tags/warnings: boyfriend!gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!gator, domestic fluff, suggestive content (is there ever not with gator), character study, gator tillman is unsalvageably whipped
author's note: some short and sweet tooth-rotting gator fluff. this will be a companion fic with some truly heinous smut so stay tuned!
---
Gator wakes immediately to the sound of his alarm buzzing.Â
Heâs always been a light sleeper. When you grow up in a house with heavy boots and heavier fists, you learn to stay alert, stay watchful, and that tendency hasnât faded since you wandered into his lifeâ since he discovered he had something else to protect. Now, sleep doesnât find him unless heâs double-checked that his gunbelt is hung on the door and youâre tucked under his arms. Itâs become a routine.Â
As has thisâ the first, aching moments of the morning, when he rises promptly every day at 6 AM. Itâs another habit thatâs been quite literally beaten into him.Â
Gatorâs eyes open groggily, and he extracts one of his arms to reach over and slap the stop button on the alarm. He misses it the first time, and it disturbs you. You turn slightly, your sleeping face already pulling in a frown, and hit the back of your hand against Gatorâs chest to tell him to kill the noise.Â
He fights his amusement and finally gets the damn alarm off.Â
You make a half-conscious noise of approval and roll back over. Gator canât help but follow you, spend even one more minute burrowed into the heat of the bed together. He slips his arms around your waist again, nosing his way into the crook of your neck. Places a gentle kiss there, soft enough not to wake you.
Your skin is blazing with sleep, your hair fanned out across the pillow. Right now, he wants nothing more than to bury himself in that warmth, back into the gentle scent of your faded perfume, tucking you against his chest where he knows for certain youâll be safe.
But thatâs a dangerous gameâ and if he lets himself indulge in it, heâll never be able to drag himself out of bed and into his day. So, reluctantly, he presses another kiss to your neck, then one each to your jaw and your temple, and slips out from under the covers.Â
You make another garbled noise at the loss of warmth, flopping around a little to make yourself comfortable again. Youâre an active sleeper, to Gatorâs endless amusement. He fights his laugh and sets about getting ready.
When he emerges from the closet dressed in his cargos and a black t-shirt, shrugging on his vest, youâve moved again. Overheated now, youâve shoved the covers off, one leg thrown over them. The movement has rucked up your sleep shorts, exposing the long line of your thigh and your ass. Itâs no shock where Gatorâs eye goes as he drinks you in.Â
He swallows, eyes tracing your supple curves, the way youâre so blissfully unaware of what youâre doing to him first thing in the goddamn morning. Fighting heat in his abdomen, he traipses over to your end of the bed and bends down, ignoring the noise his combat boots make against the squeaky old hardwoods. Gently, he brushes back a few stray pieces of your hair and presses one last kiss to your cheek. âLove you,â he murmurs into your skin.
Here in this bedroom, he almost feels like a different man.Â
A man exempt from hardness. A man who canât stand to be anything but what heâs been trained not to beâ a man fitted into your grooves, melted like butter, softness in every fiber of his muscles. When he touches you, kisses you, fucks you, itâs like this, wrapped in spell-binding sheets that drain every last scrap of depravity out of him. Thereâs nothing in him anymore but desperate, gentle hands, pawing for affection, giving it out readily in return. In the warm, hazy spell of the morning, itâs the only thing he is. Heâs gone soft, just like his daddy warned him, and somehow, he canât get enough of it.
Gator rises, the image of you captured and preserved in his mind to antagonize him for the rest of his day. With one glance back at you, arousal and affection melding in his gut, he leaves for work.
---
author's note: I'd like to add that my lovely roommate who betas for me sometimes saw "a man exempt from hardness" and lost her shit
for the summer prompts, 1 flowers, gator and baker reader pls ! đđđđđ
your wish is my command <3
prompt #1. flowers
pairing: shy!baker!reader x gator; kind of casually dating?
word count: 744
"Hey, hot stuff, your boyfriend's lookin' for ya."
Your eyes dart to Janice, the sweet, elderly, nosey woman who owns the bakery you work at. She's currently standing in the doorway, her hand on her hip with an expectant look on her face, as if to say what are you waiting for?
"He's not my boyfriend," you mutter, grabbing a bench scraper to fold your brioche dough into a ball. You then dump it into the stand mixer, click it on, and set the kitchen timer before sliding it into the front pocket of your apron.
"That why you're droppin' everything to go talk to him?"
"Janice," you warn, walking over to the sink to wash your hands. You know your tone is anything but threatening â you couldn't, even if you tried, especially with the woman who basically doubled as your mom â but you found talking about your love life to be incredibly uncomfortable.
"Should I send him back here or are you goin' out front?" she asks, ignoring your thinly veiled advisory.
"I'll just take my break now," you reply. Janice nods, a smirk on her lips as you brush past her, but not before she squeezes your arm comfortingly. You can't help it as you swallow nervously, nibbling on your bottom lip as you walk out front, finding none other than Gator Tillman standing there, his hands behind his back.
His eyes immediately brighten when he sees you, and you try not to let your entire body melt.
"Hey, kid," Gator greets, using the nickname that, for some reason, always makes you warm beneath his gaze. You smile despite the butterflies flapping anxiously in your stomach. "Sorry if it's a bad time. Just wanted to drop by 'fore I head in for my shift at the station."
You shake your head, "No, no, now's good. I'm taking my break."
Gator grins. "For lil' old me?"
He reaches out to wrap an arm around your shoulders and your mouth dries, especially when he presses a kiss to your temple. Your relationship â could you even call it that yet? â hasn't been filled with the most PDA, solely because it's something that you're not experienced with. Moments like these, when it's just you and Gator (and Janice, probably, watching from the back), feel less high-stakes and more comfortable.
"C'mon, can I take y'for a walk? Got something for you in my car."
"As long as that's not some line just to makeout with me," you tease softly, making Gator laugh loudly. You've been coming out of your shell more every time you see each other, and he loves the side of you that rags on him.
"I'd never use a line for that, kid," Gator replies, keeping his arm slung around you as you walk towards his truck. "Don't need one, anyway. Think I remember you wantin' to kiss all through your lunch last week."
"Oh, shut up," you giggle, shoving his side. Gator cackles and presses a quick kiss to your forehead when you arrive at his truck.
"No peeking," he says, and you nod, closing your eyes. He opens the passenger's side door and reaches inside, only to push something in your hands. You grasp what feels like grass, then bat your eyes open, finding a small gathering of wildflowers wrapped with a rubber band. Your eyes widen and you glance up at Gator, who's standing up a bit straighter now.
"Buncha wildflowers bloomed over at the ranch this week and, uh, they reminded me of you. Got up this morning and picked some for ya. I've never given anyone flowers before, but, y'know... wanted you to be the first, I guess."
You clutch the flowers closer to your chest, sniffing their beautiful aroma. You swear you feel your heart blossom, just like the wildflowers Gator picked for you.
"This is so sweet," you say softly. "Thank you so much. I don't even know what to say."
"Really?" he asks. "You like 'em?"
You grin, reaching for his hand. "I love them, Gator."
Gator shifts his weight from foot to foot.
"You don't think it's, like... stupid, or nothing?"
"Absolutely not," you reply with a shake of your head. "It's one of the sweetest things anyone's ever done for me."
"And you're not just sayin' that?"
This time, you respond with a firm kiss to his lips, making sure to preserve the small bouquet of wildflowers between the warm press of your chests.
Following up with the family plan, Iâd love to see if/when Gator officially proposes and if, instead of sitting under the Lehigh microscope with the wedding, decides to elope instead, but totally up to you. I could see him going for something more private and his decision and then have the whole ceremony and stuff for optics later on
thank you for the request and for reading!!! this is so extremely gator and I got hooked on this idea IMMEDIATELY so here's part one!
hitched â´ gator tillman
boyfriend/fiancĂŠ!gator tillman x reader - wc 1.2k
summary: gator doesn't know much about romance, but he does know one thing-- he's got a question to ask you. it's just a matter of when and how to do it.
tags/warnings: boyfriend to fiancĂŠ!gator tillman x reader, no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, character study, established relationship, suggestive content, domestic fluff, proposals, gator tillman vs. a giant romantic gesture
---
Stretched out in the bed of his pickup truck, his eyes fixed to the horizon exploding with bruise-like color, Gator holds you tightly in his arms.Â
When you begged him to pull over five minutes ago on your way back from a date-night dinner, heâd griped and complained about how one sunset was like every other, but in truth, he didnât have any real objections. Heâd been happy enough to park the truck with the trailer hitch facing west and watch you jump excitedly down from your seat when he held the door, eyes wide as you took in the magnificent view. Not that heâd let you know it.Â
As the sky catches fire above the scratchy grass prairie on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere between your home and the rest of town, Gator doesnât think heâs ever seen anything so stupidly perfect. It doesnât hurt that youâre laying back against his chest, your body settled between his legs while his arms band around you and hold you close.Â
One of your hands scratches gently over his forearm, back and forth, again and again. Itâs a soothing touch. Youâd told him once you loved touching him like thatâ softly, constantly, and for no reason at all. Nobody had ever touched him like that beforeâ not in his whole life.
Suddenly, all the nerves of the night have faded completely to the back of his mind. Itâs easy like this, with you, even while the chill of a North Dakota summer night is setting in rapidly around you both. Laying here holding you, loving you like heâd never meant to love anyone, comes as easily to Gator Tillman as breathing or walking or lowering his fists. Itâs naturalâ intrinsic. Like his body knows to do it before his brain manages to snap out of his stupor and catch the hell up.Â
It was how he knew heâd be okay doing this foreverâ pulling the truck over if you asked. Complaining the whole way, even as you set him grinning. He didnât have to think about itâ in his bones, he already knew.
âWill you marry me?â he murmurs into your hair, plain and unadorned.
âHa-ha,â you snort, eyes still fixed on the sunset. âIf this is your creative way of getting me to give you a handjob, itâs not working.â
His grin broadens, and he presses his cheek to your head as his hand moves to fish around in his shirt pocket for the tiny damn thing thatâs been weighing him down all night.Â
Gatorâs never been a romantic by any stretch. Heâs the type of man to buy you flowersâ those pretty ones you pointed out in a store window onceâ and leave them on the counter in the first cheap plastic cup he can find, regardless of how many times you tell him there are vases in the cabinet. To him, the technicalities of it donât matter. Flowers are flowers. He only cares that they make you smile every time he brings them home.Â
Heâs the type of man to drag his feet about trying out a new restaurant with you knowing damn well heâs already marked off a day on the calendar heâll take you there as a surprise. Heâll huff indignantly when you tell him what dress shirt you think would look best, but itâs on him in minutes in spite of all his objections.Â
Heâs not a grand gesture type of guy. Heâs the kind to mutter in your ear how deeply heâs in love with you every night, but only once heâs sure youâve fallen asleep.Â
Heâll sit at a table on a fancy date, in a restaurant with furnishings and menu items he couldnât care less about, run over the plan heâs been trying his damndest to work out all week, and give up on it completely. Instead, heâll end up trying to see how many dirty jokes he can crack before your face goes completely red.Â
Heâll turn over words he thinks constantly in his head and a loose ring thatâs lived in his pocket for months a million times and never find the trigger to release them.Â
He wonât get down on one knee. Heâs already at your feet.
His fingers close around the ring, and he pulls it out, bringing his arm back around to show you.Â
Your stare lands on it and you jolt upright, twisting in his lap to meet his eyes, your own flicking between his smiling face and the ring still held out to you. âOh my God,â you make out, your expression so shocked itâs comical. âOh my God, you werenât joking.â
âYeah, not really, baby,â he teases, staring back at you unabashedly. âWouldnât mind that handjob, though.â
âPig,â you say with a shocked laugh, shoving at his chest.Â
His free hand slips onto your thigh, warm against your skin. âSo?â he presses, digging his thumb gently into your flesh. âWill you have me?â
He watches the excitement grow in your face, barely contained. But, eyes crinkling, you only reply, âWhy do you wanna marry me, Gator Tillman?â
This time, the words arenât hard for him to find. Like usual, his tongue reveals them before his mind would even think to object. ââCause I want you forever, and I love you like Iâm dyinâ.â
Your face shifts, your eyes going all silver as your hands slide up to his face, framing it. You lean in and kiss him, sweet and gentle and a million other things he thought heâd never feel.Â
âIâll have you,â you say against his lips, the words thick with emotion. âIâll have you always, Alligator. And Iâd marry you tomorrow.â
The last piece of restlessness in him settles completely, an unstoppable, coursing feeling rushing through his chest. He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss until you can both barely breathe. His brow knits, his hands nearly shaking as they smooth over your body, because nothing and no one has ever felt this good. And nothing ever will. And he has the rest of his life to prove it to himself.
You pull back, your hand sweeping over his face so delicately as you smile at him. A tear rolls down your cheek, and he reaches up to brush it away with his thumb.Â
He holds the ring up between youâ that simple gold band, those three polished diamonds set together. Your smile widens, and you give him your left hand, letting him grip it as he slips that ring on your finger. It fights him a little as he works it over your knuckle, but eventually, it slips free and settles against your skin. But he supposes itâs always been a fight with youâ always an effort, a mass of trials, a learning curve heâs wanted desperately to ignore. Itâs been a pain in the ass getting here, and yet here he isâ soft and warm and settled against your skin.Â
You kiss him again, your lips a plush heaven. And when you slip that hand back into his hair, he holds you so tight thereâll never be any letting go.
---
author's note: god sappy gator is so hard to write without going ooc but I love him so much I will not stop. this will be a two-part fic with a wedding/elopement scene in the next part, coming soon!
An ask from a while ago, that Iâd drafted and then put to one side to finish eventually⌠and eventually is today. The ask was for Gator on a date, or going on your first proper date with Gator.
Youâd thought youâd known exactly what Deputy Gator Tillman was.
Not in the specifics - youâre not dumb enough to go looking for those - but the rough idea of him. The way conversations seem to stop when he walks into a room. The way Deputy Bowman laughed a little too loud, a little too long, at something Gator had said once outside the office, and youâd spotted the stress in it. You do know what Sheriff Roy Tillman is, which means you have an idea of what being the son of a bully does to a person, even if youâve never said that out loud and have absolutely no plan to ever do so.
So youâd thought youâd known the idea of Gator Tillman - and you kept fucking him anyway. Thatâs on you.
The first time was in September, after a long Tuesday that had ended with both of you still in the building past nine oâclock, and it hadnât been a decision so much as something that happened in the break room when everyone else had gone home. The weird, annoyed sort-of chemistry between you had always been there. Youâd been aware of it the way youâre aware of something loud in a neighbouring room - present, impossible to fully ignore, and not really any of your business - but then one evening it was your business, and then it was over, and youâd both cleaned up and gone home, and that should have been that.
He found you again the following week, sitting up at a bar in town while your friends danced to some god-awful Taylor Swift song. Heâd suggested you both get some air - which ended up with him balls-deep inside you in the accessible bathroom, his big hand clamped over your mouth and the light switch digging into your back, the light flickering on and off and on again with each thrust like the worldâs worst strobe.
He kept on finding you, in bars and break rooms and your door. He kept coming back.
Youâre still not entirely sure why you let him. Or rather, you know roughly why - he is, to put it plainly, an exceptionally good fuck - but youâd expected it to run its course. Thatâs what these things do. A few weeks, the novelty wears off, you go back to being two people who work in the same building and nod at each other by the coffee machine, no harm done.
Four months later heâs still showing up, and youâve stopped expecting him not to.
Itâs not a relationship. You have to be clear about that, at least to yourself, because clarity feels important. You donât talk much outside of work. He doesnât stay when he turns up at your door in the middle of the night when a shiftâs gone bad and he needs to put the pent-up energy somewhere. You donât ask him to, and he doesnât offer, and the arrangement has a clean, unspoken logic to it that suits you both. Youâd barely consider the two of you friends. Youâre something more specific and less nameable than that - two people who work thirty feet apart and have discovered, through what was honestly an accident, that they are spectacularly good at getting each other off.
What you didnât expect - what you genuinely did not factor in at all - was that heâd be funny. Not charming-funny, and not the cruel kind of funny men deploy on purpose, like a tool or a weapon. Just occasionally, accidentally, genuinely funny. The first time it happened youâd been in your kitchen at two in the morning, after, while he was pulling his jacket back on. Heâd said something - a dry, throwaway observation about your bright pink coffee maker, of all things, something so understated you almost missed it - and youâd laughed before you could stop yourself. Really laughed. And heâd gone very still, like he wasnât sure what heâd done, like no-one had genuinely laughed at something heâd said in a long time and he didnât quite know what to do with it.
Youâd thought about that look more than youâve thought about most things that have happened in your bed. Which is saying something. Youâve been trying not to examine why.
****************
It was Brett Kowalski who asked you out. Brett from the county assessorâs office, who is nice and has never done a single thing wrong in his life, which should be a point in his favour but somehow isnât. Heâd asked you outside the Cenex on a Tuesday lunch break and youâd said youâd think about it, which you both knew meant no, and that should have been the end of it. A guy had tried his luck, struck out, and that was that.
Your mistake was mentioning it when you got back to the office.
Youâre still not entirely sure why you did. Gator had been in a mood - some family thing, he never said what, but you could tell from the firm line of his mouth that he was not going to be fun today. He was sitting at the break room table while you made coffee, and the silence had an edge to it, and so to break it youâd blurted it out - âBrett Kowalski just asked me outâ - mostly just to fill the space.
The change in him was fast. Not dramatic, he didnât throw anything, but something in his face went dark - darker - in a way that was its own kind of loud.
âKowalski,â he said.
âFrom the assessorâs office.â
âYeah, I know who he is.â
Youâd turned around then, leaning against the counter, watching him. âDo you?â
He didnât answer that. He picked up his coffee and looked at it like it had done something to offend him.
âYouâre not going,â he said, eventually.
And that was when you made the decision that has resulted in you sitting in an Applebeeâs in Dickinson on a Saturday night, so in retrospect maybe you should have let it go. But something about the flatness of it - youâre not going, like that was just a fact about your life that he was informing you of - had gotten right up under your skin.
âExcuse me? Iâm not going? Says who?â
âIâm saying. Kowalskiâs a⌠heâs fucking weak. Youâre not going.â
Youâd pressed up from the counter and folded your arms across your chest. Heâd at least had the sense to pretend not to look.
âIf you donât like it,â youâd said, keeping your voice very pleasant, âmaybe you should ask me on a date.â
The look on his face had been almost worth everything that followed.
âFine,â he said, very careful about keeping his eyes on yours and not anywhere else.
You hadnât expected that. âFine?â
âYeah, I said fine. A date, on Saturday.â
âI pick where we go.â Youâd been firm about that. The venue was your choice.
Heâd looked like he wanted to argue that, but heâd thought better of it. âFine. Seven oâclock. Text me the place.â
Which is how you ended up here.
****************
Applebeeâs was maybe a little mean. Youâll admit that. But youâd wanted to see what heâd do with it, and the answer - Gator Tillman walking through the door of an Applebeeâs in a button-down shirt that heâd clearly ironed badly, looking around the room like he was conducting a threat assessment of the salad bar - has already made the whole thing worthwhile.
He spots you, and doesnât smile about it. Then he crosses the room and sits himself down with a thud into the chair.
âApplebeeâs is where you wanted to go,â he says, flat. âSeriously?â
âI come here all the time,â you say, smiling sweetly. âGreat neighbourhood feel.â
He looks around the neighbourhood feel. Two middle-aged women are getting wine-drunk in a booth nearby. A family of five is arguing about whether to get the riblets. Someone has put âDonât Stop Believinââ on the jukebox in the bar area.
âWhat neighbourhood feels like this?â he asks, bemused.
The waitress comes over - a high school kid, very cheerful, name tag says Britnee - and you order a strawberry margarita because youâve decided to commit to the bit. Gator orders a beer, and when Britnee asks which kind he just says donât care, whateverâs cold in a tone thatâs probably a little much for a Saturday night in Dickinson, but Britnee writes it down and disappears with the speed of someone who has good survival instincts.
âYou couldâve just said Bud Light,â you say.
âI donât care what kind it is.â
âI know. But now sheâs going to take a while trying to decide which cold beer youâre less likely to scowl at her for bringing.â
He looks at you across the table. In the bleak horror of Applebeeâs lighting - which spares no one, itâs one of its few honest qualities - he looks tired. Really, really tired, younger than he usually lets himself seem, and oddly unsure of himself in a way that sits strangely on him.
âI donât do this,â he says, abruptly.
âAsk for unspecified beer?â
âYou know what I mean.â
You do. You look down at your menu. âWhy not?â
He doesnât answer you immediately, choosing instead to pick at a crack in the corner of the laminated menu. You can feel him deciding how much he wants to give you. âGuess I didnât see the point.â
âOf going out to dinner?â
âOf -â He starts tugging paper napkins out of the caddy, needlessly. âOf all of it. The whole thing.â
You look up. Heâs not looking at you, heâs looking at his napkins and then the menu like it requires serious concentration, which given Applebeeâs it really doesnât. You watch his face for a moment.
âWhat about now?â
He doesnât answer straight away. Britnee reappears with your drinks and takes your food order - you get a chicken pasta because youâre here now, you might as well, and Gator gets a steak because of course he does - and disappears again.
âNow Iâm in fuckinâ Applebeeâs,â he says, finally, like that comes close to an answer. Maybe it does.
****************
The thing is, once you get past the first twenty minutes, it gets easier.
It shouldnât. Thereâs no reason for it to - he still looks tired and you know picking this place was a little mean of you. But somewhere around the point where youâre arguing about whether Dickinson has anything worth doing on a weekend (you say yes, he says name one thing, you say the bowling alley on Fifth, he says that place has a rat problem, you say youâve bowled there a few times and never seen a rat, he says that doesnât mean there isnât one), something loosens between you. Some held thing lets itself go.
Heâs opinionated - which youâd known since youâd walked into the sheriffâs department on your first day three year ago - but in a regular-person way you havenât had much chance to see before. He thinks the bypass construction has been mismanaged from the start, which, fair. He has thoughts about the new pastor at the Lutheran church that are surprisingly nuanced for someone who you wouldnât have pegged as a man with nuanced thoughts about Lutheran pastors. He grew up watching old Westerns with his mother, which he tells you almost by accident, mid-sentence - âsheâd pick the ones with the most horses, didnât matter what else was in themâ - and then he moves past it so fast, back to the bypass construction or whatever came before, that you almost let it go. Almost. But you catch the small, careful way heâd said sheâd, past tense, and you donât ask, and he doesnât explain, and that silence between you is different from the others.
Your food arrives and it is exactly as mediocre as Applebeeâs food always is, and you say so, and Gator says you picked it, and you say I know, thatâs what makes it funny, and he looks at you for a second and then something happens to his mouth that you realise, with a small shock, is him trying not to smile.
âWhat?â you ask him, a little incredulous.
âNothing.â
âYou almost smiled.â
âI didnât.â
âGator. I saw it.â
He cuts into his steak. âShut up, eat your pasta.â
But the almost-smile stays at the corner of his mouth for a while after, and you find yourself doing something you hadnât planned on, which is having a good time.
****************
It happens over dessert, which youâd ordered without asking him because you wanted to see what heâd do, and what heâd done was look at the brownie bites the waitress put between you and then pick up a spoon, which felt like a significant moment of growth.
Youâre telling him about your cousinâs wedding last summer - the one in Bismarck, the one where the DJ had played Gangnam Style three times and your uncle Gerard had done the dance moves perfectly each time - and Gator is listening in a way that he doesnât always, really listening, and youâre doing the arm movements a little to illustrate, quietly, so as not to disturb the riblet family, and he laughs.
Not almost. Actually laughs. Short and real and true, there and gone, like he hadnât meant to and doesnât quite know what to do with the aftermath.
You feel it happen while youâre still doing the arm movements. It doesnât announce itself. Itâs not a feeling so much as a shift in register - the way a room looks different when someone turns on a lamp you hadnât noticed was off. You lower your hands. Heâs still coming down from laughing, jaw working a little like heâs figuring out what expression belongs on his face now, and you look at him across the sticky table and something youâd been holding at a careful distance closes the gap without asking permission.
Because hereâs what you see, across an Applebeeâs table with a plate of brownie bites between you - a man who badly irons his shirt for a date he was manipulated into, who has opinions about bypass construction and Lutheran pastors and the imaginary rat problem at the Fifth Street bowling alley, who grew up watching cowboy films with his absent mother, who laughs when he forgets to stop himself, who is capable of making you forget your own name with the flick of his wrist. Who is, against what should be considerable odds, genuinely good company when he stops pulling on the costume of Deputy Gator Tillman.
Youâd thought youâd known what he was. You didnât know this part.
Youâre not sure what to do with it, so you eat some of the brownie and let the moment settle, and he does the same, and Applebeeâs plays something that might be early 2000s country over the speakers and neither of you mentions it.
****************
Outside, the parking lot is cold and lit orange, and your breath makes small clouds. He walks you to your car without being asked, without making anything of it, and you donât say a word about it because saying something would make it feel lesser.
You get to your car and turn around. Heâs closer than youâd registered, and neither of you speaks, and the silence is not uncomfortable exactly - itâs the kind thatâs waiting to see what youâll do with it.
âWe donât have to call tonight a date,â you offer. âIf thatâs easier for you to, I donât know, live with or whatever.â
He looks at you for a long moment. Itâs not defensive, something more complicated than that, something moving behind his eyes that he isnât going to name and youâre not going to ask him to. âIt was a date,â he eventually says, firm with it.
