compulsion @keer-y - Tumblr Blog

i can fix him (no really i can)

pairing: gator tillman x reader

summary: your husband is dead in the living room and deputy tillman is here to investigate. but there is history there, and maybe a mutually beneficial arrangement...

wc: 13k

cw: m*rder, staged s**cide, morally grey reader, descriptions of violence, mysoginy, explicit smut, p in v unprotected, oral (f&m recieving), body worship, breeding kink, talk of eventual pregnancy, reader is described as curvy, illusions to child abuse and domestic abuse, canon compliant ending-ish, bittersweet but happy ending, blind!gator briefly, soft!gator a lil at the end

a/n: this may be my favourite piece of gator work I have done since 'especially then'. its been a little brain worm for a while so i hope you all love it as much as i did writing it. its darker than my usual stuff and i'm really happy i pushed myself to write it because im so proud.

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It was a decent attempt, he had to say.

Blood spatter looked consistent. Gun was in the correct hand. Note was in that barely legible script he saw on Brian's bar tabs, where he'd try to haggle down the prices to no avail. Everything was ponting to a textbook suicide.

Except Brian had never so much as read a textbook in his short, sad life. And more importantly, Brian loved himself too much to ever leave said life.

Gator leaned against the doorframe, taking in the scene. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, old leather, and the coppery tang of fresh blood. A glass of amber liquid sat on the desk, a few splashes on the polished wood beside it, as if the hand holding it had trembled at the last moment.

He took a drag of his cherry scented vape and let out a low whistle. "Well, darlin', that's a real masterpiece you got here."

You didn't jump. You hadn't even flinched when he'd let himself in through the back door. You were standing by the window, looking out at the gray, endless expanse of the North Dakota sky, a dark silk robe tied loose at your waist.

You knew it was going to be him who came when you called in the suicide.

You had made sure his schedule lined up. Had made sure the right word was whispered to the right person.

He saw you then in the reflection of the window glass. The pale oval of your face, the dark, unsmiling set of your mouth. You looked like a portrait of a grieving widow. Too calm, maybe. Too still.

"Is it, Deputy Tillman?" Your voice was soft, a little breathless, like you'd been holding it in for a long, long time.

Gator pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, the heaviness of his worn leather boots on the woven rug the only sound. He kneeled down by the worn recliner, taking a closer inspection.

"Better not find any other prints 'side his on this here .38."

You turned around from the window very casually, adjusting the loose silk of your robe to be more decent around your freshly showered body.

"You won't, considering I haven't fired a gun since my daddy took me hunting back in '96. And I was terrible at it." You had a little smile then, at least a ghost of one.

"Your daddy was a hell of a shot, though," Gator said, still examining the gun. "Don't reckon that's something that skips a generation."

"He'd have disagreed with you."

Gator grunted, thinking about your old man. He'd been a shark in cheap clothes, all jaw and cold eyes, the kind of man who'd sell you the shirt off your own back and make you thank him for it.

"Gotta take your alibi, protocol and all..." he took out a small black notepad from his utility vest, tearing his eyes away from the supple skin of your thighs as he stood again.

Wasn't the time to be thinking about your thighs, with your husband cooling in his chair ten feet away. Gator Tillman, however, wasn't always known for his good sense.

"Tell me 'bout your night."

You looked thoughtful, a slight furrow in your brow as you replayed the evening.

"Brian came home around seven. I had dinner ready. He was already drunk when he got here. Started up almost immediately, something about the Johnson boy shorting him on a feed bill. I just... let him talk. Let him get it all out, as is my wifely duty."

You said the word ‘duty’ like it was something bitter on your tongue. Gator scribbled on his notepad, though he wasn't writing any of that down.

"He moved to the recliner after dinner, put on the news. Had me... soothe him a little."

Gator's eyebrows raised at that, finally looking up a little from his notepad. "Soothe 'im?"

"I'm sure you're well versed in the art of fellatio, Deputy Tillman." You stated it plainly, like reading a grocery list. "It was the only thing that quieted him down when he was in one of his moods."

Gator choked on his own saliva, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You didn't even blink.

His eyes flicked to your lips just as you wet them slightly to speak again.

Lucky bastard, he thought.

The thought came and went, replaced by the familiar sting of something complicated he always felt when he was near you. You were trouble. Always had been. Not in the flashy, obvious way like himself. The quiet, deep water kind of trouble.

"I went upstairs to take a shower, freshen up. It's not really lady like to smell like cheap whiskey and your husband's climax." Your own self disgust was a palpable thing. "I came back down an hour later and he was like this."

You gestured to the lump of a man in the chair.

"You didn't hear the shot?" He asked, leaning in a little closer to the body.

"The shower was running," you said, your eyes holding his. "Water's loud. The pipes in this old house groan like ghosts. And I was in there for a good long while. Trying to wash him off me. He wasn't exactly a neat man. Clearly."

You gesture to his state of dress and general self care, the blood, and the unceremonious way it soaked into the fabric of the old, stained recliner.

Gator grunted again, stepping back from the body. He circled the room, a methodical prowl. He ran a gloved finger along the dusty top of a bookshelf, looked under the desk. For posterity or whatever.

"Why'd you think he did it, last night of all nights?" He looked at the half-empty glass, the spilled whiskey. "Anything different 'bout him? Besides the usual, I mean."

There had been. Obviously.

But not last night.

Brian Olson was not a smart man. He was a bully, a coward, and a thug, with a loud laugh and a cruel grip. He was also not suicidal.

Your father, on the other hand, had been a genius. A ruthless, charming, monster of a man. And you were your father's daughter through and through, to the end of his days and beyond.

While your now deceased husband had not been smart, his daddy did own the county's largest feed and supply business. The late elder Olson was also a mess of a man, a drunkard who used his fists instead of words. But he ran a damn good business, so that didn't matter, right?

A match made in hell for you, no doubt. A business transaction that bound your father's influence to Brian's, in what was the most profitable way. A transaction that would also bind you to Brian.

Feed bags were great hiding spots for unmarked bills, illegal arms. You'd known since you were a girl that money and violence were the same language, just spoken in different dialects.

Gator knew it too. Not as an academic, but as a son. He'd learned it sitting at Roy's knee.

The women of Stark County were nothing more than pawns in the brutish games of men. And, despite your 'pedigree', you had been no exception. In fact, you may have been one of the most valuable pieces of all.

It had always been a race between your father and the dear old Sherriff. Your family farm would have added more land to hold the Tillman empire, and vice versa. But your father's stubborn greed had created a stalemate.

A land war would have drawn too much attention. So you were a treaty. A treaty sealed with blood and a cheap gold band.

And so, the rat race between the Olson's and the Tillman's first born sons was born. And the finish line was your marriage bed.

Your whole life had been a tug of war, orchestrated by your father, between two grown men, and the sons they'd made in their own image. You'd simply been the rope.

Naturally, the Olson's won out. Your father was always too big for his britches and the idea of getting a leg up on Roy Tillman in the great Midwest arms race was more tantalizing than any partnership with him. He knew the sheriff would never actually treat him as an equal, just another crony.

You'd be remiss if you didn't admit to yourself that, sometimes, you imagined what life would have been like if that war had ended differently. Maybe with you and a younger, less jaded Gator Tillman running off together in a beat up truck. Leaving the rot and the violence in the rearview mirror.

