pairing: steve harrington/f!reader
wc: 1700
tags: fluff, a little angst, established relationship, accidental pregnancy
a/n: for @cpnsteverogers. the direct follow-up to this fic which i've been kind of saying is 1995-adjacent and now am just officially adopting it into the series. i do recommend reading that before reading this, as it gives the background for what's going on here.
&&
You straightened up suddenly, stark expression meeting you in the mirror’s reflection. You met your own eyes, narrowing them, brow furrowing as you thought. Thought back, thought hard. You tipped your chin to the side as water dripped down onto the old t-shirt you were wearing, face wet from rinsing it after you washed it before bed.
Steve was in the bedroom just across the hall, reading before you both turned in for the night.
But you were thinking. Because by your count, something was off that very much should not be.
“Steve?” you called, and because he was reading and you knew it wrapped him up, it took him a minute to respond. You tapped the pads of your fingers on the vanity around the bathroom sink while you waited for him to finish the sentence (or, more likely, paragraph since it took longer than just a few moments).
“Yes, babe?” he asked. You heard the bedframe creak a little as he very obviously got up to come talk to you.
“What day is it?” you asked.
You heard his shuffling footsteps over the bedroom carpet, and then the quiet slaps as he crossed the wood laminate of the hall.
“Uh, Tuesday,” he said, peering around the doorjamb of the bathroom, one hand wrapped around it, just his arm and face visible as he popped his head in.
“No, I mean一the date.”
You kept your eyes on yourself even as Steve stepped fully into the bathroom, because you were clearly distressed about something, eyes darting all over your own face in the mirror.
“The 6th,” he said, moving behind you, studying you in the mirror as his hands moved to hold your shoulders. “Are you ok? What’s wrong? You’re dripping water everywhere.”
It was one of your pet peeves一the bathroom being sloppy and waterlogged一and he’d learned to wipe up after himself whenever he shaved. So you allowing the aftermath of your face-washing to spatter the sink with water was… well, not concerning but strange.
“I’m, um,” you said, almost wondering if you were just overreacting, if you shouldn’t say anything and make Steve worry too. But all you could think about was that night a handful of weeks ago when you’d acted out your brilliant idea to pretend not to know each other and pretend to meet each other and pretend to cheat on each other and you’d come out with the brilliant question “Does your wife let you fuck her without a condom?” and even though Steve had said no and you were Steve’s wife, you still let him fuck you without a condom.
You didn’t think it could happen this fast. Didn’t think it would一what?一take? Jesus Christ.
“Babe,” Steve said, rubbing at your shoulders now, his brow knitted together just like yours, and now he was concerned, because you were something, and you weren’t telling him what. “Babe, what is it?”
“I’m一I was supposed to get my period last week,” you said.
His hands stopped moving.
“Ok,” Steve said. “Ok, well一you’ve一been late before. Work’s been really stressing you out lately, right?”
“Not this much,” you said. “I’ve never been this late. Not a whole week. If it happens it’s just a couple days.” You looked up at him in the mirror.
And you could see there, somewhere behind the fear and the nerves, was a spark of joy. Steve had always wanted a family一a big one一but you weren’t sure that you had the finances or the organization to figure out the finances you weren’t sure you had. But the choice may have been made for you.
“Do you have a test?” he asked.
You grabbed the hand towel to dry your face, though it had mostly drip-dried by now. You covered your face with the towel, rubbing at your cheeks with both hands, your eyes especially. You weren’t crying, but you were emotional about this. You weren’t ready. Steve was. Were you? Was he, really? Were you (collectively) ready for this? You were. Maybe. What if you were but Steve wasn’t? What if Steve was but you weren’t? What if you both were but couldn’t swing it with money? Babies were expensive. Doctors, hospitals, time off work一that all cost you money.
“You’re going a mile a minute,” Steve said, spinning you around to face him, your backside against the sink now.
He always knew. He could read you without even seeing your face.
You lowered the towel. “No, I don’t have a test.” Why would you have a test? This wasn’t something you’d planned for.
“Ok,” Steve said, rubbing your arms again, lower, off your shoulders. “Well一we can’t do anything about it now. It’s late.”
You nodded. He was right. Everything was closed; it was almost 11PM.
“Let’s get some sleep,” Steve said, wrapping his arms around you, hugging you close. You let him, your hands still clinging to the towel pressed to his chest. He kissed your temple, lips tickling the shell of your ear as he kissed you there too. “I’ll go tomorrow morning to get one. Ok?”
You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. This was something you had wanted to discuss with him, to decide to do, to have doctor’s appointments together and figure out your fertile window and when you were ovulating and tell people you were trying and now all of that was taken away because you’d made a split-second decision to let him come inside of you and you just didn’t think it could happen that fast. You just didn’t think.
“Sweetheart,” Steve said, his voice soft and tender and calling you the name he only used when he knew you needed the gentleness. “This is good. Right? This is great.”
You looked up at him. “Yeah?”
Steve’s expression stayed mostly stoic, but you could tell he was holding himself back from smiling. He wasn’t worried about any of the things you were, probably hadn’t thought of any of them. He was just happy. He was letting himself be happy.
“Yes,” Steve said, lowering his mouth to yours, kissing you, lips lingering. Your fingers dug into his shirt around the towel you still held, and after a moment he stepped back, tossed the towel onto the countertop, turned the light off, and led you to bed.
&&
True to his word, Steve was out and back from the pharmacy before you even opened your eyes. You heard him puttering around in the kitchen, smelled the coffee he was brewing, and when you rolled out of bed and crossed the hall to step into the bathroom, you saw the box on the counter, where he’d thrown the towel the night before.
You stared it down as you brushed your teeth and swished mouthwash, but you were about to burst so you decided you’d put it off for as long as you could. You glanced at the door to make sure it was locked一something you had never worried about before, but right now wanted, because you needed to be alone for this.
You pulled the pregnancy test out of the box and read the instructions three times, standing in the middle of your bathroom, before you just bit the bullet. You reached under the sink for another little paper cup you used for mouthwash, sat on the toilet, and then perched the now filled cup on the edge of the sink with the test in it, angled to the side like a jaunty reminder of how your life might be about to change. You stared at it, then removed it after you’d estimated the time the instructions had told you passed.
You balanced the test on the empty box, washed your hands, and peeked at the test, but there were no results showing yet一it had been like, thirty seconds.
Suddenly, you realized一you didn’t want to be alone for this. You shouldn’t be. It was stupid to be.
“Steve,” you called, a note of panic in your voice because you didn’t want him to miss any part of this (except the peeing in a cup part, that was fine).
This time, he didn’t respond verbally; you just heard his footsteps treading down the hall as you unlocked the bathroom door and opened it just as he arrived.
His eyes landed on you, then flicked to the test, then back to you, but you shook your head一then realized that may not indicate what you wanted it to.
Speaking quickly, you said, “I just did it. We have to wait”一you checked the instructions一“a few minutes.”
“Ok,” Steve said, looking over your shoulder at the test again, before bringing his gaze back to your face. His eyes softened when he looked at you. “Whatever it says, it’s ok. Either way. It’s not good or bad, it just一is what it is.”