âOkay.â
âWeâre not doing Applebeeâs again.â
âFine.â
âIâm picking next time.â He nods, once, like a verdict. Then he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair back from your face - delicately, like heâs been deciding whether to do it since somewhere around the brownie bites - and his hand drops and he steps back and the cold air fills the space.
âIâll call you,â he tells you. Itâs not a question. Heâs still the Deputy, always still that, but under it something that sounds almost careful.
You think of Brett Kowalski from the assessorâs office. You let him go.
âYeah,â you say. âYouâd better.â
You drive home south through the dark flat nothing of North Dakota, radio low, fields black on either side of the road, and you think about how you had gone into tonight with a very clear idea of what it was. A point being made. A small, petty correction to the way heâd said youâre not going like it was just a fact. Youâd had it all mapped out.
You pass the grain elevator outside of town and youâre still thinking about the way his face had looked when he laughed. The surprise in it, like heâd caught himself doing something he hadnât planned on.
Somewhere on Route 22 it happens - that small, involuntary thing. You notice it because your face is still cold from the parking lot and the smile pulls at skin that was already tight with it, and youâd been so busy thinking about him that you hadnât noticed it starting.
You donât try to stop it.
You donât try to figure out what it means, either. Not tonight. Tonight you just let Route 22 unspool ahead of you in the headlights and you keep the radio low and you donât stop smiling for a long time after you probably should.
summary: gator's sick of people pushing him about settling down. you'd understand a little better if he didn't take it out on you. and, well, if there's one thing the two of you know how to do, it's have a good fight-- and it's a good thing gator always knows how to make it up to you.
tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, grumpy x sunshine, hurt/comfort, possessive!gator, domestic!gator, manhandling, elements of casual sub/dom, overuse of pet names (baby, doll, mama), couple fights, drinking, unpacking trauma, gator is a sweetie but he still got issues, but lowk so do you, let's yell at each other with mama!
wc: 6.6k
---
Youâre sitting at a picnic bench outside your church, and the bridge ladies wonât quit jabbering.
The coffee hour has been moved outside to take advantage of the spring sun, and a balmy wind is kicking up napkins and delighting screaming kids across the grassy expanse. Youâre really only here to maintain appearances, donate some baked goods, and chat with the few parishioners you can actually stand. Church isnât really something you loveâ at least here in North Dakota. Itâs something you do for your boyfriendâs benefit, at his dadâs insistence, and because in some ways, as Gatorâs girlfriend, it matters what these people think of you.
You smile politely as the women drone on about neighborhood gossip and recipes they simply have to send you and how they dropped off a snickers salad for the preacherâs wife last night âcause sheâs had so much trouble cookinâ lately. Theyâre old women, and theyâre multitasking between their card game and keeping you shackled to their conversation. Itâs like this every Sunday they can get their hands on you.
Sometimes you think itâs no wonder you and Gator were drawn to each otherâ despite how much better you mask it in public, you both share the affliction of being easily frustrated by nosy small-town people who wonât shut their traps. And speaking of your boyfriendâŚ
Gator seems trapped in a dialogue of his own across the lawn, Roy standing before him, so clearly laying another lecture onto his sonâs shoulders. Gator squirms like a kid when his dad yells at him, and you can see it now, that lack of attention span from the ADHD you keep telling him to get tested for driving Roy even crazier than he already is. Finally, Roy makes his point and relents, and Gator makes his way across the lawn toward you, the set of his shoulders still tense.
âHey, baby,â he mumbles as he nears, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. He smiles tightly and nods to the bridge ladies, who coo over his arrival, and slides onto the bench beside you, straddling it to face you. One of his hands goes immediately to your lower back like he needs the contact, or maybe an excuse to cop a feel in the modest sundress youâve donned for church today.Â
âGator, honey,â one of the ladiesâ Mrs. Pearson, whose husband runs the hardware store near the diner where you workâ greets him. âWe were just tellinâ your little missus here âbout some recipes she should get her hands on.â
Gator nods and doesnât reply further, unamused. You press your thigh into his leg, telling him silently to play nice. You know heâs only over here because you are, and that heâd always rather be long gone once the church service ends, but this is what it takes to be a part of a community, and even grudgingly, he knows that. Still, his constant frustration with these people is part of the reason theyâve always liked you more than they like him. He is the town bully who barely grew out of it, still brash and impulsive and rude at times, still hiding that sweetness behind his tough-guy face except when it comes to you. You are the town darling, the one who runs Sunday school when the preacherâs daughter canât, the model future wife for the sheriffâs son. You always wear your church skirts to your knees, and from your pretty smile, no one can tell itâs Gator whoâll bunch them up to your waist when he bends you over later.
âSheâs such a nice girl,â one of the other ladies croons, smiling widely at you. Thereâs pink lipstick on her teeth. âYou know sheâll do a bang-up job as your little wife, mister.â
âThatâs right!â Another one chimes in, placing down a card with a wrinkled hand. âI mean, geez Louise, forget about the cookinâ! Sheâll have that house spick and spam for ya, isnât that right, sweetiepie?â
You laugh indulgently, although everything in you wants to roll your eyes and find a way to escape this table. Sure, you can cook, and youâve always kept the house far cleaner than Gator cares to, but you donât need these women telling him that. If he hasnât figured out the virtues of keeping you around already, heâs certainly not gonna listen to them tell it.
âIâd say, with how handsome a couple you two are, youâd better get movinâ on those little ones!â Mrs. Pearson adds.
âLittle ones?â Gator repeats flatly, and you step on his toe under the table.
âWell, I betcha your daddy wants another baby in the family soon,â Mrs. Pearson explains laughingly, then leans over to touch your cheek. âItâd be a shame to waste those cheekbones, anyway. You two better get crackinâ on those kids before the sheriff has to tell ya to!â
You hear more than see Gatorâs jaw grind. He opens his mouth to say something youâre sure wonât be too flattering, but you cut in before he can, slipping your hand over his on his thigh. âYou know, you ladies are too right. In fact, I think weâve got a little business to attend to at home, come to think of it. Canât let that house go too long without a cleaning, can we?â
The ladies laugh at the scandalous joke, waving you off.Â
âYou kids!â Mrs. Pearson smiles. âGo, enjoy the day, sweeties!â
You rise to your feet, smiling back at them, and pull Gator up by the hand, dragging him away from the table before he can say something the both of you will regret. He follows behind you, one of his hands sliding over your waist as you cross the grass again. You can tell heâs angry by how quiet heâs gone, the way he tugs at the collar of his crisp black button-up.
âLetâs get the fuck out of here,â he mutters in your ear. âYou put in your damn time.â
âLet me grab my purse,â you tell him gently, smoothing a hand down his chestâ already having guessed from his mood youâd be taking off early. âYou grab the tupperware from the scones, and Iâll meet you by the truck.â
âDonât stop to chat,â he says gruffly, hand tightening on your waist. âIâll blow my brains out if Mrs. Pearson finds me again.â
You bite back a smile and kiss his cheek, heading off swiftly to gather the rest of your belongings.Â
You intercept him on the way back, two more of his shirt buttons already undone and his sleeves pushed up to the elbow. You slip your hand into his as you walk back through the parking lot together, not daring to check behind you to see if anyoneâs noticed your early exit.Â
Gator opens your door for you and waits for you to get in, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You worry about that expression on himâ about what his father might have said to him to get him so fired up.Â
Itâs only when youâre speeding back down the dirt road from the church that you finally ask, reaching over and squeezing his arm as you do.Â
âGate.â
âHm?â he replies, eyes on the road.
You keep your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing up and down
âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothinâ,â he mutters.
You snort. âConvincing.â
He shoots you a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. âWill you leave me alone, woman?â
You roll your eyes, removing your hand and shifting back to your side of the car with a quiet sigh. When he gets grumpy like this, youâve found over the years itâs best to just leave him to mope.
You drive in silence for a while, staring out the windshield and not bothering to keep your face polite. Eventually, you hear Gator muttering to himself, and your attention snags on the noise.
âNosy old hags.â
âWhat?â you ask, brow crinkling.Â
Gator doesnât repeat himself, but you heard him clearly enough the first time.
âYouâre upset about Mrs. Pearson and the ladies?â you surmise, voice flat. For goodnessâ sake, he could have just told you that.
âTheyâre sticking their damn noses where they donât belong,â he finally snaps, the one hand he has on the steering wheel gripping the leather.Â
âThatâs just what they do, Gator,â you say mildly. âThatâs who they are. They gossip about everyone in town, not just us.â
âYeah, well, they can say what they want about all those other assholes, but not about me ân you,â he bites, his jaw ticking again.
You fight another sigh and take his free hand in both of yours, squeezing it. âTheyâre not being nasty. Theyâre just old women.â
The words have the opposite of their intended effect of calming him. Gatorâs voice rises as he snaps, âWell, what goddamn business of theirs is it when weâre havinâ any fuckinâ kids? Weâre not even hitched yet, and theyâre breathinâ down our necks.â
You exhale through your nose, wishing silently he wasnât so sensitive when it came to what other people thought. âWell, when youâve been together for three years, those are the kind of questions people ask, Gate. Marriage, kids. I mean, we live together, baby. Itâs not totally crazy.â
âSo youâre on their side, then?â he demands, head whipping between you and the road.
You stare back at him, starting to be irritated. âIâm on your side, always. You know that.â
âThen why are you fuckinâ defending them?â
âIâm just saying they didnât do anything wrong, Gator,â you huff, withdrawing your hands again. âTheyâre just nosy. If you donât wanna hear any gossip, weâre gonna need to find another place to live.â
âLike hell they arenât doinâ shit wrong,â he fires back at you. âDragginâ themselves into our business like that, basically asking when Iâm finally gonna man up and knock you upââ
âWell, you donât seem to mind the idea so much when youâre inside me, now do you?â you cut in flatly.
Gator whips his stare to yours. âThe hellâs that sâposed to mean?â
You look back at him coolly, your displeasure evident. âI just didnât think you found the idea of settling down with me so terrible. My mistake.â
âDonât be like that,â he grunts.
âWell, what else am I supposed to think, Gator?â you challenge him. âYouâre practically jumping down my throat for suggesting people arenât totally crazy when they ask if weâll ever have kids.â
âTheyâre not askinâ, theyâre tellinâ.â Gator snaps. âAnd Iâm sorry, but I happen to think a man has a right to privacy âbout a few things, and puttinâ a baby in his woman is one of âem.â
Your lips tighten, and you look back out the windshield. âHow romantic.â
âA man should get to decide when he wants all that shit to happen, alright?â he repeats himself loudly. Yâshould get to do it in your own time.â
âFine,â you cut in, now more than a little pissed with him. âNext time, Iâll just tell sweet old Mrs. Pearson to fuck right off.â
âNow that would be beinâ on my fuckinâ team,â he bites.
You shake your head, knowing arguing with him again about how disagreeing doesnât diminish how you feel about him would be a moot point. âWhatever.â
âYâcould drop the attitude, you know,â he adds bitterly. âDonât âwhateverâ me.â
âWell, I guess Iâm not your fuckinâ wife, so thereâs no sense in me being all respectful and proper, now is there?â you spit back at him, crossing your arms.
Gator seethes to himself as you pull into your driveway, not looking at each other.Â
âIâve got a shift at the diner,â you inform him flatly, jumping down from the truck without waiting for him to open your door for youâ something you know full well will piss him off even more. âIâm off at six. Donât wait on me to eat dinner.â
âReally?â he snaps, following you into the house. âThatâs it?â
âGuess so,â you toss over your shoulder. âWouldnât want to actually settle anything, would we?â
Gator lets you slam the door to the bedroom, changing swiftly into your work uniform. As you throw on your clothes, still steaming with anger at your mule-stubborn boyfriend, you can hear him mutter something unflattering at you through the door.
Youâre still wearing a frown while pouring coffee three hours later, and nothing at work is helping to lighten your mood.Â
Two of your regulars have already told you to put a smile on your face, but you canât help it. You hate fighting with Gator. As much as things have calmed down in recent years between the two of you, as much as youâve settled into each other and smoothed over so many dangerous cracks, every now and again, something like this will come up and youâll feel like the two of you are right back to square one.Â
You move back through the diner and behind the counter again, coffee pot in hand. Your eyes sweep the tables for empty cups, which means you catch it when the door opens and the tiny bell above it rings, announcing the presence of your newest customer just as surely as the heavy tread of his combat boots.
Eyes pointedly cast down, you focus on refilling three more mugs as Gator strides up to the counter, sliding into a barstool and leaning on his elbows over the table.Â
âHey, mama,â he greets you, and you can tell from his voice alone heâs already over your fight. Heâs grinning, actually, just like he always is when he stops in mid-patrol for a quick pour and a kiss or two from you. Heâs always been so good at putting arguments like this behind himâ like whatever tiny thing had had him cursing and spitting a few hours ago had faded completely to the back of his mind. You hate that he does that. Itâs like he canât understand how not to move on without resolution.Â
âHey, yourself,â you toss back flatly, still not meeting his eyes. You ignore the way heâs clearly leaned toward you and refill the coffee of the customer to his right.Â
Gatorâs eyes track you, scanning over your face. âWhat, youâre not gonna greet your boyfriend?â he asks, that shit-eating grin still painted on his lips. âGimme a kiss.â
âI only kiss my boyfriends who are nice to me,â you intone, sliding the coffee pot back into the machine. Itâs a low blow, and you know itâ alluding to your made-up other boyfriends. But it still gets under Gatorâs skin every time, that jealousy he canât seem to stifle.
âSo youâre still pissed at me, then,â he surmises, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his tactical vest for something.Â
You point a finger at him, that heady anger rushing back to you. âGator Tillman, if you pull that disgusting vape out of your pocketââ
He pulls free a different penâ one of the fake ones you introduced him to when he finally gave into all your pleading for him to quit nicotine. He holds it up as if in surrender. âRelax, babe. Itâs just the bullshit one.â He takes a hit off of it, though if it actually calms him down, you wouldnât know.
Unimpressed, you move over to the cash register, counting and stacking your receipts just to have something to do.Â
âSo, what, you never gonna talk to me again?â he teases you, clearly nonplussed by your bad mood.Â
It works to piss you off even moreâ the fact heâs brushing off your annoyance like it means nothing. Like there was no reason for it in the first place.Â
âDepends, are you gonna apologize for losing it on me earlier?â you muse, flicking between receipts.
Gatorâs amusement finally fades, and he slips off the barstool to come around the cash register. âDonât see what Iâve gotta apologize for.â
You huff a humorless laugh. âYeah, you never really do, do you?â
âHey,â he cuts in, âYou were the one defending those old bags.â
You scowl, rounding on him. âOh, will you just drop that? I wasnât defending anyone.â
âYes, you fuckinâ were,â he argues, glaring down at you.Â
âWhy canât you ever just admit you were too harsh and apologize?â you demand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes even as he towers over you.Â
âMaybe I would if you quit flappinâ your fuckinâ mouth!â he fires back. âGod, dâyou have to be such a bitch about it?â
Shock flashes through you, and you scoff, bewildered. Dangerously, you ask him, âYou wanna rethink a couple of those words?â
âNah, I donât think I do,â he spits, looking you up and down.Â
You clench your jaw, fighting back the sting in your eyes thatâs telling you tears are coming whether you like it or not. God, this man frustrates you so much sometimes you could scream. âGreat. Then I guess we donât have anything else to talk about.â
âGreat,â he says back, tone nasty. âIâll finally get some peace and goddamn quiet.â
You huff an incredulous laugh, turning away. âHave a great shift, Gator,â you tell him bitterly, not meaning a word.Â
âIâll see you at home,â he promises, stalking away.Â
You donât check behind you after the bell ringsâ you know heâs gone. And you know he wonât look back.
Perched on a stool at the counter of the least shitty dive bar in town, you clutch your drink, the ice biting against your fingers.Â
Youâve been here almost an hour, and your mood hasnât significantly lifted, despite how youâve been faking smiles with your friends and tossing down liquor to try and stifle the endless repeat track of your boyfriendâs callous words. Itâs almost 7:30. Heâll be waiting up at home for you when you get back, and if you know anything about Gator, you know heâll be furious.Â
You donât care. Let him have a taste of his own medicineâ let him be the one getting hurt for a change. If he didnât care to communicate like an adult, then you shouldnât have to, either.
âBabe,â one of your friends calls to you, voice raised over the blaring music. âYouâre being a total buzzkill. You sure you donât wanna just head home?â
In times like these, even in your dismal mood, you canât help but consider yourself exceptionally lucky for your friends. When you pulled the group of waitresses aside after Gator left the diner and asked if they wanted to grab drinks after work, they must have seen your expression and knew you needed it more than you let on. They agreed instantly, and now here you areâ utterly failing at distracting yourself despite their best efforts.
You shake yourself, trying to escape your self-pity and lingering resentment. âNo, noâ sorry. Those shots just havenât kicked in yet.â
Your friendâs face tells you she sees through it, but she just sips from her colorful drink with a rueful smile. âThat handsome boyfriend of yours isnât gonna show up and kill us for stealing you away tonight, is he?â
Knowing Gator, that wasnât entirely out of the question. You smile behind your glass as you tell her, âDonât worry about it. If heâs got something to say, he can say it to me.â
âI hope I didnât just hear the word boyfriend.â
A voice from behind you makes you twist slightly in your seat, and a man youâve never seen before sidles up to you and slides into the barstool to your left. âNever seen you before, gorgeous. Whereâd you come from?â
You flatten your eyes slightly, hoping heâll take the hint youâre not interested. While youâre usually alright pushing your limits with Gator, appearing to flirt with another clueless guy at a bar would be about four steps over the final line. âMy gunowner boyfriendâs house,â you supply mildly. âHow âbout you?â
The guy points back to the other side of the room, unphased. âI came from over there once I saw that pretty little skirt on you. Whatâs your name, sweetheart?â
âPretty sure my tag says âproperty of Gator Tillmanâ,â you tell him. The name alone should put some kind of nerves into this guy if he has any sense at all. âIf found, please call 1-800-bite me, Iâm taken. Nice meeting you.â You turn back to your friend, hoping heâll just cut his losses and move on.
âWell, hang on a second, sweetheartââ the man goes on, reaching out and grabbing your forearm.Â
Your head whips back to him, brows raising in shock he actually touched you. You make to rip your arm away from him, but it turns out, when youâre Gator Tillmanâs girlfriend, you donât have to.Â
You watch as the man is yanked forcefully off his barstool and pulled to his feet. Gatorâs standing there like an apparition, fury contorting his face as he grips the manâs shirt in his fist and shoves him up against the bar before he can regain his balance.Â
âYou heard her, shitbird,â he tells him, voice low and face inches from the poor idiotâs. âNow get lost before I put you in the fuckinâ ground.â
The man pales, nodding once. Gator releases him with one last shove, watching as he hurries back across the crowded bar. And then he turns back to you, and all that fury finds a new target.Â
Between the booze and your lingering anger, seeing him again is a head rush. You canât tell if youâre grateful for the intervention or annoyed heâs here or anxious about the fight thatâs building between you like an oncoming storm.Â
Your friend must sense the tension, because she squeezes your shoulder and slips off her barstool with a farewell smile. You canât bring yourself to care too particularly much when Gatorâs still looking at you like that.Â
âBeen all over fuckinâ town lookinâ for you,â he starts, barely-controlled anger in his voice. âYou donât come home, and this is where youâve been all night?â
âThe girls and I were just getting some drinks after work,â you explain, a little quieter than you mean to. Oh, heâs madâ just about as angry as youâve ever seen him. You canât help the little thrill it sends through you.Â
âAnd you didnât think to call and tell me that?â he challenges, towering over you where you still sit on the barstool, muscles tight with anticipation. âDidnât think youâd let me know you werenât fuckinâ kidnapped? You know how worried Iâve been?â
âItâs been an hour,â you drawl, sipping from your drink. âIâm hardly a missing person's case.âÂ
You can tell from the deepening scowl that that was the wrong answer. Gator points to the bar door, eyes not leaving yours. âGet your ass in gear. Letâs go.â
âIâm not done with my drink,â you tell him stubbornly, fingers tight against the glass.
He rips it out of your hand and knocks the rest of it back, the ice reverberating through it as he slams it back down on the counter. âAnd now you are.â
You scowl at him, the liquor finally giving you some courage. âIâm not through here, Gator. I want to stay.â
He takes a shallow breath through his nose, in and out. âI wasnât askinâ, mama. Now get in the fuckinâ car.â
âNo,â you tell him, firing the word between you.
His brows lift, and he laughs humorlessly, low and harsh. âSome fuckinâ attitude on you tonight. I ainât gonna say it again, baby. Get in the car.â
The pet name in contrast to the sharp tone does what it always does and riles you. As you stare down your boyfriend, you decide that, today, you might just be angry enough to push back. âNo,â you say again, plain and stubborn.
The corner of Gatorâs mouth twitches up, his face still hard and set. Thereâs no humor to be found there, and that particular fact feels more thrilling than the liquor does.Â
âI warned ya,â he sighs, like heâs giving inâ as if heâs ever once done that.
And then his hands are on you, pawing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.
You yelp at the sudden movement as he lurches you both to his feet, gripping your thighs as he hauls you back through the bar.Â
âGator!â you yell in shocked protest, not caring how badly the two of you are making a scene. âPut me down, you asshole!â
âSince you donât wanna listen, guess you need a little help,â he tells you, his voice gratingly calm. His hands are a vice grip on your bare legs, even while you thrash around. You beat at his back, your hair getting in your face and the buzz of alcohol not helping with keeping your head straight any more than the rapid motion. âGator, I swear to God, if you donât let me goââ
âYell all you want, mama,â he muses as he directs you both through the crowded bar tables. âThese assholes arenât gonna do shit. They know youâre with me.â
As arrogant as the statement is, heâs probably right. If they didnât recognize Gatorâs face and know better than to interject already, theyâd sure recognize the Stark County Sheriff's Deputy badge pinned to his chest. Deep-rooted frustration roils in you, and you squirm even more against the arm he has pinning your legs.
âYouâd better knock that off, pretty,â he tells you, a warning in his deep voice.
âOr what?â you spit.
You can almost hear the wicked smile in his voice as he replies, âOr I might just have to take you to the bathroom and fuck that attitude outta ya.â
âPig,â you hiss at him, scowling even as warmth coils in your gut at the wordsâ at whatâs probably waiting for you at home as a punishment for your misbehavior.Â
He doesnât set you down until youâre right next to his truck, haphazardly parked in one of the first open spots in the bar parking lot. You wonder how long he drove around looking for you before he thought to come hereâ wonder how long he waited in the house pretending old wounds werenât being poked by your absence. For a second, a flicker of guilt runs through you. Sure, your boyfriend isnât exactly a paragon of emotional stability. But you could have done better than you have tonight to fight that.
Gator releases you and reaches around you to yank open your door.Â
Your cheeks flushed, you stand before him stubbornly and cross your arms, refusing to move. Heâs placed himself in between you and any possible escape, fencing you into the truck.
âGet in the car,â he orders you again, face entirely uncompromising.Â
Youâre a little drunk, and your resolve is cracking, but you still manage to glare up at him. âIsnât there something you wanna say first?âÂ
âYou want an apology outta me after the shit you just pulled?â he demands, brows shooting up. âYouâre lucky I donât lock you up after a stunt like that.â
âYou donât own me, Gator,â you remind him, scowling into his stern face.
âThatâs not what you were saying to that idiot back there,â Gator challenges, his dangerous voice purring.
You flush harder, wishing you had more faculty over your words. âIâm not going with you until you apologize.â
His eyes flash, all the pushback getting to him. âWeâll talk when youâre safe at home. Now get in the fuckinâ car.â
You falter slightly at the offer to talk. Heâs learningâ you know he is. A year ago, heâd have brushed this whole thing under the rug, chalked it up to some kind of female dramatics. But now, even if your âtalkingâ is probably gonna amount to another screaming match and some makeup sex⌠well, you suppose communication takes many forms.
He sees your hesitation and settles slightly, jerking his head to the seat. âDonât make me throw you in there.â
You shoot him one last dirty look and relent, climbing into the truck and taking your seat indignantly.Â
Gator slams the door behind you, telling you through the open window, âSâlike wrangling a fuckinâ bobcat with you.â
Youâre still sulking when you pull into the driveway of your home, the lights in the living room still on like Gator didnât bother turning down the house before he left. He must have been worried. That guilt flips through you again.Â
Gator walks behind you into the house, and although he doesnât say it, you know itâs probably so he can catch you if you drunkenly stumble. Always so protective, this oneâ even when heâs infuriated with you.
You sigh as you pad through the entryway, tossing the bag stuffed with your work clothes by the shoe rack haphazardly. You hear Gatorâs keys hit the dish, but you donât turn back to look at himâ just make your way to the kitchen and pull a water bottle from the fridge, drinking from it deeply to clear your throat.Â
Gator sheds his leather jacket and throws it over the hook by the door before stalking into the kitchen after you. You eye him coolly as he comes up to the counter, his hands resting on it as he watches you back.Â
âSo, you gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing tonight?â he starts, his voice already harsh.Â
âDrinks,â you tell him again, taking another swig of water. âWith my friends. Told you.â
Gator runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Out of his heavy uniform, when heâs as rumpled as he is now, heâs nowhere near as intimidating as most people find him. âYou told me you were off at six,â he barks. âI get home, no call, no text, and youâre out with your fuckinâ girlfriends like itâs goddamn mardi gras.â
âIt was one fucking hour,â you gripe, fingers locked around the plastic of your water bottle.
