Rosie sat on the floor in front of Steve as he pulled open the draw in her room, Pulling out two pairs of pyjamas holding them up in front of her.
"Both pink buttttt.." Steve grins at her Rosie giggles clapping her hands at him "Which ones do you think?"
"mamamama" Rosie babbled reaching her hands out towards the lighter shade pink pyjamas.
"Good choice!" Steve smiled "Hey what about dadada, Sound good?"
"Mamamama"
Steve sighed before smiling at her again, He'd keep trying but he couldn't deny it was cute to hear her babble. He took his time getting her ready for bed, Applying her eczema cream between her chunky rolls on her arms, Brushing her thick hair (she’s his daughter let’s be honest she has A LOT of hair) before tying it into loose piggy tails so she didnt wake up with it stuck to her face.
"What a pretty girl!" Steve beamed down at her making her giggle before he picked her up into his arms "Milk?" That was a word Rosie recognised, Her eyes widening as she pulled at steves hair in excitement.
Steve carried her to the kitchen against his hip, Rosies sleepy head resting against his chest as she watched him make the bottle with one hand.
"What should we read tonight?" He asked, His heart breaking as he looked down at the almost empty tub of formula knowing once this one was used up it was time to make the switch to regular milk. "Hmm?" He passed the bottle to Rosies hands before walking through to her room, Sitting down on the chair that wouldn't need to be used much longer either, She was growing up so quickly.
Steve lay her back in his arms, Grabbing a book from the table next to him as Rosie looked up at him drinking her milk.
"I love you, Blue kangaroo?" Steve asked as he held the book up above her, It was his favourite to read to her "Im gonna take your silence as an answer bubba" Steve laughed to himself before he started reading to her.
It didnt take long for the bottle and the book to hit the floor, Steve asleep in the chair with Rosie asleep on his chest.
summary: when you bring your newborn home from the hospital, gator finally hits the point of freaking out. your baby has a way of calming her dad down.
tags/warnings: husband!gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship - marriage, soft!gator, girl dad!gator, domestic fluff, character study, gator tillman holding a teeny little baby
---
“Gator, watch her head– watch– hang on, let me get the door.”
You take a full breath to try and quell your own panic as you watch your husband make his way into your house with your newborn daughter. It’s been two days since she was born, and he’s still holding her like she’s radioactive– with the kind of gentle trepidation that betrays how nervous he is about somehow breaking her. You’re not one to talk, though– you’ve been in a state of shock since you first heard her cry.
That’s how everyone’s told you it’ll be with your first. There’s been no end to the stories you’ve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this.
Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how you’ve seen him carry a football. “Baby– babe, where am I takin’ her?”
You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughter’s face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. “Just– just go to the living room, I guess,” you offer helplessly. “I don’t know, Gator. She’s not asleep yet.”
“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room.
Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult.
When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. “Here— sit down, mama. I’ll bring in the bags.” With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. “Forget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he can’t stare at your daughter for too long or she’ll somehow combust. He’s always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.
When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isn’t any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like he’s waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to.
“Gate,” you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, “Baby, I don’t think you’ve sat down since this morning. Why don’t you just take a breath– stop moving for a second.”
He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. “Can’t. Can’t sit down.”
“Why not?” you press him.
“Too much to do,” he explains, looking around the living room like he’ll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.
“There’s nothing to do,” you argue mildly. “She’s not even due for another feeding.”
Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. He’s not looking at you. “Think I forgot to lock the truck. I should go–”
“Gator,” you interject, your voice stern. “Why won’t you settle down?”
Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. “Because if I take a second to think, I’m gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckin’ kid,” he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.
“Oh, and it’s just sinking in now?” you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but you’re tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now.
“Yeah, kind of, baby,” Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. “I’m freakin’ out. I’m freakin’ out, mama.”
“Breathe, Gator,” you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. “You freaking out isn’t gonna make her any less… born.”
“I can’t do this,” he heaves. “I can’t be a dad. No fuckin’ way.”
“You’ll figure it out,” you reply dryly, unperturbed. “Better get with the program, cause she’s here.”
“I’m a fuckin’ idiot!” he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. “I can’t figure shit out. I’m probably gonna pass that to her.”
“You’re not an idiot.” you say firmly. “You figured out how to be a husband, didn’t you?”
“Barely,” he snaps.
“Gator,” you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. “Look at her.”
You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly— tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.
“Shit or get off the pot,” you tell him. “If you’re gonna get on board and be a dad, now’s the time. Do you want her?”
Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.
“Good,” you finish, eyeing him. “She wants you, too.”
He hesitates. “Can I—“
“Hold her?” you guess. “You don’t have to ask, Gate. She’s yours.”
With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Hey, girlie,” he musters, his voice low and scratchy.
Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. “Is that better?”
Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side.
You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down June’s soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, “Your dad’s fucking crazy, just so you know.”
“Sorry,” Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.
You run a hand down his arm. “I’m gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?”
He nods again, looking a little lost for words. “You’re not worried I’m gonna break her, or something?” he asks, glancing up as you leave his side.
You snort, roll your eyes, and don’t bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all.
Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.
She’s staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. She’s got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his.
Gator has black eyes. He’s always hated his eyes. They’re too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other people’s faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they don’t look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.
June blinks up at him, her face blank. She’s scrutinizing him, judging his reaction– he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way he’s completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her.
But that’s just how it is now– unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. He’s lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so he’s been defeated in the game he’s been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feeling— devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control you— could kill you, just like the look in his daughter’s eyes is. And right now, holding June, he’s struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.
“You don’t say much, do ya?” he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife won’t hear him from the bedroom.
June blinks back. Doesn’t so much as babble.
“Gonna be an easy baby?” he asks her, bouncing her a little. “No cryin’ all the time? Give your mama a little break?”
Another blink.
“You’re quiet already,” he observes, jaw ticking. “I was always screamin’ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.”
June’s mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widely– like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.
“Bet you’re gonna be the best baby there is,” he murmurs. “Probably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.” He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. “Aw, who am I fuckin’ kiddin’?” he complains, blowing out a breath. “I’d be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.”
She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.
“You don’t know much ‘a anything, do ya?” he realizes. She might have his eyes, but she’s nothing like him– doesn’t have the capacity to be. Nothing’s learned or set in stone. Nothing’s infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. There’s no evil in her– no cruelty. No violence. He’d see it in her eyes if there was. “That makes two of us,” he huffs.
Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. “Chair,” he says, gesturing to the armchair that’s become cemented as his in the time he’s owned this house with you. “Couch,” he tells her. “You can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.”
He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting June’s eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himself– smart enough to already know what’s happening around her, to look into her dad’s face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him.
He doesn’t know what to do about any of it. He doesn’t know what to do now– letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look he’s so used to– the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing that’s ever been put in his hands.
But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. He’s breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.
“Alright, fine,” he mumbles, softer than he’s ever said anything. “I’ll be your dad.”
He wouldn’t know the first thing about doing it right. When you’d told him you were pregnant in the first place, he’d barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the room– just in time, ‘cause the second you were gone, he’d run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And he’d spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, he’d thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goin’ on about might be worth looking into.
But he’s not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came out– so tiny. A fraction of what he’s been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, she’s pinning him down. She’s a fragile, delicate little thing. She’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried.
And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And he’s staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isn’t a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that he’ll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesn’t care what it takes– promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. He’d die for her, easy. He’d do it in a second. But he’d change for her, too. And there’s no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her.
Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Love you, girlie.”
June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.
It’s later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed.
June has been passed out since five o’clock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. You’re already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.
But now, you’ve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you haven’t seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The door’s slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June.
You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesn’t break his stare.
“Come to bed,” you whisper.
He doesn’t respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like he’s torn between fierce protection and gentle care.
“She’s not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly.
“I know,” he murmurs back.
You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.
“She’s so little,” he finally admits, eyes locked onto June’s sleeping face.
You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like it’s shocking to him– like it’s worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability that’s always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to her, Gator,” you assure him, the words soft.
He shakes his head. “It might.”
“The monitor’s on,” You remind him. “We’d hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.”
“Something might happen,” he repeats, firmer. The way he’s gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is.
“You built the crib,” you go on. “You know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.”
He shakes his head again, unconvinced.
Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. “You need to sleep, baby. You’ve been up for forever. Come to bed.”
“Can’t.”
You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis that’s keeping him poised here— the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that he’d never felt like he owned much— never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possess— the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughter—those were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. That’s who Gator was— iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.
You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” you promise him. “We’re gonna be good, Gate.”
So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. We’re gonna be safe. We’re gonna do this right. You’re gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if it’s another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.
But Gator’s hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, “Okay.”
---
author's note: if you guys would let me know if there are errors in this that would be hella chill 'cause I do not have it in me to read this again right now
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x pregnant fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
A/n: Happy holidays!! I know this isn’t what was promised but you’ll be getting it next week. I’ve just finished my finals and I’m taking a brief week-long break to recharge so i’m posting some quick drafts. Thank you so much for your patience and support 💛
Summary: When your cravings go into overdrive, Clark goes above and beyond, quite literally, to make sure both you and the baby are happy, proving fatherhood may be his newest superpower.
Classification: Comedic fluff | ⟡ From the Adventures in cape-wearing childcare series!
Word count: 1.6k
Divider by me ;)
You couldn’t stop giggling, the sound spilling through the kitchen and bouncing off the walls. There you were, standing in the center of the room with your belly bare in a little curve that had grown so quickly over the past months. Every time you looked at it, you were reminded of the tiny life growing inside you and right now, that life seemed perfectly in sync with Clark’s exaggerated dramatics. He moved carefully, almost ceremoniously in front of the fridge as if selecting the perfect items from a sacred pantry just for you.
Your cravings had taken on a life of their own lately…sweet, salty, tangy, spicy and everything in between but nausea often made keeping even a small bite in your stomach a challenge. Clark had never once made you feel guilty or pressured to eat more than you could handle. Instead, he hovered with the patience of someone who was both completely in awe and mildly terrified of breaking you with the wrong move.
In his large hands, he held a cold, glistening jar of pickles and a cluster of ripe, ruby-red tomatoes. He brought them close to your rounded stomach, holding them there like ceremonial objects and your laughter shook your belly against them. “Focus, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle yet commanding, as if he were trying to calm a tiny orchestra inside you.
“It’s cold!” you protested while still giggling, feeling the chill from the glass and the skin of the tomatoes.
Clark only grinned, tilting his head and shrugging. “Had to wake her up, sorry. Ready?”
You nodded eagerly, your hands resting lightly on your belly as your eyes followed every motion he made. Clark placed the jar of pickles first, pressing it softly against your stomach and holding your gaze. The room seemed to hush, your heartbeats intertwining with his heightened hearing, the steady thrum of your daughter inside giving a rhythm to the moment. Three heartbeats quieted into a tiny, measured pause as his focus sharpened and attuned entirely to the life nestled within you. You could feel the warmth radiating through your skin, the faint pressure of the jar against your belly and the careful, reverent way Clark waited as if each second were both a promise and a prayer.
“What’s she saying?” he asked, eyes scanning your face with a mix of curiosity and awe.
“You’re asking me? I thought you were the professional,” you laughed, the sound light and airy, teasing him about being the ultimate baby whisperer.
Clark’s lips twitched into a small, serious smile. “Certified,” he assured, his tone mock-authoritative, before he carefully withdrew the pickle jar and reached for the fresh tomatoes, pressing them gently against the curve of your belly. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice softer now, aimed more at your daughter than at you, a private little conversation between father and child.
You giggled, letting your hands rest lightly on your belly. “I think she wants both,” you murmured, feeling a subtle shift, a tiny little nudge that made your belly twitch in agreement.
Clark shook his head, a small chuckle escaping despite his concentration. “No, she doesn’t. Last time you tried tomatoes with mayonnaise and a glass of pickle juice, you threw up.”
You laughed harder, your belly wobbling slightly with each breath. “She’s feeling brave today,” you said amused by the little life inside you seeming to pick and choose.
“Well, her dad isn’t,” he muttered, opening the pickle jar with careful fingers and handing it to you. Then, lowering himself to kneel in front of you, he pressed his ear to your belly, though he didn’t need it because his senses were already perfectly attuned. “Sniff that…come on girl, talk to daddy,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, you could practically see the concentration and awe mirrored in his eyes, the tiny connection between them pulling at his heart with every gentle nudge.
You did as he asked, lifting the jar to your nose and inhaling the sharp, briny scent. It wasn’t even a second later that a small but sure kick rippled across your stomach.
“There you go!” Clark exclaimed, his voice full of awe and eyes widening like he’d just witnessed the world’s greatest miracle. His palm flattened instantly against your skin, eager to catch the movement again, his grin stretching impossibly wider.
You couldn’t stop smiling, warmth bubbling up in your chest as you watched him lean closer, his gaze fixed on your belly like it was the most sacred thing in existence. His thumb brushed in slow, soothing circles right where you believed her head was, gentle and protective.
“Teamwork, baby Steel! That’s how it’s done,” he said proudly, his tone caught somewhere between a coach calling plays and a dad already bragging about his kid. He pressed a tender kiss to the exact spot she’d kicked before straightening up and leaning in to capture your lips with a softer one.
When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with mischief as he announced grandly, “Pickles with honey coming right up, ladies!” already heading toward the pantry like he was about to deliver a five-star meal instead of your questionable craving.
He swore his baby-whisperer abilities went far beyond the kitchen experiments with pickles and tomatoes. Especially at night, when you were half-asleep but restless, turning this way and that as your daughter refused to settle. Clark was always the first to notice, his sharp hearing picking up the change in your breathing and the faint frustrated sighs you let slip. He would quietly slide down in the sheets until his face was level with your belly, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone he only ever used when it was just the three of you.
“Hey, bud,” he whispered, his lips nearly brushing your skin.
Even though he’d used his x-ray vision countless times to watch her tiny form shift and kick, it still stunned him every single time. It never lost its magic.
He always wished you could see what he saw…your daughter’s little fists flexing, her knees nudging out as if testing her limits and the undeniable spark of life that was half him, half you.
“Your mama’s trying to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured softly but with a firm edge, as though reasoning with a toddler instead of a fetus. “In a perfect world, you’d sleep at the same time. That’s called teamwork.” His brow furrowed when he felt her push again, wriggly and stubborn.
“Don’t you dare kick her, young lady,” he whispered, giving your belly the same stern-but-gentle tone he reserved for Smallville calves that wandered into the wrong pasture.
There was a pause that made him grin as he felt her shift, the pressure easing. He stroked the curve of your belly with his thumb, murmuring low enough that you couldn’t quite make out every word.
“Thank you,” he said softly, like he was addressing a tiny diplomat. “See, that’s teamwork. Now, how about a little deal between you and me, huh?”
His hand spread wide against your stomach, thumb still moving in a soothing circle. “Your mama’s had a long day. I want to make her a nice steak dinner tomorrow night…medium-well, not her favorite but we’re still adapting. All I need from you is a little cooperation, just a few hours of letting her rest, no gymnastics and definitely no rib kicks.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Think you can do that for me?”
Another flutter, softer this time and he chuckled, shaking his head like he’d just been bargained with. “Tell you what. If you hold up your end of this treaty, I’ll hold up mine. Powdered donuts and cream filling with rainbow sprinkles…the good ones from that little shop in Chicago your mama loves.” His grin widened, boyish and fond as he kissed your skin. “We’ll fly there ourselves if we have to…well, just me. No flying for you until you’re like seventy-five. Just…let her sleep tonight, okay?”
Then, quieter still, almost reverently “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”
The baby seemed to quiet under his touch, her movements easing as if she’d actually considered her father’s bargain. Clark smiled to himself, the faintest swell of pride in his chest until he heard you stir.
Your voice was soft and groggy, laced with sleep but startlingly precise. “Mmmm Clark… I have donut hunger… please… precisely half of one drenched in cold milk… for some strange reason.”
He froze, blinking up at you in disbelief before his gaze flicked to your belly, then back to your sleepy face. Then back again to your belly, as if your daughter had somehow whispered the request to you herself. A grin tugged at his lips.
“Smart,” he murmured, eyes sparkling. “Asking for a security deposit.”
“What?” you mumbled while rubbing at your eyes, too drowsy to even process the words.
“Nothing, baby,” he said quickly, smoothing a hand over your hair before kissing your temple. “As long as it’s not pickle juice again, we’re good. I’ll go get that for you.”
Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, his silent goodnight to your daughter and then another to your forehead, lingering there for a second like he couldn’t quite pull away. Then in a rush of air, he was gone.
He smiled the whole way there, his flight steady and light, because the thought of you waiting at home made even midnight trips across states feel easy. The owner of that little shop never asked questions anymore, just boxed up the powdered donuts with rainbow sprinkles, knowing someone very important to Superman loved them more than anything.
By the time Clark touched down again, balancing half a donut and a tall glass of cold milk, the glow in his chest was impossible to hide. Being Superman had its duties but being a superdad-in-training and a baby whisperer on call was quickly becoming his favorite job of all.
Likes, reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated! ❤️
Gators loves his family okay, he’s a little softer than I’ve ever wrote him before with miss?
TW: just Tara
Gator couldn't sleep, Maybe it was the thought racing through his mind about Dollie getting mad at him today. Throwing? Shed never done anything like that before, Always sweet and kind especially to him. Bad language? He knew she'd slip up with something eventually living round him but the context she used it in turned his stomach.
Maybe it was the thought of Teddy sleeping alone at home for the first night, No nurses or monitors watching over him. Teddy. Teddy Tillman. He needed to talk to you about that tomorrow. The room was silent and he was sure he could hear him breathing, Why didn't he put the crib on his side of the bed? It was so hard to hear him from here.
Or it could have been the fact that Tara turned up tonight, Why would she do that? Why would she risk blowing everything up like that? She's meant to love you. He needed to talk to you about that tomorrow too, Tell you everything that happened while you were gone.
Gator rolled over towards you, Finally back home, Finally back in his bed. He traced a finger down your nose softly not to wake you, Lump in his throat back as he looked at how peaceful you were. Mind quickly flashing back to the image of you bleeding in the bed, The bed he'd got rid of the day after so the memories never remained. He was glad you chose to stay, You wouldn't have had a choice really.
Teddy started to get restless in his crib, Little feet kicking up into the air as he started to cry. Your eyes flickered open and gator quickly stroked your cheek before rolling out of the bed.
"Sh sh shhhhh" He whispered as he looked down at the tiny boy, Heart fluttering in his chest as he smiled "Yer ok, Daddies here" Scooping him up into his arms heading towards the door with him.
"Gator? Do you need me?" You asked as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, rubbing at your sleepy eyes.
"I got him, mama" Gator smiled before closing the door behind him, Walking down the stairs holding Teddy carefully against his chest.
"Daddy?"
Gator turned to the sound of little footsteps behind him as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Dollie following him down holding her hand out towards him.
"S'late baby" Gator whispered as he held onto her hand, Guiding her into the kitchen with them. "Wanna help make him a bottle?"
"Yes!" Dollie grinned as she jumped up and down on the spot, Gator winced at how excited she was already at the early hours of the morning.
"cmon then" Gator smiled as he placed Teddy down in the bouncer chair, Picking Dollie up and putting her on the side next to where the chair was balancing.
"Hes still crying daddy" Dollie pouted as she touched his little hand with her own "Hes sad"
"Hes hungry Dollie girl" Gator smiled as he grabbed the formula pushing it towards her "Put tha scoops in, Ya remember how many?"
"Yes!" Dollie smiled as she perfectly scooped out the right amount before Gator filled the water.
"Ya gotta shake it up real good now, baby" Gator smiled as he screwed the top onto the bottle, passing it over to her.
"Like this?" Dollie asked as she started shaking the bottle with both hands, Brows furrowed in concentration.
"Shakin tha shit outta that doll" Gator laughed as he pulled the bottle from her grip, Lifting her down onto the floor "Wanna help feed him?"
"Yes yes yes!" Dollie squealed as Gator lifted Teddy from his seat, walking into the front room with him Dollie following behind.
Gator sat down on the sofa cradling teddy, Dollie sat next to him with wide eyes.
"How do we feed him daddy?"
"I'll show ya, come here" Gator patted his lap and Dollie climbed straight into the spot, He lifted teddy over her head to rest him against her lap still in his arms. Dollie smiled as she watched him chew on his fists, Face turning red as he waited eagerly.
"Take tha lid off tha bottle an stick it in" Gator said, Dollie grabbed the bottle and did exactly that.
"He likes it!" She giggles as teddy takes the bottle, Eyes wide as he looked up towards the two of them.
~
You walked down the stairs after the first full nights sleep you'd managed to get in weeks, House silent as you walked into the front room. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you looked at the sofa, Gator with the baby in one arm and his other looped around Dollie whose head was resting against his chest. All three of them sleeping peacefully, Bottles scattered around the room and nappies bagged up by the table. You quickly pull out your phone to take a photo of the three of them before picking up all of the nappies walking them to the bin.
Collecting the bottles next taking them to the sink to start washing them up, Gators eyes flickered open at the sound of you dropping the bottles, Carefully placing Teddy down into his sleep pod as he shuffled free from Dollies grip.
"Mornin mama" His voice was raspy, hands warm as they wrapped around you from behind.
"Morning" You smiled, Drying your hands off before turning in his grip to face him "You didnt wake me up"
"Thought ya needed ya beauty sleep" Gator smiled placing a kiss to the top of your head.
"Gator Tillman! Are you calling me ugly?" You teased biting down on your bottom lip and right in that moment Gator got butterflies like a teenager.