"He seemed... different, sure…" you finally said, your voice dropping to a near whisper. You were good at this. You were an artist. "Quieter. Not the shouting drunk I'm used to. The sullen kind. The kind that starts thinking too much."

You let the silence hang in the air, heavy and full of implication. Gator watched you, really watched you. He saw the way your hands, though perfectly steady, were clasped a little too tightly in front of you. The slight, almost invisible tremor in your bottom lip.

"Jus' us here," he started as he walked closer to you, hands on his hips, the notepad now tucked away.

You were still in your robe. The silk clung to your generous curves and the thought alone made the hair on Gator's neck stand up.

"You can talk to me," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

"Nothing to talk about. I think the situation is pretty clear, deputy."

He gritted his teeth at the professionalism spilling from your lips.

"No wire. No damn body cam. Can search me real thorough if you don't believe me." Gator gestured to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a clumsy, boyish attempt at something else, at cutting through the performance.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a second, the grieving widow mask slipped. He saw a flash of something ancient and weary in their depths. The look of someone who has seen too much, done too much, and is still standing.

"Is that so?" you asked, your voice a little softer now. A little more like you. The you he remembered from dusty county fairs and stolen moments behind the beer tents.

"It is funny though..." he turned to the body, a finger pointing in the general direction of your late husband's corpse, "...that your old man went and had that 'accident' on the farm not even six months back. Now this."

He clicked his tongue. "Just a real run of bad luck for the menfolk in your life."

It was a direct hit. A carefully aimed shot to see if you'd flinch.

"He was never very careful with the wood chipper." Just the right amount of clipped, distant grief. The kind that comes when you're more angry at the inconvenience of a death than the actual loss.

Gator felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. You were magnificent.

He took another step closer, close enough to smell the clean, soapy scent of your skin, the subtle hint of jasmine from your shampoo.

"See, I know that. And you know that. But the boys up in the big leagues, they might see a pattern. An' you know Roy isn't a fan of outsiders sniffin' 'round his county. 'Specially not about money, or land, or pretty widows who inherit 'em both." He kept his eyes on you, letting the threat of Roy Tillman, the tyrant of Stark County, hang between you.

But, to you, it wasn't really a threat. You had planned this. You knew exactly how Roy Tillman thought. You knew that he would respect a move this bold, this clean. He might even admire it.

"I can handle a dangerous man, Gator." It held multiple meanings, and the sound of his name on your lips, in this hushed, blood-scented room, went straight to his groin.

"I know you can," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "That's what I'm worried about."

He reached out, not to touch you, but to trail a single gloved finger along the polished wood of the desk. His lips were by your ear now, the artificial cherry scent flooding your senses.

"I know about the hit."

For the first time since he walked into your home, he had played the right card. He heard your breath catch. Just a little hitch, so small anyone else would have missed it. But Gator had been listening for it. Waiting for it.

You turned your head, your cheek brushing against his perfect smirk before he pulled back to look down at you.

"Just you?" Your words were measured, careful.

"Jus' me." Gator let out a deep sigh, shaking his head a little to mock actual care for your piece of shit husband. "Poor ol' Brian just never could keep his mouth shut after havin' a few."

He looked back to the body. "Runnin' it at the VFW last week. Talkin' big 'bout how he was finally gonna be a real player. Had a meet set up. Some fella from out east. Big money. Somethin' about a new route."

It was true.

You found out about the target on your back a few weeks ago. Brian had taken a call, thinking you were busy outside tending to the laundry. He'd used that barking whisper he always used when he was trying and failing to be discreet. You heard everything.

'You were never getting one over on me, you piece of shit' , you wanted to scream at your husband's corpse.

He would have gotten everything, if he had more sense than greed. But then, that's what ultimately killed him. That and very thorough aim from a .38 revolver after you laced the rim of his nightly glass of whiskey.

Sometimes you were grateful for the farming upbringing your father’s blood money gave you. Useful skills like cooking, baking, and even gardening. The things every future wife should know.

Wolfsbane was a funny thing.

Too much could kill him, and while cardiac arrest wouldn't be shocking for a guy like him, it didn't feel vindicating enough. No, a smaller, more strategic amount would make him paralyzed, nerves overstimulated before the fatal blow. Pun intended.

Stark County wasn't known for its forensic department, and the aconitine would already be broken down in his body by the time of the autopsy.

If the deputy sheriff didn't already know you so well, it would have been the perfect murder. A textbook staging of a lonely man's last despair, all set against the backdrop of a county more concerned with the price of crops than the finer points of evidence collection.

But he did know you. Better than anyone alive. And that was the problem.

And you weren't sure if you'd chosen him for that reason or another entirely. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. You needed a gatekeeper. And you wanted an audience.

"Guess he won't be collectin' on that route," you said softly. Your gaze was fixed on your husband's slumped form, but you saw Gator's reflection in the dark window. You saw the way he looked at you.

"You ever think 'bout it?" he asked, the question coming out of nowhere, soft as falling snow. "Runnin'?"

The word hung in the bloody air. It was the same question he'd asked you years ago, under a different sky, behind the splintered walls of the county fair's funhouse. The answer was the same now as it was then.

"Every day."

A beat of silence. The only sound was the tick of an old grandfather clock in the hall, a sound so constant you usually didn't hear it. Tonight, it sounded like a countdown.

"I'm a deputy now, darlin'," he said, and the word was a plea. "And in my expert opinion, this here's a suicide. Tragic, but clear. A man with demons couldn't fight 'em no more."

He paused, letting the weight of what he was offering settle.

"No reason for the state boys to get involved. None at all."

Your eyes finally left the window, meeting his.

"Gonna call in the clean up crew. They'll bag'im and tag'im, take'im to the morgue. I'll write the report myself."

He finally reached out, his rough fingers ghosting over your exposed shoulder. They were calloused from rope and rifle, but he touched you like you were glass. He was so close now you could feel the warmth of him, a stark contrast to the manufactured, dead heat of your home.

If you had felt the shape he drew on your skin, a clumsy heart, you didn’t draw attention to it

"Shouldn't stay here tonight. Isn't right for a woman to be in a house with a ghost so fresh."

He was right. And he was giving you another out.

"Can set you up with a room over at the old inn just off the interstate. Muriel rents 'em out cheap, and she doesn't ask no questions. Part of the charm."

It was a plan. A carefully constructed escape route, built with the same quiet competence as the crime scene in front of you.

"I have money, Gator. I can pay for my own room."

The words were sharp, a small, unnecessary pushback against the sudden rush of his help, his proximity. You didn't want to owe him anything. Owing a Tillman was worse than owing the bank.

"Keep your money, darlin'," he said, not flinching. "Consider it a county expense." A corner of his mouth twitched. "Welfare for the recently widowed."

You watched him, a predator watching another predator. You assessed him. He wasn't like his father, not entirely.

There was a boy underneath all the bravado. One desperate for approval he'd never get. The boy who once showed you how to skip rocks across Miller's Pond until the sun went down, the one who taught you how to drive a beat-up Ford stick shift when you were sixteen, your father's lessons in finance and cruelty forgotten in the fading light.