âI donât give a damn,â Gator snarls, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward you. âYou donât just run out on me. Plans change, then you call me and let me know and then I come and haul your ass out of the bar.â
You know where this fear comes fromâ know what heâs getting at, know why heâs ordering you so uncompromisingly. But maybe youâre too drunk and heady with anger to care, because once again, you canât help but keep pushing. âMaybe I just didnât want to talk to you, ever think about that?â
âYouâre the one always harpinâ on me about communicating, arenât ya?â he drawls, that dangerous edge still in his tone.Â
âWell, forgive me if I donât have a strong interest in sitting here and letting you call me names over things that arenât my fault,â you spit, and to your frustration, you feel your eyes start to prick again at the memory of what he called you this morning.Â
His jaw ticks, his lips pressing together. âYou know damn well I didnât mean that.â
âI have yet to hear you say so,â you challenge, face twisting. âI guess itâs just fine that you call me a bitch and tell me to shut my mouth? Thatâs just fine now?â
You see his hackles raiseâ see frustration and aggression fight for dominance in his expression before he finally relentsâ retreats just an inch for you. âIâm sorry,â he says firmly. âYou bring it outta me when you push me like that. You know that.â
You shake your head, still not satisfied. âYou canât just lash out at me âcause youâre pissed with someone else. Iâm not your proxy for the bridge ladies, Gator.â
âI know that,â he snaps, some of the softness fading. âI know youâre not sayinâ what theyâre sayinâ!â
âThen why are you yelling at me?â you spread your hands, incredulous.
He drags his hand through his hair again, aggravated. âIâm notââ
âYou are,â you argue. âYou are, Gator. I mean, why canât you just talk to me about it?â
âIâm sick of fuckinâ talkinâ about it!â he yells. âIâm sick of all these people and their pushinââ all the little hints and nudges and tellinâ me what to do!â
âWhoâs been saying that?â you plead with him, shaking your head. âItâs a couple of old ladies, Gator. It doesnât matter what they think.â
âItâs not just them, itâs everyone!â he argues, still steaming. You can almost see that anger bubbling up in himâ though, once again, you can tell youâre not its intended target. âRoy was on my ass about it this morning, too,â Gator spits out bitterly. âTalkinâ about makinâ an honest woman outta you. Carryinâ on the family name and all that horseshit.â
You fall quiet, the pieces clicking into place; the true reason for Gatorâs bad mood this morning, his reason for coming over to sit with you in the first place. The pressure you can almost see in the set of his shoulders, the burdens he doesnât realize he willingly takes on, the impossible expectation youâve tried so hard to teach him to forget. But as long as Roy is here, some things will cut too deep into Gator for even you to mend. And this, the âpushingâ he keeps bucking, is about something bigger than the words youâve thrown at each other tonight.
âIâm sorry,â you tell him, and for the first time tonight, you really mean it. âHe shouldnât have said that. Youâre right, itâs none of their business.â
You watch as Gator deflates slightly, the calmness of your voice finally working on him.Â
âYou canât let it get to you like this,â you go on, brow creasing. âYou canât let him get in your head, baby, itâsââ
âYou fucking try it,â he fires at you.
Your expression hardens again. âYou donât see me losing my shit when those people say I'm nothing more than a good housewife in the making.â
âThat shit is different and you know it,â he says, thrusting a finger at you. âYou know thatâs not you. You play that game, but you know thatâs not you.â
Heâs still pushingâ still fighting you. And, just now, it feels as heartbreaking as anything else heâs done, especially when it comes to thisâ to the little hopes you've fed each other, the plans youâd thought were in the making. Thatâs what finally gets youâ finally makes you blurt it out. âWhy is this such an issue for you?â you make out, and your voice cracks as you say it. You're reminded of the fact youâre still a little drunk as tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill down your face.
Gator sees it, too. His expression creases, and he tears his eyes away, his resolve all but completely breaking. Itâs the one thing heâs never been able to standâ you crying. The second he sees heâs pushed you there, the second your voice starts to wobble, he canât take itâ he always relents.
He heaves a sigh, his face falling and his shoulders drooping. âBabyâ baby, why are you crying? Come on, donâtâ donât cry.â
The words do nothing to help matters. Tears fall swiftly down your cheeks, and you reach up to brush them away just as quickly. âDo youââ you take a breath, your voice weak with emotion. âI mean, do you⌠not want that with me?â You feel idioticâ naive. That quiet dream you keep locked away in your chest, that fantasy of a rowdy reception hall blaring music and a carseat in the back of the truck and tiny, sticky hands gripping a camo pant leg⌠maybe it was only ever that: a beautiful, foolish dream. But after three years, what else could you expect? How could you not have pictured it all with this boy whoâs taken possession of you?
His expression contorts, confusion flashing in his eyes. âThatâs what you think?â he demands.
âThatâs how you make it sound, Gator!â You cry, hands flying to wipe furiously at your face. âThatâs what it sounds like when you act like itâs so offensive that people think weâre gonna be a family one day!â
You watch as that one wordâ familyâ hits him square in the chest. âYouâre not gettinâ it,â he shakes his head, his voice infinitely quieter. âYou donât get it, doll.â
âYouâre damn fucking right, I donât!â you snap back, sniffing.Â
âI justââ Gator turns from the counter again, frustration choking his voice. âI just canât listen to any more of these fuckers tell me what to do. Not about this. Not about you.â
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision.Â
âListen,â he tells you, suddenly insistent. Like he canât stand it any longer, he rounds the counter toward you, stopping just before you. His hand comes up to fit over your jaw, almost covering the lower part of your face. Heâs holding you there, forcing you without pain or aggression to look up at him. Itâs possessive in its utter gentleness. âI donât have a lot âa shit thatâs mine,â he tells you, and something in his eyes shifts, melts a little. âBut you? You and me, baby? Thatâs just mine. That belongs to me, you understand?â
A pathetic noise, a tiny gasping sob, works its way out of your mouth. Gatorâs fingers are firm and warm on your face as he holds you, rooting you in place with that one hand.Â
âI want this because I want it,â he says, low and clear. âNot âcause I'm told to. Not as somethinâ my dadâs makinâ me do for him. I want you âcause I love you like nothinâ Iâve ever felt.â
Youâre trembling, heart stuttering at the admission. Your hands come up to grip his arms, needing something to stabilize you.
âNo one else gets to tell me to love you,â he says fiercely, staring down into your face. âNo one gets to tell me what to want. I pick you.â His hand slips into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he pulls you into him, crushing you into his chest.
You let out another sob, arms coming around him immediately. You clutch him back, your feet nearly lifted off the ground by the strength of his embrace. But you need itâ youâve always needed Gatorâs force, his violence. You need his hands, his words, his love imprinted onto your skin in red lines like sleep marks, the intensity existing as the proof that itâs real.
âI love you,â you choke out, eyes fluttering shut.Â
Gatorâs fingers scratch at your scalp, his strong arms tight around you. âDonât you ever run out on me again.â
You hear the desperation in his voice, much as he might try to hide it. âCouldnât if I wanted to,â you whisper, drawing back to look up at him.Â
Heâs so serious when your eyes meet againâ his face drawn and pensive. One of your hands comes up to brush over his cheek, marvelling at the unexpected softness of his skin. âFuck âem all,â you tell him, a smile flitting across your lips. âYou and I are on our own timeline.â
He turns his head into your hand, nuzzling your palm. âI love you,â he says again, the words a grumble in his chest.
That naive, perfect dream is back in your chest, stronger and more insistent than before. As you stare up at Gator, his face softer than you might ever have hoped, you feel it softly glow.
---
a/n: I really do love this but it was a bitch and a half to edit. going to reward myself by writing some truly vile smut about this man
summary: after a long patrol, gator finds his girlfriend in bed asleep. it's only his nature to disturb her.
tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, soft!gator, domestic fluff, grumpy x sunshine, possessive!gator, elements of casual sub/dom, gator thinks he wants a tradwife but really he wants your attitude
a/n: help me save me from the chokehold this character has me in (I'm exactly where I want to be)
wc: 1.9k
---
A set of arms wrap around you, pulling you from luxurious sleep.Â
You make a noise of protest, drawing in a long breath. Your down comforter feels heavenly right now, and snuggled in your favorite pair of cozy socks, youâre warmer and happier than youâve been all day. Itâs just typical of your boyfriend to interrupt.
âRight where I left you,â Gator hums, arms tightening around you, nose prodding into your cheek. From the feeling of his chest pressed up against you, you can tell heâs still in his work clothes, though heâs ditched the tactical vest. Heâs been patrolling later than usual lately, much to both of your dismay. Were it not for how sweet he almost always is when he gets back and the fact it usually means you can sneak in an evening nap like this one when heâs gone, you might have had to pick a fight with his boss.Â
You groan again, turning your head over your shoulder so he can see the frown on your face, your eyes still stubbornly shut. ââM sleeping,â you mumble, voice thick.Â
Gatorâs letting the cold under the covers, and he probably knows it. He relishes annoying you like this, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as he presses them into the warmth of your neck.
âSo fuckinâ lazy,â he chuckles.Â
âRude,â you grumble, rolling over. He laughs as you slip your arms around him, clutching him closer. In contrast to the idyllic heat of your bed, his arms are chilled from so long spent out in the Dakota snow.
âYouâre wearing outside clothes,â you complain, finally opening your eyes. You blink at him, clearing them of sleep.Â
Heâs got that smug, lazy grin painted on his face as he watches you, and his hair is loosened slightly from its gel. âSo?â
âYou canât bring outside clothes into bed,â you chide him gruffly, snuggling further into his chest. Damn it, but youâve always slept better in his arms than alone, and as much-needed as your nap today was, youâve missed him. You breathe him in, savoring the faint scent of perspiration and that sharp cologne youâve told him you donât like.
âI donât see you complaininâ,â he teases, his fingertips pressing into you.Â
âMmm,â you intone, already feeling sleep attempt to drag you under again. âHow was work?â
âSame shit as usual,â he grumbles, tucking your head under his chin.âRather be lazing around all day here with you, thatâs for damn sure."
You tap a pattern onto his sternum with the pad of your finger. âIâll have you know Iâve been slaving away all day,â you argue sleepily.Â
âOh yeah?â he snorts. âBelieve that when I see it.â
If you werenât so comfortable cuddled against his chest, you would have glared at him. âI have. I made scones for the church picnic, and I cleaned out the laundry room cabinetsââ
âMm, sounds hard,â he mocks you.
You huff indignantly. âSounds like youâre not getting any of my scones.â
His laughter rumbles in his chest.
âI also went to check in on Mrs. Doughertyââ
âCrazy old bat,â Gator grumbles of your eighty-two-year-old neighbor who despises him. Sheâs really a sweet ladyâ just sees too much of Roy in Gator. You go over there every now and again to pick up the house for her and attempt to smooth things over between the two of them.
âAnd I picked up a morning shift at the diner,â you finish stubbornly. âAnd nobody else competent was working.â
His sigh ruffles your hair. âBaby, whatâd I tell you about picking up those extra shifts?â
You roll your eyes. âIt was only four hours, Gate.â
Gator pulls back to give you a displeased look. âI wish youâd just quit working at that fuckinâ place already. Those scumbagsâre runninâ you ragged.â
âI like my job, Gator,â you tell him pointedly. And you didâ as shitty as any off-the-highway diner job was, yours was just decent enough to keep. And besides, you liked your coworkers, and it wasnât the worst thing in the world to spend your hours keeping children from crying with smiley-face pancakes. It was more rewarding than what Gator did all day, that was for sure. âThe people are nice. The tips are good.â
âTipsâre only good âcause youâve got all those jackoffs making eyes at you,â he complains.
You fight not to roll your eyes again. âThatâs not the reason.â Gatorâs always been the jealous typeâ something you both love and hate about him. If he didnât make it so difficult every time he came into your work or went out with you to a bar, you might have found the trait endearing. But he always made it all but impossible for you to hold a conversation with another manâ interjecting and putting his hands all over you like you werenât in public. It was no secret in town who you belonged toâ Gator had made damn sure of that.
âLike hell it isnât,â he argues. âI see âem every time Iâm in there. Runninâ their eyes over ya like they want a piece of ya.â
âGator,â you cut in placatingly. âEveryone in town knows Iâm with you. They know better than to try anything.â More importantly, they know Gatorâ know what it means when Roy Tillmanâs son staked his claim. Every one of your regulars would much rather keep their eyes from wandering and their tone respectful than face the other end of a bloodied tire iron.Â
âThey fuckinâ better,â Gator adds, already spinning himself into a bad mood. But, as if heâs caught himself on it, realized what heâs doing, that anger melts slightly, replaced with a wicked, possessive mischief. âMaybe I should just knock you up. Finally send a message to all those assholes.â
Shock and a delicious jolt of warmth travel through you, and you glare at him. You pinch his side, then pull one of your hands free and hold it in front of his face, waggling your fingers. âOr maybe you could just get a move on and put a ring on it, stud. Start there.â
âYou gonna quit your job if I do?â he teased, leaning forward to nip playfully at your neck. âStay home all day makinâ scones ân shit?â
âGate,â you sigh, your hand cradling the back of his head as he attacks your neck. âYou know I like having something to do with my time besides sit around and take care of you.â
âTakinâ care of youâs my job,â he insists, his voice muffled against your skin. The vibrations travel up your pulsepoint, and you fight your shiver. âYâshould let me do it better. Iâm the man. Sâposed to provide for you.â
âYou do,â you assure him, knowing this is a pressure point for him. âIâm just better for you if Iâm not going stir-crazy in this house every day.â
He sighs, finally retreating from the junction of your shoulder and neck. âYouâre so fuckinâ stubborn. Drives me crazy, woman.â
You press forward, locking your lips onto his. Your mouths move together, slow and luxurious. âI love you,â you mumble, eyes crinkling as you stare back at him.Â
âMm,â Gator intones, holding out on you on purpose just to show heâs still not pleased. You snort, nonplussed by his pouting.
âIâm starving,â he announces, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before beginning to extract himself from the bed. âGonna go make something to eat. You want anything?â
That reminds youâ you make yourself sit up and get moving again, yawning wide. âThereâs pulled pork in the slow cooker. I waited for you.â
âWhy the hellâd you do that?â he asks, exasperated. He stands by the side of the bed waiting for you, which betrays the annoyed look on his face with more of that hidden sweetness.
You shrug, stretching your arms above your head. âI donât like when we donât have dinner together.â
âYou shouldnât have waited,â he scolds you, a frown tugging at his lips. âItâs late, doll. You canât just starve âcause youâre waitinâ up on me."
âWhat time is it?â you ask, still groggy, ignoring his chastisement as you grab his right wrist and pull it up so you can look at his watch. When you see the time, you roll your eyes. âItâs only eight-thirty, Gator.â You swing your legs over the side of the bed and let him grab your wrists, pulling you to your feet.Â
âYou just told me you worked all day, stupid,â he reminds you, letting you lead the way out of the bedroom. âNext time, you eat without me. Got it?â
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. Itâs almost endearing how fast he switches between the insults and frustration and that care youâve come to see in himâ care thatâs unlike how anyoneâs ever treated you before, huge and constant and limitless. Like this boy would drive to the ends of the earth for you and yell at you all the way back home for being dumb enough to strand yourself out there.Â
Heâs got rough edges, your Gator. But thereâs no denying he loves you.
When heâs standing behind you, beating you to taking the plates down from their high shelf as you stretch for them, you can feel it. When he watches you dig into your food and complains that youâre eating like youâve been starving to death, itâs there, too. When he takes the dirty dishes from out of your hands and washes them while you sit on the counter beside him, drying them with a dishcloth, itâs impossible to ignore.Â
On the way back to the bedroom, Gator lands a sharp smack to your ass, and you jump, glaring over your shoulder at him. He grins at you, the expression turning him so boyish. âGotta be my favorite part of cominâ home.â
âHm,â you intone, flicking your hair over your shoulder as you walk. âMineâs giving you head. But I donât know if youâve been nice enough tonight.â
He laughs aloud, catching up to you and gripping you around the waist, spinning you in his arms as you reach the bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind him. Ignoring your squeal, he picks you up and throws you back onto the unmade bed.
You canât help but grin as he comes over you again, his arms caging you in.Â
âCareful what you wish for, pretty,â he teases, his voice a husk. âYouâre lucky I love you so much. Wouldnât take this kinda attitude from anyone else.â
Your fingers come up to clasp behind his neck, teasingly chaste. âIf anyone else is offering you head, youâve got another thing coming, Alligator.â
He leans down and kisses you, his tongue sweeping past your lips as he languishes in your taste. When you part for air, heâs smiling. âI love you,â he says begrudgingly, like heâs admitting something you canât already tell in everything he does.
So, grinning back up at him, you only tell him, âI know.â
---
a/n: wrote, edited, and posted this in like one hour which is bizarre for me so apologies for any mistakes. also my first real x reader fic...
âYour what shower?â
âMy everything shower.â
âThe hell's an everything shower?â
đŠđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ : gator tillman x reader
đ°đđŤđ§đ˘đ§đ đŹ: established relationship, touch-starved!gator, soft!gator, grumpy x sunshine, suggestive content, domestic fluff, mostly non-sexual nudity, hair washing, massaging, grumpy man gets exfoliated against his will, angst if you squint
đ/đ§: shoutout to this ask for pushing me to finish this!
⥠¡ ¡ ¡ ⥠¡ ¡ ¡ âĄ
âWhat the fuck is all that?â Â
The question stops you halfway through the bedroom doorway.
You nearly lose your grip on everything at once. Three different bottles wobble dangerously in your arms, your oversized tub of vanilla sugar scrub pressed against your chest hard enough to leave an imprint. A fluffy white robe hangs from your elbow, and the container of hair mask is clenched between your teeth because you made the mistake of thinking you could carry just one more thing.
From the bed, Gator stares at you like youâve just walked in hauling tactical equipment.
The room is dim except for the glow of the TV, some hunting show droning quietly in the background, forgotten the second he noticed you. Heâs sprawled out on top of the comforter in gray sweats, one hand shoved under his shirt while the other holds his phone against his chest.
His eyes drag slowly over the pile in your arms.
You've been caught red-handed.Â
âItâs... for my everything shower.âÂ
âYour what shower?â
âMy everything shower.â
âThe hell's an everything shower?â
You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. âItâs my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.â Â
âA hair mask,â he repeats slowly.
âYes.â
âYou put a mask on your hair.â
âWell, itâs basically just deep conditioner.â
âBut yâcall it a mask.â
âYes, Gator.â  Â
He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.
Honestly, you canât even blame him.Â
Youâve seen your boyfriend's shower routine.Â
Well, calling it a routine is generous.Â
One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face washâit probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like youâd started speaking French.
You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.
âCâmere. Iâll show you.â
âI know how showers work.âÂ
âDo you, though?â
âReal funny.â
Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.
He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath.Â
âYou women use too much shit.â
âYeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.â
âIt cleans me, donât it?â
âMm, debatable.âÂ
He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision. Â
Gator leans against the sink watching you.
The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent.Â
You feel it before you even turn aroundâthat heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.
You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.
Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.
Thereâs nothing subtle about the look on his face.
By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, heâs already pushing lazily off the sink.
You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.
The sound echoes off the tile.
You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.
âGator.â
âWhat?â he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. âYou standinâ there lookinâ like that... ainât my fault.â
You turn away before he can catch you smiling.
By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.
A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.
Then:
âOhâjesus CHRISTâ!âÂ
You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.
âWhy the fuck is it so hot?â
âItâs not that hot!â
âMy skinâs peelinâ off!âÂ
âItâs just warm.â
âGoddamn, itâs like Satanâs asshole in here.â Â
You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.
âCâmere.âÂ
âNo, waitâhang on, hangâbabeââ
You yank him fully under the spray.
Hot water drenches him instantly.
His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.
âShitââ He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. âYâtryna boil me alive?â
âOh my god, youâre so dramatic.â
âIâm serious.â His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. âIâm literally cookinâ in here.â
The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of himâthe hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.
He looks so soft like this.
Prettier, somehow.
Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.
You canât help but smile.
âYouâre such a baby,â you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. âCâmere, you big baby.â
He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.
Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.
And he is close now.
Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. Heâs radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining. Â
You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.
He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.
God, heâs gorgeous like this.
Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly.Â
You kiss him before he can start complaining again.
And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.
The second your mouth touches his, he melts.
A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like heâs been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.
âMm,â he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, âSo this âeverything showerâ thingâŚâ
You already know what heâs about to say.
ââŚthat include me bendinâ you over in five minutes or...?â
You laugh into his mouth.
âGator.â
âWhat? You said everything.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âFalse advertisinâ, then.âÂ
He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.
When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.
âFocus,â you tell him.Â
âI am focused.â
âOn the shower.â
âI can multitask.â
âNo, you cannot.âÂ
He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.
Barely.
Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products.Â
And despite all his whining about how hot the water isâdespite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forwardâÂ
Heâs fascinated.
You can see it all over his face, clear as anything. Â
His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.
âSo whatâs all this shit for?â he asks eventually.
âLanguage.âÂ
He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.
âWhyâs this bottle so fuckin' tiny?â
ââCause itâs expensive.â
âHow expensive?â
You hesitate.
His eyes narrow immediately. âHow expensive.â
ââŚThirty dollars.â
âFor that tiny-ass bottle?â
âItâs good oil!â
He looks genuinely horrified.
âHoly shit. You could buy, like⌠a car part with that.â
âYeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.â
He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.
He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.
âSugar scrub?â
âYeah.â
âThe hellâs that mean?â
You grin instantly. âHold still.â
His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. âWhy.â
âYou ask too many questions.â
Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm.Â
Itâs your favorite scrub tooâthe ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.
You rub it over his forearm without warning.Â
He flinches immediately. âOw, what the fuckâ"
"Relax."
Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.
His brows pinch together while he watches you. Â
ââŚWhatâs it even doinâ?â
âGets rid of dead skin.â
âI donât got dead skin.â
âEverybody has dead skin.â
âI donât.â
âSure, babe.â Â
He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"
â...No.â
âYou hesitated.âÂ
âNo, I didnât!" you insist, laughing. âI do have a glitter shower jelly though.âÂ
âA what.â
âA shower jelly.â
âThe fuck is a shower jelly?â
The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.
âNo.â
âToo late!â
You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it upâgolden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light.Â
You plop it directly into his palm.
The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.
âWhat the fucâwhyâs it doinâ that?â Â
You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at armâs length like it might suddenly grow teeth.Â
âThis ainât right,â he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.
âItâs just soap!âÂ
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.
When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.
Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.  Â
Heâs not looking at the shower jelly anymore.
Heâs looking at you.Â
Hazel eyes much softer than youâre used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.   Â
It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time. Â
Because Gatorâs never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitudeâwhatever comes easiest.
But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesnât need to say anything at all.Â
Youâre still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands.Â
âThingâs fuckinâ haunted.â
Then his hands settle on your waist.
Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until thereâs no space left between you.
You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.
âGatorâ!â you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.
âWhat?â he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.
âI almost slipped,â you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.
âNah.â His smile widens. âGot you.â
Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.
âWhyâs all this shit smell like food, huh?âÂ
You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.
âJelly,â he mutters between kisses. âSugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever⌠whatâs next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?â
That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.
âIâm serious,â he mutters, though you can tell heâs smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. âLike Iâm showerinâ inside a damn bakery.âÂ
You love moments like this.
Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.
His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.
Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.
You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.
âSoâŚâ he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. âCan we fuck now?â
You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.
His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.
You wouldnât expect anything less from your boyfriend. Â
âNo,â you say flatly.
His expression sours. âNo?â
âWe still have to exfoliate.â
Gator rolls his eyes so hard youâre surprised he doesnât injure himself.
âYouâre killinâ me.â
But he doesnât let go.Â
And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.
Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.
The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands.Â
âJesusâŚâ he mutters under his breath.
âToo hard?â
âNo,â he says immediately. âJust... keep goinâ.â
That alone makes you smile again.
Because two weeks ago this man wouldâve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him.Â
Now heâs standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.
You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there.Â
God, heâs tight everywhere. Â
The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.
Your smile fades little by little.
âBaby,â you murmur quietly, âwhenâs the last time you relaxed your shoulders?â
âUh, dunno.â
âYou donât know?â
He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff.Â
âNever really think about it.â Â
Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.
âGator,â you say softly, brows pulling together, âyouâre hard as a brick back here.â
He snorts quietly at that.Â
You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesnât land quite the same now.Â
Because once you really start paying attentionâreally feeling him beneath your handsâyou realize how tense he actually is.
Every inch of him feels wound tight.
His shoulders sit high even while heâs supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him.Â
Like heâs always bracing for something.Â
The realization tightens something in your chest in return.Â
And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.
No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.
The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.
Gator watches your hands more than anything else.
You notice it every time you glance up.
His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward.Â
You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something heâs ever really experienced before outside of sexâoutside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.
His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.
"Kinda feels nice, I guess,â he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.
You smile to yourself.
âYeah?â
âMm.âÂ
When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.
You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.
Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.
And the sound he makes is... well.
Your gaze lifts slowly.
Gatorâs standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips.Â
âGates, was that...?â
His eyes snap open.Â
âNo.â
The denial comes way too fast.
You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.
âOh my god, it was!â
âIt was not.â
âYes, it was!â
âNo, it wasnât. Shut up.â
You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.
His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higherâup the tips of his ears too.
Interesting.Â
Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.
âYouâre annoyinâ,â he murmurs. âIâm leavinâ.â
âNo, youâre not.â
To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.
A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.
âFuck,â he mutters under his breath. âI hate you.â
âLiar.â
He makes no move to leave.