"Mmm maybe" He teased "Jus in tha mornins though"
You laughed slapping his chest before his hand moved up to your face, big eyes meeting yours.
"Yer the most beautiful woman ive ever met" He whispered "Do things ta me no one ever has"
"Hmm" You hummed letting your nose brush against his, Warm breath hitting your lips "Not too bad yourself, Tillman"
Gator smirked, Looping his hands under your arms to lift you up onto the counter. Settling in-between your thighs.
"Yeah? God ive missed ya" Gator groaned as he kissed your lips, Softly at first testing if you'd let him "Jus wanna kiss ya all day" He scoffed cringing at his words before going back in, One hand resting at the back of your neck to hold you in place as he kissed you.
"Me too" You smile against his lips, Opening slightly to let his tongue in. "Tha right?" Gator asked biting your bottom lip softly before his lips were against yours again, hands moving down to your hips as he pulled you closer to him.
"Daddy?" Dollie called from behind you both, Gators grip loosening on you as he pulled away from you with wide eyes.
"Yeah,baby?" He replied not turning round to face her as a red flush appeared across his cheeks.
"Can we go see star?" Dollie asked rubbing her eyes to try and wake up some more.
"Y-yeah, Go get ready baby" Gator replied keeping his eyes on you, Listening to the sound of foot steps getting further away. "She's like a fuckin ninja" Gator smirked before moving his hand to the back of your head pulling you back towards him. Soft sounds falling from him as he kissed you, other hand resting against your cheek.
"Youre very loving today" You smiled pulling away from his kiss, Gators brows furrowed like it pained him to be away from you.
"Told ya, Yer gonna get sick of me" He smiled before kissing your cheek softly "Oh, I was talkin ta Doll last night an she wants to name tha baby Teddy"
"Dollie and Teddy?" Your eyebrows raised as you looked at him, Gator nodded slowly "I love it"
"Me too" Gator grinned letting his forehead rest against yours "Teddy Tillman"
"Hmm, Its pretty" You smiled.
"Yer pretty" Gator smiled "Ya gonna be okay if I take her ta see star?"
Dollie noticed the gift bag by the front door as she walked down the stairs, Picking it up and opening it grinning as she pulled out the box.
"Present!" She giggled sitting down to look at it.
"Of course, We cant let her feel..I dont know left out, like things are different" you replied smiling dropping down off the side, Wincing in pain.
"Shit, Yer okay mama" Gator wrapped his arm around you to help you balance. “Still sore?”
"Candy! Is this candy daddy?" Dollie asked as she looked down at the box, Gator guided you back towards the sofa. "Daddy??"
“A little” you sighed.
"One minute Dollie girl" Gator replied, Helping you sit down before going back to the kitchen to get your drink.
Dollie walked into the living room with the box in her hand, Holding it up in the air as Gator walked back into the room. You turned your head to look at him, Confussed look on his face.
"Doll? Give that ta daddy" Gator stepped forward holding his hand out, Dollie shook her head putting them behind her back.
"Gator?" You turned to look at him, Eyebrows raised "Jumping the gun a little, I have to have a six week check first"
"Aint mine" Gator mumbled as he leaned over the top of Dollie trying to grab the box from her "Doll, Give them me they aint candy"
"Whose are they then?" You asked heart racing in your chest as you watched him fight the tiny girl for the box of condoms that definitely weren't yours.
"Doll, Where did ya find these?" Gator asked as he finally grabbed the box from her "Shhhh"
Dollie screamed as she tried to grab the box back from him, Waking up Teddy who joined in with the screaming. You got up from the sofa walking to the kitchen to start prepping a bottle, wanting to know where the fuck Dollie had found those but also needing to be a mom. Gator calmed Dollie down whilst trying to soothe teddy at the same time, Looking down at the box, Post it note stuck to the back.
For when you finally stop playing games x
"Doll? where did ya get these?" Gator asked again, Heart thumping in his chest. Dollie ran over to the now empty gift bag, picking it up and bringing it to Gator.
"Here daddy" Dollie sighed "I really wanted to eat the candy" She pouted, Gator exhaled kissing the top of her head softly.
"I'll get ya some later, baby. Breakfast first"
You passed Gator the bottle before sitting down next to him, Nerves shot as you waited for an explanation.
"They was in the gift off tara" Gator looked down at Teddy, Worried how you’d react and not really having an explanation for you.
You scoffed before relaxing back against the sofa, Relief washing over you.
"She thinks she so funny" You sigh.
Gator turns to look at you, Eyebrows raised like he was surprised at your reaction.
"She is?"
"Yeah" You smiled "She clearly joking about us having no more kids"
Gator nodded before turning back towards Teddy, Post it note tucked securely in his pocket.
"She was - She was round a lot while ya was in tha hospital" Gator mumbled, You looked over at him.
"She was?" Your tone was light, like nothing was wrong about what he said. It turned his stomach.
"Yeah, Helped with Doll. Here everyday" Gator turned to face you and there was something in his eyes that made you feel uneasy, His eyes were searching yours for something but you didnt know what.
"She's good like that" You smile, Resting your hand against his cheek. Gators eyes fluttered shut, Melting into your touch "Everyday? I bet you got sick of her" You teased.
"Nah, she was good..She helped me move everythin, Helped set it all up ready fer ya"
"She's such a blessing" You sighed resting your head against Gators shoulder, Looking down at Teddy who had fallen asleep on the bottle. "I dont know what I did to deserve her"
Gators jaw tensed as he placed a kiss to the top of your head, Heart beating rapidly in his chest. The first time in a long time everything felt right, Tara could destroy that. How was he meant to get her out of the picture when you loved her so much? Did he want her out of the picture that bad that he'd risk bringing trouble to your lives again? No, But he needed to do something and he needed to do it quickly before everything he'd built came crashing down around him.
"She's.." Gator sighed as he looked down at you, placing a kiss to the top of your head again "She's very friendly"
You pulled your head up to look at him, Brows furrowed but a smile on your face.
"Yeah?" You stroke your hand over teddy's head softly "It can make people feel a little uncomfortable sometimes but she's just REALLY friendly" You grinned.
~
"I got your present" You smirked as you stepped out of the way so Tara could come inside, Tara laughed wrapping her arms around you.
"So good to have you home! I've missed you"
"I've missed you! Gator said you've been a big help" You keep one of your arms wrapped around her as you walk towards the sofa together "So I guess I should say thanks"
"You dont have to thank me!" Tara smiled sitting down next to you, Stroking her hand over Teddy's head in his bouncer chair sleeping peacefully. "But I do need to talk to you"
"Go on" Your stomach turned as you looked at her, She didnt look like she was about to drop earth shattering news but lately you'd learnt to expect the un expected.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at her, This is the happiest you'd felt in a long time.
"What part?"
"Being here with him, You know the baby isn't a plaster right?"
"What? Where is this coming from?" your heart physically hurt, Yeah Tara always told you straight and kept you on the right track but this time you couldn't understand.
"You remember everything he did right? What if he leaves you AND the baby next time?"
"He wouldn't do that!"
"Did you think he'd do it the first time?"
"Well, no but.."
"I rest my case"
You sat in silence for a moment, Staring at each other as the tension in the air settled around you.
"Hes changed" You exhaled after a moment "Hes been so..loving, since we've been home"
"Oh I bet he has!" Tara scoffed looking up at you, For the first time in your friendship you couldn't recognise her expression.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you need to wise up! You forgive and forget way too easily and that man" Tara pointed towards the front door eyes wide "Hes not a good man"
"Tara.."
"What? Im not here to sugar coat things like everyone else in your life will, Im honest with you. Its for the best, Have you gave up your apartment yet?"
"No"
"Then pack your shit, Get out of here before he has chance to do it again"
You looked at her, Really looked at her noticing something in her eyes you weren't used too. She was giving out all of these demands and saying all of these things but her eyes looked dead. The warmth you were so used to seeing in them wasn't there anymore.
"No" Taras jaw tensed, Maybe it was because she wasn't used to you ever doing anything other than what she told you to do or maybe it was something else. "Oh, That joke, it wasn't funny. Dollie found them"
"Well maybe Gator should have put the gift somewhere away from children"
"He didnt know you'd gifted us a box of condoms!" You snap, Eyes wide as you look at her. Tara scoffed shaking her head at you.
"You always have an excuse for him" She sighed, slapping her hands down against her thighs like she was about to announce she was leaving.
"Its not an excuse Tara, The bag was sealed.."
"I gave it to HIM, why dint HE open it?" Tara spat out, Rolling her eyes as she looked away from you.
"Because you're my best friend, He thought you'd be sending something for me"
Tara's expression softened as she looked at you, Guilty look on her face.
"Im sorry" She rested her hand against yours, smiling softly "And for the note, It was..wrong of me"
~
"Good job baby!" Gator grinned down at Dollie who was filling up Stars food after spending the last hour helping him clean out the stables.
"Thank you daddy!" Dollie giggled holding her arms up at him as she finished, Gator lifted her up into his arms pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Aunt Tara!" Dollie squealed over Gators shoulder making his stomach turn.
"Hey Doll!" Tara beamed walking over to them both, Standing closer than Gator liked "I've missed you!"
"Ive missed you too, Daddy can Tara stay again?" Dollie placed her hands against Gators cheeks forcing him to look at her.
"No doll, Mamas back now we dont need tha help"
"But I like it when Tara reads me bedtime stories" Dollie pouted, Gator exhaled placing a kiss to her nose making her face scrunch up.
"Go get cleaned up, Bet dinner ready soon" Gator said as he placed her back down, Dollie ran to give Tara a hug before running out of the stables.
He stared at Tara, Silence in the stables as she smirked up at him.
"Ya need ta go"
"Why?" Tara pouted as she looked at him "She's out of action for six weeks Gator, Add that to the month she was in hospital. I bet you're desperate"
Gator stared at her, Heart racing in his chest. Tara could see the hesitation in him, She knew she was right. He was desperate for something, just not from her.
"Not interested" He scoffed before turning to Star, Locking the door on her stall.
"Youre not? Why doesn't she know about the note then?" Gators head snapped round to look at her, Jaw tensing.
"Cause didnt want her ta know her best friends a fuckin whore" He hissed bending down into her space "If she didnt love ya so much you'd have been gone by now"
"That a threat?" Tara bit down on her lip, Placing her hand against his chest "Cause it sure felt like one"
"Its a fuckin promise"
Gator stared down at her, Tara didnt budge. Holding his eye contact as she smiled softly.
"I could kiss you right now you're that close" She whispered looking into his eyes, Gator took a step back shaking his head. "Just like that night, Do you remember that?" Tara asked stepping forward "I remember it, Fuck I cant stop thinking about it"
Gator closed his eyes running a hand through his hair before turning back to her, Stepping into her space.
"Not how I remember it happenin, Yer fuckin deluded"
"You needed someone to lean on, I was that person"
"My life was turnin upside down!" Gator shouted making Tara jump as she stepped back "Fuck! Everythin was fallin apart!"
"I know! She's my best friend remember!"
"Then fuckin act like it! Stop all this shit" Gator spat but his eyes were wild, Conflicted between telling you everything and keeping it hidden so you wouldn’t end up hurt.
"Its not shit Gator, I feel it and so do you and the sooner you accept that the sooner we can just" Tara sighed "Be together"
Gator laughed, Shaking his head as he turned away from her once again.
"Aint ever happenin, Have ya forgot ya have a husband at home?"
"He doesn't care Gator why do you think im in this situation, If he was loving me right I wouldn't be here chasing my best friends..What even are you?"
"M'gonna marry her"
"No you're not" Tara scoffed "You cant commit Gator, Lucky for you I dont need commitment I just need to feel something" She stepped closer again "That's why were so similar"
"M'nothin like you, I love her an I wont betray her. That's where were different"
"You already did"
Gator stared at her, Anger bubbling away in his chest, Fuck he wasn't his dad. He'd worked so hard not to be his dad but it was taking everything in him right now not to swing for the bitch.
"Im grateful fer everythin ya did fer us, but that's all it ever was" Gator mumbled as he looked at her "An ya need ta accept that"
"I can't" Tara shook her head, Tears forming in her eyes "Spending that time with you, I actually saw everything she see's in you. You're a good man Gator"
Gator stared at her, Not used to hearing words like this from people. Stomach turning that those words were coming from the person he loves best friend.
"You're kind, Soft, Everything I want" Tara whispered "Im not giving up"
“Tara? You’re still here?”
Okay so I did end up having to split it into two anyway because it was almost 7k words and im sorry NO ONE has time to read that and this seemed the best place to separate it 🤣 LOVE u x p.s I havent proof read this so im sorry if things dont make sense ya girls shattered x
➤ summary: after saving you from your past, Rafe makes sure to keep things slow with you (read part 1 here)
➤ w/c: 1.8k
➤ warnings: fluffy fluff, soft!Rafe, mentions of past bad living conditions and struggles, kissing
➤a/n: to all of the people who wanted the second part of "for free" 💘
masterlist taglist
Life was a crazy thing that could take any turn at the most unexpected moment, and after surviving every day, peacefulness and safety overwhelmed you from the moment you fully experienced it for the first time.
After everything that happened, after your brother's betrayal and the day that was at the same time one of the worst and best in your life, everything felt just light.
You lived in a small apartment in a building not far away from the beach. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but still, it was the best thing you ever lived in. The place was perfect and far away from the sketchy part of the Cut, where it was dangerous to even go outside after the sunset. Inside everything was finally yours. Safe. Stable.
For that exact reason you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for leaving your brother and for cutting all ties with him. After all the tears you’ve cried, after all the times you gave him your all, after the way he almost sold you, there was no excuse for him to crawl back into your life. You didn’t care about the stuff that he occupied himself with now, but the last thing you heard was that he got himself into even more trouble and fucked with someone far, far more dangerous than Rafe could ever be.
Now you woke up without a fear of the following day. You walked around your apartment without a thought about accidentally stepping onto some broken glass or being met with random drug addicts in your living room. Your new job at one of Figure Eight’s cafés was even better. It paid three times what the Cut diner ever did, not to mention the tips you could get from the generous locals who probably pitied a girl like you.
Rafe was the one responsible for all of this, and whether it was the consequence of guilt he still felt or if he just genuinely for whatever reason decided to be your prince in shining armor, you couldn’t thank him enough. He kept showing up, kept checking up on you with simple messages or visits to your workplace where he would lure you in for a small talk—any excuse to be around. You felt uncomfortable at first, like maybe you were a burden, which he couldn’t wait to ditch when the feeling like he fully compensated for his actions would hit.
The truth was that for Rafe it became something normal. The guilt was still here, sure, but the need to make your life just a bit easier, to make sure that you were okay, was the main thing. Never before in his life had he ever felt this way towards someone, especially not this fast, but out of nowhere your well-being and the smile on your face became some kind of fix. And even his sisters noticed the change.
He texted you whenever you came to his mind, which arguably was a lot. He came to your job, where one of his father’s good friends was the owner, and he just liked to look at how you worked. You moved with such grace around the room and the outside terrace, smiling so naturally and brightly it tugged at something in him. You occasionally looked at him too, a bit shy from the attention you surely noticed, before going back to work. Rafe didn’t know you before the accident, but he still could tell how much healthier and prettier you looked when nobody was sucking the life out of you.
You both knew that something was there. An attraction grew slowly but steadily, even if at first you tried to ignore it. Rafe looked at you softly and admired you openly whenever he was around and genuinely tried to be someone you could trust. While you sneaked glances, cheeks warm, checking him out because he was attractive in that famous Kook glory. Maybe he was out of your league, maybe he wouldn’t ever go for someone like you—you didn’t know, but it still didn’t stop you from secretly feeling butterflies whenever he came back again and again.
Later that evening you were on the deck behind your place. The ocean was calm, the soft breeze kept your skin cool after the sunny day, and you cherished the moment of peace. Rafe showed up when the sun started to set, as if knowing where you would be. You felt his presence before he even announced yourself, and you turned around to be met with his eyes already locked on you.
Rafe stood at the edge of the deck, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his shorts, the fading sunset casting warm golden light across his face. He looked… softer in this light. Less like the volatile Kook prince who once stormed into your old house and more like someone who had been quietly rewriting himself these past few months.
“Hey.” He said, voice low and warm, carrying easily over the gentle crash of waves. “Hope I’m not crashing your peace.”
You smiled—small, genuine, and easier now than it used to be. “You never are.”
He walked over to you silently, looking down at the ground with a faint smile he tried to hold back after your words. You made him go crazy so easily.
Rafe stopped at a respectable distance from you, leaning against the railing and following your gaze down the beach. His elbows rested near yours—not enough to touch, but enough to make your heart flutter from the closeness. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The breeze played with your hair. The sky bled into deep oranges and purples. Inside your chest, something tender and weirdly excited had taken up permanent residence whenever he was near.
Your apartment, your work, your peace—it all quickly became a blur and a routine you got used to very quickly. You were living. And Rafe… Rafe was the unexpected thread holding so much of it together.
At first you were cautious of him, sure. Even if your paths hadn’t crossed before, you knew the reputation he had. You firsthand saw what he was capable of when he reached that certain point. You understood why people felt intimidated or scared by him. But at the same time, you saw another person showing up through the cracks—the one that cared deeply and sincerely, the one who showed up when it mattered, the one who could be the best version of himself if he wanted to. So falling for him was only natural.
Rafe glanced sideways at you, catching you watching him, when you didn’t even notice doing so as you were too lost in your head. A faint flush crept up his neck.
“You’re staring again.” He murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“So are you.” You shot back softly.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze lingered on your face—tracing the healthy glow in your cheeks, the way the ocean breeze made your hair dance, and how rested and relaxed your eyes seemed. “You look good.” He said quietly. “Really good. Happier.”
You shrugged. “Because I am. I feel safe and happy. Thanks to you, Rafe, and I don’t know how to repay you for it all.” You added the last part almost shyly, feeling way too exposed under his gaze.
He shook his head almost immediately, his expression turning serious. “You don’t owe me anything. Not a single thing.” His voice dropped lower, rougher around the edges. “If anything, I still owe you. For that night. For how I acted. I think about it more than I want to admit.”
You pursed your lips, slowly and a bit hesitantly reaching out to touch his forearm. His skin was warm from the sun, muscles tense beneath your fingers before slowly relaxing under your touch. “You stopped. That’s what I remember most.”
He hated to admit how many times he replayed that time he kissed you. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but now, when the feelings for you crept slowly, he remembered how your skin felt against his, how soft your lips were. He wished he would get a chance to feel it again, but do it the proper way—soft and gentle, with your heart beating with a feeling of warmth and not fear.
Rafe’s eyes darkened with that familiar mix of guilt and longing, but the longing was winning tonight. You could see it in the way his gaze dropped to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, asking without words.
The air between you thickened, charged with months of quiet tension, shy glances across the café terrace, late-night texts, and the careful way he always gave you space. Your heart hammered steadily—not from fear this time, but from something sweeter. Butterflies. Want. The slow, delicious realization that you were falling for the man who had once terrified you and was now becoming your safest place.
Rafe lifted his hand slowly, making sure that you had every chance to tell him to fuck off, to step back if it wasn’t something you wanted. When you didn’t pull away and your eyes were locked on his, you felt the warm palm against your cheek. He cupped your face with gentleness you didn’t know he had, and it was enough to make your breath catch. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, reverent and slow, like he was memorizing the feeling.
“I keep thinking about doing this right.” He whispered, voice husky. “The way you deserve.”
You answered by leaning in.
At first your lips just softly pressed against his. Nothing too frantic or desperate. Just a warm feeling of him against you, because Rafe was still scared to move too fast. A quiet sigh escaped you, and Rafe responded with a low sound in his throat, tilting his head to fit your mouths together more perfectly. The kiss deepened gradually, still soft, still full of care. His lips moved against yours with patience, tasting faintly of the mint gum he always carried.
Rafe’s right hand was cradling your face, thumb brushing softly along your jaw. Another one rested lightly on your waist, fingers splayed, neither demanding nor gripping. He moved you two so that his back was pressed against the railing, you standing in front of him to give you all the space you could possibly need.
You felt completely safe. Wanted.
Your hands just barely had an opportunity to slide around his neck, to maybe pull him closer when you got too lost in the feeling of him when Rafe pulled away. You frowned instinctively at the loss, but the sight of him with eyes half-lidded and with that boyish smile made you smile back instinctively.
“Been wanting to do that the right way for so long,” he murmured, voice rough with feeling. He pressed another delicate kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your forehead, lingering there like he couldn’t bear to pull away completely.
You smiled against his skin, fingers still curled into his shirt. “It was perfect.”
The ocean continued its steady rhythm behind you. The sky had deepened into twilight, stars beginning to prick through the darkening blue. Rafe wrapped his arms around you loosely, holding you close but never confining.
And for the first time in years, you felt completely at peace.
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: age gap (reader is mentioned as 23, rafe as 39), established relationship, older boyfriend!rafe, reader insert (no y/n), secret relationship, lying to parents, class differences, kissing, making out, groping, grinding, dirty talk, praise, alcohol (wine), domestic intimacy.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: your first sleepover at older boyfriend!rafe’s house is full of tiny discoveries: a junk drawer, a half-finished cup of coffee, your favorite creamer in his fridge, and all the little ways he was already making room for you long before you ever walked through the front door.