You liked that boy.

You just weren’t sure you trusted the man he'd become.

"The sheriff may not like you giving the county's money away," you said, your tone flat, testing him.

"See, funny thing is..." his gazed trailed over you once again. "I reckon you already thought about that."

Checkmate.

The thrill of your intelligence being seen, acknowledged, was almost as intoxicating as the thought of Brian's blood on your hands. That's what you had been counting on. That he'd respect the game more than the rules.

"Divorce?" he tutted. "Now, that would've got messy. Lawyers and judges and money changin' hands. All that paperwork. Not to mention the whole county runnin' their mouths about it, callin' a fine thing like you 'used goods', a sinner, all that."

He shook his head, a mock sympathy on his face.

"A widow though... a widow gets respect. A widow gets insurance, she gets property. A widow gets to keep her name, and all that comes with it."

"A widow is still a single woman in a county run by men who hate them," you countered, the challenge lighting your eyes.

He grinned. A real one this time. "Not if she knows who to stand behind."

Gator had always been smart about a select few things. He knew survival. He understood the currency of fear and loyalty. He was also, in this moment, a man looking at a woman he'd wanted since he understood what wanting was. And he was smart enough to know you were a prize, and a weapon, all at once.

"I'd prefer to be beside someone." Your correction was subtle, a whisper-thing of a sentence. "Not behind them."

His breath hitched. The game between you shifted, the stakes rising imperceptibly. He had expected you to take the deal, to play the role of the fragile thing he was protecting. He hadn't expected you to rewrite the rules before the ink was even dry on your husband's death certificate.

"However..." you brushed past him. "Posterity is a useful thing to have, deputy."

Gator watched the way your hips swayed as you walked to the bar cart in the corner of the study. His father would have been proud, if you weren’t a woman, he thought as you poured a fresh glass of amber liquid over ice. The casual way you took up space, the easy way you navigated this world of smoke and violence.

"A woman is like a gun in this county, you know," you began, your back to him as you poured, the crystal of the decanter catching the low light. "Valuable for what she can do, who she belongs to. A man will boast about the one he's got, clean her, admire her. Run his calloused hands all over her..."

He pictured his hands all over your smooth skin and had to physically fight a shudder.

"But she’s still a weapon at the end of the day. And a weapon needs a steady hand."

You turned, swirling the whiskey in the glass. "She needs a place to rest her trigger without the fear of being discharged by a clumsy fool with an itchy finger."

Gator's jaw tensed. He hated how good you were at this. How you could twist him up with words as easily as he could tie a knot.

"You have steady hands, Gator Tillman," you said, your gaze dropping to them, resting on his hips. "You always have."

You held the glass out to him. An offering. A truce.

He took it, his fingers brushing against yours. A jolt, sharp and electric, went up his arm.

"Hardworking hands like that with no ring..." you hummed, stepping even closer, the scent of jasmine and clean skin overwhelming the lingering smell of death. "They must get awful lonely."

It wasn't subtle. A new terms and conditions page for the unspoken contract between you.

He downed the whiskey in one go before putting the glass on the cart, the burn a welcome distraction.

"Look," he started, his own patience wearing thin. He hated feeling like the mouse in your game, especially when he was supposed to be the cat. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted." Your response was simple, honest in a way that was more terrifying than any lie you could have spun. "Freedom. My land. And to not have to touch another man I don't want to, for as long as I live."

You paused, your eyes scanning over the utility vest he wore, the way the fabric strained slightly against his chest. A flicker of something -appreciation, maybe- before it was gone, replaced by that cool, assessing look.

"But that's not what you asked, is it, deputy? You asked what I want... from you."

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. A shiver traced a path down his spine, straight to his groin again. He hadn't been touched like that in... years. Not with this kind of deliberation. Not with this kind of promise.

"I want your silence. Your protection. I want Roy Tillman to see me as an asset, not a threat. You can arrange that."

Your touch moved to the collar of his shirt, your thumb brushing against the bare skin of his throat. He could feel your pulse, or maybe it was his own, hammering against your touch.

"And I want..." you leaned in, your lips just barely grazing the shell of his ear. "...I want someone I don't have to pretend with. Someone who already knows the monster under the bed."

This was it. This was the price. Not just his silence, but... more. His complicity. His partnership. A piece of him he wasn't sure he could afford to give, but one he suddenly, desperately wanted to.

"I'm the perfect wife, Gator. Your father knows this. Hell, I gave my shitbag husband the best head of his life right before I put a bullet in his brain," your voice was a caress. "Imagine what I can do for a man who actually deserves it."

Gator's mind raced. He pictured you in this kitchen, in this house he'd get to call home, the smell of your perfume in the air instead of stale cigar smoke. He pictured you laughing, a real laugh, not the polite, brittle thing you wore in public. He pictured you in your shared bed, the sheets tangled around your legs.

"Your daddy has been trying to get you a wife for years," you continued, your fingers trailing down his chest, the rough fabric of his flannel a poor barrier. "A meek little thing to pop out a few Tillman brats. To look pretty while he pulls your strings. All because the Olson's got to me first."

You had a knack for peeling back the layers of him, for seeing the parts he kept hidden. The boy desperate for his father's approval, the man who was starting to realize he'd never get it.

"I am not meek, Gator. And I am not little. But I am lethal. And I am efficient."

You let out a small, breathy laugh against his neck. "Your father would never see it coming."

You knew Roy Tillman. You knew him the way people in this part of the state know the coming of winter - an inevitability, a force of nature. You knew that Roy saw people as tools, to be used and discarded.

And you knew the best way to beat a man like that was to become the sharpest tool in his shed. A tool he thought he controlled, but one that could cut him when he least expected it.

Gator's hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to grip your waist. They weren't gentle. They were proprietary and claiming. His fingers dug into the soft silk of your robe, pulling you flush against him.

"This just a business deal, to you? Way t'fuel that bloodlust of yours?" he muttered, his lips brushing against your hairline.

"Do you think I would put all my cards on the table for someone I simply consider a business partner, Gator?" you whispered back, tilting your head to give him better access to the curve of your neck. "I'm many things, but I'm not foolish."

You felt the rumble of his groan against your skin. His head dipped, his nose trailing along your collarbone as he inhaled your scent. For a moment, he was just a boy again, standing a little too close to you behind the barns, smelling of summer and youthful desperation.

"I'm not heartless. But my heart hasn't had a say in my life for a very long time," you continued, your voice hypnotic. "Maybe it's about time it did."

You reached up, your hands framing his face. You saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the permanent slump of his shoulders from bearing a weight that was never truly his to carry.

"Get this mess cleaned up. Get your daddy on board and make him think it was his idea. And then when you're done, meet me at the room you promised. Alone."

His eyes met yours, a storm of confusion, desire, and a dangerous sort of hope warring within them.

"And I'll show you," you murmured, your thumb stroking the slight stubble growing in on his chin, "what a woman who wants to put her hands all over you is capable of."

Gator held your gaze for a long moment, the room silent save for the ticking clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He was weighing the options, calculating the risks, but he was also drowning in the promise in your eyes.

It was the biggest gamble of his life. To step out from his father's long shadow and walk beside the sun.