If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you donât have to reach so far. Â
Youâve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.
Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesnât always come naturally to him.
Not receiving it, anyway.
Heâs good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while youâre trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.
He knows how to want, how to take up space.Â
But this?Â
Standing still while somebody takes care of him?
Thatâs different.
And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.
You donât think youâve ever seen him be this still for so long.
Usually thereâs always something twitching in him somewhereâa bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like heâs perpetually gearing up for a fight.Â
But right now, he just looks tired.
Like he doesnât feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.
So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.
By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.
His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night.Â
You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.
His brows furrow thoughtfully.
âHuh.â
You glance over while tightening your towel. âWhat?â
He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.
ââŚFeels different.â
The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.
âRight?!â
You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.
Still, he keeps touching his arm.Â
Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.
âHuh,â he says again, quieter this time.Â
Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.
âSâfine, I guess.â
Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.
You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hairâ
Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.
âOh myâGator!â
...
Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.
Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air.Â
Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.
You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright.Â
You hold up a bottle.
âThis oneâs toner.â
âUh huh.â
âThis oneâs moisturizer.â
He gives you a flat look.
âYeah,â he drawls slowly. âI know what moisturizer is, babe.â
You ignore him.
âAnd this oneâs hyaluronic acid.âÂ
âYou put acid on your face?â
âItâs not that kind of acid.â
His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.
And even though heâd rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesnât entirely hate.
It's starts small at first.
Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending heâs only there because heâs âwaitinâ for you to finish the hell up already.â
He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.
âWhatâs body butter supposed to be?â
âItâs moisturizer.â
âSo lotion.â
âThicker lotion.â
âThatâs stupid.â
Three days later you catch him using it.Â
Only because, apparently, âmy hands are dry as shit.â
Then he uses it again the next night.
And the night after that.Â
After that, it stops being occasional.Â
You start catching him using your products without even asking first.
Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.
And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.
You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.
Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.
Little pieces of you following him around.Â
It becomes most obvious after rough days.
The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.  Â
Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.
And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, âEverything shower?â heâll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, âYeah,â into your shirt.Â
Some nights heâs too drained for anything else.Â
He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.
Other nights, though, heâs more awake.Â
More opinionated.
âWait,â he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. âNot that one.â
You blink over your shoulder. âWhat, this one?â
âNah.â He points lazily toward the shelf. âThe other one.â
âThe cotton candy scrub?â
ââŚYeah.âÂ
You canât help itâyou grin a little, slow and knowing.Â
âWhat? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.â
Soon enough youâre rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience heâs tolerating for your sake.Â
And in return, he starts taking care of you too.
Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.
His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of âhelping.â Â
Sometimes itâs worse when heâs half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while youâre mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.
Youâll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.
But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too. Â
Comfort in the repetition of it.
In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually thereâs this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to careâeven though he remembers every single one.
It becomes yours.Â
This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you. Â
Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair. Â
But sometimes heâs honestly too tired for any of that.
Sometimes it ends exactly here.Â
With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.
You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.  Â
His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt.Â
âMmfhâŚâ he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. âYouâre the⌠the best thing that ever happenâ to me, yâknow that?â
You know thereâs a good chance he wonât fully remember saying it tomorrow. Â
Not because he doesnât mean it; just because honesty comes easier when heâs too exhausted to keep it buried.Â
You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.
âI love you too,â you murmur back, just as gentle.Â
And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.
Your ex-boyfriend Gator begs for your forgiveness.
pairing: gator tillman x reader
words: 2.3k
contains: angst, ex boyfriend!gator, gator tillman on his knees, gator tillman being terrible at feelings but trying anyway, slight toxic relationship, no use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: day 3 of the 2k followers special! my first gator fic! oh, i have been excited for this one. especially as the request comes from my girl @sorryharrington! the reader is a nurse since i just really love the idea of gator being with a nurse (plus i have been really obsessed with the pitt recently). i don't write a lot for Gator (but i do want to write more) so please let me know what you guys think!
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
It had been thirty six days since you broke up with Gator Tillman. Thirty six days since you had finally had enough of his bullshit, called him an asshole and walked out on him.
It had also been thirty six days since Gator realised how much he loved you.
He knew he was a colossal prick for only realising that after you had broken up with him but Gator Tillman had a lot of prickish tendencies.
He tried his best to get you back. He showed up to your apartment the very next day but you never answered the door. He called you, texted you but you never replied. You didnât block him either which he took as a good sign. He even started sending you flowers which Gator had once told you were âbullshitâ but were now showing up at your door almost daily. He showed up to the hospital you worked at and glared at your male colleagues until you told him to piss off. He went out to bars he knew you would be at and threatened to beat the shit out of any man who looked your way.
He knew he was being even more of an asshole now. That he was making it difficult for you to move on. But of course, the very last thing Gator wanted was for you to move on.
And Gator had tried. He had told himself he could be okay without you. He had tried convincing himself that he didnât need you. That going out with a girl like Heidi would make him forget all about you.
The only problem was Heidi wasnât you.
Heidi didnât call him out for his bullshit. Heidi didnât make him laugh like you did. Heidi didnât roll his eyes when he had kept his cap on during dinner. Heidi was clearly just trying to get into his pants and Gator almost let her. In fact, he went home with her. But the moment her lips touched his, Gator felt dirty. Like he was doing something incredibly, incredibly wrong.
He ended up running out of Heidiâs apartment. She hadnât even cussed him out for it. You wouldnât have done thatâyou would have probably yelled at him and called him an asshole.It had been thirty six days since you had broken up and Gator had had enough.
âAre you fucking kidding meââ you mutter to yourself as you drag yourself out of bed. You grab a nearby sweatshirt and pull it over your head before stomping out of your bedroom.Â
Someoneâundoubtedly Gatorâwas banging at your door, apparently not giving a fuck that you had neighbours or that you had to be up in four hours for a shift at the hospital.
âCould you fucking stop that?â You snap at Gator through your apartment door, teeth gritted as you grab your keys. âOr I swear to god Gator, Iâll leave you out there all fucking nightââ
ââplease donât.â
The sound of his voice makes you pause. Despite the fact he was banging at your door, he didnât sound angry. He sounded desperate. Sad even.
You falter. Your keys clatter to the floor but you donât rush to pick them up.Â
âPlease, babyâjust open the door. Please. I just wanna talk.â
You should say no. You should tell him you had work in a few hours. You should tell him to fuck off. That you broke up with him for a reason, that he was a selfish asshole and he should leave you alone.
But you donât do that.
Instead you open your front door.
You barely recognise the man standing in front of you. You knew it was Gator because youâd know that gorgeous face anywhere. But it was the defeated, almost broken look on his face that you didnât recognise. And it was that look that made you step aside to let him into your apartment.
He doesnât say thank you as he steps inside. He just nods and steps into your space as though he never left.
âItâs one in the morning, Gator,â you say as he sinks down onto your couch, legs spread and large hands resting on his thighs.
âI know,â he mutters, kicking his boots off. âMy truck has a clock.â
You take a deep breath in through your nose as you fight the urge to yell at him for his attitude and for taking off his boots like he was expecting to stay. You were starting to remember why you had broken up with him in the first place.
âYou wanted to talk,â you begin after a moment. âSo talk and make it quick. I gotta be up in like four hours for a twelve hour shift.â
Gator looks up at you properly then, his big hazel eyes looking up at you in a way he never had when you were together.
âYouâre wearing my sweatshirt,â he murmurs, pointing at the camouflage sweatshirt you had grabbed before leaving your room.
You look down at the sweatshirt and swallow. Because he was right. It was his.Â
âDonât overthink it,â you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest and trying your best to keep a straight face. You donât tell Gator that you had been wearing that damn sweatshirt for almost thirty six days. That you had only washed it once and cried when it no longer smelt like him. You definitely donât tell him that. Instead, you tense your jaw and look back at your ex boyfriend and try to remind yourself of all the reasons you had broken up with him. You remind yourself that he only started buying you flowers after you had broken up. That he hadnât wanted to meet your family despite your attempts to have him do so. That he had left you hanging when you had finally said âI love youâ.
âBut still. Youâre wearing it,â Gator says. âThat means something.â
âIt means nothing. Itâs just a sweatshirtââ
ââbut itâs my sweatshirt. It means something.â
You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe one of his boots. He was such a smug asshole and you just wanted to smack him for it. But you donât.
âCould you just go?â You ask him, rubbing your temples before gesturing towards your front door. âYou clearly just came to piss me off and youâve done just that so goââ
ââI canât just go.â
âWhy the fuck notââ
ââbecause Iâm fuckinâ goinâ crazy without you!â Gator snaps, his voice cracking the last word. Itâs enough to make you look at him. âIâmâshitâI sent you flowers for fuck sake, dâyou know fuckinâ desperate I have to be to send you flowers like some fuckinâ sap?â
âThe flowers mean donât shit to me if thatâs your attitude about it, Gator,â you retort. âYouâre just trying love bomb me andââ
ââIâm not, Iâm justââ
ââjust what? Just trying to remind me that you neverââ
You cut yourself off, your eyes betraying you as they start to well up. You have to look away.
Gator says your name but you donât look at him. Youâre too busy trying to fight the tears that were threatening to fall.
âAre you cryingââ
ââcould you just fuck off?â You snap, finally looking back at him. Your breath hitches in your throat when you see that he is no longer sitting on your couch but instead, standing right in front of you. âSeriously Gator, could youââ
ââNo,â Gator says firmly with a shake of his head as he takes a step closer. âMânot going to fuck off. Not because I want to piss you off anymore than I already have but beâbecauseâI love you.â
The silence that followed was one of the loudest you had ever heard. You blink, wondering if you had misheard Gator untilâ
âI love you,â Gator repeats, his voice still unsteady but the look he gave you was unwavering. Certain.
You let out a shaky breath before you lift a hand to wipe your eyes, shaking your head.
âNo you donât, Gator. You love stringing me along and you love that I challenge you but you donât love meââ
ââyes, I doââ
ââno, you donâtââ
ââyes, I do,â Gator practically snarls as he steps right into your space. âIâI fucking love you. I really do. I love you so much that IâI would do anythinâ just to make you smile. I feel like the biggest fuckinâ sap for admittinâ it but I would. And Iâve tried movinâ on but everytime I try I just keep fuckinâ wishingâ it was you on the other side of the table. And Iâmâsorry. Iâm really fuckinâ sorry for not sayinâ it back tâya and treatinâ you like I did. For never spoilinâ you like I shouldâve. For not going to meet your parents but IâI figured they wouldnât like you being with an asshole like me and IâI really wanted them to like meââ
ââand you didnât think to just tell me that?â
Gator rubs a hand over his face in frustration before taking off his cap so he could run a hand through his hair too. You notice how it wasnât gelled. You once told him you preferred his hair without gel, apparently he had listened.
âNo, I didnât,â Gator admits quietly.Â
âGator, I donât know if Iââ
âPlease,â Gator croaks out desperately, reaching for one of your hands and squeezing it. âPlease donâtâdonât give up on me. On us. I can do better, baby. I know I can.â
You falter just slightly when he calls you baby. It makes you feel warm, makes your insides feel as though they were made of goo.
But still, you say nothing.
And Gator doesnât know what else to do.
âPlease,â he repeats, his voice desperate once again and you watch in complete shock as Gator Tillman, still holding tightly on your hands, drops down onto his knees in front of you. âPlease baby. Iâll be good. Iâll be so good tâya.â
âGatorââ
ââI mean it, baby,â he continues, pressing his lips to your knuckles as he remains on his knees. âIâll tell you every fucking day that I love you. Iâll meet your parents. Grandparents. Whoever the fuck else you want me to meet. Iâll get you flowers. Iâll make you coffee every morninâ before your shift. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Whatever you want just donâtâplease donât give up on me.â
You were speechless. Genuinely speechless. Because Gator Tillman was not the type of man to beg for anything. He could probably count the amount of times he had said âpleaseâ on one hand but the fact he was on his knees begging you for forgiveness? Wellâit made you think twice about kicking him out of your apartment. You were still undecided on throwing a boot at him.
You look down at Gator, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment before you give his hands a gentle tug, silently telling him to stand up. He obeys because of course he does. Because he loves you. Because he really would do anything for you.
Gator standsâlooking back at you and waiting for you to talk. His hands are still holding yours. Still hoping, praying that youâll trust him.
âBreakfast in bed,â you ask him quietly with a faint smile. âReally? You're gonna wake up at five in the morning just to scramble some eggs?â
The corner of Gatorâs mouth twitches, his hazel eyes sparkling just a little as he looks back at you. âI also make omelettes."
You try not to laugh but it somehow escapes you.
Gatorâs eyes soften, he gives your hands another squeeze before he lets go in favour of cupping your cheek with one hand, the other resting gently at the side of your neck.
âI meant every word, baby. I love you and Iââ
Whatever he was about to say, whatever speech he had rehearsed, you donât get to hear. Because your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence. Gator takes a second, maybe two, before he responds and when he does, he lets out a low groan before kissing you back.
Gator kisses you like he was starving, like you were an oasis in the desert, like even the thought of pulling away from you might cause him physical pain.
The hand cupping your face was soft but firm, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss. Your hands tangle their way through his ungelled hair as the hand that had been brushing over the side of your neck trails down to curl an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. His mouth was so eager that it made you feel a little lightheaded, your body humming with need for the man in front of you.
And had it not been nearing half one in the morning, you may have given in. May have fallen into bed (or even the couch, you werenât picky) with him. But the thought of being up in a few hours was the thing that finally pulled you away from him.
Gator whines at the loss and the sound sends heat rushes through you like molten lava but you shake your head, pulling yourself out of it. Not tonight.Â
âIâll be expecting my omelette and coffee bright and early,â you tell Gator with a soft smile as you gently comb a hand through his hair.
Gator hums, leaning in to press his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. âIâm gonna make you the best damn omelette baby, I promise you.â
It wasnât perfect and you had more to talk about, a lot more to work out but for now? An omelette, coffee and Gator Tillman loving you? It was more than enough.
moon dividers and support dividers by @saradika-graphics
Hi loveliest Jade! For baby blurbs, what about zombie au!Steve finding a book of romantic poetry and reading some to reader (maybe he gets a lil teary the lovesick fool) xx
Steve finds a book called One Hundred Love Sonnets in the pocket of his new stolen jacket. He pulls it out and squints at it, wishing he had the glasses that make you laugh so he could read the authorâs name all smudged out at the bottom.Â
Heâd been expecting a pack of smokes. The brown leather jacket he wears is worn but clean, found laid out over the back of a chair in an abandoned bedroom. Youâre scrounging through a dresser drawer sizing up boxers for him, and then some for you. He feels you press a pair to his hips from behind and laughs.Â
âPersonal space,â he says.Â
âYouâre my person and this is my space, dude.â
âOkay, dude,â he says, stepping backwards to knock your hands.Â
You continue your searching, occasionally holding another pair of boxers up behind him until you move onto the pants, and Steve likes that youâre doing it, so he doesnât move. He wacks the spine of the book against his hand a couple times before he cracks it open, already squinting hard to make out the words.Â
He opens at random to Sonnet XVII, whatever that means.Â
It begins,Â
âI donât love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,  Â
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:Â Â Â
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,  Â
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.â
Steve reads on in strange delight. This is totally his bag.Â
He has come to appreciate books a hell of a lot more since TVs became mostly useless. He misses movies, maybe wishes he studied harder so he understood words like âpropagateâ to mean more than when his grandma used to plant flowers on the foothill of her yard hoping theyâd grow to the top naturally. He can guess the meaning, of course, and he reads over the poetry quietly, forgetting you for a moment, even as he thinks of you.
âHey, listen to this,â he says, clearing his throat. ââI love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,  Â
I love you directly without problems or prideâââ
âAre you proposing?â you ask, flummoxed.Â
Steve shushes you. âIâm reading to you.â
âUmâŚâ You peer around his leg to see the book. âWhereâd you get that?â
âIn my jacket.â
âOh. Okay. Well, finish it if you want, sorry. Iâm listening,â you say.
Steve turns to look down at you, then stares at the book instead, caught by the image of you with your eyes as wide as they go, your mouth soft and parted, plush, the shape of your nose and your hands in your lap, waiting for him to talk, to read to you. He says the line again, then his voice goes to a slight husk. ââI love you like this because I donât know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,ââ âmortified, Steve clears his throat as subtly as heâs able to, thinking of every night and morning spent with your hand laid over his chestâ âso close that your eyes close with my dreams.ââ
He wonât cry. Itâs not tears. But something in him feels embarrassingly wobbly at such a quick turn to emotion. Steve doesnât love you without problems or pride, he is so prideful, and there are always problems, but he supposes if he got to the root of how much he loved you, heâd find it without complication. Itâs not like he feels like he has much choice in things, itâs a desperate thing to need you, even if he wouldnât change it.Â
You toy with one of his shoelaces. âSo close that your eyes close with my dreams,â you say, letting your voice list, your fingertips finding his ankle through his jeans. âDo you think he meant it literally, like theyâre so in love she dreams his dreams, or that when she closes her eyes she thinks about what she has to do toâ to get him the things he wants?â you ask.Â
Steve blinks. âI think itâs that he loves her so much he sees her as another part of himself. Like theyâre completelyâ theyâre the same.â
You chance a sheepish glance up at him. âLike us, then,â you say, likely knowing how deeply corny it is to confess, but it doesnât feel corny to Steve. Itâs just affirmation that all his needs and wants are already fulfilled. âI like thinking my hand is your hand. Is that weird?â
Steve offers his hand to you and helps you stand. âDoes it matter if it is? If weâre the same, then I said it. You used my mouth.â
âThereâs a hundred of those in there?â you ask, nodding at the book's title. âIf we get a pencil and underline everything that applies to us, is that totally lame?â
Your laugh makes Steve laugh. âNope. Might need two pencils, though,â he says.
You slink your arms around him to force a hug. Steve squeezes you tight, resting his cheek contentedly against your temple.Â
âAnd I already proposed, by the way,â he murmurs, rubbing his nose into your skin. âSo I couldnât have been doing it again.â
You make an excited huff of a laugh and wiggle a bit in his arms, apparently pleased with the reminder. âI donât know, I wouldnât mind it. Propose to me lots and lots.â
Your mumbling is a mixture of coy and shy that makes him close his eyes in bliss. Sure, why not? Multiple proposals. Maybe heâll borrow a couple of lines from this Neruda guy, he sounds like he knows what heâs doing.Â
request: the ridiculous ways that gator shows affection.
cherry on top: this is separate from my maggie mae tillman series! just something cute and fun :) hope you like it
first of all, the pet names.
god, the pet names.
there's the basic ones, like honey and baby and sweetheart.
occasionally there's a sugar or angel or sweetness or doll or pretty girl.
then there's the just outright ridiculous ones. the ones that he knows you hate and it's the only reason he uses them.
sugarplum. lovebug. peach. trouble.
lovebug isn't actually all that bad, it's just that he uses it to tease you when you're tired and exceptionally clingy.
he does this thing where he pretends he isn't looking at you even thjough he's very obviously staring.
you'll glance over, he'll whip his head away, then two seconds later he's right back to staring.
"what? can't a man look at his girl?"
he will brag about you to literally anyone and everyone within earshot. but in a dumb way.
some guys will say their girlfriend is so amazing.
gator will say "she parallel parked first try the other day. didn't even hit the curb" with a proud little smirk.
he really enjoys picking you up randomly with zero warning.
you're mid conversation and suddenly you're off the ground.
sometimes it's bridal style, sometimes you're tossed over his shoulder like a pack of potatoes.
he loooooooooves hooking a finger through your belt loop to guide you places.
or a hand in your back pocket.
he's a big fan of that one.
one hundred percent tries to impress you with things that aren't that impressive.
"watch this" and he opens a bottle with his teeth.
lifting something heavy then looking at you the entire time to make sure you're watching.
fixing things around your house, even things that don't necessarily need fixing.
dining chair? suddenly it's too wobbly.
your bedroom door? "this don't close right, lemme get my tools"
he just wants to feel useful.
gator will dramatically overreact if you're just slightly hurt.
you'll have a paper cut and it might as well be a state wide emergency.
you tapped a hot pan once and mumbled "ouch"
you could hear him down the hall practically tripping over himself and bumping into a wall just to get to you.
however, gator also enjoys wrestling you.
not aggressively, obviously, just playful and annoying and all over the living room floor like a proper wwe match.
sometimes he'll randomly get a bit soft out of nowhere, then immediately ruin it.
he'll brush your hair back, stare at you with his soft brown eyes, it'll be a romantic silence for a moment, then here he comes with "you got somethin' on your face"
deep down, gator is a gentleman, of course.
like he'll get out and actually knock on your door when he's picking you up, so that he can walk you to his truck and open your door for you.
but before he gets out to come knock on your door, he always makes a point of revving his truck in your driveway to let you know he's arrived.
which prompts you to peek through the curtain with a brow raised and an expression that looks like you're mentally scolding him.
he just grins.
he'll often show up unannounced but act like it's nothing.
"was in the area" and he drove 20 minutes.
and you know what, he's absolutely a guy who will hear you mention liking something once then buy it for you in bulk.
"you said you liked those strawberry candies" "gator, this is a three pound bag" "well...yeah. didn't want you runnin' out"
he stands just a bit closer when other guys are around.
if one guy makes you laugh a little harder than usual, he'll ask you extremely specific questions later on.
"you know that guy?" "what guy?" "mr wannabe comedian"
and gator always sleeps better when you're there, but very rarely does he admit it.
you stay over one time and suddenly every night he's like "so...you comin' by tonight or...?"
summary: You end up moving something Gator needs, and when he trips because of it, you feel just as awful as he does.
cw: blind! gator, hurt/ comfort, fluff, description of bloody/bruised/swollen nose, gator tripping, gator being rude with r, happy ending, soft gator, mention of anxiety/ panic attack (small), lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: i know there was a request for more religious reader x gator but while i think of ideas for it here's some soft gator <3 feel free to send requests for it ;) enjoyyyy
You step out of your car a second after Gator does. Busy turning the car off and waiting for the garage door to fully open. You two had just gone to the store to get some groceries.Â
Gators hand trails along the side of the car till he reaches the trunk and opens it up. Feeling around for the handles of the plastic bag that holds all your food. Which with his big hands and strong arms heâs able to get a good amount for the first round. You on the other hand settle for the two big packs of carbonated drinks.
The height of the boxes stacked on top of each other doesn't work too well for your sight, unable to see your feet or what's under you. So when you make it to the garage door itâs hard to see the door mat you have at the floor of it. The front of your flip flop bending at the slight height change in the ground causing you to trip and lose your balance. And almost drop the cans that surely would've exploded.Â
Gator can hear your voice as you walk into the house but he can't quite catch what you're muttering about. All the curse words that slip from your lips from miscalculating your steps and tripping on practically nothing. And when you walk out, ready to get whatever bags Gator couldn't get on his second trip, you decide to move the door mat to the side. Punishing it from its only job for what it did to you.Â
Turns out his second trip was the final trip. Heâd gotten most of the bags the first time only having a couple more which he easily grouped together in his hand. You were so busy walking to the car, checking if there was anything more you needed, closing the trunk, locking it upâ that you didn't quite see Gator fall.Â
In fact you didn't see him fall at all. What you heard however, was his body hitting the ground, the food spill out all the bags, and a shout coming out of him.Â
All within 5 seconds it happened. So quick that you could've blinked and missed it. And you did. But the second you heard it the car was done and forgotten about. Immediately worried about him, barely seeing his body through the garage door as he tries to get himself up from the floor.Â
âGator? Are you okay? What the hell happened?â You yell running up to him.
When he looks up your eyes widen even more. His nose had blood leaking from it, completely coating his lips and even staining his teeth. Heâs still sitting on the floor but the injury makes you think he landed face first. Now his hands are coated in blood from trying to touch his nose, even the floor tile has some smeared blood. A perfect picture to show you just where he fell.Â
ââM fine.â Heâs quick to push your grabby hands away. Using an arm to try and get up which has your hands back on him. It irritates him more than he realizes. âI said mâfine. Jusâ leave me the fuck alone would ya.âÂ
âLet me help Gates. I can get a cloth for your nose.â You do it before getting an answer out of him, even continue the conversation while you're down the hall grabbing a small towel for his nose. âWhat happened? Did you fall?âÂ
âThe mat, it wasn't there.â He knows you moved it. It was there when he took the bags in the first time and was gone the second time, no one else was there to do it. But he decides to not point you out and blame you. Not a thing he needs right now.Â
âFuck I am so sorry I moved the mat. I didn't think you needed it, I tripped on it so I moved it thinking there were more bags-â
Youâre overexplaining yourself, Gator barely even registers your words. His head is starting to pound and he can feel the thump of pain in his nose. Probably bruising, definitely swollen, completely bloody. A metallic taste of blood has taken over his mouth.Â
âI use it to gauge where the step of the door is. The mat is right against the wall so itâs one step up when I reach it.â He speaks over you slightly. Like heâs done hearing your apologies and needs to get this over with.Â
âPlease let me help, I can help wash your face.â Your hands are clamped together, fingers intertwined in a begging pose. Because you are begging. Begging to help or for forgiveness that your stupidity got your boyfriend bloody and bruised.Â
Normally he would be more open to you helping him. Except heâs in pain and hates that you are all over him. Like he can't do something so simple as to clean his own face. To top it all off heâs embarrassed. He shouldn't be, never when it comes to you. But heâs feeling the humiliation of his actions sink in. Falling meant he wasn't as tough and strong, that he still falters and does in fact need help. Would've been better if you weren't here at all to see it and then just lie when you eventually did ask about it.Â
How embarrassing that because of one stupid mat he can fall flat on his face. He should have the house down by now, know how many steps it takes to get anywhere. Feeling like you can't trust your steps in your own house is where Gator draws the line. And normally you guys are good. You know not to move anything or to tell him if you do. And he can memorize it quickly so everything runs smoothly.