You swallowed. “Will you be upset if it’s not?”
“No,” Steve said. “No, absolutely I would not be upset. This一isn’t just about me. I want what you want.”
You nodded. “Ok.” You paused. “I don’t know what I want.”
Steve didn’t hesitate even a second一he pulled you to him, your cheek against his chest, and kissed the top of your head before resting his chin on it as he spoke. “We’ll figure it out together. Everything we do from here on out, we’ll figure out together. Like we always have. Right?”
“Right,” you said, and let him hold you as you counted the seconds and breathed in the scent of him, coffee and sleep and a little touch of the cigarette that he’d probably smoked on the way to the shop that you’d be scolding him to quit if the test turned out the way you hoped it did.
Oh. You hoped it did. That was… a development.
When you got to roughly 200, you pulled away from him and picked up the test, holding it between your chest and his.
You looked down at the test, saw the lines there. You heard Steve take in a breath, then closed your eyes and tilted your head up, turning your face toward his like he was the sun and you were a flower. And when you opened your eyes, he was glowing just like a summer sky and the smile sneaking onto your lips matched his.
guys........................... what if................................................... i wrote love starved steve getting you to marry him and then doing everything within his power to keep you married to him even though you think you're just friends............................................................... what then
it's early november 1987. you and steve have fooled around some but nothing serious, not when the world is ending. but you wake up one morning to him on your front steps and he's asking, "will you marry me?"
and of course you're shocked. it's not even seven in the morning and you haven't brushed your teeth, but the world is ending anyway so what's a 3 day marriage with steve harrington in the grand scheme of things?
...except the world doesn't end. the world doesn't end, and suddenly you're mrs harrington and there's a heavy ring on your finger and steve's talking about a nice craftsman over in forest hills, and you're not sure how to respond to any of this because, steve, we're just friends.
and he says, i know, honey, all reassuring, his big hand settling low on your back. but we're married now. we have to make these decisions.
before you know it, the two of you have a house with a mortgage that the real estate agent insisted was perfect for families and his mother cries tears of joy when she meets you because she always wanted more children. and steve's hanging up the curtains that you picked out in the living room and robin's setting up the record player saying, "i always figured you two would end up together" and dustin's unpacking your dishes in the kitchen calling back, "i still can't believe you two didn't tell us that you got married until afterwards!"
and you don't know what to do. because you had a life planned before this and now you're married to steve and you're just friends and you float the idea of maybe going back to college since the town isn't under lockdown, and he says, "that's a great idea, baby. let me know how much tuition is and i'll write a check."
and this whole thing really doesn't feel like just friends, especially when steve starts edging you and making you call him your husband before he'll let you cum, lazily licking a stripe up your cunt until you're whining and squealing and panting, begging him for more. and he starts bringing up kids more and more, too, spreading your thighs open as he says, "of course we'll wait until you've graduated, though. our girls will need a good role model when it's their turn to go to college, won't they?"
and suddenly—
you're not sure if you can be just friends while married to steve harrington.
summary: when you bring your newborn home from the hospital, gator finally hits the point of freaking out. your baby has a way of calming her dad down.
tags/warnings: husband!gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship - marriage, soft!gator, girl dad!gator, domestic fluff, character study, gator tillman holding a teeny little baby
---
“Gator, watch her head– watch– hang on, let me get the door.”
You take a full breath to try and quell your own panic as you watch your husband make his way into your house with your newborn daughter. It’s been two days since she was born, and he’s still holding her like she’s radioactive– with the kind of gentle trepidation that betrays how nervous he is about somehow breaking her. You’re not one to talk, though– you’ve been in a state of shock since you first heard her cry.
That’s how everyone’s told you it’ll be with your first. There’s been no end to the stories you’ve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this.
Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how you’ve seen him carry a football. “Baby– babe, where am I takin’ her?”
You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughter’s face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. “Just– just go to the living room, I guess,” you offer helplessly. “I don’t know, Gator. She’s not asleep yet.”
“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room.
Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult.
When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. “Here— sit down, mama. I’ll bring in the bags.” With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. “Forget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he can’t stare at your daughter for too long or she’ll somehow combust. He’s always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.
When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isn’t any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like he’s waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to.
“Gate,” you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, “Baby, I don’t think you’ve sat down since this morning. Why don’t you just take a breath– stop moving for a second.”
He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. “Can’t. Can’t sit down.”
“Why not?” you press him.
“Too much to do,” he explains, looking around the living room like he’ll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.
“There’s nothing to do,” you argue mildly. “She’s not even due for another feeding.”
Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. He’s not looking at you. “Think I forgot to lock the truck. I should go–”
“Gator,” you interject, your voice stern. “Why won’t you settle down?”
Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. “Because if I take a second to think, I’m gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckin’ kid,” he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.
“Oh, and it’s just sinking in now?” you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but you’re tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now.
“Yeah, kind of, baby,” Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. “I’m freakin’ out. I’m freakin’ out, mama.”
“Breathe, Gator,” you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. “You freaking out isn’t gonna make her any less… born.”
“I can’t do this,” he heaves. “I can’t be a dad. No fuckin’ way.”
“You’ll figure it out,” you reply dryly, unperturbed. “Better get with the program, cause she’s here.”
“I’m a fuckin’ idiot!” he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. “I can’t figure shit out. I’m probably gonna pass that to her.”
“You’re not an idiot.” you say firmly. “You figured out how to be a husband, didn’t you?”
“Barely,” he snaps.
“Gator,” you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. “Look at her.”
You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly— tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.
“Shit or get off the pot,” you tell him. “If you’re gonna get on board and be a dad, now’s the time. Do you want her?”
Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.
“Good,” you finish, eyeing him. “She wants you, too.”
He hesitates. “Can I—“
“Hold her?” you guess. “You don’t have to ask, Gate. She’s yours.”
With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Hey, girlie,” he musters, his voice low and scratchy.
Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. “Is that better?”
Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side.
You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down June’s soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, “Your dad’s fucking crazy, just so you know.”
“Sorry,” Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.
You run a hand down his arm. “I’m gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?”
He nods again, looking a little lost for words. “You’re not worried I’m gonna break her, or something?” he asks, glancing up as you leave his side.
You snort, roll your eyes, and don’t bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all.
Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.
She’s staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. She’s got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his.
Gator has black eyes. He’s always hated his eyes. They’re too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other people’s faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they don’t look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.
June blinks up at him, her face blank. She’s scrutinizing him, judging his reaction– he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way he’s completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her.
But that’s just how it is now– unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. He’s lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so he’s been defeated in the game he’s been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feeling— devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control you— could kill you, just like the look in his daughter’s eyes is. And right now, holding June, he’s struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.
“You don’t say much, do ya?” he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife won’t hear him from the bedroom.
June blinks back. Doesn’t so much as babble.
“Gonna be an easy baby?” he asks her, bouncing her a little. “No cryin’ all the time? Give your mama a little break?”
Another blink.
“You’re quiet already,” he observes, jaw ticking. “I was always screamin’ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.”
June’s mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widely– like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.
“Bet you’re gonna be the best baby there is,” he murmurs. “Probably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.” He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. “Aw, who am I fuckin’ kiddin’?” he complains, blowing out a breath. “I’d be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.”