𝑎/𝑛: genuinely by the time i finished writing and did my final proofread of this, i couldn’t help but giggle and kick my feet. i really don’t love the idea of writing fan fictions about real people, but some parts of this feels more like what i’d imagine drew to be like and less like canon rafe if he was older. he’s pretty soft here, but i love him this way. i hope you guys do too ♡
𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.4k
your phone buzzes on your desk at 4:56 PM.
you're halfway through folding laundry when the vibration makes you freeze, a t-shirt dangling from your hands. you pick it up expecting a text from a friend, but your stomach drops the second you see rafe's name.
Pack a bag.
you stare at it. read it twice. three times. your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don't ask what for. you don't ask where or why or how long. you just know.
are you serious
three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
Very.
oh god. your heart is actually racing now.
you press your phone to your chest and let out a breathless laugh that's half excitement, half panic. you want this so badly your hands are shaking. but the thought of lying to your parents makes something twist in your stomach. you glance at the time. 4:59 PM. if you're going to do this, you have got to move fast. there's a really big chance that you can't pull this off. an even bigger chance that your mom shuts it down. but you're willing to try.
it takes you twenty minutes to come up with something believable. a trip to the mainland last minute with stella from your old sociology class. her friend bailed. you'd be back tomorrow evening. that's believable, right? you practice it four times in the mirror, watching your own face for tells. you look nervous and giddy. way too fucking giddy. you try again, aiming for casual, but casual isn't happening.
you pull your duffel bag out from under your bed and start packing, grabbing a change of clothes and the cute pajamas, the ones that don't look like you're trying too hard, your toothbrush and deodorant and phone charger. your hands hesitate over your underwear drawer, but you grab a matching set, just in case, and shove it to the bottom of the bag where your mom wouldn't see it if she happened to glance inside. god, that would be embarrassing.
downstairs, you can hear the tv on in the living room, your dad's low voice asking your mom something about dinner. you zip the bag shut and stand there for a second, staring at it. this is actually happening.
your mom is easier to convince than you expected. she's loading the dishwasher when you come downstairs, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. "hey, so stella from one of my old classes just texted. her friend bailed on this trip to the mainland and she asked if i wanted to go. i know it's last minute, but—"
your mom glances up, wiping her hands on a towel. "tonight?"
"yeah. she could come pick me up now. i'd be back tomorrow afternoon or so..."
she looks at you for a long moment, and your heart hammers against your ribs. please don't ask more questions. please don't look closer.
"stella... from college?"
"yeah."
"and you'll text me when you get there?"
"of course." immediately.
she smiles. "okay... have fun, sweetie. be safe. and text me when you get there, okay?"
the ease of it almost makes you feel worse. "i will. thanks, mom." you kiss her cheek and head for the door before she can ask any more questions, before the lie can show on your face and ruin everything.
by 5:30 PM, you're standing on the corner a block away from your house, duffel bag at your feet, phone clutched in your hand. the sun is starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. the neighborhood is quiet. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. you shift your weight from foot to foot, your leg bouncing slightly. you check your phone. 5:31. then 5:32. what if he doesn't show up? or what if he changed his mind? what if—
then you see it—his black truck, pulling up beneath the shade of the oaks, windows tinted dark. relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. you'd recognize it anywhere. you grab your bag and hurry down the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder once, twice, before yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.
the cool air hits you immediately. the ac is cranked high, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his black ice scented car freshener. the leather seat is cool beneath your thighs. the door closes with a solid thunk.
rafe is leaning back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. he's wearing a linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. he looks casual. so unfairly casual.
he doesn't pull away from the curb yet. instead he just looks at you. his eyes move down your face to your hands gripping the bag, then back up. his mouth curves into a smirk.
"look at you," he murmurs, his voice low. "sneakin' away like a little criminal."
heat floods your cheeks instantly. you drop your bag to the floorboards and fumble with your seatbelt, trying not to meet his eyes. your fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated. he's watching you. "i'm not—"
"no?"
you freeze. he's still watching you, that smirk fully formed now.
"checkin' over your shoulder like that?" he says, tilting his head slightly. his eyes drop to your hands where they're fumbling with the seatbelt, then back to your face. "trembling."
"i am not trembling."
"yeah, you are."
you bite your lip, fighting a smile. he's impossible. "c'mere," he says, and his voice drops, and you don't hesitate. you lean across the console and kiss him, hard and desperate. the leather of the seat creaks slightly beneath you. you can taste the faint hint of coffee on his mouth. your fingers find his shoulders and for a second you forget why you were even nervous.
you lean in again, throwing your arms around his neck, peppering soft, quick kisses along his jaw. he smiles against your skin. you kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips, and he's making a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to cup your face.
"hi," he says against your mouth, teasing.
you pull back just far enough to look at him, your face flushed. "hi yourself," you murmur, and he grins before kissing you properly again, deeper this time.
when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. his hand smooths down your back, his thumb tracing small circles against your spine.
"been waitin' all day for that," he murmurs against your lips.
you pull back just enough to look at him, your face flushed. "yeah?"
"yeah." his eyes are dark. "you?"
"maybe," you say, trying to play it cool, but he sees right through you. he always does.
he starts to protest, but then his eyes are catching on your hair falling across your shoulder and his hand moves, tucking it back behind your ear. his fingers linger there for a second, warm against your skin.
"what?" you ask, breathless.
"mm, nothin'." he's still looking at you like he lost his train of thought, but then he blinks. "you smell good."
"rafe—"
"you do." he's laughing now—quiet, rough.
you bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he wraps his arms around you properly, his hand smoothing up your back. you feel him smile against your hair.
"alright," he says after a moment, and his hand slides down to your waist, squeezes once. "sit back before your neighbors see something they shouldn't."
you obey reluctantly, buckling yourself in, and he's still watching you with that amused expression. he shifts the car into drive, one hand returning to the wheel while the other finds your thigh, his palm warm against your skin.
the neighborhood disappears behind you, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.
the drive starts familiar, your neighborhood with its modest coastal cottages and beach box houses. rafe's hand stays on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns. god, his hands are huge. after a few minutes, he glances over at you.
"you're quiet," he says.
you bite your lip, staying silent for a moment. "i lied to my mom."
"figured. what'd you tell her?"
"just... a really elaborate lie. about going to the mainland with stella. she believed me immediately and i guess now i feel—" you exhale shakily. "kinda guilty?"
his hand squeezes your thigh gently. "want me to turn around?"
"no," you say quickly, maybe too quickly. the thought of turning around makes your chest clench. and he smiles, like he already knew that would be your answer.
"then stop worryin' about it."
"easy for you to say."
"sweetheart." his voice is patient. "you're twenty-three."
"yeah," you mutter. "but you're thirty nine."
he doesn't argue with that. he just keeps driving, his hand warm on your leg. you watch the scenery change outside the window, the neighborhoods becoming progressively nicer. after a moment you reach down and lace your fingers through his. he glances at you again, something soft crossing his face, and brings your joined hands up to brush a kiss against your knuckles.
"you nervous?"
"a little," you admit. your stomach's been in knots since you got in the truck.
"yeah?" he says, his mouth curving slightly. "good. means you're gonna hold onto me the whole drive."
you roll your eyes but you're smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. you look out the window and watch as the landscape begins to shift. the houses get bigger, set farther back from the street. gated communities with brick columns and wrought iron. the kind of places where you definitely don't belong.
"wait," you say, sitting up straighter. "this is where you live? like, this area?"
"further north," he says.
"of course you do," you murmur, and he laughs—low and genuine. that's where almost all of the wealthy people live. the absolute northernmost area of the island.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
"nothing. just..." you gesture vaguely at the massive houses passing by. "very you. very well off person who has everything figured out."
"very me," he repeats, smirking. "that an insult?"
"no. i just mean—" you're fumbling now. heat is creeping up your neck. "you probably have like a… a fountain, or something don't you?"
he doesn't answer, which is answer enough. you groan and cover your face with your free hand.
"oh my god. you do."
"came with the house," he says, and there's that edge again, like he was waiting for you to notice.
"rafe. nobody's house just comes with a fountain."
"mine did."
you're laughing now, and his hand tightens on yours. the streetlights get fewer and farther between. the trees grow taller, older, spanish moss dripping from the branches. you watch it all pass through the tinted window, hyperaware of the way his thumb is tracing circles against your palm.
"how much further?" you ask after a while.
"ten minutes."
your stomach flips. ten minutes until you're actually at his house. ten minutes until this stops being theoretical. you nod and look back out the window, biting the inside of your cheek. the road narrows. suddenly there are no more houses at all—just dense forest on either side.
"rafe?"
"yeah?"
"is it... big? your house?"
he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. "figured you'd see for yourself."
"that's not an answer."
"you'll see in a minute."
"that's not reassuring," you mutter, and he laughs again, his hand leaving yours only to slide higher up your thigh. your breath catches slightly.
"you think too much," he says.
"no i don't."
"yeah, you do." he glances at you. "can hear it from here."
you huff, but you're smiling. "well, excuse me for being a little nervous about seeing where you live for the first time. seems like it deserves a reasonable amount of overthinking."
"why?"
"because—" you falter, searching for the words. your heart is actually pounding now. "because i've never been to your house before. because i don't know what to expect. because—"
"hey." his voice is lower now, and his hand squeezes your thigh. "s'just a house."
"yeah... with a fountain."
"i told you, it came with—"
"i know what you said," you interrupt, grinning despite yourself. "i'm just saying... it doesn't sound like just a house. it sounds like a place where people like me don't really... fit."
he's quiet for a moment. then the trees break, and you see it: the ocean, dark and endless, the last of the sunset turning the water to gold.
"oh," you breathe.
rafe's hand tightens on your thigh. "almost there."
you can't look away from the water. you've always known he had money. you'd have to be blind not to notice the car, the watch, the way he never looks at a price tag. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.
he turns onto a private drive, oyster shells crunching under the tires. the forest opens up into something softer. sea grass and palmetto palms and flowering bushes you don't know the names of. it feels impossible to believe that there's a spot in a place like this for a girl like you.
"you alright over there?" he asks quietly, his eyes still on the road but his hand finding your thigh again.
you nod, not trusting your voice. your throat feels tight.
and then you see it. his house rising up ahead, low and modern with clean lines and huge windows that catch the last of the light. white siding, dark wood, a wraparound porch. there's a fountain in the circular drive.
you sit there, staring. this is his house. he actually lives here.
"told you," he says. "came with the house."
you let out a breathless laugh, but you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, already climbing out. the air smells like salt and jasmine and moss. the ocean is louder here.
rafe's already beside you, taking your duffel bag from your hand. "c'mon, baby."
he unlocks the front door and you follow him inside, and your breath catches. the space opens up in front of you: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that looks expensive but lived-in. warm wood floors beneath your feet. the kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, and the entire back wall is glass.
but that's not what makes you stop in your tracks.
it's the sneakers by the door. one tipped over on its side. the heel scuffed. the coffee mug on the side table—there's still liquid inside it. cold by now, probably. the book left open on the arm of the couch, pages down. the spine is creased, well-loved. a hoodie draped over the back of a kitchen chair, slate grey. mail stacked on the console table. a ceramic bowl filled with keys. coins scattered among them. a receipt folded in half.
"oh wow," you whisper.
rafe's leaning against the doorframe, watching you. "what?"
"i don't know... you actually live here."
"well, yeah."
"no, i mean—" you gesture at the mug, the book, the shoes. "like you woke up here this morning. you drank coffee. you left a book on the couch. you're just... you exist here."
"yeah, baby." he's grinning now. "i live here."
you turn in a slow circle, taking it in. the throw blanket on the couch, worn smooth in places. the record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you can see the edges of the album covers, the colors faded from sunlight. the way the light hits the kitchen island. there's a pen on the counter, uncapped. a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. the handwriting is unmistakably his—sharp, efficient, organized. there's a small framed photo on the mantle.
it's a much younger him and an older woman. she has his eyes.
"your mom?" you ask, not turning around.
"yeah," he says from behind you. "that's her."
you nod. you're standing in a photo of his life, looking at a photo of his mother, and something about it makes your chest feel tight. you don't know why exactly.
you wander into the kitchen, running your fingers along the cool granite. you open a cabinet without thinking and find glasses that are neatly stacked. you close it quickly, then you open another one. plates. another. bowls. you find a drawer filled with what looks like chaos: takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries, a phone charger with a frayed cord, business cards held together with a rubber band.
"this is a disaster," you say, gesturing at the chaos.
"yeah, well." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "that's where the random shit lives."
he has a junk drawer. like a normal person. and somehow that makes him feel more real.
you keep exploring, walking over to the refrigerator. there are photos held up with magnets. you pull open the fridge. it's surprisingly well-stocked. fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, a few bottles of expensive wine. there's a bottle of your favorite creamer on the second shelf.
"...is this mine?" you ask quietly, reaching for it.
he glances over from where he's started pulling things from the pantry. "hm?"
"the creamer."
"yeah."
your hand goes still. he bought this. he went to the store and bought the specific creamer you like and put it in his fridge knowing—knowing—that you'd eventually open this door and see it.
you don't say anything else. just put it back and close the fridge. your hands feel a little shaky. he just keeps moving, setting things on the counter. olive oil. garlic. a package of fresh pasta. basil in a small pot on the windowsill. he planned this. he really planned this.
"you're gonna cook?" you ask, wandering back over to the island, trying to sound casual.
"thought i'd make dinner." he's already pulling out a cutting board. "that alright with you?"
"yeah, i just—" you climb onto one of the barstools. "i didn't know you cooked."
"i don't really," he says, starting to chop garlic. "at least not all the time."
"so what, do you doordash?" you ask.
he stops chopping and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. "doordash?"
"i don't know." you shrug, smiling sheepishly. "i just thought you maybe had people bring you food or something."
"what am i, ninety?" he says flatly, going back to the garlic.
"you're almost forty."
he stops. looks at you again, his expression something between offended and amused. "that's rude."
you smile, and can't help but giggle. "i've been waiting to use that."
he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, but there's a small smile on his face. "old man," you mutter, and he flicks a piece of garlic at you without even looking.
you laugh again, ducking, and he pours you a glass of wine without asking. he slides it across the counter and you take a sip. it's cold and crisp. you watch him work, the knife against the board, the way he moves through the space like he's done this a thousand times. his forearms tanned and flexing. you take another sip of wine. stop staring.
the smell of garlic hits you suddenly, sharp and pungent, and your mouth waters. he's stirring something, and the pan hisses when he adds more ingredients. the smell becoming richer.
"so you cook couple times a week then?" you ask, genuinely curious now.
"yeah," he says, not looking up from what he's doing. "relaxes me."
you put that away for later. you take another sip of wine and notice him glance at you, then back at the stove.
"how long have you lived here?" you ask.
"couple years."
"do you like it?"
"yeah." he doesn't elaborate.
you wander away from the counter, drawn to the bookshelf in the living room. you run your fingers along the spines. cookbooks, mostly, but also novels you recognize, a few nonfiction titles about business, some memoirs. there's a small ceramic bowl on the shelf, filled with shells and smooth stones. you pick up one of the shells, turning it over in your hands. it's worn soft at the edges.
"you collect shells?" you call out.
"hm?" he appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "nah. just stuff i find."
you put it back and keep browsing. you find a photo album wedged between two books and pull it out, but you don't open it because that feels too invasive. there's a record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you read the titles, trying to piece together who he is. old soul records sitting next to indie rock sitting next to classical. it doesn't match what you expected.
"you comin' back over here or you gonna take inventory of my whole house?" he calls out.
"just getting to know the place," you call back. you head back to the kitchen anyway, perching on the barstool again.
he's stirred the sauce, added something else. the kitchen smells incredible. your stomach rumbles, and he glances at you, his mouth curving slightly.
"almost ready," he says. "grab some plates from that cabinet." he nods toward one on the far side of the kitchen.
you hop down and pull out two plates, setting them on the counter beside him. he plates the pasta with ease, and without thinking, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "thank you, rafe." you murmur.
he looks momentarily stunned, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he catches your chin with his free hand and tilts your face toward his. he kisses you properly, soft and warm before handing over the plate.
steam rises from it. you take a bite before you even sit back down, and make a small sound of approval without meaning to.
"not bad for a guy who survives on doordash, huh." he says, settling onto the stool next to you.
you laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "i didn't say you survive on doordash. i just—"
"you absolutely implied it."
"okay, fine. i thought you did. clearly i was wrong." you take another bite. "this is actually really good."
he takes a bite of his pasta, watching you. "you taste wine with this?" he asks, nodding at your glass.
"not yet," you take another sip of the wine. the flavors pair perfectly. "oh. wow."
"hm," he says, like that was the obvious choice all along, and goes back to eating.
you eat in comfortable silence for a while. it's easy, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his space, your knee brushing his under the counter. he doesn't move away. if anything, he shifts closer. his hand finds your lower back at one point, stays there for a moment while he reaches for his wine glass with the other, then moves away. he feeds you a bite of his pasta with his fork, watching you carefully as you taste it. your face flushes.
"this is really good," you say after a few minutes, your voice slightly smaller than before.
"you already said that."
"i know. but it is. like, genuinely."
he glances at you, then back at his plate. you watch him for a second, then go back to your own food. there's something intimate about eating together like this, sitting close in his kitchen, the ocean visible through the massive windows behind you.
when you're finished eating, you start to stand, reaching for his plate, but he catches your wrist gently.
"leave it," he says.
"rafe, i can—"
"sweetheart, just leave it."
you hesitate, then sit back down. he stands, rounding the island to rinse his hands in the sink. he leaves the plates where they are, just washes his hands and turns back to you.
"you wanna go for a walk?" he asks.
you look surprised. "now?"
"why not?"
you glance at the plates, then back at him. "the sun's almost gone."
"i know." he's already moving toward the glass doors that lead to the deck. "come on."
you follow him, and he doesn't wait for you to grab shoes. you slip off the barstool and just follow him outside. the air hits you immediately, cooler than this afternoon. salt-laced and clean. the sky is still holding onto the last traces of daylight, deep blue fading to violet at the horizon. the ocean sounds different. louder.
"oh my god," you breathe, stopping to look around. "this is—rafe, this is insane."
"you think so?" he says, and there's that slight curve to his mouth. he's watching you, not the view.
"you just— walk out here whenever you want?"
"pretty much."
you shake your head, laughing. the privilege of it is almost absurd. "you're so lucky. the beach back home is always packed with tourists."
"you can come here whenever you want," he says, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you like he's imagining you here, coming back, making this a habit. "you know that, right?"
"really?" you ask, your voice softer now.
"yeah, baby. any time."
you walk a little further, the water getting closer. the sand is soft and still warm from the day, giving slightly under your weight. it's quiet out here. just you and him and the sound of the ocean.
"wait," you say suddenly, stopping. "do you swim out here?"
he huffs a laugh. "mm, sometimes."
"at night?"
"yeah."
"that's terrifying."
"nah." he tugs you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "it's peaceful. we should sometime."
"it's dark," you counter, but you're grinning now, leaning into him. "what if there's like a shark or something?"
"wouldn't stand a chance against me."
you burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. "you're ridiculous."
"i'm serious." he's grinning too now, catching your hand before you can pull away completely. "what— you think i'm lettin' a shark get you?"
"oh my god, stop—"
but he's already pulling you in, kissing you mid-laugh. his hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt into it immediately. his other hand finds the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. he tastes like salt and wine. when he pulls back you're both smiling, both a little breathless.
he kisses you again, softer this time. "hi," he murmurs, teasing.
you pull back just enough to look at him, feeling heat creep up your neck. "hi," you say sheepishly, and he grins before leaning in to kiss you again—quick pecks along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
you're still catching your breath when he pulls back to look at you. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, slow enough to make your stomach flip.
"jesus..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "look at you." the way he says it makes your cheeks heat up.
"c'mere."
"i'm already here."
"not close enough."
heat floods your face and you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? he smiles into it immediately, both hands gripping your waist as you melt against him. when you finally pull back, he's still looking at you with that same expression.
"what am i gonna do with you, huh?" he murmurs.
you pull back and look out at the water. the last of the sunlight is turning everything gold. the wind picks up, and you shiver slightly. your bare feet are cold against the sand.
rafe doesn't say anything. he just pulls off his zip up and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. it's warm from his body, and it swallows you—the sleeves falling past your wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh. you wrap it around yourself and breathe in.
"alright," he says, taking your hand. "let's go back in before you freeze."
you follow him back up the beach, your fingers laced with his. when you reach the deck you notice your shoes still sitting there by the door. right next to his, like they belong there.
the warmth of the house wraps around you when you step back inside. the dishes are still on the counter. he's already moving past that, gesturing toward the couch. "c'mere, baby."
he picks up the remote and scrolls through something on the tv. a movie flickers to life on the screen, but you're not really watching. you're watching him. the way he moves. the way he tosses the remote onto the coffee table like he's done it a thousand times. he settles beside you on the couch, and you don't hesitate. you shift closer immediately, tucking yourself against his side. his arm comes around you properly, his hand settling at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your ribs. the cotton of his shirt is soft beneath your palm. you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. it's faster than you expect.
"better?" he asks.
"much," you say.
he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. you turn slightly and catch his lips properly, and he makes a soft sound before pulling back. his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there, and he's kissing you again before you can take a full breath.
this kiss is different. slower. he takes his time, pressing his lips to yours once, twice, then deeper—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him. when he licks into your mouth, your stomach clenches and heat pools low between your thighs. you make a small sound against his mouth and he groans, pulling you closer.
his hand tightens on your neck—not rough, but firm. his other hand finds your waist and he's pulling you toward him, and you're moving without thinking, your knee sliding up onto the couch cushion.
suddenly you're half in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls you the rest of the way, adjusting you so you're straddling him properly. the kiss turns messy. his tongue slides against yours and he tastes like the wine from dinner, like salt air, like want. you press yourself against him and feel the hard line of his cock between your thighs where you need him most
his hands grip your hips and he pulls you tighter against him, harder. his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and you whimper into his mouth, clenching around absolutely nothing.
"yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough. "you like that?"
you nod, but it's not enough. you pull back just slightly, still straddling him, still breathing hard. your eyes meet his and for a second neither of you moves. you can feel the slight dampness between your legs, the way your panties are starting clinging to you. god, you're already wet for him and he hasn't even hardly touched you.
"please," you whisper, and your voice comes out small and broken and completely helpless. "i need you."
he watches you for a moment, and you can see him fighting it. fighting himself. and you're trembling slightly, still twitching against him, your hips moving in these tiny involuntary circles because you can't help it. you need friction. you need him.
"fuck, baby—" he pulls you back down, kissing you harder now, messier. like he's trying to devour you.
"need more," you whine against his mouth, the words coming out breathless and desperate. he groans into your neck, kissing along the line of your throat, his hands shaking slightly.
his free hand slides down your back, past your waist, and grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. you can feel exactly how much he wants you. the strain of his jeans, the hard heat of him pressing right where you need it most.
"please—" you say it against his mouth, just that one word, and he groans like you've actually hurt him.
for a moment it feels like it could go either way. like he could just keep going, like he could bend you over the back of this couch and—
but then he stops.
it's sudden enough that it takes your breath away. his hands still. his kiss gentles, though he keeps his mouth on yours for just a second longer. then he pulls back, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing is ragged.
"hey—" he says quietly. "look at me."
you're already looking at him, but he reaches up anyway and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs settling on your cheeks. he tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. up close like this, you can see exactly how much restraint this is costing him. his pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, a flush creeping up his neck.
"gotta be good for me, alright?" he says, and his voice is rough. rough in a way that makes your stomach clench. "can you do that? be patient for me?"
be patient? wait? you're not sure you can sit here and not combust. you nod, but your eyes are already tracking down to his mouth. to the way his lips are swollen from kissing you, the slight shine on his mouth. you want to lean in and taste him again so badly your whole body aches with it. your hips shift slightly, just an inch, testing—
"look at me," he repeats, not unkindly, and you snap your gaze back to his immediately, but it takes actual effort. like your body doesn't want to listen to anything but the pull toward him.
"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise hits you somewhere deep. his thumbs trace your cheekbones, gentle now, tender. "we're gonna do this right. but not tonight, yeah? tonight you're just gonna sit with me."
you nod again because you can't speak. because you're trembling slightly, something hot buzzing just beneath your skin. and he's holding your face like you're something precious and the contradiction of it—the softness and the absolute control—is making you dizzy. some part of you is thinking how long you can actually wait before you lose your mind.
he kisses your forehead, then releases your face. his hand finds your waist instead and settle there.
"c'mon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. his breathing is still heavy. "sit with me."
but when you shift to move beside him on the couch, he pulls you back into his lap instead. his arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you against his chest. you can feel him beneath you, still hard, but he's resting his chin on your shoulder like this is enough. like just holding you like this is enough for right now.
the movie plays on. you're not watching it. you're not even pretending to watch it. you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his hands occasionally drifting lower before he catches himself. his breathing is steady now, but you can feel his heartbeat. fast, still affected by what just happened between you.
after a while, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "you okay?" he murmurs.
"yeah,"
"good." another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you feel it shoot straight down your spine. his hand tightens on your waist. he doesn’t make it easy.
you sit like that for a while, existing in this space between wanting and waiting. his breathing eventually steadies, but his hands don't stop moving, tracing patterns on your ribs, your waist, your back.
eventually, you shift position slightly, turning so you can rest your head in his lap. his hand immediately finds your hair, fingers threading through it gently, stroking from your crown down to the ends. you have no idea what's happening on screen anymore.
"mm, you're gettin' sleepy," he says after a while, his fingers still moving through your hair.
"'m not," you murmur, but your eyes are already closing.
"no? cuz it looks like it."
"but i'm awake," you protest, but your words are soft, slurring slightly.
his fingers keep moving through your hair, up and down, up and down, a small, knowing smiling playing on his lips.
"c'mon, baby," he says softly. "let's get you to bed."
you want to argue, but you're too tired. so you just nod, and he helps you sit up, his hand steadying you. your legs are a little unsteady. the darkness wraps around you. your bare feet are cold against the hardwood floor. but his hand is warm against the small of your back.
the bedroom is at the end of the hall. when he pushes the door open, you stop in the doorway for a second. clean lines, dark wood furniture, a massive bed with crisp white sheets. there's a watch box on the dresser, a book on the nightstand, a pair of his shoes by the closet door. it smells like him.
"bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the far wall. his hand is still on your back.
you nod and cross the room. the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, the light flickers on automatically. it's beautiful. all white marble and clean glass. you step inside, your bare feet cold against the tile, and that's when you see it.
a toothbrush. sitting on the counter beside the sink. in your favorite color.
you freeze. your hand hovers over the counter. it's just a toothbrush. just plastic. but he bought this. he put it here. your eyes move to the folded fabric beside it. silk pajamas, soft and expensive. your size. you reach out and touch them, the material slipping through your fingers like water.
there are bottles lined up near the shower. you pick one up, turning it over in your hands. light and floral. the scent hits you immediately—something that reminds you of the perfume you wear on special occasions.
your hands are shaking slightly when you set it back down.
you hear him before you see him. his presence fills the doorway. when you turn, he's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.
your throat tightens.
he pushes off the doorframe and crosses to you slowly. his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. you can feel the warmth of him. his chin rests on the top of your head.
"the toothbrush," you say. your voice sounds small. "the pajamas. the shampoo."
"yeah," he says simply.
"how long ago did you buy those?"
he's quiet for a second. "while," he says finally. "been thinkin' about you stayin' over for a bit."
you turn around in his arms to face him. his eyes are soft, patient.
"so you've been planning this," you say.
"yeah." he doesn't sound apologetic.
you've never had anyone be this thoughtful. this intentional. your ex-boyfriends never remembered how you took your coffee. never planned for you. never looked at you like you were something precious. something they wanted to keep.
"you okay with that?"
"yeah," you whisper. "yeah, i'm okay with that."
he kisses your hair once, soft and tender before letting you go. "go get ready," he murmurs. "i'll be in bed."
you nod and he leaves, and you're alone again with the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shampoo that smells like you.
you change into the silk pajamas (they fit perfectly, of course they do), and brush your teeth with the toothbrush he bought. when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright.
when you step back into the bedroom, he's already under the covers, propped up on one elbow. the lamp on his nightstand casts everything in warm gold. he's shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. for a second you just stand there.
his eyes follow you as you cross the room like he's taking his time appreciating the sight of you in pajamas he bought for you. in his room. in his house
"c'mere," he says, and you slip under the sheets beside him.
for a moment, you're not sure where to put yourself. your hands hover awkwardly.
then he huffs out a quiet laugh and his arm reaches across the space between you. he pulls you against his chest without hesitation, his hand splaying wide across your back. your bare skin meets his warmth, and you suck in a breath.
"there," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you—soft and slow and deep. once, twice. his hand slides up into your hair, tilting your face toward his. you make a small sound against his mouth, and he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours. deeper. like he's trying to commit the feeling of you to memory.
when he finally breaks the kiss, he's breathing harder.
"goodnight, sweetheart." he whispers, and his voice is rough.
"goodnight, rafe." you murmur back, settling against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. your bare hand rests over his heart. you can feel it racing. his arm wraps around you properly now. you can feel his chin rest against the top of your head. his hand moves slowly up and down your back. he's still awake. still aware.
you're hyperaware of how little you're wearing. how close you are.
eventually, your breathing evens out, and you drift off like that—wrapped around him, his hand on your back, the sound of the ocean through the window.
you wake up slowly and for a second, you forget where you are. the ceiling isn’t quite right. the angle of the sun is wrong. then you remember. you're in his bed.
you turn your head, and he's right there. still asleep. his face is turned toward you on the pillow, one arm stretched out between you. his breathing is slow and even. his mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. his hair is messy, falling across his forehead. without his usual intensity, he looks younger. softer.
you've never seen him like this. the morning light catches on the stubble along his jaw, which is thicker this morning than it was last night. you want to reach out and touch him, but you're afraid to wake him.
slowly, carefully, you reach out anyway.
your fingers hover over his face for a second before you let them settle against his jaw. the stubble is rough under your fingertips, coarser than you expected. you trace the line of it, feather-light. his skin is warm. you move higher, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.
your fingers move to his temple, then his hairline, smoothing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead. you let your hand rest there for a moment, your palm against the side of his face.
and then it hits you all at once.
you're in love with him.
your heart kicks into overdrive, your hand still on his face, and you can't breathe. you're completely, irrevocably in love with him. this man who bought you a toothbrush and silk pajamas weeks ago. who remembered how you take your coffee. who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. who's been planning to have you here all along.
he stirs.
it's small at first—just a shift in his breathing. then his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he's looking right at you.
his mouth curves immediately.
"caught you," he says, his arm sliding around your waist. he pulls you closer.
heat floods your face. "no," you say anyway, but you're smiling despite yourself.
"no?" he repeats, his eyes sharper now. then he leans down and kisses you before you can deny it again.
"mornin'," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.
"good morning," you say back.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand still on your back, his eyes dark. "what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
you shake your head. "nothing."
his eyes narrow slightly. his thumb traces slow circles on your skin—bare skin.
"mm."
he studies you for another moment, then leans down and kisses you again—deeper this time. slower. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. you kiss him back, your fingers curling into his shoulder, and he makes a low sound. when you look at him, there's that slight curve to his mouth. but his eyes are darker than before.
"c'mere," he murmurs, and he's pulling you up to straddle his lap without breaking eye contact. his hands steady you at the hips, and then they move—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the thin silk. his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts and you suck in a breath.
"you're okay?" he asks.
"more than okay,".
he kisses you again, and you let yourself sink into it. your hands find his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath your palms. you can feel his heartbeat racing. his hand slides up your back, and suddenly the only thing between you is silk and the awareness of what's happening. the way your body fits against his. the way his hands know exactly where to touch you.
when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. "i want—" you start, and then you're not sure how to finish that sentence.
"i know," he says quietly. "but not yet. wanna do it right with you." you reply with a nod, even though what you want right now has nothing to do with right.
he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "c'mon," he murmurs. "let me take care of you. coffee?"
“yes please.”
he moves to get out of bed, and you follow the shift, adjusting slightly as he sits up, your legs still tangled with his. he disappears for a moment, and then you hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood.
when he appears in the doorway again, he's holding a mug in one hand—the same blue one from yesterday—and a small plate balanced in the other. still shirtless. still rumpled. his hair still falling across his forehead.
he sets the mug carefully on the nightstand. the plate follows, and then he just stands there for a second, looking at you. his gaze feels intimate, like he's looking at something that belongs to him.
"you look good in my bed,"
your face heats, and you're smiling sheepishly. "rafe—"
he sits on the edge of the mattress, and you shift closer without thinking. his hand finds your hair automatically, smoothing it back from your face. he stops, his hand stilling in your hair. his eyes move over your face.
you glance over and watch as steam curls lazily from the rim of the mug. you can smell it from here—rich and warm and sweet, exactly how you like it.
"still can’t believe you remembered the creamer," you murmur.
"’course i did." it's not a question. his hand slides down to cup your jaw. "c'mon. sit up."
you push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, and reach for the mug. it's warm in your hands. you take a sip, and it's perfect.
he doesn't ask if it's okay. he just watches you, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets, his thumb moving in that slow rhythm. but his eyes don't leave your face.
you take another sip, and his mouth curves slightly.
"what?" you ask.
"nothin'." but he's still watching you.
you set the mug back on the nightstand and reach for the toast, breaking off a corner. you take a bite, and you wrinkle your nose slightly.
"oh, so that's how we're doing this," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you're gonna judge my old man breakfast?"
"i'm not judging," you say, but you're grinning. "i'm just observing. burnt toast and coffee. very... vintage of you."
he leans back slightly, his hand still on your thigh, and gives you a mock offended look. "vintage?"
"sorry, i meant to say geriatric."
"geriatric," he repeats, shaking his head. "you're callin' me geriatric while you're sitting in my bed eating the breakfast i made you?"
you bite your lip, trying not to smile. "when you put it like that—"
"so what does that make you?" he asks, leaning closer. his hand drifts higher on your thigh. "you're the one who likes old men, so what's that say about your taste?"
heat floods your cheeks. "my taste is clearly terrible."
"terrible, huh?" he's grinning now, that cocky smirk on his face. "you seemed to think my taste was pretty good last night on the couch."
"rafe—"
"what?" he says innocently. "i'm just sayin'."
you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it easily, laughing. but then he tosses it aside and leans over, kissing you softly. when he pulls back, he's still smiling.
"finish your breakfast, baby. before it gets cold," he says, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before he stands up and heads to the bathroom.
you watch him go, your heart still racing, and take another bite of the burnt toast.
he comes back a little while later, showered and almost dressed, and the morning light catches on the water droplets still clinging to his hair. you're still in bed, cradling the empty coffee mug, watching him move around the room.
"you alright?" he asks, pulling on a black tshirt.
"yeah," you say, and you mean it.
he bends down and kisses the top of your head, his hand lingering on your hair for a moment. "you have to be back soon?"
“i told my mom this afternoon.” the reminder of reality crashes down like cold water. you don't want to leave.
"mmm.” he says quietly, like he can read your mind, "you could text her. tell her you're stayin' another night."
your heart jumps for a moment, then another wave of reality hits you. "not sure that i’d be so lucky."
"worth a shot, yeah?" he sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "i want you here."
your throat tightens.
"i know," you whisper.
for a second, you let yourself imagine it. another morning. another cup of coffee. another night falling asleep with the windows open and the ocean just outside. he studies your face for a second before leaning in to kiss you again, slow this time. his thumb brushes your cheek when he pulls away.
"alright," he murmurs. "we'll worry about that later."
you nod. later can wait a little longer.
𝑎/𝑛: EEEEKKKKKK i love them so fucking much i can’t. i love love. i want to be love.
i’m willing to bet at least a few of you were wondering where a lil special something was… and trust me, i get it LOL. but i really wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of their relationship and make sure their weekend together paid off emotionally, rather than risk having that swallowed up by smut. before i even started writing, i knew i wanted the heart of this chapter to be reader realizing she’s completely in love with him.
that being said… i am planning to write a yummy smutty bonus that’s basically an alternate ending to stay a while. 🤭 so stay tuned!!!
please let me know what you guys think via comments and reblogs! pls pls pls feel free to send asks and requests as well! i promise i don’t bite ♡
Can I please request dad Steve taking his baby girl to the beach for the first time he’s all flustered that she doesn’t like it or maybe that she’s burning in the sun? I’m not sure if you write for dad Steve so ignore this if you don’t much love
Sorry I ignored this for so long, Thank u for requesting🤍 You didnt mention anything about reader so I made him single dad Steve hope that's okay.
ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ʙᴀʙʏ
Steve stood barefoot in the sand, chunky baby just turned 11 months old balancing on his hip as he exhaled. Doing his own risk assessment in his head as he looked at how crowded it was, the sun blaring down onto her precious skin, the risk of the water even though she couldn’t walk yet so she couldn’t escape him.
“Hmm” Steve hummed as he looked down at her, grinning up at him showing all of her two teeth. “Wanna give sand a go?” Steve smiled straightening the hat on her head, the biggest sun hat he could find matching her pink swim suit and pink little sunglasses. He didn’t even know they made sunglasses this small, the baby babbled back to him before her chunky hand rips the hat from her head making Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh honey, no” he gently takes the hat from her hand placing it back onto her head “you’ll burn”
Settling against the sand baby still attached to his hip before repositioning her on his lap, letting her little toes gently rest against the sand.
“Feel okay?” Steve asks pressing a kiss to the top of her hat, smiling as her legs raise off the floor and hands turn into little fists “oh you don’t like the sand, that’s okay baby. Daddy doesn’t really like it either, gets in all sorts of places” she turned her head round to face him like she could actually understand what he was saying to her, that’s the thing with Steve. He knew she couldn’t talk back, but he still talked to her like she could in hopes that when she did start talking it would help her. Not at all because since he'd separated from her mom he'd been lonely with no one to talk to.
Steve’s hand scooped up some sand holding it out in front of her face, little hand instantly reaching for it.
“Hey! Good job!” Steve praised, feeling proud. “Here, try this” Steve tipped some of the sand from his into her hand as he smiled, smile dropping off his face as her bottom lip pouted out and she turned her hand over to drop it. “Oh baby” Steve spoke softly making her bottom lip pout out more before she started to cry. “No more sand, daddy promises” Steve says as he lifts her into an embrace, hand soothingly patting against her back “hmm, you feel warm, are you burning?” Steve sighed wondering why he ever thought the beach would be a good idea. “Maybe we should head home, would you like that?” Steve asked looking down at her, big eyes filled with tears gazing up at him making him sigh “we’re fine, nothings gonna happen to us” Steve mumbled to himself before standing up, moving her onto his hip again “let’s try something else, sand a bit..” he shook his head as he started walking towards the water hoping it would be warm from the sun.
“Okay baby, just like a bath” he grinned down at her, earning himself a toothy grin back as he stepped into the warm water. Crouching down a little so her feet were submerged in the water, Heart fluttering in his chest at the smile on her face as she kicked her legs around splashing. "Oh, So you're a water baby!" Steve laughs happy to finally see a smile on her face.
for the gator x pregnant reader series, could you write something like a few months later when the bump is more prominent, reader calls gator after someone was rude to her and he just crashes out. like he’s quite dramatic with it and fights them or threatens to arrest them or something? just gator being protective of reader even tho he pretends he doesn’t care
thankyou for requesting for this story! i’ll be taking other requests for gator and reader during the pregnancy. i know this is around midway through but if there’s some requests where you’d still like early pregnancy blurbs then i’ll still write it ofc
part one & part two
It was a few months later, there wasn’t much communication between you both but when there was, you could tell he was trying. he was still extremely conflicted with the whole situation, he didn’t want a child, never wanted one. he knew he wasn’t born to be a dad, he was born to take orders and protect those who needed protection. but at the same time, whenever he thought too hard about you and the baby.. he felt stuck. it was his baby after all.
he was currently driving home from a shift, he got off earlier than usual so it was only around 8pm.
just as gator thought about it all again, his eyebrows furrowed as he spotted a familiar figure walking on the sidewalk. he slowed the truck, studying the person more closely before his eyebrows raised slightly in surprise as he realized it was you. this was unexpected... he hadn't seen you in person for a while. his eyes darted to the bump of your belly, more prominent than before which made him feel a rush of things that he quickly buried deep.
he pulled over to the side of the road and rolled down the window, calling out gruffly, "hey."
you turn around, immediately recognising the voice and wipe under your eyes with a soft sniffle. "oh.. hi.."
his eyebrows furrow slightly when he sees your slightly red eyes and pink nose. "you cryin'?"
"no.." was all you said and he immediately called bullshit. he let out a low sigh before jerking his chin toward the passenger seat. "get in." his tone was rough, but there was no real bite behind it.
you hesitated for a moment before slowly opening the passenger door and getting in, your movements slow and slightly unsteady.
gator watched you quietly as you buckled yourself in, his eyes flickering over your face. he was silent for a moment before clearing his throat and asking gruffly, "why you cryin? do i gotta get involved?"
you quickly shake your head. "no, it’s fine.. i’m just being over emotional i guess. yknow, pregnancy stuff?" you sniffle again, looking away from him.
the sound of you crying tugged at something deep within him. he let out a rough exhale, hands gripping the wheel tightly. "over emotional about what? the weather? traffic? what." it was a lame attempt at a joke.
the emotions flooded back as you spoke, voice sounding thick with tears. "just a man.. kept asking me questions ab—about me.. and the baby.. i—i told him to leave an—and he just yelled in my face."
his jaw tightened, anger flaring up unexpectedly. he knew it was probably just some random guy on the street, but the thought of anyone yelling at you—especially a pregnant girl—made his blood boil. he kept his voice gruff as he muttered gruffly, "a man started bothering you? just some rando on the street?"
you didn’t respond, instead nodding as your lip quivered slightly. a million different scenarios rushed through his head, each one worse than the last before he settles on one he finds most important. "he touch you?"
you thought back, "just my shoulder.. he—he was drunk. had a drink in his other hand.."
his voice was taut as he ground out his next question, "what'd this guy look like?" he needed information on this man. now.
