clicks dead in the next second.

Odd.

The shop girl is chewing gum.

You’ve told her a million times not to chew gum when she’s working the counter, but clearly, she’s never heard of norovirus, and you’re not the boss, or the owner, so being the broken record only gets you so far.

“There’s someone out front to see you.” She snaps it between her front teeth, and your molars grind together like stone.

“Who?” You toss a clean towel on the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen with a frown. You don’t really get visitors here, most of your friends are in the same industry, and either work the line too late to be up in time to even get coffee somewhere, or are already at work, buried beneath a bain-marie and the never-ending sound of a ticket printer.

There’s dried, caulked dough caked to your fingers, shoved up underneath your nails, and you brush them self-consciously against the ratty old apron stretched across your waist.

The surprise lingers on your tongue, and then explodes when you spot the massive dusky blonde from the other day, the one who was with the guy who split the coffee all over your favorite dress. He’s too tall, and too broad, and too imposing, everything in your sense of self-preservation screaming at you to run when he notices you approaching, gleam of a predator sparkling in his eyes.

Still, somewhere, tucked away, it thrills you, the idea of them, the balancing act, two halves of a whole. He’s etched from stone, strong and steady, while his partner is saporous, vibrant, and riotous, crystal blue eyes sparkling in the mid-day sun.

You wonder what they're like. What they talk about. What they do.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Your skin prickles once you fall into his orbit, immobilized by the molten toffee pooling around his irises. You float for a second, tracing his knife’s edged jaw, the fullness of his lips, imperfect pieces puzzled together to make a masterpiece, and then crash back to earth quickly, realizing you’re standing in front of him… staring.

“Uh. Hi.” What is he doing here? How did he know where to find you?

“Sorry to barge in on you at work.” He starts immediately, wallet appearing from his back pocket like a magic trick. “Wanted to make sure we settled up.” Thick fingers hold a folded nest of notes, and you stare down at them, slowly processing what he means.

Cash?

“Oh, I… I have… venmo. Or we could use apple pay, you didn’t have to come all the-“

“Don’t have venmo.” His mouth tilts, and you go with it, head listing to the side like a wayward buoy. “This is easier.” He pushes it into your hand, peeling your fingers back to enclose the money in your palm, heat sparking up your spine.

“How did you know where I worked?” You blurt, unable to keep it at bay any longer. The question singes, settles uncomfortably in the sparks between you.

“Saw you in the back yesterday, when we were in for a cuppa.” Oh. Suspicion sheds, snakeskin left behind on a cold, dusty trail, suspension of disbelief settling in the back of your mind. Sure. After all, this is where you ran into them last week, on your day off. They do come here.

“Well. Thanks.”

“It’s our pleasure. Hope the stain came out okay.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s… still at the cleaners.” This is absolutely false, but he doesn’t need to know that. The spare bills will probably go towards your energy bill, and the ruined dress will go in the trash.

It is what it is.

“Couldn’t help but notice when I was comin’ through the parking lot that the back door is open.” His voice swoops low, dropping into a rumble, and you blink, lips parting.

“Oh, um y-yeah. I like the breeze.” He shakes his head, a simple rejection, leaving you spinning.

“City’s not the safest right now, yeah?” Oh, yeah. Of course, you knew. Rival factions of organized crime were leaving a red sea of bodies in their wake all over town, a new murder popping up in the headlines nearly every week.

But you were safe. You were fine. Galaxy’s had never been stained with the bloody touch of any of them, and you took it as fact. Permanence.

You agree reluctantly, watching the storm clouds roil on across his expression before evaporating. You shrug, hands clutched in your apron, doubt and skepticism clear on your face.

His expression shutters. His eyes turn cold.

His thumb and forefinger dart through the air, latching onto your chin.

You freeze. You should tug away, jerk backwards, yell and scream and hiss, but all you can do is stand there, caught in a trap and trembling as he leans forward to murmur in your ear.

“Lock the door, little doe.”