She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.
“You don’t know much ‘a anything, do ya?” he realizes. She might have his eyes, but she’s nothing like him– doesn’t have the capacity to be. Nothing’s learned or set in stone. Nothing’s infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. There’s no evil in her– no cruelty. No violence. He’d see it in her eyes if there was. “That makes two of us,” he huffs.
Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. “Chair,” he says, gesturing to the armchair that’s become cemented as his in the time he’s owned this house with you. “Couch,” he tells her. “You can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.”
He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting June’s eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himself– smart enough to already know what’s happening around her, to look into her dad’s face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him.
He doesn’t know what to do about any of it. He doesn’t know what to do now– letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look he’s so used to– the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing that’s ever been put in his hands.
But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. He’s breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.
“Alright, fine,” he mumbles, softer than he’s ever said anything. “I’ll be your dad.”
He wouldn’t know the first thing about doing it right. When you’d told him you were pregnant in the first place, he’d barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the room– just in time, ‘cause the second you were gone, he’d run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And he’d spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, he’d thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goin’ on about might be worth looking into.
But he’s not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came out– so tiny. A fraction of what he’s been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, she’s pinning him down. She’s a fragile, delicate little thing. She’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried.
And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And he’s staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isn’t a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that he’ll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesn’t care what it takes– promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. He’d die for her, easy. He’d do it in a second. But he’d change for her, too. And there’s no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her.
Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Love you, girlie.”
June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.
It’s later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed.
June has been passed out since five o’clock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. You’re already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.
But now, you’ve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you haven’t seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The door’s slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June.
You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesn’t break his stare.
“Come to bed,” you whisper.
He doesn’t respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like he’s torn between fierce protection and gentle care.
“She’s not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly.
“I know,” he murmurs back.
You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.
“She’s so little,” he finally admits, eyes locked onto June’s sleeping face.
You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like it’s shocking to him– like it’s worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability that’s always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to her, Gator,” you assure him, the words soft.
He shakes his head. “It might.”
“The monitor’s on,” You remind him. “We’d hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.”
“Something might happen,” he repeats, firmer. The way he’s gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is.
“You built the crib,” you go on. “You know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.”
He shakes his head again, unconvinced.
Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. “You need to sleep, baby. You’ve been up for forever. Come to bed.”
“Can’t.”
You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis that’s keeping him poised here— the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that he’d never felt like he owned much— never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possess— the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughter—those were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. That’s who Gator was— iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.
You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” you promise him. “We’re gonna be good, Gate.”
So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. We’re gonna be safe. We’re gonna do this right. You’re gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if it’s another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.
But Gator’s hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, “Okay.”
---
author's note: if you guys would let me know if there are errors in this that would be hella chill 'cause I do not have it in me to read this again right now
Steve Harrington can't be casual with you anymore.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 1.6k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mention of p in v, fingering, oral (female and male receiving), frenemies with benefits to lovers, jealous!steve, steve harrington yearning, fluff, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by @scoopstroops0704 | this fic is more of a fluff with smut elements to it, it was also meant to be a blurb but went just over 1.5k words. shock! horror! please enjoy 🧡
Steve Harrington had a problem. A pretty fucking big problem.
The problem being was that he was ninety five per cent sure that he was in love with you.
The other five per cent was convinced that he just really loved fucking you. That he really loved the way he knew your body like the back of his hand—knew that you loved it when he made out with your pussy like it was the best damn thing he had ever tasted (it was), knew you liked it when he lifted your thighs to rest of his shoulders while he fucked you stupid, knew you loved it when he called you pretty girl while two of his thick fingers were buried deep in your cunt, curling once, twice, just so he could listen to your needy whines. Even the thought of those noises were enough to make his cock thicken beneath his jeans.
So, of course Steve loved fucking you. In fact, he loved it so much that he wasn’t fucking anyone else but you.
He told himself that it was because he didn’t have time for anyone else. He told himself that your lips around his cock just felt right, that you just gave him the best head because you knew he liked it when you got messy with him, coating his dick in your saliva and looking up at him with those fucking bedroom eyes of yours.
But none of that explained why his heart beat a little faster when you were near, why he felt so desperately sad when you didn’t stay the night or why when he saw you talking to Ryan Williams at a party he wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall (or Ryan, whichever was more satisfying).
He was being stupid—he knew he was. You were technically not even friends. In fact, when you weren’t fucking each—you two were arguing. Not only that but you and Steve were not together and you were able to talk to any guy you wanted.
But it didn’t mean it didn’t kill him a little inside when you laugh at something Ryan had said while Steve watches from across the room.
Fucking Ryan.
Steve was deep in some sort of twisted daydream of socking Ryan in the face when someone taps his shoulder.
He turned around and was met with a pretty brunette who looked vaguely familiar. Amy something, or maybe it was Amanda, some girl who he had gone to high school with. Some girl who was fluttering her lashes at him and giving him every opportunity to be his distraction for the evening. He briefly considered it, knowing it would have certainly made him feel a little better about you and Ryan.
But he didn’t give in. Because despite the fact you annoyed the fuck out of him, he loved you. He knew it now he had seen you with someone else. He really fucking loved you. And he knew fucking someone else wasn’t going to stop that.
And so, instead of going upstairs with Amy or Amanda or whatever her name was, Steve went home. Trying not to think about you going home with Ryan, trying not to think about Ryan kissing you or fucking you or—
The sound of his phone ringing as he grabs a drink of water pulls him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how but he knew almost instantly that it was you calling. And so, Steve answers. Because of course he does.
“Hi,” was the first thing he says when he answers the phone, trying to keep his voice casual, normal, like his heart wasn't beating out of his chest already.
“Where—wherey’d you g-go?”
From the sound of your voice, Steve could instantly tell that you had been crying.
He felt his stomach drop instantly,
“Home,” he says, sitting upright instantly and straining to listen to the sounds of the party around you. But there was none. No music, no drunken yelling, no Ryan—
“Baby, where are you?”
The petname slips out before he could stop it. He only ever used it when he was feeling particularly needy—when you were on top of him, tits bouncing in his face and fucking yourself on his cock. When you would slowly roll your hips just as he was about to cum, making him lose his damn mind. That was the only time he called you baby.
Until now, that was.
“I-I left,” you tell him in a small voice. “I sa-saw you g-go and I—”
“Where?” Steve interjects, already standing up and grabbing his car keys that lay nearby. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you and I—”
“—I th-think I love y-you, Stevie.”
Everything stills. Time itself seems to slow down. Steve feels as though he has forgotten how to breathe. Because you felt the same, you felt the same.
But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not when you were god knows where, sad and probably alone.
“I—I’m sorry I just—I saw you and Amanda and I—I—it felt like my whole world ended and then you were gone and I thought—”
“Tell me where you are,” Steve demands of you somewhat gently, jaw clenched as the words you had just uttered make him feel things he had been trying to ignore for months. “C’mon baby, I—I just need to see you so tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”
You’re quiet for a moment before you tell him you were at some payphone right outside of Melvald's and Steve tells you not to move, tells you to stay exactly where you were.