He leaned in, closing the last sliver of space between you, and captured your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.A sealing of a pact written in blood and whispered promises.

"I'm gonna call 'em, in, bring the cruiser 'round the back," he said against your lips, breathless. "Wait for me at the kitchen door. Don't touch nothin'."

He pulled away, the absence of his body heat leaving you feeling suddenly cold. He straightened his uniform, ran a hand through his slicked back hair, and turned on his heel, before a quick backward glance.

"Put somethin' decent on. The sight of you in that robe's gonna give poor Walt from the coroner's office a heart attack." A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "And that's a sight I'd rather reserve for myself."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the ticking of the clock and the cooling corpse of your ex-husband.

The room at Muriel's inn was nice, cozy and homey. The floral wallpaper was slightly faded, the bedspread a heavy quilt of mismatched squares.

It was the kind of room where good, simple people came to rest their heads.

And it was currently the room where you lounged on the bed, in a simple black nightgown, a glass of cheap red wine in your hand, a novel about someone else's drama lying forgotten beside you.

You had done as Gator asked, put on something "decent". A simple pair of dark jeans and a plain, cream-colored sweater before he'd led you out through the back door. He'd wrapped an arm around you, a perfect performance of grief and support for any prying neighbor's eyes. The whole drive to the inn, he hadn't said a word. Just a grip on the steering wheel and the scent of cherry vape smoke filling the car. Couldn't risk any eyes or ears of the cruiser picking up anything less than a tragic widow. Protocol and all.

Now you waited. The cheap wine was sour on your tongue, but the warmth spreading through your chest was welcome.

A knock at the door. Not loud, but not tentative. A solid, purposeful rap. Three knocks, evenly spaced.

You got up from the bed, wine still in hand, and opened the door.

He stood there, the yellow light of the hallway casting long shadows behind him. He'd shed the uniform for a black shirt, dark jeans, and that damn leather jacket.

"You didn't have to dress like a widow too, you know." You gestured with your glass towards the all-black ensemble.

"Figured it was respectful." he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The click of the latch was unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

The room suddenly felt too small, too full of unspoken things.

He took in the scene: you in your black nightgown, the wine, the open book.

"Yeah, because you came here for such a 'respectful' reason, Gator." you snort, taking a sip from your glass as you let your hair down from its clip.

"You look good," he said, his eyes tracing the path of your hair as it fell around your shoulders.

"So do you." you reply, your voice low as you set your wineglass on the dresser and lean back against it, elbows on the smooth wood of the top. "All cleaned up. Like you didn't just spend your evening cleaning up my mess."

"Our mess now," he corrected. He took a step closer, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly. The space between you shrank. "Just us now... no pryin' eyes... don't have to put up that cold front, got 'nough of that outside..."

He was right. Out there, you were a grieving widow. A tragic figure in a town that would eat you alive if they smelled weakness.

In here, you were just you. And he was just him.

You watched him, your head tilted, a predator's curious stillness. You would let the mask drop when you were good and ready, and not a moment before.

"Did he bite?" you asked, changing the subject.

Gator let out a humorless laugh, a short, sharp burst of air. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of familiar frustration.

"Wants me to bring you over for a 'family dinner' tomorrow, as a gesture of his 'generosity'." He huffed.

That was code for talking business once Karen put the twins to sleep. The business being how it only made sense for you to marry his son now, to combine the Olson land and the Tillman's to ensure some bullshit security that Roy himself didn't even need. Roy Tillman saw a woman as a vessel for the next heir, not a person. A broodmare for his legacy.

A slow smile spread across your face."Yes, because Roy is just the king of generosity. Presenting me the prodigal son on a silver platter."

You let your eyes travel down his frame finally. The broad shoulders, before your eyes were dipping down to his waist, solid in the chest and a little soft in the middle. God, how you wanted to sink your teeth into any soft spot he had.

"Don't get me wrong," Gator said. "He's plenty suspicious. Wants me to keep an eye on ya. 'Make sure the little lady is settled'. 'Keep an eye on the books'. All that."

"And by keeping an eye on the books, he means he thinks I hired someone for this job, huh? Since I'm such a bad shot and all."

"’fraid so, darlin'. He thinks you're a mastermind with a killer's instincts, but not a killer's hands. He's almost right." The corner of his lip ticked upwards. Gator's eyes had a dark, glittering quality to them, like he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Well I guess we'll just have to fudge the books up a bit." You shrug. "Make him think whatever it is he wants to think."

"Figured you'd say that." He looked at you, a long, heavy look that stripped away all the pretense. This wasn't about the money or the land or the revenge anymore. Not entirely.

"You've looked good these past few years, you know." You dart your tongue, more red from the wine, to wet your lips. "More solid than you were in high school."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "A lotta' things have changed since then. You 'ave."

You pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between you, your fingers deftly going for the zipper of his jacket. "Mmm, you think? I've filled out too. Haven't left the house much since Brian and I got hitched. Didn't like me leaving too long. Probably worried about me catching some man's eye. Sure he was real glad for the added weight."

Your words were casual, but they carried the poison of a thousand resentments. You slid the jacket from his shoulders, and it pooled on the worn floral rug with a soft thud. Underneath, the black t-shirt was thin, worn soft, and clung to the hard lines of his chest and soft give of his stomach.

"A little extra cushion never stopped me from sneakin' glances at you over the years." He murmured, reaching out to catch your wrist as your fingers went to the hem of his shirt. His grip was firm, a question in it.

"That so?" you asked, your eyes locking with his. "What'd you think about when you looked?"

His thumb stroked the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist. "You know damn well what I thought about."

"Say it," you commanded, your voice a low thrum. "I want to hear you say it."

Gator let out a shaky breath, the control he'd been clinging to finally splintering.

"Thought about what it'd be like to have this." His other hand came up to trace the curve of your hip over the silk of your nightgown, grabbing the generous flesh there in his calloused grip. "Pressed all against me while I fuck ya the way you deserve."

Your lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. This was the truth. This was the want you knew had been simmering beneath the surface of him. The boy in the truck had grown into a man with deeper hungers.

"And how do I deserve to be fucked, Gator?" You accentuated the word in such a teasing way, sure to rile him up.

"Hard," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "’til you can't remember yer own name. ‘til the only god you can pray to is me."

A shudder went through you, a response to the possessive promise in his voice. You had been controlled, used, and objectified your entire life. But this wasn't that. This was mutually consuming. A fire you both willingly walked into.

"Sounds sacrilegious, praying to false idols and all..." your gazed slowly trailed downward, as your hands toyed with his belt buckle.

"I'm the realest damn thing you'll ever touch," he grinned. "You want me to show you?"

You answered by pulling his t-shirt over his head. The worn cotton whispered against his skin, and then he was bare from the waist up in the dim light of the room. You had a few moments to take him in. The solid chest, dusted with dark hair, the soft plane of his stomach, the surprising strength in the lines of his shoulders.

"You know, I always hated church..." you admit as your flick open the buckle you'd been playing with, and unzip his fly. "The constant up and down, the kneeling..."

You tugged his pants down as you lowered yourself to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood. "But I think I've found some use for it now..."

Gator's hand went to your chin to make you look up at him. "You have, have ya?" He teased, before letting his thumb graze your bottom lip. "I'd like to see what that pretty mouth looks like saying its prayers."