#peaches writes #guess the au?#ghoap x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #still written on the phone so #mind the mistakes

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heavenlyhischier · 1 month

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‘𝐌𝐲 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝’ - 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫

word count: 0.8k

summary: you do the ‘call your boyfriend your husband and get his reaction’ trend.

warnings: none! short and sweet. mostly dialogue. it's just cute!

You were scrolling through Tiktok as Nico watched whatever film he needed to for their upcoming game when you got the idea. The trend had appeared a few times on your for you page already, and the thought popped into your head each time, but you were always at work and by the time you got home, you’d forgotten about it. It was harmless and simple, but it was also cute and fun.

You turned your phone off and left it on the coffee table as you approached Nico from behind, wrapping your arms around his front as you leaned on him. He lifted one of his hands to rub the skin of your arm as he turned towards you and gave you a lazy smile. You delicately pressed your lips to his own for a fleeting moment before you pulled away.

“Can we go to that coffee shop down the street,” You ask, your lips turning upwards, “They got a few new drinks I want to try with you!”

Nico couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched your face light up with excitement, but he was quick to agree. The two of you are on your way to the local shop down the road after Nico had paused his game and the both of you slipped on your shoes. He always let you pick the music when you were riding in the car with him, but you always slipped in songs you noticed he’d been listening to recently and it always made him smile. When you had gotten the drinks, one for each of you, you sat back in the car and tried to set your phone up to film.

“What are you doing,” Nico shakes his head as your phone falls for the third time. He picks it up from his floor board and manages to balance it on his dashboard with the help of a half-drunk water bottle.

“Videoing,” You playfully roll your eyes, “I’m going to post it for this trend that I saw!”

“Okay, schatzi,” He laughs before he relaxes in his seat, watching as you reach for your phone to press the red record button.

“Okay, so my husband and I are going to be trying these new drinks from a little coffee shop in the city,” You begin, doing your best to keep your focus on the screen and your face neutral, but the way the word flows so naturally off your tongue makes you blush.

The use of the word ‘husband’ catches Nico off guard, but he quickly recovers and he can’t stop the smile from forming on his face. He’s only looking at you as you continue talking for a little bit, his eyes wide and adoration. He doesn’t care if it was a simple slip of the tongue, it makes warmth spread in his chest all the same when the word tumbled from your lips.

“First we have the cinnamon bun frappe, so my husband is going to try it and let us know what he thinks,” You grin as you take the cup from its holder and turn to Nico, “It’s not what he usually gets because he thinks it’s too sweet, but he’s going to try it for us right?”

He has a flustered look on his face, his cheeks red and eyes crinkled as he takes the drink from your hands, “Yeah, of course I am.”

He glances away from you and takes a small drink from the straw, his features slightly scrunching from the sweetness of the drink. He lets his gaze flicker over to you and he does his best to look like he enjoyed the sugary drink you mistook for a coffee, but he failed miserably. You giggled as you watched him forcefully swallow the small sip he had taken before looking back at your phone.

“Okay, so that one is not husband approved,” You point out as you let out a small laugh, listening to the way Nico shuffles in his seat so his body is angled towards you.

“Are you saying that on purpose,” He asks, raising his brows when you catch his eye.

“Saying what,” You feign confusion, slightly tilting your head as you bite back a smile of your own.

“Husband,” He smugly smiles as he leans over the center console, “I’m not complaining. I love it actually.”

You watch as he gets closer to you, your body instinctively leaning towards his own like he was your own gravitational pull. His eyes briefly flicker down to your lips as the two of you wait for the other to diminish the small distance between you. You let out a sigh as he reaches a hand over to cup the back of your head, his thumb massaging your scalp.

“Do you really,” You whisper, nudging his nose with your own as you ghost your lips over his.

“Yeah, I really do. Can’t wait until it’s reality one day.”