Steve drives to Melvald's, breaks a few traffic laws on the way that he wasn’t proud of but he makes it to the parking lot outside the store in less than five minutes.
He spots you almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs as if it could protect you from the cold.
Steve practically stumbles out of his car in his haste to get to you.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking off his jacket without even a second thought and dropping it over your shoulders. “What were you thinking? Walking home alone like this, why didn’t you—”
“—be-because I thought you l-left,” you say quietly, your eyes shining as you look back up at him. “A-and I th-thought you left wi-with Amanda and—”
“—no,” Steve says with a shake of his head, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside you so he could cup your face with one hand to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen. “No, I didn’t go home with her. I-I wouldn’t do that.”
You breath hitches, you try not to think too much about the implication of those words but it was impossible not to do that when he was so close to you.
“Why?” You ask him quietly, barely daring to look away from him for even a second. “Why wouldn’t you—”
“—because I—because I love you too.”
Your eyes widen, lips part and Steve looks momentarily terrified that he’s said something insanely stupid, that perhaps maybe he had misheard you over the phone when you had told him you loved him.
But then you’re leaning in, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips firmly against his.
The kiss was anything but romantic—it was desperate, your fingers running through his hair as his hands roam over your body, grabbing at your thighs, your ass, anywhere he could touch, as though he was trying to map it out. It was the sort of kiss that left your core aching, made you want to pull him into his beamer and let him fuck you until sunrise.
You weren’t sure how long you made out with Steve Harrington on the sidewalk but you knew it was Steve who was the first to pull away. You let out a noise of protest, something between a whine and a whimper as your eyes flicker down to his lips that were swollen from your kiss and covered in a mix of your spit.
“Why did you—”
Steve presses his finger against your lips, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Because my girl deserves the best,” he tells you simply, the words making something in your gut squirm, the look in his eyes making your cunt clench around nothing.
You feel one of his hands brush along the bare skin of your leg. The subtle touch starts a fire in your gut, your eyelids flutter as he slowly drags his fingers up to your thigh in a tantalising dance that makes your blood hum with need.
“So let me take you home and then—”, he murmurs, fingers disappearing beneath your skirt and pressing his fingertips firmly against the damp patch that had formed in your panties. The moan that leaves your lips as a result should be embarrassing but you found that you didn’t care all that much when Steve’s fingers were circling your clothed clit, when you could see the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, “—then I’ll take care of you. Give my girl what she needs, yeah?”
You couldn’t do anything but nod your head frantically. Because he had called you his girl, his girl, his girl.
Steve wastes no time before he leans to kiss you again—this kiss much softer, gentler, everything you and Steve had never got the chance to be. He can’t help but smile into the kiss because when it came to you? It was hard not to fall but you had been right there to catch him.
Little blurb I've been working on. I just think it's sweet :)
WC: 1.5k
--------------------------------
“Steve.”
“What?” he smiled, innocently dragging his nose up the column of your neck. He was grinning like he wasn’t aware that his hand was sliding over your inner thigh, lazily teasing at the edge of your cotton nightgown.
Your skin was still dewy. You’d hardly caught your breath. His legs were still tangled with yours. That’s what.
“You want one more?” he asked, lowering his tone into something warm and gravelly in your ear, “I’ll give you another one, baby.”
His voice was slightly slurred with the effort he’d already expended, almost like he was well and truly drunk on you tonight. His weight pressed against your side, lying exactly where he’d collapsed just minutes ago.
“You just gave me one,” you reminded him, lithly tracing your fingers over his freckled arm. You felt him shiver against you at the delicate swirls of your fingernails.
It would be hard to forget the climax he’d just given you, actually. In case he needed his memory refreshed, you touched your fingertips to the aggravated, red marks you’d raked down the expanse of his back with your nails.
Steve paused, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and your shoulder, letting his mouth linger there. You felt him inhale you deeply before humming, the sound rumbling low in his throat.
“I mean, yeah… but that’s not what I asked you.”
You sighed, shaking your head softly before pressing a kiss to his hair, burying your nose into the tousled strands that were perfumed with product. Your bodies felt weighed down to the mattress, both of you too lazy to pull up the sheets that had been shoved to the foot of his bed in a heap.
“What? You tired?” he grinned, picking his head up to look at you with his hazy, shining eyes, “Don’t tell me I wore you out.”
Steve shifted his weight, pressing the tip of his nose to yours. You watched his eyes flicker over your face, struggling to fully focus when you were this close, but desperate to admire the flush of your cheeks.
“A little,” you admitted, unable to help the smile that broke out on your face in return.
“Yeah?” he cooed, tilting his head at you playfully, “I can go nice and slow, just give me the word.”
“I dunno,” you murmured, now carding your hand through his tufts of chest hair.
“What’s the matter?” he asked gently, bringing his fingers to the side of your face to caress your cheek.
He stared at you for the few moments you took to respond, his gaze unwavering as he watched you avoid his lidded eyes. You could feel his curiosity simmering, his urge to draw the unspoken words out of you bit by bit.
“You know it takes longer the second time,” you whispered, “And I don’t wanna make you work too hard for it.”
“Oh,” he breathed, letting out a soft laugh of adoration.
Steve gathered your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as his eyes danced between yours.
“That’s what you’re worried about? C’mon,” he teased fondly, kissing your knuckles, “Honestly, I’m a little offended that you don’t trust in my stamina.”
You rolled your eyes at him, relishing his pout when you gently flicked his shoulder.
“It’s late! You have work in the morning!” you defended, your tone much less convincing when a giggle burst through your attempt to be stern.
“Is it?” he answered sarcastically, widening his bleary eyes at you. Without breaking eye contact, Steve reached over to his nightstand, turning his alarm clock face down. “‘Cause… I don’t even know what time it is. I can go allll night long, baby.”
Steve’s hand slipped down the side of your neck, sliding his fingers under the thin, cotton strap of your nightgown. Soothingly, he lowered it, letting the fabric cascade down your arm. You exhaled slowly as he leaned in, his breath warm against your bare shoulder.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, “And I don’t wanna hear anything about my poor fingers getting tired or some bullshit like that.”
You imagine that being resurrected feels something similar to this. A tingling sensation that suddenly spreads under the thin fabric of your pajamas, an instant spike in body temperature. You let your eyes flutter shut, focusing on the slow kisses he generously peppered across your skin, leaving no inch unbranded. Your head lolled to the side against the pillow, never more pleased to be left defenseless.
“Want you,” you whispered, unable to deny yourself for another second longer.
Steve groaned softly, giving your hip a slow squeeze that could only be understood as “thank god”. With practiced ease, he lazily lifted your nightgown up and out of the way.
“I know,” he murmured, “I know. Gonna take care of it.”
He took his time, languidly reaching his hand down your stomach, then between your legs. His large hand urged you to inch your thighs apart, allowing him to spread his fingers out over your mound. You bit your lip, eyes cracking open to watch as he totally engulfed you with his palm. You could feel his boyish smile against your neck as your hips twitched lightly into his hand, undeniably just as enthralled as you.