The mat being there is not something you would know he needed. Never once has he spoken up about it but that's kinda how half the things in your house are. There are some things in spots that seem so normal to you that are put there specifically for his convenience. To make getting around just that much easier, using less brain power.Â
âJesus Christ just let me handle it. âM good.â His words come out a little muffled, nose suffocated between the cloth and blood and his lips covered by whatever part of the cloth that isn't pressed against his nose.Â
He makes his way towards the bathroom and shuts the door. A final action telling you to leave him alone, in case his harsh words weren't clear enough. You can tell he tried to keep his anger in, knowing that he could've said a lot worse but didn't. But it didn't stop him from letting his feelings get the best of him. Gator never yells at you, never purposefully tries to put you down but still you couldn't help but feel guilt physically eat you alive.Â
Making your skin crawl from the inside out. Your heart is beating fast, when you press your hand against your skin you can feel the fast pumping immediately. Itâs stupid really, how you could have a panic attack from something that didn't happen to you. But Gator isn't the only one humiliated.Â
You know better than to move things without telling him. Itâs something you do without even realizing it anymore, second nature to you now. So why you didn't this time you have no clue. Maybe it was because you had a personal vendetta against it, too busy stuck in your own head to think about anything else.Â
His words repeat in your head over and over. Like the way he said it, voice barely wobbly like he was waiting till he was alone to break down and cry. Or how he wanted to get away from you as fast as possible. As if being around you would only cause more accidents. But that's all it was, an accident. Not something you meant to do on purpose and he knows this. Still it doesn't make his nose stop bleeding or your hands stop shaking.Â
While he stays in the bathroom you put the food away, return the mat to its correct spot, and hide in your shared room. Even closing the door yourself. To cry about this is humbling, you don't have a scratch on you yet the tears stream down your face with ease. Your arms wrap around your torso, giving yourself a hug to try and ground you. Small sniffles escape you but you try your best to not let him hear it.
He takes about 10 minutes in there, silent, not asking for help, not wanting to hear your apologies. Just splashing cold water on his face, waiting for the blood to stop. His nose isn't broken, heâd know if it was from having experienced it before. It was just a little busted up from hitting the ground. In fact he actually did pretty good at trying to hold himself up, arms ready to take the fall but they just didn't. The ratio was probably off from where his arms were, too far by his head.Â
A few minutes pass before you hear him call out for you. âDoll, couldâya come and make sure the bloods all gone?âÂ
His head hangs low when you meet up to him, waiting for you patiently to reach him. Once you do you can feel your lip tremble all over again. The size of his nose is doubled, swollen and growing a blueish yellow color from bruises. He feels your hand on his forearm before he hears you.Â
âI think I stopped the blood but just wanna make sure it aint all over me.â He continues.Â
Normally itâs you talking too much and him listening but for some reason itâs the other way around. Now your silence is the thing making him uncomfortable. As if maybe, just maybe, the fall was as embarrassing as it felt and you got grossed out. Seeing him take a tumble and have it affect him so easily probably isn't the most attractive thing. Makes his heart beat all the faster. Still he sits down on the toilet lid letting you do whatever you need to do to get him back to normal.Â
That is until he hears you sniffle, trying to suck up the tears that are leaving your red burning eyes.Â
âAre you cryinâ?âÂ
Your eyes widen at being caught. âNo.â Except you should've just stayed silent because all the mucus and liquids are in your throat, making you sound like you are in fact crying and your nose is so stuffed you can't breathe out of it.Â
âCâmere.â He pats on his leg.Â
You do as he asks and sit on his leg, letting one of your legs even drape over his other leg. Not the most comfortable position, your free leg stays on the ground trying to hold any left over weight so you're not crushing his thigh.Â
âIâm really sorry Gator.â He can feel how hot your body is from all this crying. Even feels the tears on your face when he pushes the hair away from your cheeks.Â
âItâs all good angel. Promise, I know it was just an accident.â His heavy petting of your hair plus his words are enough to have you relax enough to put your head on his shoulder.Â
âI should've known better.â He can feel you shake your head but he tries to stop you with his hand on your jaw.Â
âYou never would've known unless I told ya, which I didn't.âÂ
âYou can trip me so weâre even if you want.âÂ
This gets a small laugh out of Gator, not expecting you to say that. âI donât wanna trip ya sweet girl. No need to be even when you didn't do anything wrong.â He waits for your sniffles to calm down before trying again. âPlus shoulda known the mat was off.â Itâs a bad time for a joke but still he tries.Â
Itâs all in hopes for a laugh out of you but all he gets is a small kiss to his neck. You probably still feel bad, and that feeling might not go away till his nose completely heals. Which means you should expect these types of jokes out of him for the next few weeks. Anything to try and cheer you up. The action is sweet, itâll always get him a kiss but maybe not that bright laugh heâs looking for.Â
He lets you sit with him for a minute or two before you get up to continue wiping away any of the blood he might've missed. Also telling him spots on his teeth to go over with his tongue to try and get the blood away. When he brushes his teeth later tonight the rest will be dealt with but right now the less evidence of how much he was hurt the better.Â
The rest of the night is spent on the couch with Gator. A show is on the tv and his head is laying in your lap with a frozen bag of peas resting against his nose. When his hand gets too cold you switch with him, lightly pressing it to his skin. After a couple of minutes he gets too cold and demands a kiss to help him feel better. Which you have to give since itâs your fault this happened in the first place.Â
Although, with kisses and frozen peas he should make a full recovery.Â
After five months of dating (and putting it off for as long as possible), Gator is bringing you to Sunday dinner at the ranch to meet his father. It goes about as well as expected.
Warnings:
angst/fluff, roy tillman being roy tillman, misogyny, roy being a creep, objectification of reader (not by gator), toxic religion, toxic family dynamics, implied domestic abuse. soft protective in love gator, sweet schoolteacher reader
Word Count: 4.2k
A/N:
took a little break from frat steve to spend the entire night locked in writing this whole thing đ gator is always on the brain, he demands my attention and who am i to deny him? #1 soft gator enthusiast. thank you my beloved @punkrockmlchael for my banner as always ily! dividers by strangergraphics
âDo I look good?â
You came down the bottom of the stairs wearing a little black floral sundress, flattering but not short enough to be âinappropriateâ. This was Sunday dinner, after all.
Gator looked up from his phone, vape in his mouth. His eyes went wide as he breathed out the strawberry scented vapor. ââDo I look good?ââ He mocked, scoffing as he looped an arm around your waist to pull you against his chest. âBabe. You look hot as fuck.â He leaned down and kissed your neck. âAnâ I think you know it, too.â
âWe donât have time to do anything,â you reminded him regretfully, knowing where he was headed, his lips already brushing across your jaw. You gently pushed his chest, ignoring the heat already building within you. âYour dadâs expecting us at 5âŚâ
He groaned, knowing you were right. He let go of you and peered into the hall mirror. He smoothed a hand over his gelled hair, making sure it was all in place. He was dressed in khaki pants with a black button up and his usual boots. He looked fine as hell, you thought.
This would be your first time meeting his father, and you were both nervous. Terrified, even. He had told you only a few stories about his father, and he didnât sound like the nicest, most open minded guy.
âGuess we should get goinâ then,â Gator said. He took your hand in his larger one, a smile spreading across his lips. âYou sure youâre ready?â
âNot really,â you admitted. You were about to meet Roy Tillmanâcould you ever truly be ready? âHeâs gonna hate me, isnât he?â
âHeâs not gonna hate you,â Gator said, but the look on his face didnât make you feel the most confident. ââŚWhether or not heâll be a total asshole is somethinâ else.â
Gator led you out of the house with his hand on your lower back, guiding you to his truck. He opened the passenger side door for you, gripping onto your waist and helping you climb up. His hand brushed over your ass as he didâas if he thought you wouldnât notice. You shot him a playful glare as you sat in the leather seat, but he just grinned before shutting the door.
You watched the scenery pass you by as Gator drove to Tillman Ranch. The atmosphere in the vehicle was heavy, weighing on you both the closer you got to Gatorâs family home.
Youâd heard a lot about Roy, even before you started seeing Gator. Everyone knew Roy Tillman. He was the Sheriff, either loved or hated by everyone in Stark County (and even beyond). Feared, even. Some would say heâs what this country needs, while others would say heâs a power hungry cheat using the stateâs money for his own gain. You werenât 100% sure where you landed on the scale of opinion on the man himself just yet. Gator had never been too forthcoming with information about him.
When Gator turned onto the long dirt road leading to the ranch, your stomach tied in knots. Were the armed guards by the entrance necessary? You turned to your boyfriend to ask, but he looked as casual as ever. You guessed that was normal.
You kept your gaze out the window, taking in the property. The horses and cows, all the ranch hands tending to things. The ranch was bigger than you expected.
âThat was my job as a kid,â Gator said, nodding towards a young man caring for the horses. He dragged on his vape, blowing out a cloud of vapor. âLiked it well enough. Betterân the cattle.â
âI didnât know you worked on the ranch,â you said, smiling over at him.
Gator raised his eyebrows at you. âAre you kiddinâ? We all work here. Dad hates laziness. Says we gotta earn our keep, even as kids.â He smirked. âA perk of movinâ outta here anâ in with you.â
âThatâs the motivation, huh?â you giggled. Even as you joked with him, that anxiety settled back in. What if his father really did hate you? What if he disapproved of you so strongly, he pushed Gator to end things?
Gator glanced over at you. âI see you thinkinâ too hard again,â he said, breathing out another sickeningly sweet exhale. âDonât stress, darlinâ. Even if he acts like an ass, donât pay him no mind. Not much impresses him.â He turned to look at you seriously as he spoke again. âAnd youâre everythinâ to me. That ainât changinâ.â
His words softened you immediately, and they eased your anxieties at least a little. He placed his hand palm-up on the center console, and you took it, interlacing your fingers together. âIâve already been spending all my time with one Tillman for five months, I should probably be used to the asshole-ry,â you teased.
He shot you a look. âNow you know damn well I spoil the hell outta ya.â
You giggled, because it was true. Gator had a reputation around town, and it wasnât a good one. But youâd never seen that side of him, not since the first day heâd met you at that bar your friends had dragged you to. Heâd come up to you with that cocky attitude he was known for, but the second you met eyes properly, he was a goner. You werenât a quick, meaningless hookup. He looked at you and he saw forever.
Not that heâd want anyone else to know how completely wrapped around your finger he was. The way he spent almost every night at your house already, coming over right after his shift and wanting nothing more than to get in bed with youâand not just for sex. The way heâd bring you dinner, rub your feet without being asked even if his own were killing him, wash your hair for you in the shower together. And he definitely didnât want anyone to know how his favorite thing in the world was to cuddle with you, especially to lay his head in your lap while you played with his hair. Heâd never known peace like he did in those quiet moments with you.
The ranch house appeared, pulling you from your comforting thoughts and bringing you back to the present. The house was lovely. Dark painted siding, two stories with a wraparound porch. Gator pulled up near the front and killed the engine.
The soft ticking of the cooling engine was the only sound in the otherwise silent truck cab. Neither of you made a move for a solid minute. Gator hit his vape againâit was habitual, the device practically glued to his hand every time he was stressed. If you were at home youâd gently take it from his hand and tell him to go get undressed and meet you in your bedroom, but that wasnât an option now.
âWe donât haveâta do this if you donât want,â he said finally, an elbow resting at the bottom of the window. He looked ahead as he spoke, at the house, like he was keeping an eye on it. âWe can leave, turn around, go back tâyours and order in some of those noodles you likeââ
âGator,â you said softly, cutting him off. He finally drew his attention from the house to meet your eyes instead. âWe kinda do have to do this. Weâve already been putting this off for months. Youâre planning to move in. You canât hide me from your dad forever.â
He sighed, the weight of it all seeming to visibly settle on his shoulders. âI know. Youâre right.â
âAs usual.â
âAs usual.â He grinned. âI justâŚâ he paused, looking away from you and back out the windshield. âI donât want him to scare ya off. Heâs ruined a lotta good things for me. Things that donâtâŚfit in his plan.â
You put a hand on his arm. âHeâs not gonna scare me off, Gator. I donât care how bad it is. Youâre not your dad.â
The last of your words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. He let out a sharp exhale, looking at you with a soft smile and a deep fondness in his hazel eyes. âGoddamn. I love you, ya know that? Moreân anything. Scares the hell outta me how much.â
Your eyes stung with emotion you tried to hold back, at least for now. âI love you, too. More than I can say.â
Gator turned away and sniffed once, wiping at his own eyes, trying to look more like he was just scratching an itch. âAlright. Enoughâa that. Letâs get goinâ before he comes out here lookinâ for us.â
He walked around the truck to open your door for you. You took the hand he offered, his other coming to rest on your back and help you down. It remained there even as he closed the door and led you up the porch stairs. He paused at the front door, like he was steeling himself, before finally opening it.
The smell of dinner greeted you the second you walked into the entryway. It smelled amazing, like a perfectly cooked roast. You could hear voices from the left, Gator rubbing your back softly before leading you to that doorway.
The voices stopped right before you entered, no doubt hearing the heavy thuds of Gatorâs boots and the softer clicks of your heels against the floor. The quaint kitchen was on the right, cabinets painted white with a stove against the wall and a fridge decorated with some photos and childrenâs artwork held by magnets. To the left sat a dining table with seating for six, already set, the main course youâd recognized sitting in the middle surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, and freshly baked rolls. The wallpaper was patterned with images of chickens.
Two identical young girls sat at the table already, eyeing you the moment you walked in. You gave them a soft smile before looking at the other two figures, who also werenât shy about the way they were sizing you up.
The woman stood back near the stove, her thin frame standing taller in an attempt to display more confidence than she seemed to actually feel. She wore a nice deep purple blouse with dark blue jeans, her short brown hair neat above her shoulders. You knew her to be Gatorâs step mother, Karen, but she looked younger than youâd expected.
It was the man standing slightly in front that drew your attention immediately. He was close to Gatorâs height, but broader. His grey hair was perfectly styled, thick and full, clear where Gator had inherited the good genes. He wore a deep red button up tucked into his jeans and nice dark brown leather cowboy boots. The man was handsome, but held an air of authority that made you feel intimidated under the heavy gaze of his green eyes.
Roy Tillman, of course.
âSo, this is her,â Roy said to Gator, as if you werenât even standing there even as he looked right at you.
Gatorâs hand slid from your lower back to wrap completely around your waist, pulling you closer into his side. âYeah,â he said. âUh, Dad, Karen, this is my girlfriend.â He introduced you by name, his hand lightly squeezing your hip.
You smiled warmly. âHi. Itâs so nice to meet you.â
âThe schoolteacher,â Roy stated, and you wondered briefly if Gator had given that information or if Roy had looked into you. Maybe both. His eyes dragged up and down your body, not quite leering but definitely uncomfortable. âThatâs anâŚinteresting choice of attire, sweetheart. I hope you donât wear short little skirts like that at school. Thatâs a lotta leg.â
Your mouth dropped open slightly, and you could feel Gatorâs whole body tense beside you. The skirt of your sundress was above your knees, but youâd looked in the mirror a million times as you got ready, making sure it didnât cross any lines. âUmâŚno. I donât.â
âDad,â Gator muttered.
âWhy donât we sit down before dinner gets cold?â Karen said quickly, and you were grateful for the diversion. She grabbed some napkins and moved to the table. âGo wash up, girls, quickly.â
The two little girlsâGatorâs half sisters, Jessica and Maudeâran off. Gator pulled out your chair, and you smiled up at him as you took the seat. He looked back with equal adoration before taking the seat next to you. The kids were back by the time everyone was seated.
Roy sat at the head of the table. He took Karenâs hand in his right and held out the left on the table for Gator. Gator placed his hand in his fatherâs, his left holding yours. It took you a second to understand what was happening, but once you realized, you took the waiting hand of the little girl next to you. Everyone bowed their heads, and you followed suit.
âHeavenly father,â Roy began. âWe thank you for providing this delicious bounty of food that Karen has prepared for us. We thank you for the blessings youâve bestowed upon us, and the gift of enjoying a meal together as a family with ourâŚguest. May our family continue to prosper and serve you. Amen.â
A quiet chorus of amens sounded from around the table, and everyone began moving to serve themselves from the dishes in the center. Before you could reach for the serving fork, Gator moved first, lifting your plate.
âI got ya,â he said softly, stabbing a slice of roast and transferring it to your plate. He piled on a healthy serving of green beans and potatoes, too. You felt a little shy about it, but let him. Gator liked to show you how much he loved you in any way possible.
You could feel both Roy and Karen staring, watching the interaction. âA man serving his woman?â Roy said. âBit backwards, donât you think? City girls donât take care of their men?â When you didnât respond, he continued. âEphesians 5:22-23 says, âWives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church; and he is the savior of the body.ââ
Your whole body heated with embarrassment. The silence that settled over the whole room made the moment even more awkward and uncomfortable, the only sound for several long seconds the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.
âWeâre not married,â Gator mumbled, starting to fill his own plate. He stabbed the roast with a little more force than necessary. âDonât usually do that anyway. Was just tryinâ to be nice.â
âBut you intend to be married some day soon, right?â Roy asked as everyone finally began serving themselves, too. âIf youâre bringinâ her into my home?â
Gatorâs jaw clenched. âThat ainât what itâs about.â
âThen whatâs it about?â Roy pressed.
He paused. âItâs aboutâŚintroducinâ you to someone important to me,â he said quietly, his words more vulnerable than he usually allowed. A warmth spread through your chest, a deep affection more powerful than any uncomfortable family dinner.
Everyone moved on, eating with some quiet, casual conversation. Roy quieted, simply listening as Karen made small talk. She asked about your experiences teaching kindergarten, how you liked the school, if you knew Mrs. Reed, who taught the girls. How youâd liked living in Lehigh for the past year, what you did for fun.
It was too good to last, of course it was. Roy had spent the entire conversation watching as he ate. He was calculating, looking at you like you were something to be studied, a test you knew you were taking despite not knowing the answers.
âSo, Gator, any reason youâve been hidinâ her from us?â Roy finally asked. The comfortable environment that had developed vanished instantly, that same hostile, overwhelming heaviness returning with a cold chill.
Gator tensed again, staring down at his plate. âI ainât hidinâ herââ
âJust because I told you it was time we met her,â Roy said. âIâm not stupid, boy. I know youâve been seeinâ her for a while. Half a year, almost, ainât that right? This town talks.â
Gatorâs knuckles went white around his fork. âJust wanted to get to know âer. Make sure it was serious beforeâŚâ
âAnd is it?â Roy questioned directly, looking right at Gator. âSerious?â
To your surprise, Gator lifted his head, meeting his fatherâs eyes head-on. âYeah,â he said. âIt is.â
Your breath hitched. The Tillman men held each otherâs stares, some kind of unspoken battle between them. You, Karen, and even the girls watched, the tension thick and suffocating in the small dining room.
Roy looked away first, but only to look at you instead. âYou intend to marry my son?â
âDad!â Gator exclaimed, frustrated, dropping his fork to his plate with a clatter. âJesus, whatâs with the interrogation?â
âJust wanted to know her intentions,â Roy answered, eating another bite from his plate casually. He was the only person at the table who seemed fully at ease. âThe Tillmans are a respectable family. Always have been. Canât have just anyone cominâ in.â
You swallowed. âGatorâŚmeans a lot to me,â you said softly. âIâve loved getting to know him. I love him. Wherever things goâŚIâm serious about him, too.â The truth was, if Gator asked you to marry him tomorrow, you would say yes. You knew that deep inside, even though you didnât say it aloud.
Gator looked at you with an expression so tender and loving it nearly took your breath away. The smile that crossed his lips was gentle, one of those rare looks reserved only for you.
Roy only grunted in response.
Dinner moved on once again. Plates were cleared, bellies full. The dinner had been deliciousâKaren was an excellent cook. You told her so, thanking her for the meal. When Karen stood, starting to gather the dishes, you stood as well.
âLet me help you,â you said quietly. She sent you a grateful smile from across the table.
âNow thatâs more like it,â Roy said, leaning back in his chair with a cocky grin, one that reminded you of the Gator youâd seen across the bar before youâd properly met. âMaybe she wonât be hopeless as a wife after all.â
You froze. The comment had been a low blow. You knew exactly how much you took care of Gatorâcooking for him (because lord knows he couldnât cook), washing any clothes he left at your place, massaging the tense muscles in his back, happily helping him work out all those frustrations when he had a particularly stressful day. But Gator took care of you, too. It was give and take, effort given on both sides, and you both liked it that way. You showed your love for each other in your own ways.
âShe takes good care of me,â Gator defended.
âShe takes care of you, huh?â Roy chuckled. âYeah, I bet. You always did like a pretty little thing.â His eyes dragged over your body again, and this time, it did feel predatory. It made your skin crawl. âAnd she is real pretty. No wonder youâve gone so soft.â
Karen bowed her head, hurrying to the sink with the dishes sheâd gathered. You stood there for just a moment longer, stunned. Gator was coiled tight, looking like he was seconds from exploding. A man whoâd never talked back to his father, who tried his whole life to make him proud, looked nearly ready to throw a punch.
You finally made your feet move, walking into the kitchen. Your hands trembled as you placed the dirty dishes into the hot soapy water Karen was running. You didnât know what Roy was like behind closed doors, but if this was him in front of company, you fully understood the fear you could feel radiating off of Karen.
âGator,â Roy said, standing up from the table. âLetâs go have a talk in my office while the women tidy up.â
Gator didnât respond, but you heard the creaking of his chair as he stood, too. You glanced over just in time to see the apologetic look he sent your way as he followed his father out of the kitchen.
Karen didnât speak as she washed the dishes. You stood wordlessly next to her, drying them as she handed them off to you. Jessica and Maude, who seemed alarmingly used to all this, scurried off to their bedroom upstairs.
The kitchen was spotless by the time you saw the miraculous sight of Gator returning, Roy nowhere to be seen. He was frowning, his hands in his pockets. âYou ready to get outta here, darlinâ?â he asked, gentle, as if he were worried heâd scare you like a frightened animal.
âYeah,â you said immediately, trying not to sound as relieved as you were. âYes, IâŚneed to get ready for work in the morning.â
His eyes softened with that same apology. You said goodbye to Karen, who thanked you for coming with a timid politeness, the confidence sheâd attempted to show when you arrived now long gone.
It didnât feel like you could breathe properly until you were out of the house entirely, taking in the clean North Dakota air. It was a little chilly now that the sun had gone down. Gator wrapped an arm around you as he walked you to the truck, opening the door and helping you in like he always did.
He didnât pause this time, starting the engine as soon as he climbed in and driving the truck down that long driveway. You eyed the armed guards again as you passed them, the tension finally leaving your body as Gator pulled onto the road. He was puffing on his vape immediately, those nervous, constant hits.
âJesus,â you breathed finally, the words leaving your lips in a rush of air. âThat wasââ
âIâm sorry,â Gator interrupted. âFuck, âm so sorry. I knew heâd be bad, butâshit. I ainât brought a girl home inâŚwell, since prom. So, yâknow, he knew you hadâta mean a lot tâme, and I told ya he likes to ruin shit for me, I couldnât even blame ya if you never wanted to talk tâme againââ
âGator,â you said, cutting off his nervous rambling much like you had before the dinner. âBaby. That was not your fault.â
âBut I brought you there,â he said. You could hear the self loathing in his voice, and it broke your heart. âI know how he can be, and IâŚI brought you there.â
You placed your hand palm-up on the center console, the same way heâd done earlier. He glanced down at it, and didnât hesitate to put the vape down and place his hand in yours, driving with his left.
âIt had to be done,â you reminded him, interlocking your fingers. âIf weâre gonna be serious about each otherâŚit had to be done.â
He sighed. âI know. Fuck. ButâŚI dunno. I feel like I couldâveâŚshouldâve done somethinâ.â
âYou stood up for me,â you reminded him softly.
The words struck him. You didnât know enough about Gatorâs relationship with his father to know how monumental, how unheard of, that wasâbut Gator knew. He hadnât even realized what heâd done until you said the words. Well, maybe heâd realized a little when his dad was chewing him out in his office for the disrespect, but hearing it said that wayâŚit made him feel good. He was surprised at the pride that swelled in his chest, right along with the overwhelming amount of love he felt for the woman next to him. Nothing like anything heâd ever felt in his life.
Your cozy little house with the yellow light glowing on the porch was a welcome sight. Gator followed you up the porch steps, staying close behind as you unlocked the door.
Inside, after you hung the keys on the hook and locked the front door behind you, he pulled you into his arms. He held you close to his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of you, the smell of your shampoo that had become so familiar.
âI love you,â he muttered softly against your hair.
Your heart beat fast, thundering through your own chest and against his own. âI love you too, Gator.â
He just held you there, your bodies molded together. He rubbed your back softly, your breathing evening out, the sound of his heartbeat against your ear relaxing you.