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nico hischier blurb #new jersey devils

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zabaniyas · 2 years

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got disappointing take out

try to make food at home, someone got da wrong brand of tortillas

#ITS NOT HARD TO REMEMBER THE BRAND! ITS THE LOCAL ONE !!! THEYRE SOFT AND PERFECT #THIS SHIT IS DRY AND SAD ITS NOT A TORTILLA IS BARELY A FOODS #IT DOESNT EVEN ROLL WITHOUT TEARING HOW THE FUCK #EVEN BUTTER AND CINNAMON CANNOT SAVE THIS SHIT

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ac3may · 4 months

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"One of us"

(Lando Norris x Fem!Reader)

F1 Requests = Open

It's a little later than I'd like it but here's a little Christmas something, something to kick off my F1 content.

Also first proper SMAU, how'd I do??

Description: "Reader joins the Norris family for their Christmas celebrations and realises just how much they mean to her through a few short days"

Masterlist

Who I Write For

Words: 1.8k

UrUsername has posted a story

“UNCLE LALA!”

A bright smile spreads across your boyfriend's face as he catches the small bundle of energy catapulting herself toward him. Mila’s legs fly behind her as he spins and she relishes in her uncle's attention.

Smiling softly at the sight, the Christmas lights decorating his parent's country home glisten in the background. You begin unloading your suitcases from the car as tiny footsteps and little giggles disappear across the sprawling gravel driveway.

Soon enough Lando’s arms sneak around your waist, halting any attempt at movement. “I can do that, Lovey.” His lips pepper kisses to your hairline as he inches you aside gently.

“I can help too,” you insist, stubborn words contrasting your actions as you grin at the roll of eyes and scoff he returns.

“You know that’s not how this works baby.”

Smirking a little to yourself you resign yourself to watching happily. The Christmas jumper spread taught across his back, muscles rippling through the knitwear as he works. Catching his eye with a wink when he turns.

When you pull yourself from focusing on the handsome man you begin working in tandem, unloading his packed SUV of presents and suitcases for your week ahead.

UrUsername posted on instagram

UrUsername: Ski trip? Completed it✔️ Bring on Norris family xmas '24

The home that greets you is warm, the air scented with a glorious mix of gingerbread and cinnamon. You manage a single step through the front door before Cisca immediately fusses over you.

Exchanging hugs, collecting coats and ignoring her son entirely. Which has you giggling as he huffs and grumbles behind you.

Further down the hallway Adam and Oli have gathered, baby Athena resting peacefully in her grandfather's arms. They let out much fuller laughs at your boy as the Belgian woman continues to dot on you.

Your hands emptied and you're ushered towards her daughters (and daughter-in-law), all watching on in amusement, hot drinks in hand.

Lando has lugged both of your large suitcases inside and is midway kicking off his shoes when his mother finally turns to him. A sassy remark falls from his lips as he embraces her tightly, a loving grin on his lips as he catches your gaze over her shoulder.

'I love you,' your lips form the words silently as you mouth your affections, and he returns the silent words as you're both swept in different directions. The Norris women surround you and drag you further into the open-plan kitchen, pressing a warm mug into your hold, desperate to hear all about the ski trip you had recently returned from. Meanwhile, Mila hurricanes into the entryway gaining the full focus of the Norris men. Cisca stands back, admiring her family finally gathered together under one roof.

lando.jpg posted on instagram

lando.jpg: 🦌☃️❤️

After a big family breakfast and a long thirty-minute attempt at getting the entire family out the door, you were squished in Lando’s backseat between his sisters. You had given up your passenger princess privileges so Adam could sit up front with his son. Who had adamantly refused to give up the control of driving to ride in his parent's backseat. The rest of the Norris clan follows behind you in Savannah’s car.

In following family tradition you’d all decided to spend Christmas Eve in the local town. You were beyond excited to see the small countryside town your boyfriend had been raised in.

Festivities were in full swing when you arrived. You were quickly informed that it was the last day of the holiday market, which annually caused the whole community to gather and have a collective celebration. With Lando’s hand wrapped warmly around yours, you gazed around in awe.

Music was playing from speakers throughout the small village of stands, all set up by local businesses. There was even a small petting zoo and stable where families gathered for a chance to meet donkeys, sheep, goats, chickens, and even reindeer.

What took your breath away though was the big, bushy, towering tree standing in the centre of the town square, draped in lights and baubles, a gold glowing star shining on top.