Steve sighed heavily with satisfaction. You felt his nose nudge your temple as he settled in, shifting his body closer to yours. He moved slowly, rubbing his whole hand back and forth, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit. He knew better than to show off his usual dexterity when you’re still so sensitive to touch. You could tell he was paying close attention to your body, ready to adjust at the sign of a single flinch. It wasn't about making you see stars or waking up the neighbors this time around. It was a precious, stolen moment, moonlit and only for you.
“Feels good? Not too much?” he checked quietly.
You could feel his chest rise and fall deeply at your side, warm breaths fanning across your cheek. It was one of your favorite feelings, being completely surrounded by him, and only him.
“Mm. Not too much,” you murmured, your back arching lightly into his touch.
Steve nodded, gently pressing a delicate kiss to the column of your neck.
“You can move, baby. Make yourself feel good, hon.”
Unhurriedly, you rocked yourself against his hand. You sighed softly at the soothing friction, the large surface of his palm causing a subtle current of pleasure deep inside of you. Despite the heaviness of your eyelids, you chased the warm sensation, listening to the low creaking of the bedframe in time with your hips. You were still slick from earlier, your silky arousal gathering at his upper palm and aiding the leisurely slide of Steve’s hand.
“Steve,” you breathed, smiling hazily as you reached out for him.
“Right here, baby,” he murmured, catching your wandering hand. He threaded your fingers together, bringing your linked hands to rest on your stomach, anchoring you to him.
The minutes dragged on, gauzy and honey-like in sweetness and pace. It was mostly quiet besides your breathing, and Steve’s sugary whispers meant only for his girl. “Love taking my time with you,” he’d murmured, his voice husky with slight drowsiness as his hand worked between your legs.
Eventually, you felt the heat begin to bloom, simmering and tightening at your abdomen in a slow crescendo. You squeezed his hand as a silent signal, a little secret message in the quiet of your bedroom.
“More,” you whispered, turning your head until the bridge of your nose grazed his. Steve responded with a soft, husky hum, always ready to please.
“Little more?”
“Mhm.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, massaging his hand against your pussy with a little more pressure this time, the muscles in his bicep flexing subtly with his ministrations. He echoed your pleasure, groaning quietly into your mouth as you began to pant. Your fingers knotted into his hair, keeping him so, so close, like you couldn’t bear him being even an inch further.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered between dreamy kisses.
It felt like a gentle undoing. Subtle sparks of pleasure that washed over you as opposed to the usual commotion of firework-like bursts. You could almost feel Steve’s heart swell as you unraveled for him, letting you ride out the waves against his palm without overwhelming you.
Breaking the kiss, you buried your face against his neck, breathing him in deeply while his arms encircled you. Lazy contentment practically radiated from you both as you nestled in the quiet, fuzzy afterglow.
“Good?” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled by your unruly hair.
“Mmm…” you mumbled back, your fingers curling around his shoulder. Steve chuckled, willing to accept that as an answer. No words were needed when he could feel your satisfaction right down to your bones.
With a grunt, Steve hoisted the blankets up, the striped cotton settling around you in a cocoon. You knew it wouldn’t be long until you drifted off, so you took your final minutes to press your ear over his chest, the coily hairs tickling your cheek as you listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat. It was hard to be sure of much of anything. But, this? This sound? It was the surest thing you’d ever come to know.
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 5300
tags: meetcute, fluff, soft!gator, lots of banter, one singular smooch, slow burn. note: there is a cliffhanger ending.
a/n: from @xoxocelestial's prompt - here. fill #10 for my 1000 follower special🩵
yes, this is part 1 of a new series.
yes, i am unable to control myself.
yes, more to come soon.
&&
The orderly stopped your hospital-issue wheelchair right outside of a room with the door mostly closed. You huffed a sigh.
“I don’t mind staying in the hallway,” you told him, but he just gave you a sympathetic look.
“We’re overcrowded as it is,” he said to you. “We’re doubling up where we can—and since you just have to have your shoulder looked at, you should be out pretty quickly once the doctor gets to you.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s been three hours already.”
“Holiday weekend,” he said, sympathetically. “This is why we recommend urgent care.”
“I dislocated my shoulder at 10’o’clock,” you said, grimacing at little at the thought of how it happened, the guy you were trying to hook up with after your best friend’s 4th of July barbecue, and the way he’d just dropped you off at the ER and then dipped. “Nowhere else was open.”
The orderly only nodded to you and then stepped around you, knocking on the door to the patient room where you sat. You understood the policy, but you were still a little miffed at having to be driven around the hospital rather than move on your own.
“Mr. Tillman?” the orderly said, and your eyes widened, snapping up to read the hand-written name on the outside of the door. Fuck, it did say Tillman, G. You knew Gator—well, in the most general sense of knowing who his father was and the broadest details of the family. And you did not really want to be put into a hospital room with him, scourge of Stark County, especially not when he was admitted for something or other. He was ornery on a good day—potentially sick or in pain in the ER meant he’d be ten times worse at least.
“It’s Deputy,” Gator said, and you sighed.
“Sure,” the orderly said easily. “Deputy, I know you were supposed to have a private room down here, but unfortunately our hallways are overcrowded and it’s not safe to have so little room to maneuver, particularly with how busy we are tonight.”
“Ok?” Gator asked, already annoyed. You could hear it in his voice.
“We have another patient who will be in your room for a short time—she won’t take up much space. No bed, just a chair.”
There was a pause, during which you found yourself surprised that Gator was actually entertaining it, but then—
“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Hell you think this is?” Gator asked.
“It’s a hospital, sir. She needs to be out of the hallway, and she’ll be in and out.”
“I’ll show ‘er in and out,” Gator quipped, but before either he or you could protest, the orderly exited the room, took hold of the handles of your wheelchair, and pushed you into Gator’s room. The overhead lights were dark, but the light directly above Gator’s bed was on, and you saw him glaring over at you as you entered. “Mind hittin’ that light, Butch?” Gator asked the orderly, and as he left the room he flicked the light switch, bathing you both in cold fluorescent light from above as the door swung shut behind him. “Eh,” Gator intoned.
“Eh?” you repeated, frowning and crossing your arm (well, arm, since the other was basically immobile), squinting a little at the glare of the lights even as your eyes slowly adjusted.
“Ain’t nothin’ too special t’look at,” he said, eyeing you, sling and all. “Coulda left the lights off.”
“Jesus,” you muttered, standing up from the wheelchair and crossing over to turn the lights off again with your good arm. “There, you look a hell of a lot better in the dark too.”
But Gator only chuckled. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, and then went back to what he’d been doing when the orderly had interrupted him: A book of word search puzzles.
You stared long enough, standing in the middle of the room, that it was noticeable, and Gator looked up at you again, scratching the side of his nose with the pencil he was holding.
“What?”
Caught, you stumbled over your words. “Nothing, I just—I wouldn’t expect to see you doing word puzzles.”
Gator blinked at you, eyes narrowed. “We know each other’r somethin’?”
“Wh—No,” you said. “I just—I know of you.”
His face relaxed into a smirk. “You know of me? Fuck’s that mean?” He sounded amused.