The sight of you, on your knees for him, nearly made his own buckle. All those wasted years, of watching you from afar, of watching you become another man's property. You let out a pleased little hum and you nuzzled your cheek against the hard line of his boxer briefs, the softest of kisses placed against the cloth.

He shuddered at the contact, his other hand moved to tangle his fingers in your hair, not roughly, but with a surety that spoke of a long-held need finally being met.

He was so hard already, the shape of him prominent against the thin fabric.

"That seems like a very... big ask..." you tease, kissing up his clothed shaft, the thickness of him undeniable. "I should get a real look at it."

Slowly, you peeled the fabric down. The trimmed dark hairs at the base of him, then the flushed, heavy reality of his cock. He let out a low hiss as the cool air of the room hit him.

"Jesus..." he breathed out. It was a prayer, a curse, and an exultation all at once. "Look at that..."

He wasn't talking about himself. He was talking about the reverent way you looked at him. The hunger in your gaze that was so much more potent than the performative act you'd described doing for Brian.

"What? The old drunk not measure up? You act like you've never seen one before."

His words were a mockery, but your hands were gentle. They were so gentle, so reverent. Your thumb brushed over the tip, collecting the bead of precum there.

"Gator Tillman," you looked up at him the same way you always did, putting him in his place with your words. "You know damn well what you have going for you. You're not that kind of stupid."

The compliment was backhanded, a left hook after a feint, but it made him preen anyway. You saw the way he stood up straighter, the way a boyish pride warred with the predatory hunger in his eyes.

"Smart girl," he muttered, his grip on your hair tightening just a fraction. "Always too damn smart f'me..."

"Good thing you're not looking for a wife you can push around, then, huh?" You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock. "Wouldn't last a day."

You watched his face as you licked the leaking tip, tasting the salt of him. The gasp he let out was the most honest sound you'd heard him make in a while.

"Someone's gotta make you work for it..." you said, your lips wrapped around him for a brief, teasing moment before pulling away again. "But I think you'll find the work is the reward."

Before he could answer, you took him into your mouth properly, a slow slide. You were methodical. You explored him, learning the shape and feel of him, the way he twitched against your tongue.

Gator was lost to the sight and sensation of it. You, this woman of smoke and silences, on your knees before him, worshiping him with a mouth that had, just hours ago, spoken so coolly of murder. It was a holy act and a blasphemy, all in one.

"Christ, woman, where'd you..." His breath hitched as you took him deeper, your tongue doing something clever and sinful that had his hips jerking forward of their own accord. "Don't stop..."

You had no intention of stopping. This was your territory. A place of quiet command, where your hands and your mouth held more power than any gun.

He looked so good like this. Head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed, the soft moonlight from the window catching the dark hair on his chest.

Your hand found purchase on his thigh, after tugging his clothes down more, rubbing the warm, solid muscle there, feeling it tense and flex beneath your touch as he fought for control. Your other hand moved to cup the heavy weight of his cock, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin in a rhythm that mirrored the movements of your mouth.

You drew back, leaving him wet and glistening in the dim light. He let out a moan of protest.

"Easy there, deputy," you murmured, your voice a rough, silken thing. "You're gonna wake the whole inn."

He let out a ragged laugh, looking down at you with those dark, hungry eyes. "Muriel's deaf as a post. 'Sides, let 'em hear. Let 'em know you ain't mourning that prick."

You smirked, a slow, sinful curve of your lips. Your hand began to move over him with a newfound purpose, over the soft skin of his stomach, before stroking him again.

"I don't know about that. Might have to keep it down for the main event. We wouldn't want the fine folk of Stark County to think their deputy’s future wife is... a screamer."

That had him. The word 'wife' hung in the stale, cigarette-scented air.

His fingers tightened in your hair, a possessive, grounding gesture. "Yer somethin' else, you know that?" he breathed, the words dripping with arousal and deep fondness.

"Just being honest..." You murmur as you kiss over where his stomach was slightly plush, just above his shaft. You such a little to leave your mark on him, a subtle, possessive brand in the soft light of the room.

You were marking your territory. Not with your name on a deed, not with a ring on a finger, but with the imprint of your lips on the soft flesh of him. The rest could wait.

Gator looked down at the faint pink mark, then back at you, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Careful now, darlin'," he murmured, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You keep that up and I'm gonna forget my own name."

You looked up at him from under your lashes. "Make sure you make me scream it enough then."

Then, you took him back into your mouth, no longer teasing. This was an act of consumption, a claiming. You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue working him with a precision that spoke of long-denied desire. Your pace quickened, the room filling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of your efforts and his ragged breaths.

"Gettin' there," he gritted out, the muscles in his thighs taut as cords. "Christ, you're good at that."

With one final, hard suck, you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him for a brief, shining moment.

"Can't let you have all the fun," you said, pushing yourself to your feet.

He watched, mesmerized, as you stepped out of your nightgown. It was a simple thing, but the way you let it pool at your feet was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

You were all curves and soft skin in the dim light. The generous swell of your hips, the fullness of your breasts, plush skin of your thighs.

"Fuckin' hell..." He groaned, stepping fully out of his pants and briefs, kicking them aside. He closed the distance between you, his hands immediately going to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The feel of your bare skin against his was a revelation, a homecoming he hadn't known he was searching for.

"Gator," you breathed, your hands tracing the lines of his shoulders.

"Yer all woman, aren't ya? No more hidin'," he murmured, his hands roaming your back, the curve of your ass. He was a man of the land, and this was territory he wanted to claim. To know every dip and hollow. He wanted to map you with his hands, his tongue, his cock.

Those calloused hands gripped the fat of your ass, squeezing hard. You could feel him, hard and heavy against your belly.

"All this gonna be mine?" he growled, a low, possessive sound in the back of his throat.

"It's always been yours," you whispered back, and the surprising truth of it hit you both. In a life lived for others, this one fierce, selfish want had been a constant thread.

He picked you up then, as if you weighed nothing, and a surprised gasp escaped your lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms around his neck. He carried you the few steps to the bed, laying you down against the worn quilt as if you were something precious.

"M'gonna make you forget him," he promised, his body a heavy, comforting weight over yours. "Forget every last one of 'em."

"You already have," you said, and it wasn't a lie.

He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Gonna let me' ave a taste of that heaven you been hidin'?"

You tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in a gesture of absolute trust, a silent invitation. "Take it."

After placing some kisses there, Gator began to move downwards, a slow pilgrimage. His mouth was hot and wet on your skin. He wasn't in a hurry. He savored you, like a man who'd been starving.

He paid tribute to the delicate hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. He laved the swell of your breasts, his rough hands molding them, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks.

Then he took one in his mouth, and a sharp cry tore from your lips. He sucked, hard, a pulling, possessive pressure that sent a jolt straight to your core. He grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth, just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch off the bed.

"Yer a loud thing, weren't lyin' about that." he murmured against your skin before giving the same treatment to its twin.

"Only for... someone who knows what they're doing," you managed to get out, your hands threading through his hair, holding him to you.

"Oh, I know what I'm doin'," he promised, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "Gonna give this pretty gash the attention it deserves."