“Woah.”

You breathe the word almost silently, catching Lando’s attention his head turns to eye you adoringly. “Pretty, huh?” He offers, giving a squeeze to your hand.

You nod in return, childlike glee shining in your eyes as you peer up at him. Giggles escape as he enjoys your joy, tugging lightly to pull you with him into the maze of festive joy in front of you.

savnorris reposted UrUsername's story

The sun begins to dip beyond the horizon as the family gathers together, you among them. Empty hot chocolate cups littering the table in front of you. Mila perches on your lap, both tiny hands wrapped protectively around the carrot she had spent seven minutes meticulously picking. She had spent the whole time excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide, as she anticipated providing the treat for Santa’s reindeer that evening.

Despite the light tickles you leave up and down the sides of the tiring girl in your hold your focus is towards the curly-haired boy across from you. His attention is captured by the youngest Norris, little giggles escaping her as he pulls faces and blows raspberries against her rosy cheeks.

Moments later collective cheering distracts you and all heads turn towards the stage which has stood empty all day. The town band now stand upon it, jingle bells sounding as they begin to play. Folk around you start to dance and sing away. A bright smile beams across your face and the little girl in your arms perks up as well, jumping to her feet in front of you.

“Tee! Tee! Dance with me!” With her calling out for her aunts you direct your attention to the stage, but only for several seconds before an insistent hand is tugging at yours. “Tee! Tee! Dance!”

You look around for Flo or Cisca before your eyes meet back with the small ones honed on you, “… me?” You ask the girl, pointing at yourself, confusion laced in your tone.

“Duh!” You see your boyfriend in her at her sassy remark, feeling another impatient tug on your fingers. Scrambling over your shock you scramble to your feet, taking both tiny hands in your own as you jump, twirl, giggle and sing with the two-year-old.

Collapsing heavily onto the sofa beside you Lando grumbles, dramatically clutching at his stomach.

“I. Am. Stuffed.” He declares, shuffling around to get comfortable before draping his limbs around you lazily.

You laugh at the boy as he clutches to you like a child, still wiggling into the perfect position. He continues to groan in frustration before huffing and forcing your hand upon his head. “Scratch.” He demands.

Internally you can’t help but be amused and a little enamoured with his sass, loving his clingy moods and the fact he’s so comfortable with you in front of his family.

But outwardly you quirk an eyebrow, Lando puffs his lips into a pout giving you big puppy eyes as he adds a soft, “please,” to his sentence.

A little laugh escapes you and you concede easily to his wishes, watching the immediate way his face relaxes.

The TV plays low in the background as the family slowly filters through to join you lounging in the living room. Mila plays with a collection of toy cars on a mat in the middle of the carpet as you speak in soft tones with Flo and Oli as their brother dozes in your lap.

The matriarch of the family is the last to enter through the door of her living room, arms stacked high with gifts.

Adam jumps from the armchair he’d claimed, quick to help his wife with the wobbling pile. She smiles gratefully and leaves again only to reappear moments later with two boxes and a second stack.

Hearing the crinkle of paper your boyfriend's eyes flutter open and his head perks up, swivelling to face his parents as they distribute packages to the occupants around the room.

“Christmas Eve packages,” Lando informs you, “my parents have done them ever since we were kids, usually something matching just to ‘get us in the spirit’,” his explanation finishes with finger quotations, his reaction speed only barely quick enough to catch the present launched towards his face in the process.

“And this one’s for you darling,” Cisca’s motherly tone reaches you and her warm eyes meet yours. She hands the gift to you a loving smile on her face, one you recognise all too well from the way you saw it mirrored on Lando’s daily. Watching the shy smile that plays on your lips as you flip the parcel over in your hands Lando can’t help but press a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re one of us now baby,” he grins, noticing the surprise tracing your features. His grin morphs into a smirk as a thought flicks through his head.

Linking your fingers together he raises them up. Lips brushing against your ring finger, “only thing left now is for me to put a ring on it.”

UrUsername posted on instagram

UrUsername: holiday dumps do it better🎄✨

“Hey, bubs?”