"i don’t know.. tried not to look at him. he was scary." you admitted.
gator let out a low curse, frustration and anger simmering just below the surface. his eyes flicked over to you for a brief moment, taking in your tear-streaked face. he didn't like seeing you this way—especially since it was because of some goddamn bastard. and even more so that you tried not to look at him because he was scaring you. "you gotta give me something more than that," he muttered gruffly.
you breathe a shaky inhale, "i—i don’t know.. he had a white shirt.. an—and a chain.."
gator listened to your description, his mind working through the vague details. "a plain white shirt?" he pressed, hoping for any kind of defining feature. after you nod, he motions to the path. "you mean that guy? walkin’ right there?"
your eyes widened slightly. just by gators expression you knew what he was thinking. "gator.. dont. there’s so need to do anything.. can you just drive me home?"
gator's shoulders tensed at your pleading tone. he knew you didn't want him to make a scene, but his protective instincts were flared up now. he couldn't just let some random dumbass get away with yelling in your face—not when you were pregnant, with his baby. "that jackass yelled at you. i ain’t just lettin' him get away with it."
you shook your head quickly, your face paling in realization. "n—no, don't do anything. please. i’m just being dramatic..."
his expression hardened "bullshit. you're not bein' dramatic." he said gruffly. "no one should be yellin' at you. especially not when you're pregnant. especially not some drunk fuckin stranger."
there’s a pause as he takes a breath, "i ain’t gonna hurt him bad, okay? just gimme a minute.." he didn't wait for you to respond. the second he saw the guy up close, his blood boiled and he slammed the car door shut. he didn’t even say anything at first—just walked right up to him. he was in his uniform too, the guy knew he was talking to a cop. "the hell you think you're doin'. yellin’ at a fuckin' pregnant woman like that?"
the guy looked up in surprise at the sound of gator's voice. he was clearly caught off guard, but he quickly attempted to play it cool. his gaze flicked down to gator's uniform, and a sneer appeared on his face. "what’re ya talking about man?"
he bristled at the guy's attitude, his expression hardening. "don't act dumb, jackass. i saw you yellin in the girl's face—a pregnant girl. what the hell did you say to her to get her so worked up, huh?"
the drunk bastard had the nerve to smirk at that, his beady eyes flickering with something between defiance and panic. "she was askin' for it," he slurred out, gesturing vaguely toward you in the truck. "just tryna make some conversation then the bitch started talkin’ back to me like some smartass. told her she can go an' fuck hersel—"
gator didn't let him finish.
his fist connected with the man’s jaw before he could even blink, sending him stumbling back into a parked car. "you got three fuckin seconds to scram the fuck off," he growled, voice low and dangerous, "or i swear to god, you ain't walkin' outta here on your own two feet."
the guy stumbled back, cradling his jaw as he stared up at gator in a mix of shock and fear. the police badge reminded him to not go further. "a—alright, man.. i'm goin'." he rasped out, starting to back away.
gators expression stayed hard as he watched the man retreat. he then turned on his heel and walked back to the truck. you just stared at him with slightly widened eyes, not sure wether to run, or to thank him. "c—can you take me home now? please?"
he wanted to say something—wanted to apologise for scaring you—but he didn't know how. "yeah," he muttered gruffly after a beat of silence, "i'll take ya home." he turned the key in the ignition and pulled back onto the road.
clark always thought he had the whole superhero thing down… that was until he became a father to a very clingy baby daughter.
warnings: fussy baby, clark sort of going through it because he quite literally got ran over by an alien aircraft, and a teeny tiny bit of angst. if i forgot anything please let me know!
author’s note: you guys have been eating up baby fever so of course i had to deliver more! thank you for all of the support and if you have any more ideas for dad!clark i would absolutely love to hear!
you’re cooking dinner in the kitchen while april bounces in her jumper, gnawing on a teething ring like her life depends on it. she’s been awfully grumpy lately- you can’t blame her. teething must suck, especially when she’s waking up every hour of the night because of it.
the floor rattles a bit with a heavy thump that comes from your balcony, followed by the glass door sliding open. you don’t hear it at first, but your daughter does. you think she has some sixth sense when clark arrives home. today was like no other, an alien threat had been made on metropolis and of course superman was the first one to arrive on the scene. you don’t even bother to watch the news report it anymore. the stress is too much to handle and you don’t want april to get any ideas of what her daddy is getting up to when he’s not around.
however, you hear april whine over the fizzling that comes from the stove where you’re stirring a pot of broth in. quickly, you shut off the stove and round the corner of the entrance towards the living room. april is either whining because she’s bored of the teething ring or clark is home. today, it was both.
the teething ring gets discarded on the floor as april stomps her padded feet on the ground. she cries, “da-da!” as clark fully steps into the room. your expression falls.
clark looks beat. and not in the way your smutty fantasy books describe the male protagonist looking awfully beautiful after nearly getting beaten to death. something about a man bloody, bruised, and on his knees… good lord. but, your real life husband appears as if he got ran over by an alien aircraft. honestly, he might have.
with the sun gone, clark can’t heal as fast. there’s a nasty bruise beginning to form right underneath his left eye, a nasty cut across his upper lip, and his curls are all mussed. crusted with dirt and leaves. neither one of you speak because your daughter begins to grow oh-so impatient.
“da-da!”
clark softens a little, but there’s still a knot of tension you notice he’s holding between his shoulder blades. he limps- yes, limps towards your daughter and hesitates to pick her up. clark looks down at his hands, they are covered with dirt and scabs.
“i-“ your heart shatter’s as you watch from your spot leaning on the doorway as clark stutters over his words. you can practically hear the tiredness and desperation in his voice. he crouches down to april’s height, “just give me one second angel, daddy has to wash his hands. i promise-“
as clark moves, your daughter lets out piercing shriek. he comes to an erupted halt, eyes flickering to yours in pure panic.
you frown, smiling sadly at clark. “go ahead baby, i’ll bring her to you.” you whisper. it’s a little hard to hear over your daughter’s cries and clark looks like he wants to deny, but he can’t. because he is so filthy right now.
clark mouths, “i love you,” before rushing off into your shared bathroom.
your poor, sweet, angry teething daughter probably thinks her dad is abandoning her again. but, you’re quick to reassure. you scoop april out of the jumper, bouncing her on your hip as she claws at your sleep t-shirt. (it’s not yours actually, it’s clark’s. but, he’s never minded- actually, clark insisted you are more then welcome to wear his old, smallville t-shirts from when he was back in high school)
“i know baby, i know,” you coo, treading over to the master bedroom. “how about we sit on the bed and watch some cartoons while we wait for daddy? does that sound okay?”
if your daughter could talk, she would probably say, “heck no mom, i want to see dad now! who cares about stupid cartoons!” honestly, you wouldn’t blame her if she did. but, april can’t talk really, so she sniffles and whines. trying to escape from where you have gently laid her on the comforter and have to keep reeling her back to safety.
when the shower head turns off, april’s head perks up like a puppy hearing the word treat. you hold her upright, leaning down to press a kiss on the side of her chubby cheek. “daddy’s coming out real soon. i promise.” you whisper, and on cue, clark comes out of the bathroom.
he’s got a towel loosely draped across his hips, giving full display of his bare chest. his hair is slick and damp, a few curls come draping across his forehead and you want nothing more then to push them out of the way. he smiles softly, it doesn’t quite reach his cheeks, but you know he cares. clark cares so deeply even during his toughest hours.
your daughter topples out of your hold around the same time clark is sitting on the edge of the bed, lifting april up into his arms. she immediately curls against his chest, head resting against his shoulder, and cries for what you think is relief now that she is finally in her dad’s arms.
clark glances over at you sheepishly as he rubs soothing circles on april’s back. “i’m sorry.”
your eyebrows pinch together in concern, “clark, honey, why are you sorry?” but he doesn’t need to say, you already know. he does this every-time he comes home from saving the world.
you scoot closer towards clark, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder before your lips find the connection between his ear and jaw. it’s a feather light kiss, but enough to let clark know that you are here, healthy, and present. the touch makes his eyes flutter shut for a second before your reeling back. face to face.
“you don’t have to be sorry for doing good,” you whisper, lifting your hand up to tuck a curl behind his ear. “all i care about is that you are putting your health first and doing what’s right.”
“i should be here.” he’s not trying to fight back, he is pleading.
you rest your hand underneath his jaw, dragging your thumb slowly across the line. tilting your head slightly to get a better look at clark. “as much as i would love for you to be here all the time, that would be selfish. you have a whole population that relies on you and adores you, clark. and i know deep down, you love every second of it.”
april lets out a quiet snore, adjusting herself in clark’s hold. you both glance at her in awe, how perfect your little girl is. you rest your head on clark’s other shoulder, the one that isn’t preoccupied by a very sleepy april.
“i’m sorry you had a rough day.”
clark shakes his head, resting his chin on the top of your scalp. “eh, it was nothing. just another galactic slime ball that ran me over with their ship.”
you snort, “so, you did get run over by a ship.” lifting your head, you find clark with a puzzled grin. you bite down on your lip, trying not to laugh mainly because you don’t want to wake up april who has finally settled down. “when you… you walked in i thought you looked like you got ran over by a ship.”
clark tilts his head back with ease, his chest shaking as he tries to fight back the laughter. you are quick to cup his face and reel it back towards yours. “you still look handsome!” you say quietly through giggles, “you just- you just had a tire mark across the side of your neck. it was a… little rough looking.”
clark smirks, lifting april further up his chest as he nudges his nose against yours. “but you like that, don’t you?” and when you blush profusely, clark chuckles. “i love you, you know that? more then anything, which is why i will always come back to you both. always.”
Hey I love ur fics! Would you be able to do one where Steve and reader broke up a little while ago and they end up at a party together and he sees her talking to a guy and he gets super jealous and over protective and she finds him hot when he made his way over and like started talking to her as if they guy talking to her doesn’t even exist but she acts mad and they go into the bathroom together and he isn’t over her at all and starts almost begging for her and calling her baby and then turns into a makeout and smut if that makes sense lol 💞
Still Yours
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
W/C: 3.7k
Summary: You and Steve can’t seem to get over each other even after breaking up over three months ago, but jealousy reignites feelings.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, p in v, protected sex, kissing
The bass thumped through your chest as you leaned against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, laughing at something the guy in front of you said. What was his name again? Tyler? Trevor? It didn't really matter. He was cute enough with sandy blonde hair, an easy smile, the kind of guy who probably played lacrosse or something equally preppy. I don't know, not like I'm interested anyway.
"So yeah, that's how I ended up with a scar on my ass from a shopping cart" he finished, grinning like he'd just told the funniest story in the world.
You laughed probably the fakest laugh you've ever done, taking a sip of whatever terrible punch someone had mixed in the giant bowl with suspicious looking fruit pieces?. The party was in full swing around you with bodies pressed together in the living room, music so loud you could barely hear yourself think, the air thick with sweat, cheap beer and too much cologne. Just another shitty high school party.
But this was good. This was moving on. This was exactly what you needed after him.
"You have a great laugh " Trevor, Tyler, whoever it was said, stepping a little closer to you. His hand found your arm, fingers trailing down to your wrist, "I'd love to hear more of it. Maybe somewhere quieter?".
You opened your mouth to respond, but something made you glance toward the doorway of the yard as a loud bang sounded through the house. Your heart stopped. Steve was stood in the entrance, frozen mid step watching you. His hair was perfectly styled as always, effortless in the way you used to run your fingers through and it would still loook just as good. He wore that burgundy sweater that you'd always loved on him, the one that made his eyes look even warmer than they were but those eyes weren't warm now. They were locked on you, or more specifically, on the hand touching your arm.
His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump even from across the room. Shit.
You'd known he might be here. It was Hawkins, everyone ended up at the same parties eventually. But you'd hoped... what? That you wouldn't run into him? That seeing him wouldn't make your stomach flip and your pulse race? That three months would be enough time to get over Steve fucking Harrington?
Apparently not.
"Hey, you okay?" We're going with Tyler asked, following your gaze.
You tore your eyes away from Steve, forcing a bright smile. "Yeah, totally fine. You were saying?".
But you could feel Steve's stare burning into you. Could sense him moving through the kitchen, weaving between people, getting closer by the second. Every nerve ending in your body suddenly on high alert.
Whoever the hell this guy is launched into another story, something about his childhood friend or brother or just some guy, but you couldn't focus. You were too busy tracking Steve's approach in your peripheral vision, too busy trying to calm your heart and pretending you didn't notice the way he was looking at you like he wanted to throw this guy through a wall.
And god help you, you found it hot. Extremely hot.
You shouldn't. You should be over him. You'd broken up for good reasons like his recklessness, your need for stability, the constant arguments about his tendency to throw himself into danger. But watching him walk towards you with whatever the hell that possessive fire in his eyes is, jaw tight and shoulders tense, made heat pool low in your belly.
"-and that's when the cops showed up" Tyler finished with a laugh.
"Hilarious" you managed, taking another sip of your drink.
Then Steve was here. He appeared at your side like he'd been summoned, close enough that you could smell his cologne. That woody, warm scent that used to cling to your clothes after you spent the night at his place. He didn't even glance at him, his eyes were fixed entirely on you. It was almost like he didn't even notice him even though he definitely did.
"Hey" Steve said, his voice low and rough, "Didn't know you'd be here".
Liar. Hawkins had like three parties a month. He absolutely knew you might be here.
"Steve" you said flat, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I'm kind of in the middle of a conversation"
"Are you?" He still hadn't acknowledged Tyler's existence. "Looked more like you were trying to escape".
"Excuse me?" You stated angrily, even as a thrill ran through you. "I was having a perfectly nice time before you-"
"Uh, hey man" Tyler interjected, finally finding his voice. "We were actually talking, so if you could-"
Steve's eyes flicked to him for half a second, dismissive and cold before returning to you. "You look good" he said, completely ignoring the other guy, "New dress? Not seen it before".
It wasn't new and he had seen it before. But the way his gaze dragged down your body, lingering on the way the fabric hugged your curves made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.
"Steve" you warned, but your voice came out breathier than intended.
"I like your hair like that too" he continued, as if Tyler had simply ceased to exist, "You always looked so pretty with it down".
Pretty. God, that word in his voice still did things to you.
"Remember that party at Tina's?" Steve asked you, leaning against the counter so he was angled toward you, effectively blocking Tyler out. "We left early because I couldn't keep my hands off you when you wore something similar".
Heat flooded your cheeks, "You're being rude".
"Am I?" His eyes were intense. "I'm just talking to you. That's not rude, is it, baby?"
Baby. He knew exactly what that word did to you too. It was your weakness, the nickname that made you melt every single time. You should be furious. He was being possessive, jealous and completely inappropriate. He was interrupting your conversation, ignoring the guy you'd been flirting with, acting like he had any right to stake a claim on you when you'd been broken up for three months. You didn't want anything from this guy other than sex but that didn't matter but god, you were so turned on you could barely think straight.
"Okay, you know what?" Tyler said, backing away. "I'm gonna... yeah. Nice talking to you, see you around" and he disappeared into the crowd before you could stop him. Not that you tried very hard anyway.
The moment he was gone, you spun around on Steve, "What the hell was that Steve?".
"What?" And he had the audacity to look innocent.
"You just, you completely-" You sputtered, anger and arousal swirling inside you. "You can't just do that, Steve!".
"Do what? Talk to you?"
"You know exactly what you did" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "You were jealous and you chased him off like some kind of-".
"I know you are" You could see it everywhere on his body, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching you.
"Maybe I am" He stepped closer, crowding into your space. "Maybe I don't like watching some random guy put his hands on you. Maybe I don't like seeing you laugh at his stupid jokes when you should be-"
"Should be what?" You challenged, tilting your chin up, "We're not together anymore, Steve. I can talk to whoever I want".
Something flashed in his eyes, "Yeah I know. Don't remind me".
You couldn't do this here. Not in the middle of the kitchen with people starting to stare, not with the music pounding and the alcohol making everything feel too intense.
"Come with me" you said abruptly, grabbing his wrist.
"What-"
You didn't give him time to finish. You dragged him through the crowd, ignoring the curious looks, heading for the nearest bathroom. Someone was coming out as you approached, and you pulled Steve inside before anyone else could claim it, slamming the door and flicking the lock.
The bathroom was small, just a toilet, sink, and shower crammed into a space barely big enough for two people. The music was muffled here, reduced to a dull thump that you could feel more than hear. Steve stared at you, his chest heaving, hair slightly tangled from the journey through the crowd.
"You can't do that anymore" you said, trying to hold onto your anger even as your body betrayed you, hyperaware of how close he was. "You can't just... just swoop in and act like you have some claim on me. We broke up, Steve. You don't get to-"
"I know we broke up" he interrupted, voice rough, "Trust me, I know. I've spent every single day for the past three months knowing it".
"Then what was that out there?"
"That was me losing my mind watching another guy touch you!" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "That was me seeing you smile at him the way you used to smile at me and wanting to punch something. That was me being a jealous asshole because I can't-" He broke off, jaw working.
"Can't what?"
"Can't get over you" The words came out raw, almost angry. "I've tried, okay? I've really fucking tried but I can't do it. I can't stop thinking about you, can't stop missing you, can't stop wanting you so badly it hurts".
Your breath caught, "Steve".
"I know I fucked up" he continued, the words spilling out now like he couldn't hold them back. "I know I was reckless and stupid and I scared you but I'm trying to be better. I've been trying so hard to be the guy you need me to be, but none of it matters because you're not there. You're not with me, and I-" His voice cracked. "I don't know how to do this without you, baby".
There it was again. Baby.
"You can't just call me that" you whispered, but you were already swaying toward him.
"Why not?" He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, "It's what you are. What you've always been and breaking up doesn't change that".
"It has to change that. We can't".
"Can't what? Can't still want each other? Because I'm pretty sure that's bullshit" His eyes dropped to your lips, "I'm pretty sure you want me just as much as I want you right now".
"You're so arrogant" you breathed, but you didn't step back.
"Am I wrong?"
No. No he wasn't wrong. You wanted him so badly you were shaking with it, wanting to close the distance between you and kiss him until neither of you could breathe, wanting to feel his hands on your body and hear him call you baby in that voice that made your toes curl.
But you were supposed to be moving on.
"Tell me you don't want me" Steve said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Tell me you don't think about me, that you don't miss me, that you don't lie awake at night wishing I was there. Tell me, and I'll walk away right now. I'll leave you alone. I'll let you go".
You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't tell him that. Couldn't lie when he was looking at you like that, when your body was screaming for his touch.
"I can't..." you admitted, the words barely audible.
"Can't what baby?"
"Can't tell you that. Can't... can't pretend I don't still-" You broke off, frustrated. "God, I hate you for this".
"No you don't" He reached up slowly, giving you time to pull away, and cupped your face in his hand. His thumb brushing over your bottom lip, "You hate that you still want me. That's different".
"Same result" you managed, but you were already leaning into his touch.
"Is it?" His other hand found your hip, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress, "Because from where I'm standing, there's a pretty simple solution here".
"Steve-"
"I'm not over you" he said, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I'm not even close to over you. I don't think I'll ever be over you. So please, baby, please. Give me another chance. Let me prove I can be better. Let me-"
You kissed him.
You couldn't help it. Couldn't stand another second of the space between you and couldn't bear the desperate plea in his voice.
For a heartbeat Steve froze, like he couldn't believe this was happening before he groaned and kissed you back. His hands were everywhere at once. One tangled in your hair, angling your head so he could kiss you deeper. The other gripped your hip hard enough to mark, pulling you against him. You could feel every inch of him pressed against you, and you could feel how much he wanted this, wanted you.
You'd forgotten how good he was at this. How he knew exactly when to bite your bottom lip, when to soothe it with his tongue and when to pull back just enough to make you chase him.
"Fuck I missed this" he breathed against your mouth. "Missed you. Missed the way you taste, the way you feel".
You cut him off with another kiss, harder this time, teeth clashing as three months of pent up longing exploded between the two of you. Your hands found his hair, tugging the way you knew he liked, and he made a sound that went straight to your core.
"Baby" he groaned, walking you backward until your back hit the wall. "Baby, tell me this is real. Tell me I'm not dreaming".
"It's real" you gasped as his lips found your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive spot below your ear, "Steve, it's, oh god-“
His hands slid down to your thighs, and then he was lifting you, pinning you against the wall with his hips. You wrapped your legs around his waist, gasping at the friction and the feeling of him hard between your thighs.
"Is this okay?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Tell me if this is too much. Tell me to stop and I will".
"Don't you dare stop" you said, pulling him back in for another kiss.
That was all the permission he needed. His hands slid under your dress, pushing the fabric up around your hips, fingers digging into your thighs. You could feel how much he wanted you, grinding against you through the layers of clothing still between you, and it wasn't enough. You needed more, you needed everything, needed him.
"Please" you whimpered against his mouth.
"I've got you baby" he murmured, one hand leaving your thigh to work at his belt. "I've got you. Gonna make you feel so good, gonna show you how much I missed you".
The sound of his belt buckle was obscenely loud in the small bathroom. You helped him with shaking hands, just desperate to feel him and erase the three months of emptiness with the feeling of being full of him again.
"Condom" you managed to gasp out, some small part of your brain still functioning.
"Wallet" he said, already reaching for it. "Always, fuck, always kept one just in case. Just hoping".
He didn't finish the sentence, too busy tearing open the packet with his teeth. You watched him roll it on, transfixed by the sight of his hands on himself, remembering all the times you'd done that for him, all the times you'd touched him and tasted him and driven him crazy. Then his fingers were hooking into your underwear, pulling it aside, and you were both gasping as he lined himself up.
"Look at me" he said, his voice rough. "Want to see your face when I do this". He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and you both moaned at the sensation. God, you'd forgotten how perfectly he filled you, how right it felt to have him inside you.
"Fuck" Steve groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Fuck baby, you feel so good. So perfect. Missed you so much".
"Move" you demanded, rolling your hips. "Steve, please move-"
"Give me a moment baby otherwise it's over too soon" he let out a long breath after a small pause before moving again. Pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and you couldn't hold back the cry that came from your throat. He set a pace, fucking you against the wall with intensity, like he was trying to make up for three months of not having you in a single encounter.