âIâm ready to move out now.â
You paused. You pulled back just enough to look up at him. âWhat?â
âIâm ready to move outta there,â he said. One hand remained on your waist while the other came up to rest against the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek. âIâm ready to get out of there for goodâŚanâ move in here. With you.â
âGatorâŚâ you whispered, eyes scanning his face for any sign of doubt. You found none. âAre you sure?â
âNever been more sureâve anythinâ in my life,â he said. âLike I told youâŚyouâre everythinâ to me. I want to start our lives together. Here. Away fromâŚall that.â
You blinked, that stinging behind your eyes returning. âI want that too. So badly.â
He smiled, soft but genuine with pure, raw joy. âThen itâs settled. Iâll pack my shit tomorrow, I mean it. This is my home now.â He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours. âYouâre my home now.â
And of every pretty thing Gator Tillman had said to you so far, that was probably the most beautiful.
as always, comments and reblogs are so appreciated!
â thinking about... gator tillman coming home angry just to melt in your arms ęą
â hihiihiihihihihi im watching fargo as we speak.. i think only tw is use of cuss words! gator x reader fluff <3 not very proofread.. but i tried my best! i hope u all enjoy and love my vision of gator as much as i do !.!.!.!.!.!.!!.!!!!!! kisses kisses
â
the door slammed so hard it shook something loose in the frame.
âfucking hellââ gatorâs voice tore through the house before you even saw him. âgoddamn piece aâ shit dayââ
his boots hit the floor heavy, uneven, like he was ready to fight the ground itself. keys got tossed somewhereâ not placed, not droppedâ thrown.
âwhole townâs full aâ idiots,â he kept going, louder now, pacing already. âcan't do one damn thing right, swear to godâ jusâ a bitch and a half from sunup to nowââ
you leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching him work himself up like a storm with nowhere to go.
âhi, baby.â
âain't nothinâ hi about it,â he snapped back instantly, dragging a hand through his hair. âgot people lyinâ straight to my face, actinâ like i'm stupidâ paperwork all fucked, nothinâ lines upââ he kicked at the leg of a chair on his way past, ââand donât even get me started on thatââ
he stopped.
mid-rant. mid-pace. because he finally looked at you.
ââŚwhat,â you said, raising a brow.
ânothinâ,â he muttered, but he was already walking over, slower now, jaw still tight but not clenched for a fight anymore.
for you.
you didnât move.
he got close enough to crowd your space, hands landing on your hips like he needed something solid to grab onto before he lost it again.
âstill pissed?â you asked, voice light.
âyeah,â he said immediately. âi am. âcause it was a bitch and a half out there, and i ainât even halfway done dealinâ with it.â
âmm.â
âandââ he exhaled sharp through his nose, thumbs digging into your sides a little harder than necessary, ââainât nobody listens. whole dayâs jusâ people talkinâ over me, actinâ like they know betterââ
you let him go, didn't interrupt. just watched the way his grip shiftedâ less angry, more grounding.
his forehead dipped, almost touching yours before he stopped himself.
ââŚjusâ wanted to come home,â he finished, quieter now.
you softened a little. âyeah?â
he shrugged like it didnât matter. like he hadnât just said that.
ââŚjusâ wanted to feel my womanâs touch,â he muttered, like it was obvious. Like it didnât mean anything at all.
your hands slid up his arms, slow, steady. âyou're unbelievable.â
âyeeah, well,â he huffed, pulling you closer anyway, stubborn about it. âain't hearinâ you complain.â
âi am. constantly.â
âmm. not enough to stop me, though.â
theeere it wasâ that flicker of something smug, something softer, breaking through the pissed-off edges.
he pressed his face into your neck then, breathing heavy, like heâd been holding it in all day. still muttering under his breathâ
âfuckinâ idiots⌠whole damn townâŚâ âbut quieter now, words getting lost against your skin.
your fingers threaded into his hair, gentle.
âbetter?â you asked.
he didnât answer right away.
just tightened his hold on you, like if he let go heâd have to go back out there and deal with it all over again.
ââŚyeah,â he said finally, voice low, almost begrudging.
then, after a second:
ââŚdonât move.â
you huffed a quiet laugh against his shoulder. âwasnt planning on it.â
âgood.â his grip tightened like he meant it, arms locked around you, face still buried in your neck. âstay right there.â
âgatorâ i have food on the stove.â
âitâll live.â
âit wont. t'will burn.â
âyeaah, well.â he shifted just enough to drag you with him a half-step, like letting go wasnât even an option. âthen, we eat somethinâ burnt.â
you pulled back just enough to look at him. âyou are unbelievable.â
âbeen told,â he muttered, but his hands didnât move. not an inch.
you studied him for a secondâ the way his jaw had finally unclenched, the way his shoulders had dropped, how he was still holding onto you like the world might try to take you if he didnât.
ââŚyouâre clingy,â you said.
his head snapped up immediately. âi ainâtââ he scoffed, pulling back just enough to look offended, ââi ainât clingy.â
âyou are literally attached to me right now.â
âaint attached,â he shot back, even as his fingers flexed against your hips, keeping you exactly where you were. âjusâ standinâ here.â
âmm. against me.â
âcoincidence.â
you stared at him.
he stared right back, stubborn as hell.
ââŚyou missed me,â you said simply.
his eyes narrowed, like youâd just accused him of something serious. âi said that already.â
âaaand you meant it.â
ââi didnât say all that.â
you tilted your head, soft smile tugging at your mouth. âyou didnât have to.â
he squinted at you harder, suspicious now. ââŚreally?â
you paused, like you had to think about it.
âhuh,â you hummed, glancing off to the side. âi dunno. let me ask my other husbands.â
silence.
dead. immediate. silence.
ââŚyour what?â his voice dropped, slow and sharp, grip on you tightening in a way that was definitely not casual anymore.
you shrugged, way too innocent. âmy other husbands. y'know, firgured they might have some insightââ
âthe fuck they do,â he cut in, jaw clenching all over again, but for a very different reason now. âain't no âother husbands.ââ
âoh? couldâve swornââ
âyeah? swore wrong.â his hands slid from your hips to your waist, pulling you in flush against him, like he needed to physically correct the statement. âyou got one. me.â
you bit back a smile. âyou sure about that?â
âyes, i'm fuckinâ sure about that,â he snapped, leaning down, eyes locked on yours like this was suddenly a matter of life and death. âwho the hell else you thinkââ
âi mean, i donât know,â you cut in lightly. âthereâs options.â
ââthere ainât no options.â his voice dropped lower, more dangerous, but there was something else tangled in it too, something almost.. desperate. âain't nobody else puttinâ their hands on you. ainât nobody else cominâ in this house, eatinâ this food, lookinâ at you likeââ he stopped himself, exhaling sharp.
you watched him, softer now.
âlike what?â you asked gently.
ââŚlike i do,â he muttered finally, quieter, like it slipped out before he could stop it. "..duh,"
you reached up, brushing your thumb along his cheek. âgood. âcause i donât want them to.â
he blinked at you. ââŚyeah?â
âyeah.â
Another pause.
thenâ âreally?â
you let the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm.
then you smiled, soft and easy. âyeah, gator. really.â
he held your gaze for a second, searching your face like he didnât fully trust itâ like he needed to be sure.
ââŚgood,â he muttered, almost to himself.
he huffed, pressing his face back into your neck, all stubborn and warm and very much not letting go.
ââŚainât funny,â he added after a second.
you smiled.
âlittle bit.â
he huffed at that, all annoyed again on the surface, but he didnât let go. if anything, his arms tightened, chin hooking over your shoulder like he was settlinâ in.
âyouâre startinâ shit on purpose,â he muttered.
âmaybe,â you said easily.
âmm.â he shifted, nosing along your neck, quieter now. âdonât like it.â
âdont like what?â
âyou talkinâ like that,â he grumbled. âlike thereâsââ his hand gestured vaguely behind you, frustrated, ââoptions.â
you couldnât help the small smile that pulled at your lips. âyou got real worked up about that.â
âyeah, well.â he pulled back just enough to look at you, brows pinched. âainât funny.â
âit was a little funny.â
âwasnât.â
âyou got all jealousââ
âi didnât get jealous,â he cut in quick, immediate. âainât nothinâ to be jealous about.â
you just looked at him.
he stared right back, stubborn, jaw set.
ââŚyouâre holdinâ me tighter,â you pointed out.
ââŚthat donât mean nothinâ.â
âmmhmm.â
âdonât,â he warned, but there was no real heat behind it anymore.
you softened, hands sliding up his chest, smoothing over the fabric like you were calmminâ something down in him that never really settled on its own.
âgator,â you said, quieter now.
he blinked at you, attention snapping right back. âwhat.â
âiâm not goinâ anywhere.â
he held your gaze for a second, searching, like before.
ââŚyeah?â he asked, softer this time.
it was always like this with gator. he made you swear down on everything you said.. in my language, that's called trust issues.
you nodded. âyeah.â
another beat.
ââŚreally?â
âoh my god, gator,â you let out a small laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek. âreally.â
something in him gaveâ not all at once, not obvious, but enough.
his shoulders dropped again, tension leavinâ in pieces instead of all at once. his hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his face, rough thumb dragging over your knuckles like he needed to feel it.
âgood,â he murmured.
then, after a secondâ
ââcause i ainât sharinâ.â
you smiled, stepping closer, if that was even possible. âi gathered.â
âyeah.â his forehead bumped yours, gentle this time, not rushed, not angry. âyouâre mine.â
there was that tone againâ a little rough, a little possessiveâ but softer underneath it. careful, almost.
you didnât pull away, just leaned in, brushing your nose against his. âand youâre a big softie.â
he scoffed immediately. âi ainâtâ i ain't soft.â he insisted, even as his hand slid to the back of your neck, keepinâ you close. âdonât know where you get that from.â
âthe way youâre lookinâ at me right now?â you said.
he froze for half a second.
ââŚi ainât lookinâ at you no type aâ way.â
âsure.â
âi ainât.â
you tilted your head, smiling just a little. âgator.â
âwhat.â
âyouâre doinâ it again.â
âdoinâ what.â
âthat thing.â
âthere ainât a thing,â he muttered, but his voice had gone quieter, less bite, more something he couldnât quite cover up.
you leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.
it shut him up instantly.
for a second, he just stood there.
then his hand tightened at your neck, pulling you back in like he needed another one just to make sure that first one was real.
ââyeah,â he breathed, low, almost surprised.
you smiled against him. âsoftiiiieeeeee.â
âi ainât soft,â he said again, but it came out quieter this time, less convincing. ây'so annoyingâ y'piss me off. badly. you don't wanna see me pissed off.â
âmm.â
he exhaled, long and slow, forehead dropping back to yours when you pulled away just enough to look at him.
ââŚdonât go anywhere,â he muttered.
âiâm not.â
âgood.â
he stayed there a second.
âfoodâs probably burnt.â
you laughed. âyeah. probably.â
he didnât move.
didnât make any move to go check, either.
just stood there, holdinâ onto you like heâd rather deal with a burnt dinner than let go too soon.
ââŚwe can fix it,â you said.
âyeah,â he replied, not even soundinâ worried about it.
his thumb brushed along your jaw, slow, absentminded.
if you haven't noticed, over the past week I haven't really been posting or interacting.
I said earlier this year that my father was having a major open heart surgery, and that did go as planned. it did leave him with a paralyzed vocal chord, so his voice is a hoarse whisper. this will come back with speech therapy, but it does make things harder for the time being.
however, within less than two weeks of being home he suffered a stroke.
his mobility has been extremely limited now. he went from working normally, doing 15,000 steps a day, riding his motorcycle, etc, to now having little to no use of his left arm and needing a mobility aid to walk.
as both my parents are elderly, I have been on an unpaid leave from my full time job to be a caretaker.
I love my parents and I'm so grateful for them, I have no issue with being a caretaker. it was my choice. but being left with little to no income has put an extreme financial stress on me and my family. (on top of my phone AND jeep both dying in the same week, because when it rains it pours or whatever)
I have time to write, but I have no motivation because all I can think about is how I'm going to pay for my bills or my car or my ocd medication. I feel like I can't allow myself to do anything enjoyable, because it would cost money and I don't have that.
all of this is to say, I'm more depressed than I have ever been. my therapist and I are working on it, but it's very difficult when it feels like all the weight is on your shoulders
I'm sharing this with my ko-fi link, in case anyone would want to help out. even the smallest donation would be be able to go to paying off something.
reblogs of this post are very welcome and appreciated, this community has been a rock for me.
and if you can't help monetarily, just comments or messages or anything on my writing is something that makes me smile even when i feel like I'm doing everything wrong. just seeing how happy my own work makes other people has been my light in this absolute storm lately.
I love you all and hopefully I'll be able to post some new work for you soon đЎâ¨
val speaks - ayaya chapter 2 !!! the plot is building guys trussst đââď¸ how exciting if ur reading this that means u liked chapter 1 n i love that
morning comes slow.
the light through your bedroom window is pale and washed out, creeping across the wall in thin stripes where the blinds donât quite close all the way. for a minute you just lie there staring at the ceiling, still half caught in that foggy space between sleep and being awake.
then everything from last night settles back in.
you groan softly and drag the pillow over your face.
itâs not regret exactly.
youâve never been able to call it that.
but thereâs always this feeling the morning after. something just slightly off, like youâve woken up with a bruise you donât remember getting. not bad enough to stop you from doing it again, clearly, but enough to make you question things.
mostly you just end up questioning yourself.
because really, what the hell are you doing?
you roll onto your side and stare at the empty space beside you. your house is quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
it would probably be easier if this had just stayed what it was supposed to be.
a one night thing.
thatâs what it started as.
months ago now, after a night at the bar outside town. youâd both been drinking, both lingering long after everyone else had cleared out. heâd been leaning against the pool table, half smirking at something you said, the usual back and forth youâd gotten used to by then. one thing led to another. and it was supposed to end there.
except it didnât, it kept happening.
not every night. not even every week sometimes. but enough that it became a sort of unspoken routine. him showing up late. you pretending you didnât expect him. both of you acting like it didnât mean anything when it clearly meant at least a little something.
you swing your legs off the bed and sit there for a second, rubbing your face with both hands.
the problem is you realised something not too long ago. something you really wish you hadnât. because somewhere along the way, somewhere between late night drives and him falling asleep on your couch and the stupid way he sometimes looks at you when he thinks youâre not paying attention, you started having actual feelings for gator tillman.
strong ones.
you refuse to call it love, even thinking the word makes your stomach twist in a way that feels equal parts embarrassing and stupid, because if there was anyone you promised yourself you would not fall for, it wouldâve been him.
and yet.
you sigh and push yourself up, padding into the kitchen.
coffee first.
the machine sputters to life while you lean against the counter.
the thing about gator is that most of the time heâs exactly what everyone expects him to be.
loud, cocky, mean when he feels like it, always trying a little too hard to look like the toughest guy in the room. especially when his dadâs around.
but youâve seen the other parts too, the ones he doesnât show people. the moments where something softer slips through before he can shove it back down again.
like how heâll complain the whole time he fixes something in your house, muttering about how youâre helpless, but still stay until itâs done. or how he actually listens when you talk, really listens, even if he pretends he wasnât paying attention later.
he remembers things. little things youâve said weeks ago.
half the time he uses that information against people if heâs trying to get under their skin but with you itâs different.
and then thereâs the part that makes your chest tighten a little when you think about it too long.
how badly he wants praise.
it took you a while to notice it. at first it just seemed like regular ego, the way heâd puff up a little when someone laughed at his jokes or clapped him on the back. but the longer youâve known him, the more obvious itâs become.
gator is desperate for someone to tell him he did something right.
because in roy tillmanâs world, he never does.
youâve heard the way his dad talks to him. everyone has. like every mistake is proof heâs not good enough. like heâs constantly failing some test he doesnât even understand.
so sometimes he ends up here instead.
he shows up at your door or at the diner and says something stupid just to get a reaction out of you. and when you roll your eyes and say âgood job, gatorâ or âlook at you actually doing something useful for onceâ
you see it.
that tiny flicker of pride before he covers it with a sarcastic comment.
even if the praise comes during something as dumb as you tangled together on your couch. it still counts.
and the stupid thing is, that part of him makes you feel bad.
because beneath all the attitude, thereâs still this guy whoâs clearly spent his entire life trying to earn approval heâs never going to get.
your coffee finishes brewing. you pour yourself a cup and take a sip, staring out the kitchen window.
youâve gotten pretty good at pretending none of this matters. you match his sarcasm. his banter. you shove every soft thought back down the second it starts creeping up.
because if you ever actually let it show, if he ever realised how much space heâs started taking up in your head, that would probably ruin whatever this is.
and besides.
in what world would gator fall for you?
hell.
in what world would gator fall for anyone at all.
-
the diner always looks different in the morning.
quieter.
the neon sign in the front window is still glowing faint pink when you pull into the lot, the sky just starting to turn that pale gray-blue that comes right before sunrise. the airâs colder than it was last night, the kind that wakes you up a little whether you want it to or not.
you grab your bag from the passenger seat and head inside.
the bell above the door jingles softly.
louâs already there, of course she is.
sheâs standing behind the counter with a coffee pot in one hand and a rag in the other, wiping down the same spot sheâs probably wiped a thousand times before. the radio sits on the shelf near the kitchen door, playing some old country song quietly in the background.
she glances up when you walk in.
âwell look who finally decided to show upâ she says.
you check the clock on the wall.
âiâm three minutes early.â you snort quietly and hang your jacket on the hook near the back.
lou watches you for another second, the way she always does when sheâs trying to read your mood without asking about it directly.
sheâs good at that, always has been.
âcoffee?â she asks.
âplease.â
she slides a mug across the counter toward you before you even sit down. you wrap both hands around it, letting the warmth sink into your fingers.
early shifts arenât really your thing.
most days you work the late ones, but because you aren't today it means you probably wonât see gator. the thought lands somewhere in your chest and sits there for a second.
honestly?
thatâs probably for the best.
you take a sip of the coffee. yeah. today you definitely need the break.
lou leans against the counter across from you, watching the front windows like sheâs waiting for the first regular of the morning to wander in.
âsleep alright?â she asks after a moment.
you shrug.
âslept.â
lou hums softly like she knows that answer means something but isnât going to push it yet. sheâs always been good about that too. knowing when to ask questions and when to leave things alone.
youâve known lou a long time, long enough that sometimes itâs weird to remember there was a point when you didnât.
you were fifteen the first time you walked into this place looking for work.
back then you were smaller, quieter, trying very hard not to look like a kid who hadnât eaten properly in a couple days.
but small towns notice things. they notice the houses where the lights stay off too often. they notice when a kid starts wearing the same clothes three days in a row. they notice the kind of mother who spends more time at the bar than at home.
your dad was never part of the picture, you never even had a name for him.
and your mom⌠well.
your mom tried, in her own way.
but trying didnât always mean much when most of the money she got went straight into another bottle.
sometimes it meant bringing strange men home because theyâd hand over a few bills after. sometimes it meant thereâd be food in the fridge for a couple days. most of the time it didnât.
people in town talked about it. they always do.
lou mustâve heard some of it because when you walked into the diner asking if she needed help, she didnât ask too many questions, she just handed you an apron and told you to start in the back.
cleaning dishes, sweeping the kitchen floor, anything that needed doing. it wasnât glamorous but it meant you had somewhere to be after school. it meant you could sneak leftover fries or toast when nobody was looking and eventually it meant you didnât have to go home quite so early.
years passed.
you got older, moved out, started focusing on an online university course and even picked up a few other part-time jobs here and there. but louâs coffee shop was the only thing that ever really stuck.
she pours herself another cup of coffee and nods toward the kitchen.
âtruck delivery should be here in about twenty minutes,â she says. âyou mind helping me unload when it gets here?â
âsure.â
you slide off the stool and start grabbing a stack of clean mugs to bring out front.
lou watches you for another second before turning back to the coffee machine.
âyou know,â she says casually, âyou couldâve called if you needed the morning off.â
you pause slightly.
âwhy would i need the morning off?â
she shrugs one shoulder.
âjust saying.â
you narrow your eyes at her.
âyouâre fishing.â
lou smiles into her coffee.
âmaybe.â
you shake your head and carry the mugs toward the counter.
outside, the skyâs getting lighter now.
soon the regular morning crowd will start drifting in.
construction guys, farmers, people on their way to work, a normal day.
exactly the kind of day you need.
the last thing you need right now however, is to see gator walking through that door like he always does. like nothing between the two of you ever gets complicated. like itâs all just another ordinary night.
you set the mugs down in their place behind the counter.
and for the moment at least, it feels like maybe today will stay quiet.
-
by late morning the diner has settled into that familiar rhythm. the sun is fully up now, bright through the front windows, catching in the chrome edges of the stools.
itâs busy enough to keep your hands moving. which is good. because when your hands are moving, you donât have to think so much.
a group of deputies come in around noon.
you recognise most of them. not surprising, considering how often they end up here. they take their usual booth near the window.
you grab menus and head over.
âmorninâ,â one of them says.
âmorning,â you reply, sliding the menus across the table.
you pour their coffee while they start talking over each other, something about paperwork at the station and some guy who got pulled over outside town. normal stuff.
youâre halfway through writing down their orders when one of them says a name that makes your hand pause.
nadine.
you keep your head down like you didnât notice.
âiâm tellinâ you,â one of them says, leaning forward across the table. âsheriffâs convinced itâs her.â
another scoffs.
âthought she was dead.â
âyeah well, apparently he donât.â
you move away from the booth slowly, not wanting it to look like youâre hovering.
but your ears stay tuned in anyway.
âsays heâs found her,â someone else adds.
âafter all these years?â
âthatâs what he thinks.â
you wipe down a nearby table, pretending to focus on the rag in your hand.
nadine.
the name sits strangely in your head like youâve heard it before.
by the time you finish cleaning the table, the conversation has moved on to something else. you drop the rag into the sink in the back and push through the kitchen doors.
louâs standing by the prep counter slicing tomatoes.
she glances up when you walk in.
âeverything alright out there?â
you lean against the counter, crossing your arms.
âyou ever hear the name nadine before?â
louâs knife pauses for a second. just a second. then she finishes the slice and sets it down.
âwhereâd you hear that?â she asks.
âdeputies out there,â you say. âtheyâre talking about how roy thinks sheâs still alive or something.â
lou exhales slowly through her nose.
âfigures.â
you tilt your head slightly.
âso you do know who she is.â
lou wipes her hands on a towel before leaning against the counter across from you.
ânadine was royâs wifeâ she says.
your eyebrows lift a little.
âwas?â
âlong time ago.â
she shrugs one shoulder.
âgirl got out.â
âout?â you repeat.
âleft himâ lou says simply.
that alone is enough to make your stomach twist a little. leaving roy tillman didnât exactly sound like the kind of thing someone just did.
âpeople said she ran,â lou continues. âdisappeared. some folks thought he caught up with her eventually.â
âbut he didnât?â
lou shrugs again.
âguess not if heâs still looking.â
you think about that for a second. then something else clicks.
âsheâs not gatorâs mom though, right?â
lou shakes her head immediately.
âno.â
the answer comes quick. too quick maybe.
you watch her for a moment.
she suddenly seems quieter than before, like the topic isnât one sheâs interested in staying on.
you open your mouth to ask something else, but lou cuts in first.
âyou stay outta itâ she says.
the words land heavier than you expected.
âout of what?â
âany of it.â
lou picks the knife back up, though she doesnât start cutting again.
âthe tillmans arenât the kind of people you want to be sticking your nose around.â
you frown slightly.
âlou-â
she looks up at you then. really looks.
âtheyâre dangerous,â she says quietly.
the seriousness in her voice makes something in your chest tighten.
âand you oughta be careful around that boy too.â
your stomach drops a little.
ââŚwhat boy?â
lou gives you a look.
it takes about half a second for the panic to settle in your chest.
how much does she know? how long has she known?
you stare back at her for a moment before looking away first.
âi donât know what youâre talking aboutâ you mutter.
lou doesnât argue, she just goes back to slicing tomatoes.
the rest of the shift passes slowly after that.
you try not to think about the conversation too much, focusing instead on wiping tables and refilling coffee and anything else that keeps your brain occupied.
eventually the diner starts quieting down again.
you glance at the clock. almost time to leave.
youâre grabbing your jacket from the hook when the bell above the front door jingles.
your stomach sinks before you even turn around.
gator walks in.
you blink at him.
âwhat are you doing here?â
he looks tired.
more than usual.
âhow ya doinâ,â he mutters, sliding onto one of the stools.
âitâs noon,â you say. âwhy are you here so early?â
he rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
âjust⌠some shit with my dad.â
you wait a second.
but he doesnât elaborate, and over time youâve learned that asking about roy usually leads absolutely nowhere good.
so you just shrug.
âcoffee?â
âyeah.â
you pour him a mug and set it in front of him, then you grab your bag from behind the counter.
gator notices immediately.
âwhere you goinâ?â
âhome,â you say. âmy shiftâs over.â
his brows knit together slightly.
you step around the counter but before you reach the door-
âhey.â
you glance back.
gatorâs watching you.
thereâs something different in his expression.
âcan you stay?â he asks.
the words catch you off guard.
for a second you just stand there.
and then you remember last night.
the way you asked him the same thing. the way he paused like he might say yes before leaving anyway.
you shift your bag higher on your shoulder.
âlouâs in the back,â you say. âsheâll sort you out.â
his jaw tightens slightly.
but you donât give him time to argue.
you turn and push the door open.
the bell jingles softly above your head as you step outside.
the afternoon air feels cooler than you expected.
you walk across the parking lot without looking back even though you can feel his eyes following you through the window.
the difference between you and gator is that leaving him there wonât keep him up all night as it does for you.
at least, thatâs what you tell yourself as you get in your car.