“I mean—The sheriff… Sheriff Tillman. ‘A hard man for hard times.’” You forgot to keep the mocking edge from your voice, so you just spurred on. “You’re his son. Everyone in the county knows you.”
Gator kept his eyes on you, then hummed, noncommittal. “A’right.” He went back to his book.
You sat back down, mostly because you felt awkward standing in the middle of the room, and pushed yourself back and forth a little, rolling the wheelchair to and fro. It went on for a minute or so, probably, until Gator sighed heavily and looked over at you.
“So what happened t’yer arm?” he asked. “Some guy rough y’up?”
You snickered. “Not in the way you think.”
“Hell’s’at mean?”
“We were having a good time, until we weren’t.”
There was a beat of silence, and then he snickered. “So it’s a sex thing?” He laughed. “Damn, how’d you fuck up fuckin’ that bad that ya needed the hospital?”
“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.
“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”
“Ok, Deputy, relax.” You adjusted your arm a little in the sling. “Everyone was a consenting adult, I just—got the shit end of the stick.”
“So where’s yer guy?” Gator asked. “Bet he’d love knowin’ y’were in here w’me. Since everyone in the county knows me ‘nd all.”
“He—” you said, but cut yourself off. Where was he? Last you’d seen him he was in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, telling you you’d be fine but he had work in the AM so he couldn’t stick around, and if you needed anything, to just let him know. He’d driven away before you realized that he’d never given you his number, so. Where was he indeed. By now, he was probably home, beer drunk and cock jerked, sleeping like a baby before his shift in the morning. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Gator laughed. “Cold.”
“Well, he left me here and blew me off, so.”
“A’right, that’s worse. ‘Nd after you blew him’n everything too. Damn.”
“Who said I blew him?” you asked, not quite believing you were entertaining this line of conversation.
“Ya look like the type,” Gator said, shrugging.
“Excuse me?” you asked, scowling at him, offended.
“What?” he asked, trying to hide his amusement, but you absolutely heard him snickering. “It’s a compliment.”
“How is that a compliment?”
“Means ya look… givin’. ‘Nd carin’, y’know. Generous and shit.”
“Pig,” you said, turning your wheelchair away from him and facing the door.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I meant it. Ya seem like a real nice broad.” You turned to glare at him over your shoulder.
“I don’t want to be in here with you just as much as you don’t want to be in here with me,” you said.
“So we’re even,” he said, then gestured at your arm. “That shit hurt?”
“Uh, yeah?” you said. “We can try to recreate what I was doing if you want to see for yourself.”
“Yeah, fuck that,” Gator said, but he was chuckling to himself. He smiled over at you. “Fun as I’m sure it was.”
“So what happened to you?” you asked.
“Waitin’ on some stitches,” he said, then fell silent.
You waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. “What happened?”
“This,” Gator said, and curled his hand into the sheets on top of him, pulling them to the side to reveal his leg, thigh draped in the hospital gown. He tugged up the hem of the gown and you saw a thick pad of gauze, not quite bled through but a red sliver was making itself known.
“Um,” you said, because that didn’t quite answer your question in its entirety.
“Some fucker’ got me with a boxcutter,” he said.
“And it was big enough to need stitches?”
Gator fixed you with a look. “Wanna see it?”
“No, I’m good,” you said, but he started peeling the gauze away. “I said I’m good. Gator! I’m good!”
He’d barely uncovered an inch of it, but you could see that the gash was larger, a decent slice dug into his thigh. “So yeah, need some stitches. Wasn’t too deep, it ain’t still bleedin’ too much or nothin’, but it’s long enough it needed, ah… medical attention.” He turned to look at you, and before you could react he continued. “Got something else long enough y’d need medical attention. ‘Nd as luck should have it we’re both already in the goddamn hospital.”
“You’re disgusting,” you said. “And just to knock you down another peg, you’re not nearly as attractive in a hospital gown as you think you are.”
“Not even with these on?” Gator asked, reaching to the tray table set off to the side. He grabbed something you couldn’t see, then slid his sunglasses onto his face. It was so unexpected and lighthearted that you laughed—genuinely.
“Sorry, no,” you said, shaking your head a little. Sure, you were both trapped in the same room off of the emergency department at the hospital, but Gator Tillman was fucking flirting with you. Badly, but still. Even if he was just doing it to pass the time, he was still coming on to you.
“So—y’know my name,” Gator said. “You gonna tell me yers or do I gotta bust out the badge and ask fer ID?”
“The badge is worse than the shades,” you said, and he lifted them off his eyes and furrowed his brow at you, like he was trying to gauge if you were serious or not. But before he could question you, you’d given him your name.
Gator marked his page in the puzzle book with the pencil, then held out his right hand toward you to shake, reaching out over his own body. You didn’t make a move to stand or wheel closer to him.
“Dammit woman, don’t leave me hangin’,” he said. “Tryna be, uh, upstandin’ here.”
“My arm’s in a sling,” you said, pointing to your right arm with your working left one. “Sorry.”
“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.
But he wasn’t such terrible company, really, not for the few short minutes you’d spent with him. At least he was entertaining, and he’d rolled with the punches you’d thrown back at him in response to his sexist BS. You stood up, took the two steps to his bedside, and placed your left hand in his, not quite shaking it but trying to, at least. His hand was cold in yours, the skin rough like you’d expected, but still softer than you’d thought it would be. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you pulled your hand away, because you didn’t want to linger and give him any ideas.
“You got any more puzzle books?” you asked, gesturing at the word search book.
“You can take this one,” Gator said. “Was in here already when they dumped my ass on this bed.” He proffered it to you. You took it.
“How long have you been in here?” you asked, sitting back down and opening the book to where he’d marked it. The word searches on the open pages were complete (left) and half-done (right).
“Got here after you,” Gator said. “Y’said, what—you been here fer three hours?”
You nodded, looking down at the word search he’d left unfinished. The theme was “Picnic.” You noticed that he did them the same way you did: alphabetically by the word list. That… surprised you. He’d left off at lemonade so you started searching for it, the pencil clutched in your left hand, the book balanced on your lap.
“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”
“Surprised you’re still waiting,” you commented, trying to be flippant, but it definitely came out more bitter than you’d intended.
“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.
You circled lemonade in the word search, a little wobbly since you were balancing it on your legs and handling it with just one hand. Now you were looking for napkins. “The name Tillman carries weight around here. Didn’t you know?”
“‘Parently not enough,” Gator said. “Got my ass sittin’ in here with some chick who thinks she can just say whatever’s on her mind like I ain’t gonna take it personal.”
“That’s a fragile ego, Deputy,” you said. Napkins jumped out at you on the page, but when you went to circle it, you dropped the pencil, and when you leaned over to pick it up, the book fell off your lap. You sighed heavily and picked them up.
“Well, from where I’m sitting,” you said, hoisting yourself back into the wheelchair, book and pencil in hand, the puzzle page you were working on lost, “seems like there is.”
“Why? ‘Cause’a my leg? Fucker got the jump on me, ain’t nothin’ more to it.”
“No. Because you care what a chick you just met and probably never will again thinks about you.”
“Whoa. Now just wait a fuckin’ second, who said that?”