Lando hums in response, snuggling his nose further into your neck, as if he could get any closer. His position already left half your body smothered by him. Carding your fingers rhythmically through his dark hair you continue, your voice gentle, unwilling to break the peaceful bubble you’d created within his childhood bedroom.

“Thank you.”

His head pulls back from you, yours tilting down to meet his eyes. Lando rolls off of you but still manages to create no distance as he props himself on his side. “What for Lovey?”

Your eyes roam down his, now bare, chest to spy his plaid pyjama trousers as you are flooded with the recollection of your evening. Of how only hours before you had watched him stubbornly argue against the matching nightwear until you batted your eyes at him. Of the teasing he’d received for the quick dissolve of his resolve. Of Mila’s excitement as she placed her carefully selected carrot beside the cookies you’d helped her bake. Of Lando’s boyish grin as you dusted the crumbs of said cookies from his chin several hours later. Of the giggles shared over glasses of mulled wine and tipsy twister once the young ones were sound asleep.

“For everything,” you eventually respond, “for inviting me to spend the holidays with you, for your family accepting me, for you loving me, for everything.” The twinkle of love in your eye shines brightly, and is returned in his as he sees the emotion take hold of you.

“You never need to thank me for loving you, Y/N L/N. It’s an honour in itself for you to allow me the pleasure of loving you. And my family agree.” His palm raises to cup against your cheek, fingers tucking a few rogue strands of hair behind your ear as his lips tenderly meet yours, plushy and perfect.

(All pictures taken from Pinterest and edited for story purposes and fan consumption)

#ace writes stuff #f1 x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 smau #smau #f1 smau #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris smau #f1 imagine #christmas imagine #christmas smau

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wroteclassicaly · 3 months

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Sit Down

(Gator Tillman x Female Reader)

Summary: Maxed out on stress, Gator is tired of you. And of course, he thinks he’s developed the perfect suggestion.

Warnings: Language, NSFW, smut, rough sex, vaginal sex, some heavy petting, biting w/ a little blood, slight breeding kink towards the end, & some fluffy comfort. That’s about it!

Word count: 2,849

Pairings: Gator Tillman x Female Reader

A/N: I’ve been stressed out and everything, and I’ve been daydreaming all day of getting my brain shut off by Gator like this. It’s porn without plot, so I hope y’all enjoy? ❤️

You didn’t smile at him, didn’t accept his fruitless jokes or quirky mannerisms. He tried to toss his half of the insults that you both usually hurl at one another, but nothing. It left a bitter bite on his tongue and a sucker punch to his guts. He’s embarrassed he even tried to converse with you. Balancing the local bank bordered pen between his thumb and pointer finger, Gator Tillman taps it against chipped desk wood, blowing a hot breath from between his winter chapped lips.

He can’t take it any longer, especially when you slam your purse down on the counter of your desk cubicle and insult the entirety of the precinct. His desk chair’s springs hinge underneath his weight, and he throws it forward to stride to you on faded snow covered combats. Elongating his leather clad arm, he watches his own thick fingers pinch your shoulder blade to get your attention and direct you towards him. He’s normally not this public with his reactions in regards to you, but you're under his skin, you’re inside of him more than he finds himself buried deep within you. It’s a given this was bound to break his reverie.

Your brows nearly meet in anger, creating a crease he fights to kiss off. He’s pissed, he has to let that lead right now. He can see your heavy breaths beneath the crinkle in your overcoat, your heaving breasts covered by a satin, blood red blouse that you’re wearing today. You don’t dare move, but wait. He likes this.

Your nostrils are brimmed with the hot cinnamon spice of the aftershave that’s wrapped around his neck, licking his jawline. You follow those freckles that wind around his jugular, single out those moles, all the way to his pretty pink mouth as it separates and begins to command you in a voice so deep it rattles your ribcage from a startled heartbeat. Pulsing, thumping, pounding, leaving muscles sore and aching.

“Get your ass out to my squad car! I need to have a talk with you.”

“No.” You spit, looking up at him, watching his adam’s apple bob from a jagged swallow. Did he expect that? He knows your mouth has a doctorate in back talking.