"That's it" he groaned, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Let me hear you baby. Let everyone at this fucking party know who makes you feel this good"
You should care that people might hear. Should care that you were fucking your ex boyfriend in a bathroom at a party with dozens of people just outside but you couldn't bring yourself to give a damn, not when he was hitting that spot inside you that made you clench your eyes shut, not when every thrust was sending pleasure through your entire body.
"Steve" you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders through his sweater, "Oh god, Steve...”
"You're so beautiful like this" he murmured, kissing along your jaw. "So fucking beautiful. Been dreaming about this, about having you again, about making you clench around my cock. Tell me you dreamed about it too".
"Yes" you admitted, too far gone to lie. "Yes, I missed it. Missed you. Missed this, oh fuck-"
He changed the angle slightly, and suddenly every thrust was dragging against that perfect spot inside you. Your head fell back against the wall, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure built and built and built.
"That's my girl" Steve groaned, his pace becoming erratic. "Come on baby. Want to feel you. Give it to me".
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling with just the right pressure and that was all it took. You shattered, crying out his name as your orgasm crashed over you. Your whole body tensed, clenching around him, and you heard him curse as he followed you over the edge
"Fuck baby, I love you" he groaned as he came, the words spilling out unbidden. "Love you so much. Never stopped loving you. Never-"
He buried his face in your neck, hips still moving in shallow thrusts as you both rode it out. You held him close, fingers threading through his hair, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest.
Slowly, reality started to seep back in. The music from the party. The uncomfortable position. The fact that you'd just had sex with your ex boyfriend in a bathroom. The fact that he'd just said he loved you and Steve seemed to realise it at the same time. He pulled back slightly, "I meant it" he said quietly. "I know I probably shouldn't have said it like that, but I meant it. I love you. I never stopped".
You should probably think about this, probably take time to process, to figure out if this was just the heat of the moment or something real.
"I love you too" you heard yourself say. "I tried not to and tried to move on but I can't. I don't want to".
The smile that broke across Steve's face was like the sun coming out, "Yeah?".
"Yeah" You couldn't help but smile back. "But if you ever pull that jealous caveman routine again".
"You'll drag me into a bathroom and have your way with me?" he suggested, grinning.
"I was going to say I'd kill you, but..." You laughed, and it felt good. Felt right. "Maybe both".
"I can live with that" He kissed you again, softer this time. "So... are we doing this? Are we really doing this?".
"I guess we are" You cupped his face in your hands. "But things have to be different this time Steve. We have to actually talk about stuff instead of just fighting and you have to promise me you'll be more careful. I can't, I can't watch you throw yourself into danger anymore".
"I promise" he said seriously. "I'll be better. I'll be whatever you need me to be. Just... don't leave again".
"I won't" You kissed him once more, "But we should probably get out of this bathroom before someone breaks down the door".
"Probably" he agreed, but he didn't move. Just held you close, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
Eventually, you did manage to make yourselves presentable and unlock the door. There were definitely some knowing looks as you emerged, and you were pretty sure everyone at the party had heard at least some of what had happened in there. But as Steve laced his fingers through yours and pulled you toward the exit, you found you didn't care. You had him back and that was all that mattered.
"So" Steve said as you stepped out into the cool night air. "Want to get out of here? Maybe go back to my place and... talk?"
You laughed at the suggestive tone, "Talk, huh?"
"Well, we have three months to catch up on" He pulled you close, kissing your temple. "Might take all night".
"Might take longer than that" you agreed, leaning into him.
"Good thing we have time then" He opened the passenger door of his BMW for you, "Because I'm not letting you go again baby. Not ever".
And as you slid into the familiar seat, breathing in the scent of his car and watching him jog around to the driver's side with that goofy smile on his face, you knew you didn't want him to. You were his. You'd always been his.
Summary: Gator’s never felt like anyone’s favorite person, and you make sure that feeling ends with you.
WC: 2.8k
Warnings & What to Expect: 18+ themes, mdni (dry humping, but Gator is being a tease, explicit language), super soft Gator bc it’s my weakness, possible overuse of the pet name baby girl because it’s my fave for him to call reader, brief mentions of hurt caused by parents, spice elements mixed with fluff!
Peach’s (Jenn’s) Note: do I have a bunch of other drafts to work on? Yes. But lavishing soft husband Gator with love wouldn’t leave my mind this week, so here we are ❤️
Gator Tillman was the type of man to stomp his boots across the vinyl floor when he entered your home, despite the fact that you’ve told him nearly a hundred times to take his shoes off at the threshold.
He doesn’t do it because he knows you’ll get all pouty with him, though he loves when those pretty lips of yours dip - giving him an opportunity to kiss the hell out of you, making you melt in his hands like putty and forgive him without a fight.
He does it because even though he knows that you hate the dirt that’s dragged in by his feet, the sound of his footsteps soothes you, because it means he’s made it home safely after another hectic shift at the station.
But this evening he came home dead on his feet, feeling heavy from the weight of the day - was so exhausted that he snuck in quietly, which was quite the feat for someone like Gator; who always likes to make his presence known.
It’s why when his arms slip silently around your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, a squeal of surprise leaves you.
“Holy shit, Gator,” your voice shakes a little, startled by his sudden appearance.
Your heart jumps, thrumming wildly - unsure if it’s from the shock or the fact that your man is pressed snugly up against you.
You’d been busy on the back porch, sweat beading along your hairline as you watered the plants that were growing there. Growing was an exaggeration. They barely moved an inch over the past few months, and some of them were starting to wither regardless of your efforts.
Gator liked to give you shit about trying to keep the things alive, but it was part of your routine. Something to keep your mind busy instead of worrying about him all day.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare yah, baby girl,” he greets you, dropping his head into the crook of your neck.
“It’s okay, Alligator,” you reply, lips curling up at the nickname he complains about - though he’ll never tell you to stop calling him it. You dissolve against him, hands wrapping around his forearms.
“Missed yah,” he murmurs, playfully nibbling against the exposed skin of your throat.
You smile a bit bashfully, “Oh, did you?”
“Stop bein’ all shy ‘bout it. Yah know I did,” he lets you go, giving a quick pat to your ass before twirling you around to look at him.
The heat that’s been creeping up your cheeks only intensifies, biting your lip as your eyes trace over him. He’s already shed the tactical vest and gear, along with his signature hat that’s nowhere to be seen.
It allows you to appreciate the slight bulge of his biceps, eyeing the way his cargo pants deliciously hug his thighs, and your fingers itch to card through his slicked back hair that’s starting to fall messily, tousled from the day.
He grins wolfishly, “You checkin’ me out, baby girl?”
Your hands slide up the expanse of his chest, “Maybe. Is that a problem, Deputy?”
“I sure ain’t complainin’ about that look yer givin’ me,” he muses, hands sliding down to cup your lower back.
“What look?” You shrug, acting indifferent, shamelessly letting your eyes roam his figure again.
“That one, yah tease,” he pinches your hip playfully.
You smile nonchalantly, “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Alligator.”
He scoffs in jest, mumbling something about how he knows you’re not as innocent as you claim to be before letting his own eyes wander over you. You lazily bring your hands up to stroke the collar of his shirt, before letting your thumbs duck under and rub at the knots stored up in his shoulders.
He closes his eyes briefly at the touch, “Feels good.”
“Long day?” You prompt, caressing the base of his neck.
“Yeah. God, ‘m so fuckin’ beat,” he replies, irritation crossing his features as he reflects on the pains of his job.
The dark circles that hang under his eyes prove his statement, making you want to tenderly press kisses along the delicate skin there to soothe the tension he’s carrying.
“Why don’t you go change? Rest for a bit. I’ll take care of dinner,” you tell him.
“Ain’t it my turn?” His eyebrows turn in.
You swipe at the divot it makes, “Yeah, but I’ve got it.”
His hands slide further down your back, resting against the curve of your ass and giving it a squeeze that would surely have you throwing yourself at him if he weren’t so fatigued.
“Yer too damn good to me,” he mumbles.
He drops his forehead to yours, inhaling deeply, trying his best to express his gratitude because he’s not great with words, but he hopes you’ll get the hint when he nudges his nose against your own - pressing his lips to yours greedily when your breath hitches in anticipation.
“Gator,” you whisper, kneeling down by the couch he’s resting on.
He’s passed out, deep in sleep while lying flat on his back - arm thrown over his eyes as gentle little snores escape him.
You knew he hated falling asleep there. He wouldn’t actually say it, but he always bitched the next day about the crick in his neck that it would leave behind.
Which is why you’re currently trying to wake him up to persuade him to move to the bedroom.
You try again, voice coming out stronger this time, “Gator.”
He drowsily mutters something, having subconsciously heard the call, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to rouse him from his dreams.
You resist the urge to slip your hand under his black shirt that’s hiked up, exposing the soft tuft of dark hair that travels down into his sweatpants - knowing if he wakes up to your cold fingers feeling him up he’ll dramatically gripe about you trying to give him frostbite.
“Gates,” you coo, reaching out to push back a couple strands of hair that have broken free of the gel he uses to keep it out of his eyes.
Gator stirs, arm reaching out to determine where you are, blinking blearily while he tries to adjust to his surroundings.
He’s thoroughly caught off guard by you crouching next to him, sending him into a swift moment of panic.
“What? Somethin’ wrong, baby girl?” He rasps, scrambling to try to get into a sitting position.
“No,” your lips tug up in delight, watching in amusement as he furrows his brows in confusion.
“The fuck you wakin’ me up for then,” he groans grumpily, reaching out to grasp your waist.
He firmly pulls you to rest on top of him, legs tangling with yours, planting a sleepy kiss against your neck. The brush of his lips against your skin tickles, causing you to giggle as you settle against him.
“Yeah? You like that, baby girl?” He teases, significantly more awake now, mouthing at your throat.
“Mhm,” you hum in content, moving a hand to rest against the place that hides his heart.
He nuzzles further into you, savoring the scent of your perfume as his teeth graze lightly between the hot presses of his mouth. You fall silent when you feel his hips shift under yours, sending a sharp coil of want to bubble up - blooming intensely within you.
Your knees sink further down on either side of him, instinctively giving a tentative swivel of your hips at the contact.
“Fuck, did yah wake me up jus’ to tease me?” He groans, grip on your hips tightening.
A desperate whimper slips out of you as you feel him growing hard, unable to stop yourself from rocking against his clothed length.
Gator releases a strangled moan, and the broken curses spilling from his lips makes your gut tighten, spiraling you into a cloudy haze of lust.
Your hands surge forward, clutching onto his back as you start to rut against him - sleep shorts lifting higher up your legs with each languid grind.
“Use your words, baby girl,” he says huskily, breath skimming the shell of your ear.
You try, but your brain is too fuzzy - muddled by the desire in your aching core as you work yourself incessantly over him.
The reprimanding bite he gives to your jaw in response to your silence has your lips parting, eyes glazing over as you try to form words.
“Gator,” you cry, trailing off as you start to lose composure - feeling your arousal pooling in the fabric of your panties.
“C’mon, sweet thing, know yah got a lot more to say than that,” he chides, hands digging into the meat of your thighs, hauling you closer to him as he thrusts upwards to meet each roll of your hips.
You’re seconds away from shoving a hand down under the material covering him to tug at his cock - positive that it's excessively leaking precum with the way he’s panting, practically gasping for air as you continue to rotate your hips against his.
You’re willing to bet that you could get him to come in his pants if you keep it up, but he suddenly forces you to stop when he pulls you flush against him - refusing to let you move, ending the delicious friction that had you careening you towards your high.
“Gator,” you whine in frustration.
He tuts under his breath, “Not movin’ till you answer me, mama.”
The pet name has you feverishly squirming against him - your body begging him to give you reprieve as you feel your slick seeping out of your cunt, writhing with need as you buck your hips again, trying your best to get him to cave.
He hooks his hands behind your knees, making you yelp - damn him for knowing the hold on your sensitive skin there would force you to stop moving.
“You’re being unfair,” you mewl, breathing erratically from your pent up release.
His nose skims along your jaw, “You haven’ seen unfair yet, baby girl.”
A choked noise leaves you, “Please, Gator. I want you.”
“You’ll get whatcha want when you tell me why ‘m up right now instead of sleepin’,” he implores, kissing along the slope of your jawline, stopping to suck unmercifully at the sweet spot below your ear.
You grab at his arms, pawing along the corded muscles and veins that wrap around them, finally huffing out, “Can’t when you’re all over me like this.”
“Can’t think straight when yer pretty pussy is all pressed up against my cock, is that it?” He mocks you, giving you a coy look.
The vulgar words have you whimpering in defeat, “Fuck, yes.”
Gator looks smug, sly smile tilting his lips up - waiting patiently for you to tell him why you disturbed him from his slumber.
“You fell asleep on the couch,” you confess, slumping forward.
The statement makes him sober up, expression turning serious.
“So?” He quips, raising an eyebrow.
You sigh in dissatisfaction, realizing your fun is up now that he’s picking - searching for answers you know he won’t like, but you decide to be honest.
You pull back, hands reaching up to cup his face.
“So, it’ll give you a backache,” you remind him.
“And?” He narrows his eyes at you.
“And you’ll sleep on your neck the wrong way,” you tag on.
He rolls his eyes, “I’m a man. Can handle some pain.”
You hate when he does that. Hate when he acts like he ought to be tougher than he needs to be. Hate when he diminishes himself to the expectations and standards that are bullshit because his daddy beat them into him.
He knows he’s a work in progress. And he knows you wouldn’t keep him around long if he didn’t lose the self righteous asshole act he put on when he still depended on Roy to get by.
But he’s also stubborn, more so when he’s tired, and you don’t want to start an argument.
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean you should have to,” you settle with, pressing a kiss to that unfairly perfect nose of his.
“Why do yah care?” He questions, not with contempt, but like he genuinely can’t believe why you would mind if he was hurting.
“Because you’re my husband,” you plant another kiss on his nose before continuing.
“And my best friend,” your lips trail over his cheek, feeling the flutter of his eyelashes as they close.
“And my favorite person,” you conclude, slotting your lips with his.
He’s frozen for a moment - shocked by the emotion behind your words, but you coax him to move his mouth against yours when your tongue dips past his parted lips.
He exhales a sound of pleasure, pulse picking up from the burning sensation of want - devouring the needy sighs he’s pulling from you.
You feel your head starting to spin, dizzy with longing for him, trying to silently communicate that he deserves to feel loved.
Gator unwillingly breaks from you, gasping for breath as you chase after his kiss bitten lips, now flushed in a radiant pink that matches the hue of his cheekbones.
His hand comes up to brush back the hair that’s fallen in your face, and he catches the gold glint of a necklace peeking out from under your shirt.
He thinks it’s cute when you wear dainty jewelry, but he’d rather keel over than tell you that, so instead he gently fumbles with it - maneuvering it to rest along the fabric that covers your chest.
When the realization of what’s on it hits him, he proceeds to stare in awe at the chain around your neck, nimble fingers carefully fiddling with the tiny G that rests at the point.
“Where did yah get this?” He whispers affectionately, displaying the letter curled up in his palm.
You glance down, watching as he stares at it in adoration - finger outlining the curve of his initial.
“I bought it. Wanted to wear it for you,” you divulge, bowing your head to try to get him to look at you.
You used to call it cliche when you saw a woman wearing her man’s initials, often joking it was like they were being branded, but now you’ve giddily fallen victim to the trap. And you’re sure someone will think the same about you, but you couldn’t care less anymore.
They could call it what they wanted to, because you weren’t wearing it because he owned you - choosing to wear it because he knew you better than you knew yourself.
“Why?” He asks, clearing his throat to cover the way his voice cracks.
“I told you. You’re my favorite person,” you disclose, placing a hand over his that still clings onto the letter like it’ll disappear if he lets go.
He swallows harshly, “You mean it?”
“Of course, Gator. I love you,” you promise, sealing it with another press of your lips to his.
“Never been anyone’s favorite before,” he confides quietly, embarrassment tinting the tips of his ears.
The color of his blush makes something grim gnarl up inside of you - a blazing anger rising for his father who pretended to love him just to use him, for his mother who up and left him as a child to defend himself against a grown man, for anyone that wasn’t willing to take the time to peel away the layers he built to hide himself - the ones you were still working on pulling back.
“Well, you’re mine,” you confirm, letting your forehead tilt to rest on his.
“Yer mine too,” he sniffs, wiping frantically under his nose - trying to shield you from the tears threatening to fall.
You don’t like that he feels the need to conceal himself from you, but you don’t want to push - knowing he still has unrealistic principles about men and crying ingrained in him.
For now, you're determined to be gracious towards him because you plan to tear down those walls he’s got up - hoping to show him that with you, his heart is safe, no longer needing the protective armor hardening it.
When he gathers himself, a fleeting moment of lust passes across those hazel eyes of his, and laughter tumbles from you when you feel his member twitching beneath you.
“Don’t you laugh at me. You were the one humpin’ me like yah were in heat,” he grunts.
His crass words shoot straight through you, sending a sizzling tingle up your spine - becoming overwhelmed with the need to worship him.
“I couldn’t help it. You’re my favorite,” your tone grows sultry, nipping at his collarbone.
“Gatherin’ that, baby girl,” he quips, head falling back against the cushions of the couch to give you better access.
You let your mouth explore him, placing intentional kisses to the freckles and moles that scatter his skin like tiny stars across the night sky.
“Can I show you just how much I mean it?” You smirk, slipping off his lap and dropping to your knees in front of him.
His eyes blow wide, “Fuck, is tha’ even a question?”
And so you make yourself comfortable between his spread legs, eager to please him - ready to prove that while he may not have been anyone’s first choice before, he's certainly yours.
by the fourth date, you had stopped wondering whether rafe was simply putting on an act.
he wasn’t.
he still arrived early every single time. he still walked around to open your car door before you even had the chance to reach for the handle. he still brought flowers, never because he thought he had to, but because, as he’d put it, “they made me think of you.” they were never extravagant bouquets either. daisies one week because he’d remembered you saying they reminded you of summers with your grandmother. pale pink roses another because he’d overheard you admiring them while passing a florist.
he listened.
really listened.
and somehow, that was the thing that made you fall the hardest.
that friday evening had been simple. dinner at a quiet italian restaurant tucked away from the busy streets, followed by a slow walk through downtown while the storefront lights reflected across the sidewalks. he’d held your hand almost the entire time, his thumb lazily brushing over your knuckles as the two of you wandered without much of a destination. neither of you seemed interested in rushing the night to an end.
eventually, you found yourselves back at his house.
it was beautiful without being flashy. warm wood floors, shelves lined with framed photographs, the faint scent of vanilla and cedar lingering in the air. unlike the sleek bachelor apartments you’d seen before, this place looked lived in. comfortable. like a home instead of a showroom.
your eyes wandered toward a picture sitting on the mantle.
a little girl with sandy blond curls sat on rafe’s shoulders at what looked like the beach, both of them laughing so hard neither had noticed the camera.
your smile softened.
“she’s adorable.”
rafe looked over.
his entire expression changed.
the confident businessman disappeared, replaced by something much gentler.
“that’s emma.”
he walked over and picked up the frame almost instinctively.
“she’s eight.”
“she looks just like you.”
he chuckled.
“everyone says that.” he studied the picture for another second before setting it back down carefully. “thankfully she got her mom’s personality.”
“i doubt that.”
“trust me.”
you laughed quietly.
“where is she tonight?”
“with her mom.” he leaned against the fireplace, folding his arms. “we split custody.”
there wasn’t bitterness in his voice.
just acceptance.
you nodded.
“was it… hard?”
his eyes found yours.
“the divorce?”
“yeah.”
he was quiet for a long moment.
“harder than i ever expected.”
you sat beside him on the couch, giving him space to decide how much he wanted to say.
after another few seconds, he continued.
“we got married young. thought love would fix everything.” he smiled to himself, though there wasn’t much happiness behind it. “turns out love doesn’t solve poor communication.”
you listened without interrupting.
“we weren’t bad people,” he said. “we just stopped being good for each other.”
“do you still talk?”
“for emma.” he nodded. “and honestly… we’re better parents now than we ever were spouses.”
there was something incredibly mature about the way he spoke.
no insults.
no blaming.
just honesty.
“she’s lucky.”
his eyebrows lifted.
“emma.”
you smiled.
“she has parents who clearly love her enough to put her first.”
for a second, rafe simply looked at you.
then he smiled in that quiet way he’d started doing whenever you said something that surprised him.
“you’re something else.”
heat crept into your cheeks.
before you could respond, he reached over, gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
his fingers lingered for only a second.
long enough for your heart to speed up.
“can i kiss you?” he asked softly.
you smiled.
“yes.”
his hand rested lightly against your jaw as he leaned in, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to.
instead, you met him halfway.
the kiss was slow.
careful.
nothing rushed.
nothing demanding.
just warm lips against yours and the quiet realization that no one had ever kissed you like they actually wanted to savor the moment.
when you finally pulled back, your forehead rested lightly against his.
you took a steadying breath.
“there’s… something i should probably tell you.”
he immediately leaned back enough to look at you
his expression never changed.
never became impatient.
“go ahead.”
your hands twisted together nervously in your lap.
“i’m a virgin.”
you watched carefully for his reaction.
there wasn’t one.
he simply waited.
“and…” you swallowed. “i’m waiting until i’m married.”
silence settled between you.
for half a second, every insecurity your ex had ever planted threatened to come rushing back.
then rafe smiled.
a genuine one.
“okay.”
you blinked.
“…okay?”
“okay.”
he shrugged lightly, like you’d just told him your favorite color.