“You did,” you said, absently flipping through the pages of the puzzle book, looking for “Picnic” again.
“When the fuck did I say that?”
“Just now,” you said, looking up at him, tucking the pencil behind your ear so you had one less thing to balance while you were looking through the book. “If you’re taking what I’m saying personally, you’re giving it weight. And if me not being a badge bunny and knowing you throw your last name around like it’s an extra six inches is getting to you, then that ego of yours is made of fine china.”
He watched you, eyes narrowed just a little, as you found the page you’d left off on, then reached to untuck the pencil from your ear. As soon as you’d lifted your hand, the book fell to the floor again and you groaned, tossing your head back, and the pencil clattered to the floor behind you.
“God fucking—damn it,” you groaned, and Gator only chuckled.
“Gimme that fuckin’ book,” Gator said, ignoring—or, at the very least not acknowledging—what you’d said.
“You said I could have it,” you said, mostly to be petulant.
“And they said you’d be ‘in’n’out’,” Gator said, mimicking the orderly’s voice. “‘Nd yet yer still fuckin’ here. Gimme that book, pick up the pencil, ‘nd get yer ass over here.”
As you watched, he reached his left hand out to lower the railing on the side of the bed, then shimmied a little to the side, like he was making room for you to sit beside him.
You shook your head, but stood up to grab the pencil from where it had fallen anyway, then looked at him again, confusion still etched on your face.
“I said git,” Gator said, palm slapping the mattress beside him.
“For what?”
“Only got three workin’ arms ’tween us,” he said. “You wanna do yer fuckin’ word search, you look for ‘em ‘nd I’ll cross ‘em off.”
It felt like a trap, almost. You weren’t the biggest busybody in Dickinson, but you heard everything that women said about the police in this town, especially the Tillmans. And yet, you were with Gator, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that he could, actually, behave himself. You were still more than an arm’s length away, though, so who knew how long that would last?
You picked up the fallen book, then handed it and the pencil to Gator. He took it, opened it, found “Picnic,” then looked at you expectantly, before angling his head toward the bed beside him, looking at it pointedly. You stepped over and climbed onto it beside him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.
“Napkin,” Gator said, and you pointed with your good arm, because you still remembered where you’d seen it. “Fuckin’ crack shot, huh?”
You laughed, despite yourself. “Something like that.”
And after you’d found park and plates in quick succession, Gator shifted the book a little bit away from you.
“Yer too good at this,” he said. “I ain’t even gettin’ a chance t’look myself.”
You paused. “Is this a race?”
He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”
“Well you have to let me see it, then,” you said, unable to lean too close to him, your right arm already stiff and sore from being in the sling.
“You seen it enough,” Gator said. “Plus, yer too good, I should get a lil’ advantage.”
“You mean you should get to cheat,” you replied.
Gator turned to you, grinning all smug, and nodded. “Real glad we see eye t’eye on that. ‘Preciate it.” You watched as he circled the next word, which you could barely read due to the angle at which he was holding the book.
“You’re such a dick,” you said, and you just saw his cheek round up even more, his smile widening as he crossed the word off the bottom of the list.
“My dick is one’a the most notable things about me,” Gator said, and you were so used to his crass comments by now that you just sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.
“Just let me see the puzzle,” you said, shifting so that you were kneeling beside him on the bed, since you couldn’t lean into him with your arm as tender as it was. You leaned over him, taking extreme care not to actually let any part of your body touch his, and reached over with your left hand to try and grab the book. “We can do it together, just let me hold the book. You can keep the pencil.”
Gator switched the book to his right hand, holding it out of your reach before you even got close. “You wanna do it wi’me? Damn, ‘n I thought you were different. But I like ‘em a little mean sometimes.”
“You are such a—” you started to say, but stopped yourself, trying to think of a name to call him that he wouldn’t be able to turn into something sexual or make suggestive. And as you cycled through your choices, his smirk only grew, until he had bent his good leg at the knee, resting his elbow on it and balancing his chin on his hand, watching you with a bemused expression while your mind whirled through the various insults you knew. “Manchild.”
Gator guffawed at that, and you really had to work to suppress your own smile, moving back to sit beside him normally, no longer wanting to play his stupid games.
“First time I heard that one,” Gator said, moving to hold the puzzle book between the two of you, half on your lap, half on his.
“Color me shocked,” you snapped back, but there was no venom in it. “I would’ve guessed that was, like, your middle name.”
“So then what’s yers?” Gator asked. “Smartass?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” you said, and this time, when he laughed, you did too. You hadn’t ever wanted to cross paths with this guy, but being stuck in this room with him—willingly sharing space with him, so close your injured arm and his injured leg were almost brushing against each other—it wasn’t turning out to be the worst part of your night. That, amazingly, was still your shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d let him know he was making things bearable and the time pass quickly. You could keep your gratitude unspoken. And you would.
“You lookin’ or what?” Gator asked, shaking the book a little, and you looked over at him to find him staring at the side of your face, tapping the book with the pencil’s eraser. “I already fuckin found sandwich but I don’t wanna circle it if yer gonna chew me the fuck out about it.”
“Sandwich,” you said, letting your eyes rove over the puzzle. “There.” You pointed and he drew an elongated oval around the letters.
“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.
But instead of rising to it, you just decided to show him up. There were four words left: spring, tablecloth, wasps, and watermelon. You’d already found them—but sandwich had needed to be circled first—so you simply tapped the page in four spots, in order.
“There you go,” you said, repeating the taps so he knew you weren’t bullshitting and had found the remaining four words. “So, what do I win?”
“Win,” Gator repeated, circling each of the four words, then crossing them off the list. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. “Fuck makes you think you won somethin’?”
“You said it was a race,” you said. “I found the words faster than you. That means I get a prize.”
“Fuck kinda prize you think this place got? Hold on, lemme page the nurse ‘nd see if I can score ya some ice chips.”
You laughed, a true, hearty laugh, eyes closed and giggles bubbling bright out of your chest, and when you opened your eyes again and let your gaze fall on Gator, you didn’t miss the way he was looking at you, expression soft for the briefest moment, until he remembered himself, remembered who and what he was supposed to be under observation—a Tillman—and let the scowl creep back onto his features. A little too late; you wondered if he ever showed this part of himself to anyone else. Not that you were special—you knew you weren’t, not to Gator Tillman—but here he wasn’t supposed to be anyone, wasn’t beholden to his father or the department. He was just a guy waiting for stitches, messing around with a puzzle book and the woman they’d dumped on him by chance.
“So,” Gator said, clearing his throat a little as though he’d just realized now how close you were to him. “Ya wanna try ta explain how the hell ya dislocated yer arm mid-fuck?”
You sighed. “We weren’t actually… doing anything yet,” you said. “He was kinda—so he was behind me, and he had my arms behind my back.” You gestured, but Gator watched you, a half-smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow quirked up. “He was holding them behind me, you know.”
“Yeah, I’m followin’,” Gator said, suppressing a grin.
“And I guess he just—I kinda… Twisted the wrong way from how he was moving, and next thing I knew I couldn’t really move my arm. It didn’t hurt that much when it popped out, but moving it back in front of me was really bad. And then add the emotional damage of him having to put my clothes back on...” You grimaced at Gator. “Maybe I lucked out that he just left me here.”