Your energy, your stress, it all piles into combat mode and it pushes against you, leaving you whimpering to its orders. You let it guide you, piss you off.

“You like havin’ a job to pay your rent?” It’s condescending, knowing what it can do, his tone is ever so present. Abusing his power just the way that you fuckin’ like it.

Here we go, the give and take that’s finally broken all boundaries, publicized whatever your relationship with Roy Tillman’s son is.

Your jaw clicks and you lick the roof of your mouth. “M’ pretty sure I can find another place to lay down my head at night, Sheriff.”

He can barely stand how the anger burns from his toes and electrifies his neck’s nape. He can’t see through its aftershocks, rolling forward and landing back on heavily booted heels. He fully clasps your shoulder now, leaving no room for another choice. You’re out the door first, the faux fur on your snowshoes dusted in the white powder, sludge scrambled beneath your heavy footfalls, Gator’s right behind yours. The cruiser is off to the side of the building today, shimmering beneath the wintery condensation, scoped out by the buttery glow of a Midwestern, countryside sun.

You hear the automatic lock release, and resist the urge to call him a good little boy. You’d chastised him for leaving a police vehicle, something that a Tillman drives — unlocked. He listened. You peel open the passenger door, a bit tough due to freezing conditions. Ice chips shred themselves and shake loose of the door, melting as they pelt your boots. Gator has a white knuckled grip on the driver’s door, standing opposite, a cold smoke cloud trickling off his mouth, his mossy eyes having evaporated into a midnight black.

You climb into the cold expanse of the car and slam your door with purpose, sealing your paced fate. You don’t turn as he leans down to look into the car, or even as he joins you and cranks the engine for some heat. His benefit beyond your own. There’s a few wrappers, however, that you do notice when you glance across the dashboard.

This is the thoughtful pause where your tongue feels heavy, legs a deadweight, yet lighter than a feather. Your body reacting to Gator while your mind becomes caged to his capture, and he’s the only one with the key. He’s the first one to react today, again. The sound is one you’ll never tire of hearing, saliva pooling on your tongue as he peels back the leather from his belt buckle and it clatters apart, giving him room to undo his jeans entirely. He gives halt to his actions and snaps his fingers in your direction.

“Look at me.”

Your knees knock together and it causes a smirk to tug on the corner of his beautiful mouth. He’s got one hand, a watch wrapped wrist - deep into his underwear, sliding his hand back and forth, squeezing, preparing, and levels you to the seat with that gaze that reaches, that cradles beneath his eyebrows, bringing them into focus. When he’s got you tangled into his trap, he grits his teeth as he struggles to free himself, his fingertips only grazing around the beautiful girth you’re once again gifted privy to personal indulgence with.

Cocky. He’s fed and greedy. “Oh yeah, you want this, huh? You can be the biggest bitch in Stark County and I’ve still got somethin’ you want, that no one else can ever give you. Ain’t that right, baby?”

You don’t verbalize, it’s pointless. Tears blurring your vision, burning into the ducts. You need him, you always do. He fixes you, even when he breaks you, puts you back together when he’s the one who's pulling everything apart.

“Get over here, quick, pretty baby.” A compliment and it has you crawling across the console and right into his lap, his cock jumping, smacking against that plain black t-shirt he’s wearing beneath his jacket, when your warmth is above him.

He doesn’t touch you yet, his spare hand tight on his holster and the other on his cock. You can feel its thickness scraping against you, and he grins, tapping the weapon. “Not like you’ve cared before when I wear this when I’m inside. Think that you like wonderin’ if I was smart enough to remember the safety, don’t ya?”

You start to say something, and he removes the gun and places it where you were sitting moments ago. No more crackling plays. He’s ready. That massive palm drifts in between your legs and wiggles around to find the hem of your work skirt, bringing it up and ordering you to hold onto it. The moment that you do, it’s an audible growl that festers from his throat, birthed in his diaphragm. He’s seen your situation through the sheer tights that you’re wearing, in addition to the massive wet patch that’s stained the seam.