“that’s your decision.”
you stared at him.
“that’s it?”
he looked almost confused.
“what else would there be?”
“most people…”
“i’m not most people.”
his voice remained calm.
“if that’s something that’s important to you, then it’s important to me too.”
your shoulders relaxed so quickly you hadn’t even realized you’d been tense.
“you’re not disappointed?”
he reached for your hand.
“i asked you out because i like spending time with you.” his thumb traced slow circles across your skin. “not because i expected anything from you.”
your eyes began to sting.
he noticed immediately.
“hey.”
he smiled gently.
“don’t cry.”
you laughed through the embarrassing lump in your throat.
“i’m trying not to.”
“good.”
he squeezed your hand once.
“because i’d rather spend tonight learning more about you.”
you smiled.
“that’s funny.”
“why?”
“i was actually hoping to learn more about you.”
he laughed quietly.
“careful.”
“why?”
“i’ve got thirty-eight years’ worth of stories.”
you settled farther into the couch beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“good.”
he smiled as he looked over at you.
“it’s going to be a long night then.”
“i was hoping it would be.”
and for hours afterward, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch talking about everything that had made you who you were. childhood memories, embarrassing teenage stories, the first time he’d held emma in the hospital and realized nothing in his life would ever matter more than being her father, your grandmother teaching you how to bake pies from scratch, the music both of you loved, the places you still wanted to visit someday. somewhere around midnight, you realized the best part of falling for rafe wasn’t the flowers or the dates or even the way he kissed you.
I love love love your dad!joe fics, could you do one where the three of you are out and then the paps turn up and Luke’s confused and y/n isn’t feeling great and joes like over it (the paps)
Or
Luke waking up on his birthday to the front room being completely decorated with balloons and banners and joes there with his little camera and Luke just kinda stops mid way in the hallway like huh wow this is all for me
“birthday movie”
☆ dad!joe keery x mom!reader ☆
i couldn’t decide whether to keep it as just a birthday fic or add the paparazzi part too… so i ended up combining both into one story <3 i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. requests are open btw !!
summary: it’s Luke’s fourth birthday, and Joe is determined to document every second of it with his little handycam. Between dinosaur decorations, pancakes, toy stores, an unexpected run-in with paparazzi, and a family dinner filled with laughter, the day doesn’t go exactly as planned—but by the end of the night, Luke falls asleep exactly where he wants to be: between his mom and dad.
word count: 5.2k
warnings: fluff, dad!joe, mom!reader, toddler!Luke (4 years old), paparazzi, brief anxiety, family dynamics, happy ending, no use of y/n
Joe had been awake for forty minutes before the sun fully came up, which would have been impressive if he had not spent at least ten of those minutes standing barefoot in the kitchen of your brownstone, staring at a bag of balloons like it had personally offended him.
The house was quiet around him, still and sleepy in that early morning way that made the West Village feel softer than usual. Outside, the street was barely awake, only the distant sound of a delivery truck and someone’s dog barking once before being pulled along the sidewalk. Inside, though, the living room looked like a birthday party had exploded in the best possible way. Blue, green, and yellow balloons floated along the staircase railing, a crooked banner hung above the fireplace, and the coffee table was covered with wrapped presents, dinosaur plates, and the little paper crown Luke had insisted he was going to wear the second he turned four.
You stood in the doorway with your arms crossed, watching Joe try to tie the last balloon to the banister while holding his little handheld camera under one arm.
“You know you can put the camera down, right?” you whispered.
Joe looked at you like you had suggested something deeply offensive. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re tying balloons.”
“I’m documenting history.”
“You’re about to document yourself losing a fight with ribbon.”
He looked down at the ribbon twisted around his fingers, then back at you. “That would also be valuable footage.”
You laughed quietly, stepping closer to help him before the balloon could slip away again. Joe let you take the ribbon, but not before lifting the camera and pointing it at you, the little red light blinking in the dim living room.
“It is currently six thirty-eight in the morning,” he whispered in his dramatic documentary voice. “The birthday boy is asleep upstairs. His mother has already reorganized the presents three times and pretended she wasn’t emotional about a wooden train set.”
“I wasn’t emotional,” you said.
Joe zoomed in slightly.
“Joseph.”
“You touched the box and said, ‘He’s going to love this,’ in a very watery voice.”
“That is not evidence.”
“It will be when I edit in sad music.”
You reached forward and covered the lens with your palm, smiling despite yourself. “You’re the worst.”
Joe lowered the camera just enough to look at you over it, his smile softer now. “You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
He leaned in and kissed your cheek quickly, careful not to make too much noise. “Happy birthday to us.”
You blinked at him. “To us?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking around the living room. “We survived four years of being parents.”
Before you could answer, a tiny creak came from upstairs.
Both of you froze.
Another sound followed, softer this time: the slow shuffle of little feet against the hallway floor, then the faint thump of something being dragged down the first step. Joe’s whole face changed in half a second. The teasing disappeared, replaced by that bright, helpless look he got every time Luke did anything remotely adorable, which was unfortunately all the time.
You stepped back toward the edge of the doorway, half-hiding behind it so Luke would see the room first. Joe lifted the camera properly, trying very hard to look like a serious filmmaker and not like a dad seconds away from crying over pajamas.
Luke appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later.
He was still in his blue moon pajamas, one side of his hair flattened and the other sticking straight up. His stuffed dog was tucked under one arm, dragging slightly against the steps as he made his way down, slow and sleepy and completely unaware of the living room waiting for him. Halfway down, he rubbed one eye with his fist and yawned so big his whole face scrunched up.
Then he reached the bottom.
He stopped.
For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything.
His eyes moved from the balloons to the banner, then to the presents, then to Joe standing with the camera. His little mouth opened slightly, his stuffed dog slipping from under his arm and landing on the floor with a soft thud. He blinked once, then twice, as if he thought the room might disappear if he moved too quickly.
“Daddy?” he said, voice raspy with sleep.
Joe’s voice went warm immediately. “Yeah, buddy?”
Luke pointed at the living room. “What happened?”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Joe crouched a little, still filming. “What do you mean?”
Luke looked around again, suspicious now. “There’s balloons.”
“There are balloons,” Joe agreed.
“And dinosaurs.”
“Mhm.”
“And presents.”
“Big morning for noticing stuff.”
Luke’s eyes landed on the banner. You could practically see him trying to work it out, his eyebrows pulling together in concentration. Then his whole face changed at once.
“It’s my birthday?”
Joe laughed softly. “It is your birthday.”
Luke gasped, even though he had been counting down for a week. “I’m four?”
“You’re four.”
“All day?”
“All day.”
Luke stared at the room one more time, then turned around and looked for you. The second he saw you in the doorway, he ran straight into your legs with so much force that you had to grab the wall to steady yourself.
“Mommy!”
You bent down and scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his messy hair while he wrapped himself around you like a koala.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” he mumbled into your neck.
“Sorry. Happy birthday, big boy.”
He leaned back, satisfied. “Yeah.”
Joe made a quiet noise behind the camera. “Tell future Luke how old you are.”
Luke lifted four fingers right in front of the lens. “Four.”
Joe zoomed in on his hand. “Perfect.”
Luke leaned toward the camera until his face probably filled the whole frame. “Hi, future me.”
You laughed. “What do you want to tell future you?”
Luke thought seriously for a second. “Don’t eat the green marker.”
Joe lowered the camera slightly, already laughing. “That’s good advice, actually.”
The morning unfolded slowly after that, in the kind of chaos that felt like home. Luke insisted on wearing the paper crown immediately, even though it kept slipping down over one eye, and Joe insisted on filming him eating birthday pancakes even though Luke ate exactly two bites before deciding the whipped cream was the real breakfast. The kitchen smelled like butter and syrup, the morning light came through the tall brownstone windows, and somewhere between Luke getting syrup on his sleeve and Joe pretending to interview him about turning four, you realized the tight feeling in your chest had nothing to do with sadness. It was just too much love in one place.
Before the presents, Joe insisted there was “one very important birthday appointment.”
Luke frowned curiously as Joe carried the laptop into the living room and set it on the coffee table between the balloons.
“Who’s that?” Luke asked.
“You’ll see.”
A few seconds later, the screen lit up.
“Happy birthday!”
Luke practically jumped.
“Nana! Grandpa!”
Joe’s parents filled the screen from their kitchen back in massachusetts, both wearing ridiculous dinosaur party hats that immediately made Luke burst into laughter.
“You have hats!” he giggled.
His mom adjusted hers proudly.
“Your grandpa said we were too old for them.”
“I never said that,” his dad protested. “I said mine didn’t fit.”
“It definitely fits.”
“It definitely doesn’t.”
Joe laughed quietly from behind Luke, already recording the whole thing with the handycam.
“You guys look great.”
“We dressed up for the birthday boy,” his mom said. “Obviously.”
Luke moved so close to the laptop that only half his face was visible.
“Look!”
He held his paper birthday crown toward the camera.
His grandparents gasped dramatically as if it were the greatest thing they’d ever seen.
“A real birthday crown!”
“I know,” Luke said proudly.
Joe’s dad leaned toward the screen.
“Did your dad make the pancakes?”
Luke nodded.
“They’re good.”
Joe looked offended.
“That’s the review?”
“They’re very good.”
“Better.”
A notification popped up a second later.
“Oh,” Joe smiled. “Looks like someone’s joining.”
The call expanded as another face appeared.
“Happy birthday, Lukey!”
Luke grinned immediately.
“Auntie!”
Joe’s oldest sister waved enthusiastically from her living room, one of her kids climbing onto her lap while another bounced excitedly in the background.
“We wanted to call before school,” she explained. “The cousins refused to miss your birthday.”
“Happy birthday!” they shouted together.
Luke laughed so hard he nearly dropped the laptop.
“I got a dragon!”
“We saw!”
“And pancakes!”
“We saw those too!”
Joe quietly leaned closer to you while Luke spent the next several minutes showing every single decoration in the living room to the camera, proudly giving everyone a full tour of the brownstone as if he owned it.
“He definitely gets that from you,” you whispered.
Joe looked genuinely offended.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve been filming this house since six thirty.”
“…Fair.”
Nearly twenty minutes later, after singing Happy Birthday over the video call, promising to FaceTime again when Luke opened the rest of his presents, and listening to three different reminders from Joe’s mom to “give our birthday boy one extra hug from us,” Joe finally closed the laptop.
Luke sighed happily.
“They called me.”
Joe ruffled his hair.
“Of course they did, buddy.”
“It’s your day.”
“Current birthday review?” Joe asked from behind the camera while Luke sat at the table with whipped cream on his nose.
Luke looked up. “Good.”
“Any notes?”
“More pancakes.”
“You didn’t eat the ones you have.”
Luke looked down at his plate, then back at Joe. “For you.”
Joe nodded very seriously. “Generous.”
After breakfast, Luke sat on the rug in the living room while you and Joe handed him the first few presents. Not all of them, because dinner later would bring a whole new pile from your families, but enough to make the morning feel special. He opened the wooden train set first, gasping like you had personally invented transportation for him, then a dinosaur sweatshirt from Joe that he immediately wanted to put on over his pajamas. When he opened the toy camera from you, the whole present-opening process stopped because Luke stood up and began filming Joe filming him.
“Say happy birthday,” Luke ordered, holding the toy camera backward.
Joe leaned toward it. “Happy birthday.”
“No, to me.”
Joe corrected himself immediately. “Happy birthday to you.”
Luke nodded, satisfied, then turned the camera toward you. “Mommy, say I love Luke.”
You smiled. “I love Luke.”
He lowered the toy camera and beamed. “Good movie.”
By late morning, the living room looked destroyed. Wrapping paper covered the rug, a plastic dinosaur had somehow ended up inside one of Joe’s sneakers, and Luke had changed into jeans, his new dinosaur sweatshirt, and the birthday crown, which he refused to take off even when you gently explained that walking around New York in a paper crown might get uncomfortable.
“It’s my day,” he said.
Joe pointed at you like Luke had made an excellent legal argument. “Hard to fight that.”
“You two are impossible.”
“We’re birthday boys,” Joe said.
“You are not a birthday boy.”
“I’m birthday boy adjacent.”
Luke giggled, because even when he didn’t fully understand the joke, he knew Joe was being ridiculous.
The plan was simple: take Luke to his favorite toy store, let him pick one thing, maybe walk around for a little bit if the weather stayed nice, then come back to the brownstone before dinner. Emma, Joe’s sister, had organized a family dinner at a restaurant nearby because, in her words, “my nephew turning four is an event.” Kate and Lizzy, Joe’s other sisters who lived in New York too, had already texted three times asking what time they should arrive, what Luke was wearing, and whether he still liked dinosaurs or had changed his entire personality overnight.
“He still likes dinosaurs,” Joe had texted back while Luke roared from the floor beside him.
Now, walking down the front steps of the brownstone, Luke held Joe’s hand in one hand and his toy camera in the other. He paused at the bottom step, lifted the camera toward the street, and whispered, “Movie.”
Joe crouched beside him. “Remember the rule?”
Luke nodded. “Ask first.”
“That’s right. We don’t film strangers unless they say it’s okay.”
Luke frowned. “But you film Mommy.”
Joe looked over at you with a grin. “Mommy is used to me being annoying.”
“Barely,” you said.
The toy store was loud, bright, and perfect. Luke moved through the aisles like a tiny museum curator, stopping in front of every shelf to carefully inspect things before deciding they were either “cool,” “too loud,” or “maybe for later.” Joe followed him with the patience of someone who would gladly spend five hours discussing the emotional life of stuffed animals if Luke asked him to. You watched from a few steps behind as Luke picked up a dragon, put it down for a fire truck, abandoned the fire truck for a box of magnetic tiles, then returned to the dragon with a serious expression.
“This one,” he announced.
“You sure?” Joe asked.
Luke hugged it to his chest. “He needs me.”
Joe nodded solemnly. “Then we can’t leave him.”
By the time you stepped outside again, Luke was glowing with happiness. The dragon was tucked under one arm, his toy camera hung around his neck, and he was talking nonstop about how the dragon looked mean but was actually “a nice guy.” Joe had the shopping bag looped around his wrist, and you walked close beside them, fingers brushing Luke’s shoulder every few seconds out of habit.
The first camera flash came from across the street.
You noticed it before Joe did.
It was quick, easy to mistake for sunlight reflecting off a window if you weren’t used to noticing things like that. But you were. You had learned to notice, slowly and unwillingly, because being with Joe meant understanding that privacy was something other people sometimes treated like a game. Most days it was manageable. Most days people whispered, or asked Joe for a photo, or tried to sneak a picture from far away. Most days Luke didn’t notice.
This time, he did.
Another flash went off.
Then someone called Joe’s name.
Joe’s hand tightened around Luke’s.
Your stomach dropped.
At first, there were only two photographers. Then three. Then more, appearing near the curb and across the sidewalk, cameras lifted, voices overlapping. Joe shifted instantly, stepping slightly in front of you and Luke without making a big show of it.
“Keep walking,” he said quietly.
Luke looked up. “Daddy?”
“It’s okay,” Joe said, calm but firm. “We’re just going to the car.”
But then one of the photographers called Luke’s name.
Luke turned.
It happened so fast you barely had time to react. He saw the cameras, heard his name, and smiled. Because of course he did. He was four. He had spent the whole morning being filmed by Joe, told it was his birthday movie, praised every time he waved or made a silly face. To him, a group of adults calling his name with cameras didn’t mean headlines or privacy or danger. It meant attention. It meant a game.
He lifted his hand and waved.
“Hi!”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“Luke,” you said quickly, reaching for him.
The flashes came faster.
Luke giggled, delighted by the reaction, and then—before you could stop him—he stuck his tongue out at them, making the same ridiculous face he made whenever Joe pointed the camera at him at home.
A few of the photographers laughed.
You felt panic rise hot in your chest.
“No, no, honey,” you murmured, stepping closer and gently turning him toward you. “Come here.”
Luke frowned, still smiling a little. “What?”
You pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up without thinking, trying to angle his face away from the cameras. Luke squirmed, not upset, just confused.
“Mommy, I’m playing.”
“I know,” you said, your voice tight. “I know, baby, but not with them.”
Joe heard that.
You saw the exact second his patience snapped.
Not loudly. Not recklessly. He didn’t scare Luke, didn’t shove anyone, didn’t turn the sidewalk into a scene. But his face changed, and so did his voice.
“Hey,” Joe called, sharp enough that the closest photographer lowered his camera slightly. “Don’t call his name.”
Someone kept shooting.
Joe stepped fully in front of Luke then, blocking him from view as much as he could. “I said don’t call his name. He’s a kid.”
The voices kept going, asking about the birthday, asking for one picture, asking if Luke could look over one more time. The words ran together, each one making your grip tighten around Luke’s shoulders. He looked up at you now, finally starting to realize something was wrong, his smile fading into uncertainty.
“Mommy?”
You crouched quickly in front of him, blocking his face with your body as you fixed his hood. “You’re okay.”
“Did I do bad?”
That almost broke you.
“No,” you said immediately, cupping his cheek. “No, baby, you didn’t do anything bad.”
Joe looked back at you, and even through the tension, his eyes softened when he heard Luke’s question. He reached down and lifted him in one smooth motion, settling him against his chest with Luke’s face turned inward.
“Race to the car, birthday boy,” Joe said, forcing lightness into his voice.
Luke blinked. “Race?”
“Yeah,” Joe said, kissing the side of his head quickly. “We’re winning.”
Luke, reassured by the familiar tone, wrapped one arm around Joe’s neck and held his dragon with the other. “We’re fast.”
“The fastest.”
Joe looked at the photographers one more time, and this time there was nothing playful in him at all.
“Back off.”
Then he moved.
You stayed close, one hand on Joe’s back and the other gripping the shopping bag so tightly your fingers hurt. The car wasn’t far, but it felt impossible to reach with the cameras following, shutters clicking, voices calling. Joe kept Luke tucked against him the whole time, his body angled so that every shot would get mostly his shoulder, his jaw, the side of his head, anything but Luke’s face.
When you finally reached the car, Joe opened the back door and bent slightly to put Luke into his seat. You climbed in beside him for a second, hands moving too fast as you buckled him, checked the straps, pulled his hood forward again. Luke watched you with big eyes.
“Mommy,” he said softly. “Are you mad?”
You stopped immediately.
“No,” you said, gentler this time. “I’m not mad at you. I promise.”
Luke looked toward the window, where Joe was standing with one hand against the open door, shielding the view from the cameras. “But Daddy is mad.”
Joe’s jaw was tight, but when he looked down at Luke, he softened instantly.
“Not at you, buddy,” Joe said. “Never at you.”
Luke held the dragon closer. “At the picture people?”
Joe hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “A little.”
“Why?”
Joe glanced at you. You knew that look. He was trying to explain something unfair in a way that wouldn’t make the world feel too scary.
“Because they forgot to ask,” he said finally.
Luke’s eyebrows pulled together. “Ask first.”
“Exactly,” Joe said. “You remembered. They didn’t.”
Luke thought about that, then nodded slowly. “That’s rude.”
A surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it, shaky and relieved.
Joe smiled too, just a little. “Yeah. It was rude.”
Luke leaned back against his car seat, apparently satisfied. “But I did a funny face.”
“You did,” Joe said, his voice gentle. “It was a very funny face.”
“Did you see?”
“I saw.”
Luke smiled again, small and proud. “I’m funny.”
“You’re the funniest guy I know.”
Joe shut the door carefully, then got into the front seat. For a few seconds, none of you moved. The photographers were still outside, but the car muted everything, turning their voices into dull noise. Joe kept both hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, breathing through his nose like he was trying very hard not to carry the anger into the car.
You reached forward and touched his shoulder.
He turned his head slightly.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.
Joe frowned. “For what?”
“I don’t know. I should’ve—”
“No.” He cut you off softly but firmly. “Don’t do that.”
You looked back at Luke, who was now making his dragon bite the edge of his sleeve, already drifting away from the moment because childhood was merciful like that sometimes. You lowered your voice even more.
“They got his face.”
Joe’s expression tightened, but not at you. Never at you.
“I know,” he said. “We’ll handle it.”
“I hate that he thought it was a game.”
“He’s four,” Joe said. “Of course he did.”
You swallowed hard, nodding even though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest.
Joe reached back with one hand, palm open. You took it immediately, threading your fingers through his over the center console. He squeezed once.
“He had a good morning,” Joe said quietly. “We’re not letting them take the whole day.”
From the back seat, Luke suddenly kicked his feet.
“Can we still have cake?”
Joe and you both laughed.
Joe started the car. “Yeah, buddy. We can still have cake.”
Back at the brownstone, the three of you took a quiet break before dinner. Luke spent most of it lying on the living room rug with his dragon, explaining to it very seriously that “picture people need manners.” Joe disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee, then came back with a mug for you and a look that told you he was still thinking about it, still angry underneath, but trying not to let it bleed into the rest of the day.
You sat on the couch while Luke played by the fireplace, your legs tucked under you, watching Joe check his phone and then put it face down almost immediately.
“Anything?” you asked softly.
“Nothing I want to deal with right now,” he said.
You nodded.
Joe sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours. “Hey.”
You looked at him.
“He’s okay.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay?”
You breathed out slowly. “I think so.”
Joe leaned in and kissed your temple. “Good.”
Luke looked up from the rug. “Are you kissing?”
Joe didn’t move away. “Maybe.”
Luke made a face. “Ew.”
You laughed, and just like that, the room felt lighter again.