“Prob’ly,” Gator said, lifting his hand to bite at one of his cuticles, though he lowered his hand when you scrunched up your nose at him. “Nah, I’m just sayin’—guy like that ain’t gonna see shit through after he hurts ya? Scumbag.”
You blinked, shaking your head a little in disbelief. “What?” you asked, probably somewhat dumbly, because you hadn’t thought Gator could feel sympathy for the fairer sex.
“Guy fuckin’ dislocates yer damn arm and can’t even stick witcha at least through triage? That’s some lame ass shit.” He glanced over at you and realized you were looking at him like he had six heads. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”
“I mean—everything I’ve ever heard about you points to no, you wouldn’t.”
Gator cocked his head to the side. “‘Nd why’s that?”
You shrugged your good shoulder, but the movement still made you flinch a little. As though it were his fault, Gator moved away from you, like he’d nudged your arm and that was what made you shudder in pain.
“You’re not a… long haul kind of guy,” you said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Mm,” Gator hummed, then sucked his teeth. “Gotta say, this whole ‘you knowin’ of me’ thing fuckin’ sucks.”
“Sorry,” you said.
“No you ain’t,” Gator said, but he chuckled a little, darkly, unamused. “You came in here thinkin’ you knew all there was t’know about me and yer still just sayin’ it. Well, if your opinion holds so much weight like ya think I think it does, maybe try watchin’ yer mouth.” He looks over at you. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ better t’do with it.”
You moved yourself a bit away from him to sit on the edge of the mattress, letting your left leg drape off of it, toes to the floor. “Ok, fair point. I don’t even know you, I shouldn’t judge you.” You looked over at him out of the corner of your eyes, assessing. You decided to be honest and press your luck. “You just don’t exactly give off the most… comforting aura.”
Gator turned to look blankly at you, his expression slowly morphing into disgust. “Don’t say shit like that t’me,” he said, then laughed. “I ain’t tryna be no one’s friend out here. I can’t be seen as… comforting. I’m the law.”
“Oh my god, you really say that? You really say that. I didn’t think—”
“I really say what?” he interrupted you.
You dropped your voice to match his. “‘I’m the law.’ You’re a real piece of work, you know that? ‘I’m the law,’ get the hell out of here.” You laughed and reached across your body with your left hand to shove at his left arm, playful and teasing.
“I don’t know why you think yer so cool, Miss Can’t-Even-Fuck-Right,” Gator said. “Promise ya if y’were with me, you wouldn’t’a dislocated nothin’. ‘Cept maybe yer—”
“Let me guess, my jaw?” you asked. “Because your dick’s so big? I get it, you’re packing. Can we move on?” But you were smiling. Despite yourself, despite his demeanor, you were starting to find the moments in between when he dropped the act actually… charming. Something else you’d keep to yourself, because if he found out you were actually enjoying his company, he’d be even more insufferable.
“Nah,” Gator said, stretching out his injured leg, wincing a little as he did. Surreptitiously, he lifted the hospital gown again, checking the gauze taped to his thigh. The little red sliver you’d seen before was just a touch wider, the wound still oozing. He covered it again quickly, but you’d still seen. “Got m’self.”
You almost didn’t register that he’d spoken, because it didn’t sound like he’d actually said words. “What?”
“With the boxcutter.” He cleared his throat. “I got m’self.”
“You—” you started to say, but stopped yourself. “Oh, my god.”
“Was a fuckin’ accident, a’right?” he said, huffy. “Breakin’ down some shit at the station, lost m’grip on the box, next thing ya know I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
“That’s so embarrassing for you,” you said, and Gator lifted his left hand, flipping you off. You laughed, but were pleased to see he was smirking too.
“Ain’t no more embarrassing than twistin’ yer arm out of its socket when yer just tryna get it in.”
You nodded your head to the side, conceding the point. “Fair enough.” You paused. “Why… did you tell me that?” you asked.
Gator shrugged. “You told me ‘bout yours. Figure we’re even now.”
“We needed to be even?” you asked.
“Yeah, why not,” Gator said. “Yer cool.”
If it had been five minutes earlier, you’d have ribbed him for that, given him shit for it. But it had happened at exactly the right moment—you felt decent enough even though your shoulder still hurt, and he seemed to have loosened up enough that he could be real, or at least as real as a Tillman could be in these parts.
“You might be cool too,” you said, pulling your leg back up onto the bed, pushing yourself up closer beside him, your knees pressing into his hip as you tried to face him—and then promptly fell sideways into the upright part of the bed because your right arm was in a sling and you had no way to prop yourself up.
“I take it back,” Gator said, absolutely losing his shit at your awkward faceplant, your dislocated arm held in place by the sling. “Nothin’ fuckin’ cool aboutcha, my god, woman.” He reached back to help you up, wrapping his arm around you and holding you securely to his side. “Y’ok?”
When he asked it, his voice was quieter, lighter, brushing against your cheek like the touch of a lover, of someone who cared about you, even though he couldn’t and he didn’t.
“I’m fine,” you said, your cheek burning not only from the impact on the hospital mattress but also embarrassment. You glanced over at him, and noticed: He was a lot closer than you realized, even as he retracted his arm, which was dumb as hell, because you were practically sitting on his lap, and just might be if not for his cut leg and your immobile arm.
“That’s one word fer it,” Gator said, his hand moving over your knee, up your thigh, just enough for you to feel affected by it.
And you shouldn’t. This was Gator Tillman, fundamentally one of the worst people you could get involved with, and yet aside from some locker room talk and all of the rumors and conjecture you’d gathered from living in his vicinity, he hadn’t done anything to truly turn you off. It was the push and pull of flirting with a guy, the little barbs and pokes that made something new into something fun, something brimming with potential. So when his hand skimmed a little further up your thigh, you leaned in and just barely let your lips brush over his.
He kissed you back. Of course he did. You figured he was going to, because you were there and you were making it easy, but what you didn’t count on was how he would do it. With his fingers pressing just enough into your thigh that you could feel it, with his nose bumping against yours as he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, with his lips closing around your cupid’s bow, keeping it simple and sweet before he pulled back. It was the perfect kind of kiss for the moment, and you never would have expected Gator to read the mood like that. You were starting to think you’d been wrong about him, or maybe everyone else had.
Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the door to the room opened and the orderly marched back in, stopping short when he saw you perched on Gator’s bed. You felt his hand move off of your thigh and instead to your lower back, holding you steady as you hurriedly stood up from the bed.
“Careful,” he muttered, as you slid your legs down over the lowered railing.
“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.
“Deputy,” Gator corrected him, and you smirked as you took your seat again.
“Deputy,” the orderly continued. “The doctor is about ready to see you, and since you have a… roommate, we’ll be bringing you to one of the exam rooms for the stitches.” You were wheeled over to the side, while the orderly unlocked the wheels of Gator’s bed and pushed him out of the room.
“See ya,” you said, lifting your good arm to wave.
Gator nodded his chin toward you as he passed by. “Ya just might.”
Except when he was brought back to the room to wait for his discharge paperwork, you were gone.