“Where’s your fuckin’ panties?”

“Forgot to do the laundry. Sue me.” And he would on the spot, give you a sentence, a ticket, something. The way he’s looking at you when you permit your eyes to meet. That amber ring is completely engulfed in the vast expanse of his orbs.

“You’ve just been walkin’ around like this?”

“Looks like.” You sass, hands trembling to hold up your skirt, especially when he lets go of his cock and uses both hands to demolish the crotch of your stockings, fabric ripping down to your inner thighs, leaving you swollen and bare for him.

Vulnerable. Ready to have your worries shut off and be put aside. He leans up and you meet, his nose mashing into yours, lips shaping over your own, caressing, yet not meeting.

“Sit down.” He commands, and spits a clean line of saliva into his own palm, tucking it between your legs and rubbing.

You disobey instruction and sway forward, knuckle bones cracking as you fist your grip into the shoulders of his leather jacket, its echoing crinkle roaring in your ears with the static blood rush. Your lips part and it’s a trembling whine that escapes. Gator is elated, using his calloused digits to separate you messily, slapping once, twice. You jump, back smashing into his steering wheel and laying on the horn. He chuckles, uncaring now. It’s feeding season and he’s here to claim.

“Goddamned pathetic mess, aren’t you? Like a lost doe waiting on her buck to take the lead. You just needed me to fix everything you’ve been goin’ through, right?”

He craves to be your antidote, the only prayer you pray, even when you’re not on your knees for him, but at your bedside, and your sole place of worship. He knows that his home lies inside of you — warm and safe, all abandoned and found. He’s gripping his cock to hold for you, waiting, letting his sopping wet fingers leave a webbed string from your cunt to the digits, to which he takes greedily into his mouth and sucks. You’re on him completely within a flash, that fat head putting a welcomed pressure on the damp ring of muscle that beckons him a little deeper, gets off on the pain his size is about to bring. You tighten your grip on his jacket, rolling it back off his shoulders to slide your hands beneath and grip the fabric of his t-shirt.

His toes curl in his boots and he shifts, letting his heels roll back to assist him in a raise of his muscular legs as he pushes hard and fast, his wrapped hand meeting your folds in a sticky press. He lets go to grasp at your waist, keeping you steady and still. You fall into his neck, thighs shaking so hard that it causes him to practically vibrate, choking on the quaking. It’s a few moments that he gives you before he’s fetching you by the back of the neck and dragging you from the dotted crevice where you’d begun your quest to kiss those freckles and moles painted into his skin. This is how he holds you, irises matching to meet, your hips rolling to a rhythm that this amount of limited space can barely accommodate, with his fingers squeezing your neck, keeping it propped, adjusting your head when it lolls back.

He grows impatient within the next few movements, gritting his milky whites, pawing at your heavy coat, moving it to get to your clothing beneath to rip your blouse, buttons pinging all over, bouncing from the crystal windshield and onto the dash. Hell, you were sure one made it past the cage divider and into the backseat. Your bra cups are pushed beneath your tits and exposing your nipples to the change in temperature, which Gator immediately takes advantage of. Slapping each swell before taking a nipple between his lips and flicking his tongue to overstimulate you, getting you to move yourself a little faster over him, drawing his heavy balls just a little tighter. And then he’s letting himself steer it in reverse to watch you take what he’s giving.

He knows it hurts, a boastful pride that’s also made him bashful at times, surprisingly. But you’re taking him, riding him, holding onto his shoulders as your perfect tits bounce with every movement. There’s not enough room in here, it’s cramped, smelling of sex and faded fast food wrappers, but Gator doesn’t give two flying fucks. Your clit drags across that patch of hair at his base, smearing your thick cream down his shaft when he pulls out to push back in, and it has you begging him to hurt you some more.

His spare hand goes for the plush of your waist, and he gives a vice pressure, his boots leaving the floor as he gives you all he’s got, his cock colliding with that diabolically delicious spot inside. “How about that?” He’s panting.