Pairing: Gator x Fem!Reader (orientation & mobility specialist)
Rating: Mature 18+ (to eventual explicit) MDNI
Warnings/Tropes/Other things: Friends to lovers, minor angst, disability representation
Summary: During an outing for a community based session amongst the Christmas shoppers at the Galleria, Gator starts to feel more comfortable, open and vulnerable with you. While shopping, you have an unexpected meeting with an unexpected invitation.
Word Count: 4.3K
Taglist (if you would like to be added let me know): @cycat-carisi @superfreaksteve @onlyangel-444 @ilikeappleandbanana @foreverserving @bluegardenn @keer-y @knights0fkylo
Gator is already dressed and ready to go. His footsteps are heavy beneath him as he paces across the floor. He awaits your arrival with relative patience, at least with more patience than he's shown in the past. The fact that he is ready to go is something he knows you will mark off as a success. For him, it's been some of the hardest work he's ever done. He always makes a consistent effort to follow the strict organizational systems and routines you've helped him develop. Every single thing has its own designated place and each day that Gator works on it, the more like second nature it becomes. For his clothes: his underwear always stays in a compartment on the left-hand side of his top dresser drawer while socks live on the right. Undershirts are in the drawer below. In the closet, t-shirts and button-ups are on the left while jeans and slacks stay on the right.
"Nothing can be a surprise," you'd told him.
An anticipation flutters in him as his ears attune themselves to the familiar sound of your truck rolling to a stop in his driveway. Each sound is a memory that is resonating in real time: the push of your car door closing in, the chirp of your lock, your footsteps shuffling on his stoop, and the gentle sound when you ring his doorbell. You didn't really have to do that. He hopes that maybe one you'll realize that you don't have to do that.
"Hey," he greets you, recalling a time when he used to just shout that the door was open the first few sessions.
"Uh, hey to you, too," you greet him with a smile and the slightest giggle, "your hair isâŚdifferent."
He's combed it in a way that has taken a lot of time and care. You notice a bit of a side part with the sides combed back. It's formal and stiff, but you can't help acknowledge the effort he's taken. He frowns, feeling shudders of disappointment and embarrassment at how you reacted. Self-consciously, he brings his fingers to touch the side of his head.
"That's not really fair, " Gator grumbles.
Combing hair, grooming, and any other kind of makeup routine is difficult for any and all of your clients. For those with close cuts or those who are balding, grooming isn't a problem. Gator's predicament is the exact opposite. His brown hair is soft, thick, and full. When he's slicked it back like he used to or combs it too perfectly, it doesn't suit him.
"Hey, you know what I meanâŚ" You raise your hand to hover just above his temple, close enough for him to feel the ghost of your touch. "May I?"
He understands and nods. With a gentle caress, you comb your fingers through his hair. Your touch releases the confines he temporarily placed on himself. The warmth from your hands on his hair feels like a luxury, especially as he feels his hair fall naturally into place. He breathes slowly as you shake out his hair. Your fingers act as liberator and as they leave his locks, he feels free.
"There we go, much better," you say admiring your handiwork.
"Yeah?" Gator's voice rises in genuine want of your honest opinion. "How do I look?"
You find yourself trying to hide an exhale that comes from deep inside your chest, "You're gonna have to bat the ladies away now."
"What if I don't want to?" He asks with a steady and earnest voice.
He leans in a millimeter closer to you, his face directly in front of yours.
His question lives somewhere between rhetorical and pointedâbetween dancing around an answer that he feels he'd never be able to hear and another answer he desperately wants to know. As he works through these racing thoughts, you look up at him. You contemplate answering but find yourself working through some mental gymnastics of your own. You're not stupid and you can sense where this may be going. It's therapist-client lesson 101: don't catch feelings. You've never had this problem before.
Based on just about everything you've heard about Gator, he might as well wave a red flag outside his house every day. That's what they said. They said he was no good. But the longer you've been working with him, the more he seems to defy everyone's expectations of him.
This can't possibly end well. You think to yourself. So, you do the only thing that makes senseâyou deflect to avoid really answering the question the way you want so you can protect your heart.
"Well, maybe you'll get your chance," you say with a smile, your hand gently patting his chest, "maybe there'll be a pretty girl, or girls, who will take notice when we go out today."
"Huh?" The corner of Gator's lips twitch with feigned confusion. "Are you taking me out to a bar or somethin'?"
"Yes, Gator," you say, keenly aware of how your sarcasm coats every word, "I, your therapist, am taking you to a bar mid-morning in the dead of winter in Minnesota."
He steps a little closer and you notice a smirk form at the corner of his lips.
"Now who's a smart ass?"
He's close enough that you can smell the hint of his shower gel and deodorant on his skin. You notice the smoothness of his skin and the moles that adorn his face. Almost against your will, your tongue pushes itself out of your mouth to lick your lips. An embarrassment filled heat colors your cheeks and you're thankful he can't see it. With a subtle clearing of your throat you step back from him and chuckle.
"Spoiler alert," you tease him even though you know you shouldn't, "I've always been a smartassânow let's go."
His lips are parted as he tries think of a comeback that doesn't come to him. So, he just nods and follows you to your truck. Though he's come to trust you about your training sessions, a nagging anxiety always lingers when he doesn't know exactly what you have planned. As if reading his mind, you seek to allay the concerns that you can tell he has.
"So, today's going to be a little more challenging: we're going to the galleria," you pause to gauge his reaction.
It's one of restrained discomfort that he's trying to hide from you. You reach over to grasp his hand in reassurance. He draws in a deep breath and turns his head in your direction.
"It will be fine; you will do great," you declare with confidence.
He notices how you quickly you move your hand from his. Itâs the most subtle of moves, but it haunts him.
"You sure 'bout that?" He asks as he puffs his chest. "It's probably really crowded now; Christmas is so close."
"Yes, I am sure," you pause and add with a hint of teasing, "just don't go around calling kids little shits."
You observe how the corners of his lips tremble with a suppressed laugh. The grin that emerges on his soft lips draws in your gaze. Once again, you're glad he can't perceive that.
The drive to the galleria thankfully isn't a long one. He's become attuned with how your car moves. He knows when you've been going down a long stretch of road. His body feels the shifting movements of the truck with each consecutive turn you make. He feels it in his core as your acceleration decreases. All this tells Gator how close you are to your destination.
His knees shake with an anxious energy as you slowly roll your truck into a parking space. He opens his door slightly, waiting for you and knowing you always meet him there. As you pull the door open all the way for him, the bustling sounds of shoppers meets his ears.
He sets his cane on the ground and steps out of the truck, pushing the door closed behind him. Whether it be routine or instinct, he hooks his left hand into the crook of your elbow. You accept it without any second thought.
"Ok, so I know you can obviously tell there a lot of people," you tell him as you lead him to step up onto the sidewalk. "Remember your cane is essential; it's a guide for you but it really helps other people to be more aware and respectful of your spaceâunless they're assholes of course."
You say it just as a few shoppers zoom past Gator barely missing his cane. They look back at you when they hear your expletive and are greeted with your judgmental scowl. He turns to you, brows raised, the left corner of his lips skipping upwards into a smirk.
"Assholes, huh?" He muses, a playfulness dances through the tone of his voice. "You've been hanging around me too much; I'm rubbin' off on ya."
"You wish," you reply, nudging him lightly with your elbow.
Through the cold air, the sounds of the season flutter around you both: the giggles of children and their little voices listing off their wish lists for Santa, bells jingling, and people conversing on their cell phones about last minute presents and plans. The sounds push through the cold and Gator feels them wrap the two of you in a warmth that goes straight to his heart.
"Can we go to the record store?" You ask Gator, pressing your free hand over the hand he keeps tucked in your elbow.
"Sure," he agrees with a shrug, wondering if he even has a say.
The way Gator's grip tenses at your elbow tells you he senses how small the store is. The sensation reminds you to make it a short trip. The aromatic scent of the paper vinyl jackets, the sound of an album playing in the background, and the concurrent conversations start to overwhelm his senses. He brings his cane closer to his body as he feels bodies shuffle through the tight aisles. Other shoppers walk past him, sometimes accidentally nudging his shoulder or his cane.
"You like vinyl, right?" You ask, noticing his discomfort.
Engaging him in conversation always seem to put him at ease. The question sparks a pause in time that he uses to think on his answer. He's not sure that anyone's really asked him before.He's not sure when the last time as anyone asked him about thinks he liked or didn't like. He nods.
"Yeah," he replies allowing a beat of silence before continuing, "lost most of my collection though, afterâeverythingâya know?"
"Right," you murmur in thought as you remember the news.
Kidnapping. Corruption. Rituals. Murder. It had all the elements that are closer to fiction than reality. It had all the things you could put into a movie. But maybe movies just mirror real life.
"I'm so sorry 'bout that Gator, really."
You look on him, not with pity, but with sadness and the firm belief that he is deserving of so much more than what he's been dealt. And he can feel your gaze setting off a buzz of energy he can't explain. Whatever it is you doâhe's never felt so vulnerable. He wishes he could see you, he thinks, as he bows his head down his hair falling towards his forehead. Taking his hand from your arm, he pushes the strands from his face.
"WellâŚyou win some, you lose some," he states his voice trailing off.
A few more shoppers shuffle around you, looking through the shelves of vinyl. Cognizant of the tight space, you take hold of Gator's hand. Your fingers act as though controlled by something beyond you and you find yours intertwining with his. Holding some records in one hand and keeping Gator's hand in your other, you lead him to the cash register where you quickly pay.
As you leave, it feels less like you're leading Gator as he keeps in step beside you. His sweeps his cane lightly across the ground before him as you navigate the holiday shoppers in the Galleria. You keep a tight hold of his hand as Gator's awareness heightens with every step he takes. The observations in his mind take over and he notices that everyone seems engaged in themselves and their own actions. But he also senses the subtle change in their movements as they maneuver around him, aware and respectful of his space.
You bear witness to how moves with more ease with each step he takes. The anxiety he often holds gradually melts away, moving through the crowd like he belongs.
"Hey," you say as you turn to him and squeeze his hand, "you're really doing a great job. "
He moves to say something but stops when he hears a familiar voice ring out.
"Gator," a woman's voice clears the crowd, the sound of it moving closer towards you.
Gator recognizes it, his heart filling with equal measures of timidity and guilt.
"Dot?" Gator utters and you immediately loosen your fingers from his.
He wishes you hadn't let go, but he works out clearly in his head the reason you did. In a few short moments Dot and her daughter Scotty stand before you. Dot's face shines with empathy and kindness, while her daughter stays quiet at her side. You can't blame Scotty for her apprehension given all the pain and trauma Roy Tillman and Gator had inflicted on their family.
"Are you doing ok, Gator?" Dot asks, a soft kindness imbues itself in her voice and her expression. "You look like you're doing better."
Gator hangs his head down while giving a slight nod.
"Well, I'm tryin'," Gator replies and gestures towards you, "and I've had lots of help."
Dot takes your hand and squeezes it with a kind of gratitude that you feel is almost undeserved. Dot pulls Gator into a conversation. Her genuine concern never disappears as she asks him about life, therapy, and even his sleeping habits. You watch Gator listen intently to each word like a child with his mother. Shifting her weight from side to side, Scotty garners your attention by pointing at your shopping bag. At the same time, Scotty looks you up and down as though she's sizing you up.
"You got some records?" Scotty says, starting with small talk.
"Yep," you reply, turning your full attention to her, "I'm just finishing up the last of my shopping."
Scotty nods, "Did you get any for yourself?"
"No, not this time," you respond, taking note of her genuine curiosity, "trying to make sure I get stuff for others before myself, you know?"
"I would get something for myself," she says with a beautiful simplicity bestowed only to children. "Sometimes it's fun to get yourself a little giftâthat's what my mom says."
You wait a few moments to contemplate on her observation while you craft your own reply. You release a chuckle as Scotty gazes at you with a wide-eyed smile and an emphatic nod.
"Your mom is a smart woman, Scotty."
"I know," she says earnestly, "I can tell you're a lot like her; you're really kind."
Scotty's eyes shift back to Gator and Dot as she speaks. Ever observant, you follow the thread of her gaze which seems to be weaving between you and Gator. You swear you catch Gator glance at you quickly before he turns his attention back to his own conversation.
"So what do you want for Christmas?" Gator hears you ask Scotty.
He hears her lists off a few items: a light up hoverboard, a knitting kit, and a kit to make jewelry at home. Your smile is bright and wide as you listen to Scotty relay her Christmas wishes to you. Her honesty and innocence shine through and you envy it.
"What about you? What do you want?" Scotty asks.
"Oh gosh, let's see," you pause in thought, "I'm a sucker for a really good pen and a pretty journal."
Scotty's confusion appears instantly on her face, "A pen and a journal! That's it??"
"I'm a pretty simple girl, Scotty," you say plainly, "I really don't need much."
"Are you sure?" Scotty squints her eyes in disbelief. "I don't believe you."
"You're persistent," you add with smile. "Ok, fine, a girl can always use a pretty bracelet or a nice pair of earrings."
With a look of contemplation that seems wise beyond her years, Scotty gives you a knowing nod that says: I told you so. You turn your attention back to Dot and Gator as they continue to converse.
"You know Scotty's got a Christmas pageant in a week," Dot says to Gator, her voice and eyes full of genuine kindness. "You should come. What do you think Scotty?"
Scotty moves closer to her mom, first looking at Gator and then gesturing back at you. "Sure, but she should come to!"
You blink rapidly with surprise at the unexpected suggestion. You to turn to Gator to take in his reaction to Scotty's request, you see his face is already turned to you with his eyebrows raised. Dot's eyes shift from you to her daughter who looks at you with the brightest smile and a wide-eyed, glee-filled gaze.
"Now how can you say 'no' that face?" Dot added with a shrug and a joyful smile of her own. "You really should come; they always do a good job and it's just a real nice event for the season."
As you look back to Gator, he presents his open hands to you, wordlessly intimating the decision is yours and yours alone. Your eyes move from to Dot and then to Scotty again. Dot does have one thing rightâhow can you say no that face? With a nod of your head, you give Dot your answer. Scotty claps excitedly as Gator seems to let out a quick sigh.
Dot pulls you closer and asks you quietly, "Would you be able to bring Gator?"
"I can figure it out on my own, Dot!" He exclaims having heard her request, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation coming from deep in his chest.
"Oh, Gator, I didn't mean anything by it, I just thoughtâ," she begins, her words full of nothing but kindhearted truth.
"No, Gator, don't worry about it," you chime in, "it's not a problem, I can bring you."
"Well, it's settled then!" Dot adds before taking Scotty's hand. "We're going to go finish some errands and we'll see you both next weekend."
Gator nods and smiles before giving them slight wave. This time, you hook your hand into his arm, gently leading him through the crowds back to the parking lot. He is hyper focused on moving his cane in front of him and his posture feels a little cold and stiff.
"So do you wanna go anywhere?" You ask him, trying to break the silence that's suddenly filled the air.
Gator shrugs, "No, not really."
His terse response almost makes you want to let him go and leave him behind. But you can't; you care too damn much.
"Ok," you acknowledge while you furrow your brows with confusion. "I guess we'll just go home then?"
"That's fine."
The silence continues as you walk towards the parking lot. When you're back at your truck, you open the door for him and he climbs in quietly. His elbow finds rest on the door and he presses his chin against a clenched fist, once inside. His tight lips, the slump of his shoulders, and his overall demeanor give the distinct impression that he is sulking.
Once you settle into the driver's seat you turn the ignition and begin your drive back to Gator's house. The air in your car is thick with silence as he crosses his arms over his chest. You hate these bouts of childish silent treatment he still clings to. You can engage him but decide against, not wanting to get into an argument with him.
When you pull into his driveway, Gator is quick to open the door. He sets his can down with a loud tap on the cement of his driveway. His movements are cautious but controlled as he navigates his way to the front door. Even in his adult tantrum he impressively manages to find his way to the door. He takes a deep breath before unlocking and opening it.
"What's with the attitude?" You finally ask with exasperation, following him inside.
"I don't have an attitude," he mumbles as he sets his cane against the bookshelf closest to the front door.
"Snapping at Dot, the silent treatment in the car?" You remind him, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet as you step towards him. "It seems like it to me."
He turns around and meets you leaving only a foot of space between the two of you.
"I could get there on my own just fine," he insists with a pout of his lips, "I can figure it out! I'm not helpless."
"No one called you helpless, Gator!" You wave your hands at your side. "Dot was just trying to make it easier forâ"
"I don't need your pity!" Gator asserts while taking another step towards you.
"You need to cut it out with that!" You challenge him, hoping that he can feel how hard you are glaring at him. "When have I ever treated you with pity?"
"No," he sneers, "you just treat me like a job!"
A volcano is erupting inside you. It's heating up your face. He's made you upset before but not like this.
"Has it never occurred to you that I like spending time you?!" You shout, all reason leaving your body. "That I want to spend time with you?!"
You watch as Gator's chest rises and falls breathing in the weight if your words. He moves closer and lifts a gentle hand to hover inches from your face. And when he traces a soft caress down the curve of your cheek you can't help but draw in a sharp breath of your own. The heat of his touch is something unexpected while also being something you've been waiting for.
He leans in closer and pauses, wondering if you'll pull away. You can and maybe you should, but much to Gator's relief, you don't. Instead, you lean your head into his large hand and close your eyes. The softness of your skin warms his hand as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before settling at the crook of your neck.
His lips are finally on yours with a kiss that is timid and soft at the start. The softness of his lips pulls you in and you press your lips harder against his. The scent of you fills him with elation while his other hand pulls you closer to him. He needs more. The softness is not enough.
You feel his grip at your waist tighten before he slips his tongue gently to open your lips and when you don't fight he pushes in deeper. Gator feels your left hand caress down his shoulder until you rest it on his forearm. He can't help but pull you closer to him, his right hand beginning to meander just beneath the hem of your shirt.
Too much. Not enough. Too much.
Your mind and heart are racing as you try desperately to work through the feelings that his lips, his hands, and maybe the inkling of something else are igniting in you.
"Stop, Gator, stop!" You release yourself from his kiss and step back. "IâŚwe can't."
He stands before you and though he can't see your face, he's certain the expression you have must hold regret. His hand falls and his heart follows, moving down to the pit of his stomach.
"Fuck. Fuck!" He swears, running his hands through his hair. "I fucked it up."
"You didn't," You insist, unable to fight moving closer to him. "I promise you didn't."
He steps forward noticing a hint of longing in your voice. He tests the waters before you both.
"No?" A teasing tone leaves his lips as he leans towards you again.
You feel his breath upon your lips as the conflict continues in your mind. Feeling his lips on yours again is a desire and a temptation. He leans in his lips just brushing yours before you back away.
"I can't do this," you say through intense breaths.
"Why not?" He moves closer to you, caressing soft fingers down the length of your right arm.
"It's unethical, I could lose my job, ," you begin spouting reasons. "It's unfair to you."
"You can't tell me you don't feel something, sweetheart," he rebukes with more than a hint of snark to his tone.
Together, his words and tone come straight for your heart.
"You're right, I can't," you confirm, your lips trembling and your stomach flopping with the myriad of emotions swirling inside you. "Gator, I just need time to thinkâŚIâI'm sorry."
He scoffs in a combination of disbelief, frustration, and most of all, disappointment. There are so many words he wants to say to you, none of them coming out. A voice echoes inside his mind, as he asks himself if anything he says would make a difference.
"I'll call you before the weekend comes, I promise," you tell him, hoping he knows that you're going to keep your word. "I've gotta go."
Before he can say somethingâanythingâ to convince you to stay, he hears the familiar sounds of the door opening and then closing behind you. He hears your gentle footsteps on his stoop, leaving instead of arriving. The sound of your truck pulling away from his driveway leaves a silence that screams in his ears. Frustration riddles his breath as the warmth you bring disappears with your absence.
He thinks to himself: There's no way I didn't fuck this up.
hi! i requested the gator fic u asked about. i was thinking canon, but itâs totally up to you! whatever youâre most comfortable with :) đ
SMALL TOWN
gator tillman x reader
desc- after coming back to the town you grew up in, you hear someone you went to highschool with is in jail? and blind? what could go wrong with visiting him
val speaks - hii thanku for the request lovely! hope u loveâşď¸ also idk why but small detail readers dad is called parker?? dk where i got that from lol
the town looked smaller than you remembered.
maybe it was because youâd spent the last four years in a city where the buildings blocked the sky and nobody knew your name. maybe it was because when you left, you swore you wouldnât come back unless you had to.
but there you were anyway.
the library still smelled the same. old paper, dust, that faint plastic scent from the computers that had probably been there since 2009. you stood behind the front desk with a stack of returned books and tried to ignore the feeling that the town was watching you settle back into place.
âgood to have you back,â mrs. langley had said when she hired you two weeks ago. âsmart girl like you shouldnât stay gone forever.â
you werenât sure if that was a compliment or just the way small towns talked.
most days were quiet. kids after school. a couple retirees reading newspapers. sometimes someone would come in asking about the old records or genealogy files.
sometimes theyâd recognise you.
âyouâre parker's daughter, right? the one that went off to college?â
youâd smile and say yes.
nobody mentioned high school much. which you appreciated.
because high school here had been⌠its own ecosystem.
youâd been the quiet one. the girl with the good grades and the scholarship posters taped to the guidance counselorâs wall. people copied your homework sometimes but never really talked to you otherwise.
and then there were the popular kids.
football games. trucks in the parking lot. parties you heard about but never got invited to.
heâd been one of them.
gator tillman.
you mostly remembered the noise around him. loud laughter in hallways. the way people moved out of his way without even realising they were doing it. he had that kind of gravity back then, just like his dad.
you shared exactly one class sophomore year. american history.
he sat in the back and tapped his pen against the desk like he was bored with everything on earth. once heâd asked to borrow a pencil from you. youâd slid one back without turning around.
âthanksâ heâd said.
that had been the whole interaction.
after that you just existed in the same building for a couple more years until graduation came and everyone scattered.
you left for college.
he stayed.
that was the last youâd really thought about him.
until today.
it happened around closing time.
two regulars were sitting near the computers whispering in the way people do when they want to be overheard.
you werenât paying attention at first. you were checking in books, scanning barcodes, the soft beep filling the quiet room.
then you heard the name.
âtillman?â
your hand paused over the scanner.
âyeah, theyâve had him locked up for a couple years nowâ one of them said.
âthe son?â
âmmhm. whole mess with the father and everything. fbi dealt with it for a while.â
the other person lowered their voice even more, which of course made you listen harder.
âheard heâs blindâ
there was a short silence.
âbandages over his eyes still and everything. terrible business.â
the scanner beeped again under your fingers but you didnât remember moving the book.
blind.
for a moment the name from high school didnât match the image your brain tried to build.
gator had always been movement. loud boots in hallways, careless smirks, leaning back in chairs like he owned the room.
blind didnât fit.
you finished closing the library on autopilot. lights off. doors locked. keys in your bag.
the sky outside had already gone dark.
your house sat on the edge of town, the same place youâd grown up in. your parents had moved to arizona last year, chasing warmer winters, which meant the place was yours now.
it felt strange living there alone.
the kitchen light hummed softly while you made tea. the window over the sink looked out toward the road and the empty fields beyond it.
the town went quiet early. by nine oâclock there were barely any headlights passing by.
you sat at the table with your mug and tried not to think about what youâd heard.
but small towns had a way of circling back.
memories started filling the silence.
the history classroom.
the scrape of chairs.
the sound of that pen tapping behind you.
you remembered something else too, though it was small.
one day after class youâd dropped your notebook in the hallway. papers everywhere.
most people had just stepped around it.
he hadnât.
youâd looked up and seen his boots first, then him crouching down to pick up a couple pages.
âhereâ heâd said, handing them over.
youâd muttered thanks and hurried away because you didnât really know what else to do.
it hadnât meant anything.
probably he didnât even remember it.
still.
you stared into your tea until it went cold.
blind.
in jail.
the words didnât sit right in your chest. not exactly sympathy, not exactly curiosity either. just⌠something unsettled.
you told yourself it wasnât your business.
you hadnât talked to him in years.
hell, youâd barely talked to him at all.
but the town was small. stories like this didnât stay distant. they crept into everyday conversation until suddenly everyone had an opinion about a person they hadnât seen in a decade.
you didnât like that idea.
the clock on the wall ticked past midnight.
you tried reading for a while. that didnât work.
then you tried watching tv. also useless.
eventually you ended up sitting on the couch in the dark, listening to the quiet house breathe around you.
your brain kept circling back to the same thought.
he was probably alone.
jail in this county wasnât big. a handful of cells, the fluorescent lights that never really turned off, the echo of footsteps in the hallway.
and if what they said was trueâŚ
bandages over his eyes.
you rubbed a hand over your face.
this was ridiculous.
you stood up and paced the living room once, twice.
âitâs not like you know himâ you muttered to the empty room.
still.
morning would come. the library didnât open until ten.
visiting hours at the jail started earlier than that.
you stopped pacing.
the decision slid into place quietly, like it had been waiting all night.
âfineâ you said under your breath.
tomorrow youâd go.
just once.
just to see.
-
the jail looked exactly how you expected it to.
low brick building. two patrol cars outside. a flag that creaked softly in the wind.
you sat in your car for a minute before going in, fingers resting on the steering wheel. now that you were actually here the whole idea felt⌠a little strange.
you barely knew him.
but youâd already come this far.
inside, the air smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. a deputy at the desk asked your name, who you were visiting, then gave you a look you couldnât quite read when you said it.