He shifted, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs wider. The anticipation was a force, coursing through your veins like lava.

Then he was there.

His tongue was a thing of wonder. It was no gentle, tentative exploration. He knew what he wanted, and he took it. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your slit, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so right, that a sob escaped you.

"Tastes better'n I imagined," he groaned, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. "An' I imagined a lot."

He ate you like a man at a feast. His tongue delved into you, tasting, exploring. He found your clit, that bundle of nerves, and circled it, again and again, until you were a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.

His tongue plunged into your entrance, fucking you with a wet, desperate rhythm that had you seeing stars. You'd never been touched like this. Never been seen like this. Brian had seen sex as a transaction, a messy obligation. This... this was worship.

"Gator," you gasped, your hips bucking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was giving you.

He was filthy about it, letting you ride his face. His nose pressed against you, he breathed you in, the smell of your arousal his new favorite scent. He pulled back just enough to spit on your cunt, a shocking, crude act that made you clench around nothing, before diving back in.

"Fuckin' soaked for me," he rasped, his words vibrating against your folds. "Messy little thing."

And you were. You could feel it, the slickness on your thighs, the sounds filling the room were wet, sloppy, obscene.

Your hands fisted in the quilt, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers joined his tongue, one, then two, pushing inside you, curving just right.

"There it is," he growled against your clit, finding that spot, that perfect, agonizing spot inside you. He knew he'd found it by the way your entire body went rigid, a choked moan tearing from your throat.

"Fuck! Gator, don't stop," you begged, your pride dissolving into need.

"Wasn't plannin' on it," he mumbled, doubling his efforts. His fingers pumped into you, scissoring, stretching, while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.

The world narrowed to this. To the feel of him, inside and out.

"That's it, gimme that sweetness," he coaxed, his free hand pressing down on your lower belly, amplifying the pressure, the pleasure. "Lemme have it."

And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, an all encompassing event that left you gasping and trembling. Your thighs clenched around his head, your heels digging into his back as you rode the wave, your cries filling the small room.

He didn't let up, drawing it out, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your shuddering body until you were a boneless, panting mess on the bed.

When you finally came back to yourself, he was kissing his way back up your body, his lips and chin dripping and slick with you.

"See?" he murmured, hovering over you, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Told ya I'd make you scream."

You reached up, your hand tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb smearing your own wetness across his skin.

"Show-off," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. It was a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on him, and the intimacy of it, the unvarnished want.

He settled between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Had ta get ya all wet f'me," he rasped, his hands planting on either side of your head, caging you in. "You're ready for me, ain't ya?"

You didn't answer with words. You just rocked your hips up, taking just the tip of him inside you.

"Mmm... impatient," he chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Alright then. You want me so bad, you can do the work."

He stayed perfectly still, a heavy, solid weight, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"Asshole," you muttered, but there was no heat in it, only a fond, exasperated affection.

Your hands found his ass, gripping the firm muscle, and you pulled. A slow, delicious slide as you took him inch by inch.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder as you sheathed him completely.

For a moment, you both just stayed like that, breathing, adjusting.

"Like my girl greedy fer it," he murmured into your skin. "Like she's been waitin'."

You just clamped down on him, a silent, punishing squeeze that had him seeing stars.

He gripped your thick thighs and lifted them up higher to wrap around his waist and began to move. The pace he set was merciless. This wasn't the slow, sweet lovemaking of romance novels. This was a hard, deep rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a counterpoint to your cries.

"Oh, she loves this," he growled. He looked down at you, his dark eyes wild, devouring the way your breasts bounced with each thrust. "Took too long, didn't it? Tired of that bastard wastin' all this good pussy."

The words were filthy, but it was the truth. Your body was a kingdom your husband had been too foolish and too selfish to properly rule. Gator was taking up the mantle of conqueror.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a raw, commanding thing. "Tell me how much better I am."

"Fuck, Gator... you're..." you gasped, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. Words failed you, lost in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, possessing you.

"Louder," he grunted, adjusting his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made sparks dance behind your eyes.

"You're so much better," you sobbed, the admission torn from you. "God, you're better."

You were a clever woman. You knew words were currency. But here, with him, honesty was more potent. The genuine praise was something he'd always craved without ever being able to name it.

That was it. His praise kink, his desperate need for validation, laid bare. You felt a thrill that had nothing to do with the pleasure coursing through you. It was the thrill of understanding your weapon. Of knowing exactly where to press. Without having to do any thinking, because he was made for you.

He shifted again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Gonna make you my wife. Gonna breed this pretty pussy 'til it takes," he snarled, the possessive words a stark, primal counterpoint to the surprisingly tender way his thumb stroked your ankle.

You'd been a wife before. A title bought and sold like cattle, an alliance sealed with a kiss and a signature. But this was different. This was a siege, and you were the one manning the walls, deciding who got past the gates.

The new angle was devastating. He was hitting that spot, over and over, the pleasure so intense.

"Love the way you fill me up," you panted, your hands gripping the headboard now, using the leverage to meet his punishing thrusts. "No one's ever... fuck... no one's ever been this deep."

"Look at you, fuckin' back on me," he groaned, the words strained. His dark eyes were fixed on the place where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, over and over.

"Knows what she wants," he praised, like he was breaking a wild mustang and finding it a perfect, eager ride.

He shifted, pulling your other leg up to join the first, effectively folding you in half. He was impossibly deep like this, a solid weight pinning you, a cage of muscle and sweat and raw, ragged want.

"Just like that," you whimpered, your control finally shattering. "Just like that, Gator. Don't stop."

He moved one of your hands from the headboard, lacing your fingers with his and pinning it to the mattress beside your head.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. He held your gaze, his hips never ceasing their relentless rhythm.

"This pussy's mine now," he stated, a simple, brutal fact. "Ain't no one else's. Ever again."

"Yours," you breathed, the word a vow.

"Say it again."

"It's yours, Gator. All yours."

He let out a choked sound, a victory and a surrender all at once. He had you. And you had him.

He brought a thumb down to where you were joined, pressing, circling your clit with a precise, devastating pressure.

"Cum all over this cock," he growled. "Wanna feel you squeezin' me. Wanna feel ya claimin' me right back."

The second orgasm hit you harder than the first, a violent, shattering thing that ripped a scream from your throat. Your cunt clenched around him, a series of tight, rhythmic pulses that milked him, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck!" he groaned, his hips stuttering. With a few final, deep thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt.

Thick spurts of warmth filled you as he came with a shudder, burying his face in your neck. His body was a heavy, dead weight on yours, but you didn't mind. You held him, your hands stroking the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck.

"That's my girl," he murmured into your skin, the words ragged with aftershocks. He kissed the tender flesh of your neck. "Takin' all of it."

You lay there for a long while, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. The only sounds were the frantic beating of your hearts, slowly returning to a normal rhythm, and the distant hum of a truck on the interstate. After a few moments, Gator stirred, propping himself up to look at the mess between your bodies, your legs still tangled around him. You felt him soften inside you, a finality in that simple biological fact.

"Mmm," he hummed, a smug sound of deep satisfaction. He let your legs fall softly around him and watched as he slowly pulled out, followed by a warm trickle of your combined release. He used two fingers to spread your folds, a proprietary gaze on what he'd done.