You tighten around him, flooding him, jaw becoming unhinged to let your tongue roll out, licking your lips, your eyes glazed over. You reach for his hold on your neck, holding onto his wrist. And your other hand ventures into purchase, your body pressing forward, flipping his shirt up enough to press your breasts into those tufts of chest hair, your mouth finding his neck and you lick away that aftershave soaked perspiration, all the way from his gulping jugular, tasting his overworked breaths, to going across his jawline, and you nose your way into the overpowering smell of his hair product, your hand bypassing his chest and sliding between his slicked back locks, shaking them into a disarray, yanking so hard that he hisses, “You fuckin’ bitch. You know how much I hate that.”

But he doesn’t. He can fix his hair. And his pathetic cock pulses inside of you, letting you know that he’s close, so fucking close that his goddamned throat is on fire with it. You’re too brainless to make a sassing remark, that tightening in your belly beginning to take hold. Gator steps in to save, witty on encouragement.

“Soaking my fuckin’ dick. Think you’re about to cum for me, baby. Should I let you ride it out? You gonna talk back to me when we’re out of this car in a few minutes?” He cuts himself off, gasping into the kiss you steal.

You’re nodding, unsure of what you’re answering. You just know that if you don’t have your release that you’re going to tip off the precipice and shatter. Gator takes your warning, closes his palm over the back of your neck, and begins to piston his hips until the car starts to rock and you’re both unsure who’s making what noise. Your eyes roll back and he jerks you forward, keeping your beautiful chest-full against him, high on the stimulation. His nose is shoved in your cheekbone and he’s kissing you messily, your slick noisy and loud, embarrassing and overwhelming.

Gator bites down so hard on your bottom lip that you taste copper. He automatically licks it up. He fuckin’ loves it when he can make you bleed and tend to it. You’re crying, holding onto his hand around your neck, hand falling from his hair and onto his naked waist. All you get out is one word. “Please.”

“Fuck yeah, baby. You wanna cum all over my cock? Gonna let me fill up your worthless little cunt?”

That dam breaks and cracks at your foundation, flood gates exploding, Gator’s thrusts sounding wetter and messier. You know it’s happening before he does, uncaring how messy it is when it spurts from where you’re joined, drenching that connected trail of hair around his navel, matting back his bush with a translucent shine. His head thumps back against the seat and he swallows, crying out, “Oh, fuck. Good girl, fuckin’ mess me up.” He’s stroking, fondling your neck.

And then you’re taking the finality of his uncoordinated movements, his eyes connecting with yours once more, grip tighter on your neck, fingers laced with yours, other hand reaching for a breast, letting his fingertips tap down your sternum and press you apart to see himself engulfed in your cunt. He’s lifting his calloused thumb against your clit, blood smeared mouth kissing around the corners of your own. “Want you to do it again. Spill all over my lap and I’ll fill you so full that this town won’t have to wonder who put a baby in your belly. They’ll fuckin’ know.”

He’s got you so full on the next push that you lose your breath and give him what he wanted faster than you could’ve anticipated, the surprise of his words coursing through your every connected vein. Your body belongs to him, obeys, another layer dousing him. And he makes good on his promise, seconds later, whimpering, all the tendons in his throat tightening, his pupils expanding, and he’s brimming your insides with warmth, hips stuttering, movement fizzling out, holding against you as his orgasm completely drains him. You encourage him, you thank him, words jumbled. He’s seeking you out, forever needing solace and approval after it’s this intense (and it usually is).

He kisses your mouth, wettened, flat presses, his tongue licking inside as his hands move to hold onto the fat of your breasts. On the break away, he’s nosing you, an act of reserved affection. It’s all better now.

After you’d ran some gas out and redressed in a comfortable silence, wiping yourselves down with the console napkins Gator keeps — he’d voiced his opinions from earlier, trying to mask the concern but failing miserably.

“Everything is okay though, right? Nothin’ we can’t handle?”

We.

You smile at him, adjusting your skirt over the ruins of your tights, both of you aware that you’ll be completely bare for the rest of your shift.

“Turns out that all I needed to do to feel a little better, was to ‘sit down’.”

// Eat me paragraph //

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