âwait over there.â
you nodded and sat in the plastic chair by the wall.
your knee bounced without you meaning it to.
after a few minutes the deputy returned and gestured down the hallway.
âten minutes.â
you stood, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest, and followed him.
the room they brought you to was small. metal table bolted to the floor. two chairs.
you barely had time to sit before the door on the other side opened.
he stepped in with another officer guiding him by the arm.
for a second your brain struggled to match the person in front of you with the guy you remembered.
his hair was shorter. his shoulders still broad but slouched now, like the weight of the room pressed down on them. and wrapped around his eyes were thick white bandages.
your chest tightened.
the officer helped him sit before leaving the room.
the door shut.
silence.
gator tilted his head slightly, listening. his hands rested on the table, fingers twitching once like he wasnât sure where to put them.
âwhoâs thereâ he said flatly.
his voice was the same.
a little rough. a little bored sounding.
you cleared your throat.
âhi.â
he frowned immediately.
âthat ainât very helpful.â
you almost laughed out of nerves.
âsorry. um⌠itâs-â
you said your name.
there was a pause.
long enough that you wondered if he remembered you at all.
then he leaned back slightly in the chair.
ââŚfrom school?â
âyeah.â
another pause.
âhuh.â
he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table, thinking.
âwhatâre you doin here.â
not angry exactly.
just confused.
you shifted in your seat.
âi know itâs weird,â you said quickly. âi just⌠heard about you yesterday.â
his shoulders stiffened.
âheard what.â
the words came out sharper.
you hesitated.
âat the library. some people were talking.â
his jaw tightened a little.
even without seeing his eyes you could tell the moment something in him closed off.
âstill?â he muttered.
you rushed a little.
âi didnât mean to overhear or anything. it just sort of happened and then i-â
you stopped, suddenly aware of how strange this sounded.
âi guess i just⌠wanted to see you.â
the room went quiet again.
gator leaned back further in the chair, head tilted slightly toward the ceiling like he was thinking through something he didnât want to deal with.
âwellâ he said after a second, voice dry. âcongrats.â
you blinked.
âon what.â
âyou seen me.â
the words had an edge to them. not loud, just⌠tired.
you felt heat creep up your neck.
âi didnât mean it like that.â
he shrugged one shoulder.
âsure.â
his fingers tapped once against the table.
you noticed they were scarred up, like theyâd healed badly.
âwhole town knows it off by heartâ he said. âainât exactly private.â
you didnât know what to say to that, so the silence stretched again.
you could hear faint sounds from the hallway outside. a door closing somewhere. someone talking down the corridor.
gatorâs mouth pressed into a thin line.
âlibrary, huh,â he said after a moment.
âyeah.â
âfigures.â
you werenât sure if that was an insult or just observation.
âi graduated last year,â you added awkwardly. âmoved back a couple weeks ago.â
he nodded once like heâd expected that somehow.
then his hand lifted, gesturing vaguely toward his face.
âso,â he said. âbet that was the real shocker.â
your stomach twisted.
âi wasnât-â
âdonât worry about it,â he cut in. âeveryone likes a good story.â
his voice had gone colder, not directed at you exactly, more like he was talking to the air.
still, the tension in the room made your chest feel tight.
you pushed your chair back slightly.
âi should probably goâ you said quietly.
gatorâs head turned a little in your direction.
you stood, brushing your hands against your jeans.
âi didnât come here to make things worse,â you added. âi just-â
you stopped yourself.
it didnât matter.
âsorry.â
you turned toward the door.
your hand had just reached the handle when his chair scraped sharply against the floor.
âwaitâ
you paused.
turned back.
he was half standing now, one hand on the table like heâd moved too fast and wasnât sure where the edge was.
his head tilted toward you again.
for a second he didnât say anything.
like the words were stuck somewhere in his throat.
then, quieter than before,
ââŚthanks.â
the word came out rough.
you blinked.
âfor what?â
he shrugged slightly.
âcomin.â
it clearly cost him something to say it, you could hear it in the way the word dragged a little at the end.
you gave a small nod even though he couldnât see it.
âyeahâ you said softly.
a second passed.
âbye, gator.â
he didnât answer.
but his shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
you slipped out of the room.
the air outside the jail felt colder somehow.
you sat in your car for a minute again before starting it.
your brain kept replaying the conversation in pieces.
the way heâd stiffened when you mentioned hearing about him, the sharpness in his voice and that quiet, awkward thank you at the end.
you didnât know what you expected when you came here.
closure maybe.
curiosity satisfied.
instead you just felt⌠strange.
like youâd opened a door into something complicated and then walked away before understanding it.
the library was quiet when you got there.
mrs. langley was in the back office and waved when you came in.
âmorning!â
âmorning.â
you settled behind the desk and started checking in the return bin, but your mind kept drifting.
to the bandages around his eyes.
to the way heâd said thanks like it physically hurt.
and sometime around mid-morning you realised something mildly inconvenient.
gator tillman had somehow lodged himself in your thoughts.
and didnât seem particularly interested in leaving.
-
you tried to focus on work after that first visit. the library stayed quiet most days, a few kids wandering in after school, older men reading newspapers near the window, someone asking where the local history section was. normal things. routine things.
but your brain kept drifting.
every time the door chimed open, every time you stacked returned books or scanned barcodes, your mind slid back to that small room in the jail. the metal table. the quiet hum of the lights. the way gator had said thank you like the word had scraped its way out of him.
you didnât really understand why it stuck with you.
still, a couple days later you found yourself sitting in your car outside the jail again, staring at the building like maybe it would give you a reason to leave.
it didnât.
so eventually you got out.
the deputy at the front desk recognised you this time. he didnât comment on it, just nodded and told you to sit in the plastic chair near the wall. after a few minutes he came back and led you down the same hallway as before.
the visiting room looked exactly the same.
you sat down and waited.
a minute later the door opened.
gator stepped in, guided by the officer like last time, but something about him was different. you noticed it almost immediately. when he sat down across from you, the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly, not a full smile, but something close. a small smirk.
the officer left the room.
gator tilted his head in your direction almost instantly.
âhi.â
you blinked in surprise. âhi.â
for a moment you just stared at him before asking, âhowâd you know it was me?â
the smirk shifted a little wider.
ânobody else visits me, darlin.â
the words were casual, almost joking, but they still landed heavier than he probably meant them to. you shifted in your chair, suddenly unsure what to say to that.
âohâ you said quietly.
he leaned back in the chair, arms resting loosely on the table. âso,â he added, voice still edged with that lazy sarcasm, âyou back for round two?â
âi guess so.â
âcouldnât stay away?â
you huffed softly. âdonât flatter yourself.â
a quiet breath left him, maybe a laugh, and the room fell into that same awkward silence as before. you realised, once again, that you hadnât actually planned what you were going to say.
âi brought newsâ you said eventually.
his head tilted slightly. ânews?â
âyeah. figured you probably donât get many updates in here.â
he shrugged one shoulder. ânot really.â
so you started talking.
at first it felt strange. you told him about little things, the library getting a shipment of new books, mrs. langley complaining about the copy machine again, the high school football team losing their first game of the season. nothing important, just bits of the outside world.
gator mostly listened.
sometimes he muttered something dry in response. âfigures,â or âthat machine was busted ten years ago.â sometimes he just sat there quietly, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the table like he was focusing on the sound of your voice.
he still had that sharpness in his tone sometimes. that standoffish edge like he wasnât fully sure what to do with you being there. but he never told you to leave.
and when your time was up, he said, âsee ya.â
which felt like progress.
the next visit happened a few days later.
this time, when he sat down, he leaned forward on his elbows like heâd already settled into the routine. âalright,â he said, âwhatâs the outside world got for me today?â
you raised an eyebrow. âimpatient?â
âbored.â
so you told him more things.
about a woman who tried to return a library book that had been overdue since 2014. about the diner downtown changing owners. about how the town council had spent an entire meeting arguing about whether the park benches needed replacing.
he listened to everything. sometimes he interrupted with sarcastic comments, sometimes he just sat there quietly, but whenever you paused for too long heâd say something like, âgo onâ like he didnât want the conversation to stop.
the visits stayed short, but they started happening regularly.
once or twice a week for a little.
then a bit more.
each time you came in, gator seemed to relax a little faster once he realised it was you. you started noticing small things, the way he turned his head toward the door whenever footsteps approached in the hallway, or how heâd already have something half sarcastic ready to say the second he sat down.
one afternoon you walked in and the first thing he said was, âyouâre late.â
you glanced at the clock. âby two minutes.â
âstill late.â
but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he said it.
you didnât comment on it.
but you noticed.
weeks passed like that. small conversations, bits of gossip from town, quiet moments where he just listened while you talked about completely ordinary things.
slowly, without either of you acknowledging it out loud, the visits became normal.
expected.
then one day you didnât show up.
the library called you in early because one of the staff members was sick. the morning turned into a rush of sorting books, helping kids with school projects, fixing the printer twice, and by the time the day finally slowed down you glanced at the clock and realised visiting hours were already over.
you felt strangely guilty about it.
which didnât make much sense.
he wasnât expecting you.
probably.
still, the next day you went to the jail after work.
when the officer brought him into the room, gator sat down and immediately turned his head toward you.
âwhere were you yesterday.â
you paused halfway into your chair.
his voice wasnât teasing this time. it sounded tight.
âi had to workâ you said carefully.
he frowned. âyou always work.â
âi got called in early,â you explained. âsomeone was sick. i couldnât make it.â
you rubbed the back of your neck. âsorry.â
he leaned back in the chair slowly, shoulders settling against the metal. for a second his expression shifted into something you hadnât seen from him before, something quieter.
ââŚoh,â he muttered.
it wasnât anger.
it was closer to sadness.
the realisation made something in your chest tighten.
âi didnât think youâd notice,â you said gently.
he scoffed under his breath. âainât much else to keep track of in here.â
you hesitated before adding softly, âi didnât skip on purpose.â
he was quiet for a moment after that. then his shoulders loosened slightly, and the tension in his voice faded.
ââŚyeahâ he said.
another small pause passed before he leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table.
âso,â he added, his voice a little rougher than usual, âwhatâd i miss.â
and in that moment it became very obvious.
gator tillman was actually starting to look forward to your visits.
and somehow, without planning it, without really understanding how it happened ,youâd become one of the only things he had to look forward to at all.
the visits started feeling⌠easier after that.
not at first all at once, but slowly. like something in gator had stopped fighting the fact that you kept showing up.
he still had the sharp edge in his voice sometimes, still tossed out sarcastic comments like they were second nature, but the tension that had filled the room during those first visits wasnât there anymore. now when he sat down across from you, his shoulders were looser. his posture more relaxed.
and sometimes he talked first.
which had definitely not been happening before.
one afternoon he walked in, sat down, and said, âalright. what disasterâs the town got goin on today.â
you laughed quietly. âdisaster?â
âsomethinâs always wrong in a place this small.â
âwell,â you said, settling into the chair, âmrs. langley locked herself out of the supply closet again.â
he snorted.
âthird time this month.â
âwoman should not be in charge of keys.â
you spent a while telling him about that. about the argument between two old men over a newspaper. about a kid who tried to check out six dinosaur books at once.
he listened like he always did now, head angled toward your voice, thumb brushing along the table.
but this time, after you finished talking, he stayed quiet for a moment.
then he said something you hadnât expected.
âused to hate this town.â
you blinked slightly.
âyeah?â
âyeah.â
he leaned back a little in his chair.
âfelt like everyone knew everyoneâs business. couldnât breathe without someone hearin about it.â
you smiled faintly. âstill kinda like that.â
âmm.â
he rubbed the side of his thumb against the table again.
âfunny thing though.â
you waited.
ââŚnow itâs kinda nice hearin about it.â
you didnât say anything for a second.
because you realised what he meant.
your visits.
the small stories you brought with you.
the outside world.
he cleared his throat a little after the silence stretched.
ânot much else to look forward to in here,â he added casually.
but the words sat between you.
you felt something warm settle quietly in your chest.
another day you were halfway through telling him about the library ordering new computers when he interrupted suddenly.
âwonder what you look like now.â
you paused mid sentence.
ââŚwhat?â
he shifted slightly in his chair.
âyou.â
you blinked, confused.
âwhat about me?â
âhow different.â
he shrugged a little.
âfrom high school.â
you thought about it for a second.
âum⌠i donât know.â
âcâmon.â
you laughed awkwardly.
âwell⌠my hairâs longer now, i guess. it was like shoulder length back then. now itâs⌠longerâ
he nodded slowly like he was picturing it.
âwhat colour is it?â
you smiled a little.
âyou donât remember?â
âyou couldaâ changed itâ
âitâs the same colorâ you said.
he hummed quietly.
then he said, almost absentmindedly,
âstill pretty then.â
your brain stalled.
âwhat?â
he shrugged again.
âyou were.â
your face warmed slightly.
âwish i could see you,â he added.
the sentence came out softer than usual.
and suddenly the room felt heavier.
because you could hear something in his voice that hadnât been there before.
sadness.
like the thought had slipped out before he could stop it.
without really thinking about it, you reached forward across the table.
your hand rested gently over his.
gator froze.
completely still.
like he wasnât sure what had just happened.
for a second you panicked and started pulling your hand back.
âsorry i-â
before you could finish the sentence, his fingers closed around yours.
not tight.
just enough to stop you from leaving.
you went still.
he held your hand like he was trying to process the feeling of it.
his thumb shifted slightly against the back of your hand.
âdonâtâ he muttered quietly.
you didnât move.
the moment stretched between you, quiet and warm and a little fragile.
his shoulders had relaxed again, but his hand stayed around yours.
like he didnât want to let go yet.
and for the first time since youâd started coming here, the room didnât feel like a jail at all
-
by the time the visits had become more of a regular routine, the walk through the jail didnât make you nervous anymore.
the first few times you had come here, the place had felt heavy. every door that shut behind you had made your chest tighten a little. the fluorescent lights, the echo of footsteps in the hall, the quiet conversations between deputies, it had all made you feel like you didnât quite belong there.
now it just felt like somewhere you went.
the deputy at the desk nodded when you signed in, and another guard led you down the hallway toward the visiting room. you were halfway there when one of the guards walking past slowed slightly when he noticed you.
âyouâre the one that visits tillman, right?â
you paused for a second, a little surprised.
âyeah,â you said.
the guard gave a small nod, like heâd been confirming something to himself.
âfigured.â
you tilted your head slightly. âwhy?â
he hesitated for a moment before answering, but there was a small smile on his face.
âhis behavior improved a lot after you started coming around.â
you blinked. âwhat?â
âevery year before you he kept to himself mostly. didnât talk much. got into a couple arguments with other guys.â the guard shrugged. ânothing major, but still.â
he glanced down the hallway toward the visiting room.
âafter you started visiting though? whole different story. calmer. actually listens now. even cracks a joke sometimes.â
the words made something warm bloom in your chest.
âreally?â
âyeah,â he said with a small chuckle. âso⌠thanks.â
you didnât really know what to say to that. you just smiled a little, feeling strangely shy about it.
âi didnât do anything.â
âyou showed upâ he replied simply.
then he gestured toward the room. âheâs already waiting.â
you nodded and walked the rest of the way down the hallway, your thoughts a little quieter than usual.
gator was already sitting at the table when you walked in.
his head turned toward the door almost immediately, like he had been listening for the sound of your footsteps.
âthat you?â
âwho else would it be?â you said, closing the door behind you.
âcould be anyone.â
âyet you guessed right.â
a small grin tugged at his mouth as you sat down across from him.
âlucky guess.â
you studied him for a second.
there was something different about him these days. it wasnât just the way he spoke or the way his shoulders seemed less tense. there were moments now where pieces of the person he couldâve been without everything that happened, slipped through.
little flashes of real humor. the kind that didnât feel sharp or defensive.
and the more you saw those moments, the harder it became not to like him.
âi can tell youâre smiling. what about?â he asked suddenly.
you hadnât realised you were.
ânothing.â
âthatâs suspicious.â
âiâm just thinking.â
âdangerousâ
you laughed softly.
âyouâre one to talk.â
âhey,â he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, âi do a lot of thinking in here.â
âdo you?â
âyeah.â
he paused for a second.
ââŚmostly about how boring it is.â
you snorted.
âsounds about right.â
âthat why you keep comin back?â he asked. âto entertain me?â
âmaybe.â
âgenerous of you.â
the conversation flowed easily after that. you told him about the library getting a donation of old books that smelled like someoneâs attic. he made a comment about how the town probably hadnât bought new books since the early 2000s. you told him about a kid who tried to convince you his mother was a butterfly.
he laughed at that one.
actually laughed.
the sound caught you off guard enough that you stopped mid sentence.
âwhat?â he asked.
ânothing,â you said quickly, though you were still smiling.
it just felt good hearing it.
over time, the visits started stretching to the very end of the allowed time without either of you noticing. the guard would knock on the door and both of you would jump a little, surprised it had passed so quickly.
one afternoon, when the conversation paused for a second, gator tilted his head slightly in your direction.
âyouâre funny, you know.â
you blinked. âwhat?â
âfunny.â
âi heard you.â
âjust sayin.â
you rolled your eyes a little.
âthat might be the first nice thing youâve ever said to me.â
ânot true.â
âname another one.â
he thought about it for a moment.
ââŚyouâve got nice hands.â
you stared at him.
âthatâs your example?â
âworkin with limited information here,â he said dryly pointing to his face.
you couldnât help laughing again.
the truth was, somewhere along the way, the visits had stopped feeling like something you were doing out of curiosity or kindness.
you had started looking forward to them.
you caught yourself thinking about what you were going to tell him that day while you were shelving books at work. sometimes youâd notice something small around town and immediately think i should tell gator about that.
and the more time you spent with him, the more you saw pieces of someone different than the boy everyone remembered from high school.
there was humour there. dry, a little rough, but real.
there was quiet honesty too, in the moments where he forgot to guard his words.
and slowly, without you realising when exactly it happened, the feeling in your chest when you thought about him started changing into something warmer.
something softer.
something that felt a lot like falling.
one afternoon, after you had been talking for almost the whole visit, the conversation paused and gator shifted his hand slightly on the table.
his fingers brushed yours without either of you meaning them to.
for a second neither of you moved.
then his hand settled there.
not grabbing.
just resting against yours.
âyou comin back tomorrow?â he asked after a moment.
you smiled a little.
âprobably.â
he nodded slowly.
âgood.â
and for the rest of the afternoon, that quiet warmth stayed with you long after you left the jail.
-
the visits started to feel different after that.
not in a big obvious way. nothing you could point to and say thatâs when it changed. it was just⌠small things.
little shifts in the way you talked to each other, like the way your hands were resting on the table like usual and at some point during the conversation, his fingers brushed yours.
neither of you moved away.
a few weeks ago that probably wouldâve made you nervous. now it just felt natural.
his hand shifted slightly, his fingers resting loosely over yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.
âyou blush a lotâ he said suddenly.
your head snapped up.
ââŚwhat?â
âi can hear it.â
âyou cannot hear blushing.â
âsure i can.â
âthatâs not a real thing.â
he gave a small shrug.
âfeels real.â
you rolled your eyes even though you were smiling.
the flirting wasnât obvious. if anyone else had been sitting in that room they probably wouldnât have even noticed it.
but you felt it.
in the pauses between sentences. in the way his voice softened sometimes when he said your name. in the quiet moments where neither of you felt the need to fill the silence.
and the more time passed, the more those moments stacked up.
until one afternoon, a few weeks later, the conversation slowed to a stop.
gatorâs hand was already resting over yours. you could feel the slight tension in his fingers like he was thinking about something.
finally he spoke.
âcan i tell you somethin?â
âof course.â
he hesitated for a second.
that alone made your stomach flip a little. gator didnât usually hesitate.
âi like youâ he said simply.
your brain stalled.
completely.
for a moment you just stared at him, not saying anything.
he mustâve noticed the silence because he let out a small breath through his nose.
âdonât⌠worry about it,â he added quickly, his voice turning a little rougher. ânot like anythingâs gotta come from it.â
you opened your mouth but nothing came out yet.
âi know the situationâs kindaâŚâ he gestured vaguely with his free hand. ânot ideal.â
you still hadnât said anything.
he kept going, quieter now.
âiâm in here. blind. not exactly bringin a lot to the table.â he let out a short humourless laugh. âso itâs not like iâm expectin anything. i just figured you should know.â
your chest tightened a little hearing that.
âgator-â
âyou donât gotta say it back,â he interrupted quickly. âseriously.â
you shook your head even though he couldnât see it.
âno, thatâs not-â
you took a small breath.
âi like you too.â
this time it was his turn to go quiet.
completely still.
ââŚyou do?â
âyes.â
you could feel his hand tighten slightly around yours, like he was making sure you were actually still there.
for a second he didnât say anything else.
then a small, almost disbelieving smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
âhuh.â
you laughed softly.
âthatâs your reaction?â
âiâm processin.â
âtake your time.â
he squeezed your hand once, gentle but certain.
months passed like that.
quiet conversations. shared jokes. long stretches of comfortable silence where you just sat there with your hand in his.
until one afternoon, right when the visit was about to end, gator spoke up suddenly.
âhey.â
âyeah?â
âtomorrow,â he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, âdonât come till five.â
you frowned a little.
âfive? i usually come earlier.â
âi know.â
âwhy five?â
he tilted his head slightly toward you, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
âyouâll see.â
âthatâs not an explanation.â
âbest one youâre gettin.â
you stared at him suspiciously.
âgator.â
âwhat?â
âwhat are you planning?â
ânothin badâ he said casually.
that somehow made you more nervous.
âshould i be worried?â
âprobably not.â
âthat is not comforting.â
he just laughed quietly.
âfive oâclock,â he repeated.
the guard knocked on the door then, signaling the visit was over.
you stood up slowly, still eyeing him.
âyouâre being weird.â
âyouâll survive.â
you shook your head but couldnât stop smiling a little.
âfine. five.â
âgood.â
but that night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, your brain absolutely refused to stop thinking about it.
what on earth was waiting for you at five oâclock tomorrow.
-
the next day dragged.
work felt slower than usual, every clock you passed seeming like it had barely moved since the last time you looked at it. you tried to focus on shelving books, answering questions, helping someone find the history section, but the thought kept circling back.
five oâclock.
you had absolutely no idea what gator meant.
by the time you finally left work, your nerves had settled into this restless kind of anticipation. the drive to the jail felt strangely quiet, like everything around you was holding its breath.
when you pulled into the parking lot, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky.
you walked toward the entrance the same way you always did, expecting the usual routine. sign in, walk down the hall, wait in the little room.
but before you even reached the doors, you noticed two figures standing near the front of the building.
one of them was a guard.
the other-
you slowed.
gator was standing beside him.
for a second your brain refused to catch up with what you were seeing.
he wasnât in the visiting room.
he wasnât behind any doors.
he was outside.
just standing there.
your heart jumped into your throat.
âgator?â
his head turned immediately toward your voice.
even with the cover around his eyes, you could see the faint smile that spread across his face the second he heard you.
and before you could even think about it, you were already moving.
you crossed the distance quickly and wrapped your arms around him.
he stiffened for half a second, clearly surprised by the sudden contact. then he let out a quiet laugh under his breath and his arms came around you, holding you just as tightly.
âhey thereâ he murmured.
you pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hands still gripping his jacket.
âwhatâs going on?â you asked, your voice half confused, half breathless. âi thought you still had time left here.â
gator tilted his head slightly, the smile still there.
âturns out good behavior actually means something around here.â
you blinked.
âwhat?â
âgot let out early.â
you looked past him toward the guard standing a few feet away.
it was the same one who had talked to you before.
he met your gaze, gave you a small smile, and nodded once.
the realisation settled over you all at once.
you looked back at gator.
then, without even thinking about it, you pulled him into another hug.
this time he laughed softly, clearly a little less surprised, and hugged you back.
âguess youâre stuck with me nowâ he said.
âiâm okay with thatâ you replied quietly.
after a moment you pulled away again, still smiling a little in disbelief.
âcome onâ you said gently, reaching for his hand. âletâs get you out of here.â
he followed your lead easily as you guided him toward your car.
once he was settled into the passenger seat, you walked around to the driverâs side and got in. for a second you just sat there, hands on the steering wheel.
then it hit you.
you looked over at him.
âwait.â
âwhat?â
âwhere do i take you?â
he was quiet for a moment.
the small smile heâd been wearing faded just slightly.
ââŚhonestly?â
âyeah.â
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little awkward.
ânot really sure.â
that answer made your chest tighten.
you didnât even hesitate.
âcome to my place.â
his head turned toward you again.
âyou sure?â
âyeah,â you said simply. âof course.â
after a second he nodded.
âalright.â
the drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. every now and then heâd ask where you were turning or how far away it was, and youâd answer, guiding him along the way.
when you finally pulled into your driveway, the sky was almost fully dark.
you got out and walked around to his side, helping him step out of the car. his hand stayed lightly on your arm while you guided him up the short path to the front door.
when you opened it, he paused just before stepping inside.
for a moment he just stood there.
then he turned slightly toward you.
âhey,â he said quietly.
âyeah?â
âthank you.â
the words were simple, but the way he said them made your chest ache a little.
âyou donât have to thank me.â
âstill will.â
there was a small pause between you.
and then, before you could second guess it, you leaned forward and kissed him.
for half a second he froze.
then he melted into it almost immediately.
his hand found your arm, pulling you a little closer as he kissed you back, soft but certain, like heâd been waiting to do that for a long time.
when you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling.
ââŚguess that answers that,â he murmured.
you laughed quietly.
âcome on,â you said, squeezing his hand. âletâs get you inside.â