"Oh, she's pretty like that," he murmured, almost to himself. "All fulla’ me." He scooped up some of the mess on his fingers and brought them to your lips. "Taste us."

You obeyed, your tongue swirling around his fingers, tasting the salt, the musk, the proof of his claim. You watched his eyes darken as you did, a fresh wave of desire rolling off him.

"Greedy," he chuckled, withdrawing his fingers. He flopped onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, a slow, blissful smile on his face. "Well, shit."

"Well, shit, indeed," you agreed, stretching languidly.

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. You took a moment, a real one, to study him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the dim light caught the dark hairs on his chest.

"You're my problem now, Tillman," you said softly, the words carrying a surprising weight. "And I'm yours."

He moved his arm, looking at you. His eyes were soft, the predatory haze replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable.

"Always have been," he said, the admission quiet as he pulled you closer, tucking you against his side. His arm came around your waist, holding you in a possessive but gentle embrace. "Just took us a while to get 'ere."

You laid there together, tangled and messy. It was the most alive you've felt in years.

"God, I'm glad he's dead," you said, the words a simple, pure statement of fact.

Gator's arm tightened around you. "Me too." There was no judgment in his voice, only a grim, shared satisfaction. He ran a hand through your hair, a gesture that felt startlingly intimate.

"I'm never gonna treat you like he did. Y'know that, right?" He was looking at the ceiling, but you could hear the sincerity in his words, the boy peeking through the man.

"I know." You turned to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

"Won't lay a hand on ya unless you're askin' for it." He hesitated. "And I'll... I'll listen. To what you have to say."

You knew this was hard for him. The Tillman men weren't raised for conversation. They were raised for commands.

"I'll hold you to that," you said, your head resting on his chest, still mindlessly placing kisses on the sweat damp skin.

He grunted in response, a comfortable, weary sound. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Sleep was a siren's call, but you fought it.

"Hey," you murmured, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his stomach.

"Mmm?"

"What happens now? With your father."

Gator sighed, the sound ruffling your hair. "We go to dinner. You smile, you cry a little. You play the part of the grieving widow, so sweet, so fragile." His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.

"He'll eat it up. A pretty, helpless thing like you. With all that land, all that money. He'll see a bargain."

"And what will you see?" You asked, your gaze steady.

Gator was quiet for a long moment. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

"A partner," he said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue, but true. "Someone who ain't scared of the dark. 'Cause she's already livin' in it."

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Yeah? Well, I love you. So it's not 'ard." He said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a fact as simple as the sun rising in the east. Like it was a fact he'd known for a decade, one he'd been waiting for the right moment to share.

He was looking at the ceiling when he said it. He'd always been better at loving things with an engine or a trigger than a person. The confession had come out of him with a grunt and a scratch on his belly, as casual as if he'd commented on the weather.

You pushed yourself up on your elbow again, the worn quilt pooling around your hips.

"You mean that? Don't joke about this."

Finally, he turned his head to look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes was so naked that it made your chest ache. The smug, predatory deputy was gone, replaced by the boy who used to throw rocks at the old water tower just to hear the echo.

"When've I ever joked about you?" he asked, and he was right. Every look, every touch, every loaded word between you had always been laced with a terrifying seriousness.

"I do, too, you know," you admitted, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, a language you hadn't spoken since you were a girl. "I think I have since we were seventeen and you tried to fight Dale Jennings for saying I was stuck-up."

A slow grin spread across his face.

"He had it comin'. You ain't stuck-up. Yer smart. Big difference."

"Yeah, well, getting your nose bloodied over me in the parking lot of the Bowl-A-Rama is a formative experience for a girl," you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"I'd get my nose bloodied for you again tomorrow," he promised.

"Oh, I know you would. You're very predictable that way."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that only comes from years of unspoken history.

"Predictable? I think you mean reliable," he corrected gently, shifting to wrap an arm around you, pulling you flush against his side.

You let out a soft laugh, your head pillowed on his chest. "Same difference, coming from you."

He squeezed you, a playful warning.

"Keep running that mouth and I'll have to find somethin' to fill it," he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only a lazy, post-coital contentment.

"You're all talk now, Tillman. You're spent."

"We'll see about that in the mornin'." He yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking one.

You listened to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. It was a sound you could get used to.

"You really think we can pull this off?" you asked, your voice small in the quiet room. "The whole... happily ever after thing?"

Gator was quiet for a moment, considering.

"My dad's a lot of things, but he's not stupid. He's gonna poke, he's gonna prod. But he's also a man who likes to win. He sees your land, yer family's money... he sees an empire. But he's not gonna look too close at the gift horse's teeth if he thinks it's gonna carry him to the finish line." He paused.

"We'll just have to be smarter. And you, darlin'," he kissed the top of your head, "are the smartest person I know."

You smiled into his chest. It was true. And that was the problem, wasn't it? Smart women were dangerous. Especially to men like Roy Tillman.

"Now get some shut eye." Gator grunted, pulling the covers over you both. "Gotta get my energy up to fuck ya in the mornin'. Then again in the shower."

You chuckled, the sound muffled by his chest. And for the first time in a long, long while, you closed your eyes and let the world go, feeling the steady rise and fall of the man you loved, the man you were about to con the devil with.

Over a year had gone by since that night, and things didn't go quite as planned.

Just as you had the plan set, Roy caught wind of where his ex wife was living now. Nadine was his white whale, and he'd do anything to get his once child bride back under his thumb.

Including making his son do his dirty work.

But Nadine, a woman after your own heart, was a crafty one. The whole ordeal left Roy to rot in prison and Gator was no longer under his thumb.

You had used every resource you could to get him a deal. Rural North Dakota meant there weren't many onlookers for what did go actually down, and that meant that Gator Tillman was no longer.

As far as Stark County knew, he died from his wounds, and you along with him.

"Careful, it's hot." You say as you hand him a cup of tea, sitting next to him in your shared home.

The east coast was a place of ghosts and new beginnings for the both of you. Here, no one knew you as that rich girl whose father died mysteriously, or that fuck-up working for his violent father.

No one knew the old you at all. They knew your new names and your new identities.

Gator felt for the handle of the mug as you sat with him.

"Fuck..." he whispered when he felt how hot it was. "Weren't lyin'..."

"I'm not in the business of tricking my blind husband." you said gently, as you leaned over and kissed his cheek.

It had taken months of recovery. Even after he was released from the hospital, he was a shell of the man he was. The wounds had blinded him, and that had been the final curse Roy had placed on him. A cruel reminder of the debts he inherited from his father

"Could just call me your husband, don't have to add 'blind' to it," he grumbled, but leaned into your touch anyway.

You let out a soft sigh. "It's not an insult, Gator. It's a fact. Like how you have brown hair and you're a grumpy bastard in the mornings."

He took a cautious sip of the tea, his movements still a little clumsy, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. The doctors said he'd adapt. They said he'd learn to navigate the world by sound and touch. But they didn't understand. This was a punishment, not just a physical ailment.

The one thing keeping him from completely spiraling was you. He could feel you before you entered a room, a change in the air pressure, the faint scent of your perfume. He could map the floor plan of this house in his mind, each step you took a familiar landmark.

"Still ain't used to it," he admitted, setting the mug down on the coaster you'd placed in its exact spot.

"Given last night, I'd say you're adapting just fine. You certainly don't have trouble finding what you're looking for in the dark," you teased, your fingers trailing down the strong line of his forearm.

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. He reached out, his hand moving with a new, practiced confidence. It found your waist, then slid around to pull you closer. "Funny girl. You know, my other senses are gettin' real sharp. Can practically smell when you're gettin' yourself into trouble."

"I'm a saint now, remember? I retired from my life of crime," you said, though your tone suggested otherwise.

"Right," he drawled, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the skin just below your eye. "Only thing criminal 'bout you now is how good you feel. An' the way you spent all that money on new curtains. For a house a blind fella lives in."

"They're for me," you countered, leaning into his touch. "And for the hypothetical nosy neighbors who like to peek. Besides, it's my father's money. Or rather, my money. I think I've earned the right to spend it on absurdly expensive silk drapes if I so please."

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "That you ‘ave."

It was a shared truth between you, one of many dark little secrets you both nurtured.

"Should put'em to good use. Close 'em up so the neighbors can't see me taking you here on the couch," he said, a dark smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, a genuine sound that always seemed to startle him a little. "It's ten in the morning, Gator."

"My clock's broken," he countered, pulling you in for a real kiss. He mapped your lips with his, a familiar, cherished territory. "Ain't had a proper look at you in a year," he murmured against your mouth. "Least you could do is let me get a proper feel of ya whenever I damn please..."

"You had a ‘proper feel' of me not eight hours ago."

"Wasn't proper ‘nough," he grunted, his hands already starting to wander. "Can never be proper ‘nough."

You let him pull you onto his lap, the plush of the couch yielding beneath your combined weight. This was your sanctuary now. A house you'd paid for with blood money and a fresh start you'd bought with your silence.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine with a practiced intimacy. He'd memorized you, every dip and swell, with a soldier's precision. Without sight, every other sense had been amplified, each touch a revelation.

"Your hands are warm," you commented softly, your own hands resting on his shoulders.

"Yeah? Give 'em something to feel then, mama..."

He took your pajama top off with a new found confidence. He couldn't look, but he could feel. He leaned down, his mouth finding your breast with an unerring accuracy that still made you catch your breath.

His tongue swirled around the peak, a hot, possessive brand. He'd always been a mouthy bastard, and now it was his primary way of reading the world.

"Don't think I can wait for the bedroom," he murmured against your skin, one hand untying the drawstring on your pants, the other cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him.

"Then don't," you breathed, rising up on your knees just enough to let him shove the silk down your hips.

"Can't even wait to get these off ya..." He groaned when he felt how wet you were already, running a finger through your folds.

"Fucking Christ, you were made f’me," he growled.

You arched into his touch, a silent invitation for more.

He shoved his sweats down enough to free himself. He was already hard, the head of him a heavy, insistent presence against your thigh. "Need you," he grunted, the words a raw, needy thing.

You didn't make him wait. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, sinking down onto him with a slow, deliberate sigh.

"That's my fuckin' girl..." he groaned, his head falling back against the couch as you took him in, inch by perfect inch.

"Still greedy, too," he breathed, his hands moving to grip your hips.

"Only for what's mine," you replied, your hands braced on his shoulders as you began to move.

"All yours baby..." He laid against the back of the couch, letting you set the pace. His world had been reduced to a universe of touch and sound, and you were at the center of it all. The soft fall of your hair against his skin, the little hitch in your breath when you rolled your hips just right.

You found a rhythm, a slow, grinding pace that was more intimate than any frantic quickie.

You pushed his hair out of his face, something you loved doing now that he never slicked it back anymore. He let you. This gentle act always made him still for a moment.

"Gonna make a mess of ya," he promised, though the words lacked their usual bite, softened by the reverence of his touch.

He was right. He was. You could feel the slickness where you were joined, the obscene sounds your bodies made as you rode him.

"Mmm the way you ride, honey." He bucked up into you, a deep, powerful thrust that made you gasp and grab onto him tighter. "Like you were born to do it."

You laughed, a breathy, breathless sound. "Guess I just needed the right saddle."

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into you. "Yeah? Needed the right cock to break you in?" His hands gripped your ass, squeezing hard.

You didn't answer with words. You leaned down and bit his shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. To claim him, right back.

"Crude," you chided softly, your lips tracing the mark you'd made. "But not wrong."

You loved this. The way he could be so gentle, then so animalistic. All for you. The world thought Gator Tillman was dead. That the brutish son of a tyrant got what he deserved.

But in this quiet house on the coast, he was alive. And he was all yours.

"My girl's gettin' close," he murmured, his senses tuned to you like a finely tuned instrument. He could feel the change in your breathing, the way your movements became more frantic, less controlled.

"Want it to stick this time, we've been trying so long... make you mine all over again..." You said against his neck, your words a prayer.

"We will. We will," he promised. He wasn't much of a man of faith anymore, but he believed in this. In the two of you, tangled together on this couch, a world away from the dust and bad blood of Stark County.

"Fuck... don't stop," you pleaded, your control finally shattering.

Your orgasm hit you, a blissful wave that left you trembling in his arms. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your body shaking with the force of it.

"That's it baby, let me fill you up, give you what you need..." He held you through the shudders, continuing to meet your faltering hips with deep, steady thrusts until he followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could.

"Fuck yeah..." he moaned. "That one's gonna take, that one's for keeps..."

You stayed like that for a long while, a sticky, sated mess. His softened cock still inside you, a comforting, possessive presence.

After a few minutes, he carefully shifted you, lifting you off him and settling you beside him on the couch.

"Don't let that drip outta you, mama. Put your hips up on a pillow..." He nudged you with a knee, a clumsy but caring gesture. He had become obsessed with the idea of something truly his and yours. A clean slate. A do-over.

You complied, grabbing a decorative pillow from the arm of the couch and tucking it under your hips.

He grabbed the waist band of his sweats, pulling them back up with a grunt.

"Your tea's gone cold," you noted, your voice lazy and sated.

"Y'woke me up enough, don't worry 'bout it." He found your hand, lacing your fingers through his.

"I'll make more," you offered, starting to sit up.

He laid down, tucking you against his side. "Stay."

You settled against him, your head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a familiar comfort. He was blind, but he could still see you clearer than anyone ever had.

"It's a good day," he said after a while, his fingers stroking your arm.

It was. There were no ghosts in the house. No memories of violence or betrayal. Just the smell of sex and chamomile tea and the faint, salty tang of the sea breeze coming through the open window.

"Yeah, it is." you say softly, lips against his chest.

He hummed in agreement.

"I love you," he said. The words were no longer a foreign language. They were an everyday occurrence, like the sun rising.

"I love you too."

You didn't need to say it back, but you always did. He felt it in the way you arranged the furniture so he wouldn't trip. In the way you described the changing colors of the leaves in the fall. In the way you let him, a man whose hands had caused so much pain, touch you with a terrifying tenderness.

It was an odd sort of happiness. A fragile thing built on a foundation of blood and lies. But it was yours. And it was real. And as you lay there, your fingers intertwined with his, you knew you wouldn't change a thing.

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