By the time evening arrived, Luke had somehow regained all his energy. He changed into a little sweater you had laid out for him, insisted the dragon was coming to dinner because “he’s family now,” and made Joe film him walking down the brownstone stairs like he was on a red carpet.
“Who are you wearing?” Joe asked from behind the camera.
Luke looked down at his sweater. “Clothes.”
“Iconic.”
The restaurant was warm and full by the time you arrived, the kind of place tucked into a quiet street where the staff knew Emma because she had called three times to make sure the table would have enough room for gifts. She was already there when you walked in, waving dramatically from a long table near the back.
“There’s my birthday boy!” Emma called.
Luke let go of Joe’s hand and ran straight into her arms.
Emma lifted him with a laugh, kissing his cheek before immediately adjusting his sweater like only an aunt could. Kate and Lizzy were beside her, both already smiling, both with gift bags tucked under the table. Your parents were there too, along with a few relatives from your side, not everyone, but enough to make the table feel loud and full and loved.
Luke spent the entire dinner being passed between people, showing everyone his dragon, his toy camera, and the tiny paper crown you had brought in your bag because he refused to leave it at home. Emma made a dramatic toast about him being “the coolest four-year-old in Manhattan,” Kate pretended to be deeply offended when Luke said Joe was funnier than her, and Lizzy kept sneaking him fries from her plate even though you definitely noticed.
Joe filmed little pieces of it all. Not constantly, not in a way that pulled him out of the moment, but enough. Luke blowing out the candles. Luke getting frosting on his nose. Emma wiping it off with a napkin while he giggled. Your mom hugging him a little too long. Joe’s sisters singing louder than everyone else just to make him laugh.
At one point, Luke climbed into Joe’s lap, full and sleepy, his dragon tucked under his chin.
“Daddy,” he mumbled.
Joe looked down. “Yeah?”
“My birthday is big.”
Joe smiled. “It is big.”
“Tomorrow I’m still four?”
“Tomorrow you’re still four.”
Luke nodded, relieved. “Good.”
By the time you left the restaurant, it was late enough that Luke had started blinking slowly, fighting sleep with the determination of someone who believed closing his eyes would make the day end faster. Joe carried him to the car while you balanced leftover cake, gift bags, and the framed photo Emma had given him at dinner: a picture she had taken months earlier on the brownstone steps, Joe sitting with Luke asleep across his lap while you rested your head on Joe’s shoulder.
Luke had stared at it for a long time before whispering, “That’s us.”
Now, back home, he woke up the second Joe tried to carry him upstairs.
“My presents,” Luke mumbled into Joe’s neck.
Joe froze on the staircase. “Oh, no.”
You looked up from the bottom step, arms full of gift bags. “What?”
Joe turned slightly, Luke half-asleep against him. “He remembered.”
Luke lifted his head, eyes barely open. “I didn’t open all of them.”
Joe looked at you.
You looked at Joe.
Then you both sighed at the exact same time.
Ten minutes later, all three of you were sitting on the rug in the main bedroom, changed into pajamas, surrounded by gift bags from dinner. The house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that only came after a long day. Downstairs, a few balloons still floated around the living room, the birthday crown sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, and the dishwasher hummed softly in the background.
Joe appeared from the hallway with the handycam.
You laughed immediately. “Seriously?”
He looked offended. “This is essential footage.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
“It’s archival material.”
Luke clapped sleepily from between your legs. “Movie.”
Joe pointed the camera at him. “Birthday movie: final chapter.”
Luke waved. “Hi again.”
He opened Emma’s gift first, struggling with the ribbon for so long that Joe had to zoom in on his concentrated little face.
“Need help?” you asked.
“No,” Luke said. “I strong.”
“You are.”
Two minutes later, the ribbon finally came loose.
Inside was a dinosaur excavation kit, and Luke gasped so dramatically that Joe nearly dropped the camera from laughing.
“No way,” Joe whispered.
“It has bones,” Luke said, amazed.
“I’ve heard dinosaurs have those.”
Luke ignored him completely.
Kate’s gift was next: a little camera strap with Luke’s name stitched into it for the toy camera you had given him that morning. Luke insisted Joe put it on immediately, then held the camera against his chest.
“Now I match Daddy.”
Joe lowered the handycam for a second.
“You do, buddy.”
His voice had gone softer, and when you looked over, he wasn’t joking anymore. He was just looking at Luke, taking him in: the messy hair, the sleepy eyes, the tiny camera strap, the fact that your baby was somehow four.
Lizzy’s gift was a small green backpack covered in embroidered dinosaurs. Luke put it on over his pajamas, sat back down, and frowned.
“It’s heavy.”
“There’s nothing inside,” you said.
“Oh.”
Joe laughed so hard the camera shook.
One by one, Luke opened every present. A coloring book. Tiny rain boots. A stuffed triceratops. A children’s cookbook from your parents because he had recently become obsessed with “helping” Joe make pancakes. Every gift became his favorite for at least thirty seconds before the next one took its place. By the last bag, he was yawning between words, leaning back against you while you helped him pull tissue paper out with slow, sleepy hands.
When everything was finally opened, Luke sat in the middle of the mess looking completely satisfied and completely exhausted.
Joe turned the camera toward him. “Final birthday thoughts?”
Luke blinked at him.
“Cake.”
“Great thought.”
“And presents.”
“Another strong thought.”
“And Mommy.”
You smiled.
Luke reached one hand back and patted your arm.
“And Daddy.”
Joe’s face softened completely behind the camera.
“Good list,” he said quietly.
You started gathering wrapping paper into one of the empty bags, but Luke suddenly looked up, worried.
“Where do I sleep?”
You paused. “In your bed, honey.”
His face fell a little.
Joe noticed immediately. “What’s that face?”
Luke hugged the dragon to his chest. “It’s my birthday.”
“It is.”
“And birthday boys can sleep with Mommy and Daddy?”
You looked at Joe.
Joe looked at you.
For half a second, both of you pretended to think about it.
Then Joe nodded, very serious.
“Birthday rule.”
Luke’s eyes widened. “Birthday rule?”
“Birthday boys get whatever they want.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Within reason.”
Joe ignored that. “Tonight, you can sleep with us.”
Luke’s sleepy smile spread across his whole face.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He scrambled onto the bed before either of you could change your minds, dragging the dragon, the stuffed dog, and the framed photo with him.
“The photo is sleeping too,” he announced.
You laughed. “The photo needs a pillow?”
Luke thought about it, then carefully placed it on the nightstand. “No. Its own table.”
“Of course.”
Joe set the camera on the dresser, still recording for a few seconds as he climbed into bed. You turned off the main light, leaving only the warm bedside lamp on, and slid under the covers beside Luke. Joe got in on the other side, and without saying a word, Luke wiggled until he was perfectly wedged between both of you.
One of his hands found yours.
The other reached for Joe.
“I’m squished,” he whispered happily.
Joe smiled. “The good kind?”
“The good kind.”
You brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Did you have a good birthday?”
Luke nodded, already half-asleep.
“The best?”
He nodded again.
“What was your favorite part?” Joe whispered.
Luke took a long time to answer.
You thought maybe he had fallen asleep.
Then, with his eyes closed, he mumbled, “You.”
Joe went still.
You felt your chest ache.
“Me?” Joe asked softly.
Luke squeezed his hand. “And Mommy.”
You blinked quickly, looking at Joe over Luke’s head.
Joe’s eyes were soft, tired, a little glassy in the lamplight.
He leaned forward and kissed Luke’s forehead.
Then he reached over him, found your hand beneath the blanket, and intertwined your fingers together.
“Best birthday we’ve ever had,” he whispered.
Luke was already asleep by then, breathing slow and even between you. His dragon was tucked under one arm, his stuffed dog was half falling off the pillow, and one of his socks had somehow disappeared again. Outside, the West Village had gone quiet. Inside the brownstone, surrounded by forgotten balloons, wrapping paper, and a whole day saved forever on Joe’s little camera, the three of you stayed exactly where Luke wanted to be.
Together.
thank you so much for reading!! 🤍 i had so much fun writing this one 😭 i love writing dad!joe and little luke so much, and i thought combining the birthday request with the paparazzi idea made the story even cuter. i really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 if you have any requests, feel free to send them in!! i read every single one, and they’re honestly my favorite part of running this blog. don’t forget to like, reblog, or leave a comment if you enjoyed this one—it really means the world to me. see you in the next fic!! 🫶
request: maggie mae's first day of school would be heartbreaking for you and gator
the full collection & vision board!
disclaimer: these photos are from pinterest, i do not own them. these photo do not represent the appearance of you as the reader in this writing.
cherry on top: THE LAST REQUEST ARE YOU GUYS SO PROUD OF ME EVEN THOUGH IT TOOK ME SO LONG BUT NOW I CAN FINALLY ACCEPT REQUESTS/IDEAS FOR STUFF ABOUT BABY NUMBER TWO EEEEEEK
the preparations start weeks in advance.
maggie mae gets to pick out her backpack, and this is a massive event.
she spends approximately two hours in the store making her decision, because this backpack is going to determine the course of her entire academic career.
obviously.
she eventually settles on the cutest little backpack imaginable, with pink sparkles and cartoony horses, and proceeds to wear it around the house for the next two weeks.
including while eating dinner, watching cartoons, to church.
because she's a schoolgirl now, and everyone needs to know that.
obviously.
and she talks about kindergarten approximately every seventeen seconds.
"i'm gonna make friends" "i'm gonna learn math" "i'm gonna do recess"
meanwhile gator is standing in the kitchen looking like someone just told him about a terminal illness.
because his baby is going to school. school.
she was literally born yesterday.
you're trying to be supportive, but honestly, you're struggling too.
because somehow overnight the baby who used to fit against your chest is now picking out her own outfits and spelling her own name and making lunch requests.
"mama, can you make chick’n dumplin’ soup, please? and- and get those lil crackers?"
the night before the day, no one sleeps.
maggie because she's excited.
you because you're worried.
gator because he's having an existential crisis.
"she'll be fine" "what if she don't like it?" "she'll like it" "what if nobody sits with her?" "gator" "what if she gets lost?"
he spends half the night staring at old baby photos, just making himself emotional.
"she was so little"
you threaten to take his phone away.
the morning finally arrives.
somehow, maggie is the calmest person in the entire household.
she's up before both of you, already dressed, backpack on, sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal and swinging her little legs.
"mornin'!"
gator spends all of breakfast staring at her. maggie eventually notices.
"why you lookin' at me?" "can't i look at my kid?" "you bein' weird"
getting her hair ready is a whole event.
she wants it "just right"
not too tight. not too loose. with the pink bow. no, the other pink bow. actually maybe both pink bows.
eventually you all pile into the truck, and maggie spends the entire ride talking nonstop.
school. teachers. making friends. lunch. recess. absolutely everything. and gator answers every question seriously.
then you pull into the school parking lot.
and oh god, it’s real. very real.
there are tiny kids everywhere with their tiny backpacks. parents taking photos. teachers greeting students.
and suddenly your little girl is one of them.
maggie immediately grabs both your hands.
one hand in yours, one hand in gator's, walking between you.
completely fearless.
while both of you are trying not to cry, because she's so little, but she's also not little anymore, and that's just making it worse.
the teacher comes over, all smiles as she introduces herself, and maggie instantly starts talking like they've known each other for years.
then comes the hard part: saying goodbye.
except maggie doesn't realize it's supposed to be hard.
she hugs you. hugs gator. then immediately turns toward her classroom and walks away. just like that.
of course, gator immediately looks offended.
"that's it? that's all i get?" "gator" "she hugged me for two seconds"
maggie has already found another little girl and is introducing herself. completely fine. not a care in the world.
and gator is falling apart, standing in a kindergarten hallway trying not to cry.
and failing. miserably.
"you cryin'?" "no" "those are tears" "mind your business"
eventually you drag him out of the building, because otherwise he'll stand there all day staring through the classroom window and making things weird.
the entire drive home is quiet because neither of you know what to do now.
the house feels wrong.
too clean. too empty. too quiet.
no toys being dragged across the floor, no little voice asking for snacks, no cartoons blaring from the living room.
no maggie.
gator spends the entire work day showing everyone at the station her first day of school photo.
even if they didn’t ask.
"that's my daughter" "we know" "first day of kindergarten" "you've told us" "look at her backpack" "we saw" "picked it herself"
then comes pickup, and both of you arrive twenty minutes early. of course.
and the second those school doors open…
"MAMA! DADDY!"
she’s full on sprinting like a missile, launching herself at both of you.
"i made three friends and we painted and i learned the rules and my teacher likes horses and i got a sticker!"
all one sentence, barely even breathing.
that night at dinner, the nonstop talking continues.
every detail, every classmate, every snack, every single thing.
and gator listens like she's delivering the most important speech in human history, because she is. she's telling him about her first day.
and one day, way too soon, she'll stop wanting to tell him anything at all. but not today.
today she's still five.
still sitting in her booster seat and kicking her little feet under the table, looking at gator like he's her favorite person in the world
The deputy shows off his soft side reserved just for you when he surprises you with a kitten he found on the side of the road — gator tillman x reader fluff
Warnings: pretty sure none :)
Words: 2.9k
a/n: this was supposed to be like 800 words idk what happened
You wiped your hands on a dish towel as you rushed to your front door after an urgent-sounding knock pulled you from your kitchen.
Before opening it, you checked the peephole and saw it was no other than Gator Tillman, the town’s deputy who you’ve been playing hard to get with ever since moving to town.
“Gator, hi!” You greeted when you opened the door between you two. “What brings you over here?”
You noticed he was holding one hand behind his back, but you didn’t think about it too much until he started talking. Rambling, actually, was more like it. Not at all Gator’s typical style.
“So, I was drivin’ around today, just doing my rounds, y’know? And, uh, I was just on a pretty empty stretch of road when I saw somethin’ moving. I figured it was probably a squirrel or something, but it was really slow, so I stopped the car ‘n, well…”
Gator then pulled his arm out from behind his back to reveal a tiny grey kitten, nestled in the palm of his rough hand.
Your jaw dropped as you looked at the adorable creature and ever so gently pet the top of its head.
“He looked all sad ‘n puny, ‘n there were no others around, so I picked him up, brought him to the vet. They checked him over ‘n cleaned him up ‘n all that. They said he didn’t have a chip or anythin’, y’know, he didn’t have an owner ‘n I couldn’t find any family. I remember you saying you were thinkin’ about getting a cat, so I thought I should bring him over here. He's yours if you want. If not, I can take him to the pound, or I could try keeping him ‘n see how that goes.”
The kitten looked at you with its big, innocent eyes, and you weren’t sure how you could ever say no to this little thing.
Then after remembering you were standing with the door wide open in winter, you stepped to the side to let Gator and the cat in your house, closing the door behind him.
You reached forward to hold the animal so the deputy could kick off his boots. It was something he usually hated doing unless he was in your house, because he knew you hated letting the outdoors get all over your floor.
“And you’re sure I wouldn’t be taking him away from a family?” You asked, stroking the kitten’s back with your thumb as you spoke.
“Definitely.” He responded. “I looked around where I found him for a while. Nothing. Vet said he might have gotten lost or been abandoned. Apparently he’s just about a month or two old, so they said it was a good thing I found him when I did, ‘cause…”
“Oh, poor baby.” You said in a soft whiny voice, more to the cat than Gator.
Gator watched as you inspected the animal, deciding what you should do. As he gazed at you, the look in his eyes was softer than it was when he looked at anyone else. But of course, you didn’t notice that right now as your attention was away from him.
“Does he have a name?” You asked, looking up at Gator once again.
He cleared his throat, then answered your question. “No. Well, maybe. I put ‘Gator Jr.’ on the paperwork at the vet, just ‘cause I needed something, but you can change that. I thought you should choose the name.”
You giggled, and Gator tried to hide a grin at the sound.
“Gator Jr. doesn’t sound too bad.” You mused, holding the kitten closer to your body.
You whispered a greeting to the kitten that Gator didn’t quite hear, and smiled when the animal mewed back at you.
“So you wanna keep him, y’think?” The deputy asked.
You nodded gladly. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Gator tried not to show it, but he was pleased. When he first found that cat on the side of the road, he didn’t know what to do. But then he thought about you, and figured this was a chance to do something nice for both you and this poor little kitten. He was glad his choice paid off.
“Well, I guess I’ve gotta go buy some cat stuff.” You said to Gator, then held the kitten closer to your face so you could whisper to him. “Let me go put my snack back in the fridge, then we can go shopping. Alright, cutie?”
You started walking over to the kitchen so you could put back the food you were just about to eat when Gator piped up with an additional proposal.
“I can drive you. The pet shop in town might be closed already. Might have to go for a longer drive to find everything you need. I don’t want you out, away from home, all by yourself this late.”
You closed the fridge door, still holding the kitten, and walked back over to the front hall. You had a feeling Gator’s offer wasn’t just him looking out for your safety, but you weren’t going to call him out on that.
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan, Tillman.”
You passed off the kitten to Gator while you put on your coat and your shoes, then took it back so he could put his boots back on. He opened the door for you and waited for you to lock it before opening the passenger side door of his cruiser as well for you.
“You sure you’re allowed to drive this around when you’re off the clock?” You teased, settling the cat on your lap and doing up your seatbelt. “And that I’m allowed to be in here with you?”
He brushed your question off. “I don’t care about any of their rules. ‘M not doin’ anything bad with it, anyways. ‘M helpin’ someone, isn’t that my job?”
✦✧✦✧✦
Once you reached the nearest open pet store, you held the kitten close to your chest to shield him from the cold, and walked in right next to your favourite deputy.
You walked right to the cat aisles. Gator pushed the cart beside you, which was an entertaining sight. You’d never even thought about Gator going shopping for anything before, and it was clear it wasn’t something he did often, but he looked good doing it.
“We need food, right?” You said, stopping at the start of the aisle. “That’s probably the first thing, I guess.”
You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at all the options on the shelves. Gator stared at you.
“I’ll get a couple types of the wet food.” You decided. “See what Gator Jr. likes.”
And with that, grabbed several packages and moved on to the other things you needed for your new pet. As you shopped, you asked for input from both Gator and the kitten, though neither was very much help in the decision-making process.
You grabbed a bed and a cat tree that you thought would look good in your living room, even if you weren’t sure the little guy would even be able to climb up anything just yet.
You set a bunch of toys on the ground when there were no employees around and let Gator Jr. pick out the ones he wanted, and then bought way more than he needed, just because you wanted to spoil him.
“Cart’s almost full, you think you’ve got enough stuff?” Gator asked.
You had gotten everything you came for—and then some—but you wanted to be cheeky, so you added one more stuffed mouse toy to the pile.
“There. Now, I’m good.” You said with a smile.
There was no line at the checkout, so you went right up to the teenaged cashier, saying hello and apologizing for the large haul he would have to ring up so late in the day.
The employee told you the total, and it was higher than you wanted to spend right now, but you were already hooked on this little animal, so you swallowed your worries and decided to keep everything you had picked out.
Holding him with one hand, you dug in your pocket to fish out your wallet, but Gator moved quicker than you could, pulling out his credit card and telling the cashier that’s how he’d be paying.
“No, Gator, put that away.” You pleaded, trying harder to bring out your wallet. “I can’t ask you to pay for all of this.”
“You aren’t asking.” He shrugged. “I’m the one who sprung this on you, ‘m not gonna make you pay for something you didn’t ask for.”
He paid quickly and without any show, which was not what you expected of Gator. Normally, he moved through life standoffish and selfish, but now you were seeing him in a different light.
“Thank you, Gator.” You said, offering him a smile.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“Maybe not. But I want to, so I am.”
Gator really wasn’t used to mushy exchanges like this, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He put his card back in his pocket and mumbled something you didn’t quite catch in response. You weren’t put off by it, though. You saw the nice side of Gator Tillman, and you knew the walls he was putting back up weren’t something to be offended by.
He helped load all the bags into the cart, and then into his car as you narrated the events to the kitten in your hands.
“And now we’re getting back in the car, and Gator’s gonna take us to your new home!” You told the small creature. “Aren’t you excited?”
Gator started the car, watching you interact with the animal who, just a couple of hours ago, he had been nervous to show you.
And Gator rarely gets nervous—or at least, he never admits to being nervous. But when it came to you, he felt nervous. He really just hoped you couldn’t tell how he felt, even though he knew you were the last person who would ever judge him for feeling like that.
“You’re really bonding with Gator Jr. there, huh?” Gator asked in a subtly teasing manner.
You looked over to him, almost overcome with joy over this whole night.
“Of course. This is my sweet little boy.”
Then you thought about it as Gator started driving.
You voiced your thoughts out loud to the kitten. “Maybe that could be your name. Sweetie. That’s pretty you, right?”
“Sweetie?” Gator asked, seemingly disgusted by your suggestion. “Hell no. That’s so—”
He cut himself off once he saw you looking at him with one eyebrow raised like you were just daring him to keep going.
“Uh, it’s just— I think Gator Jr. is just a better name. ‘N it’s not even that good. But it’s just cooler, y’know?”
That answer satisfied you. You went back to mumbling praises to the kitten while Gator drove, trying to keep his eyes on the road instead of you.
You had to admit, you were liking this new side of Gator that was coming out today. He’s a bit of a sleazebag, but maybe he was a pretty sweet one. You had been turning down his somewhat douchey advances, but he wasn’t holding that against you. In fact, he’s gotten much nicer to you since then.
His motivations may be a little off, but you didn’t even care that much about that. He was being a good guy, and you were thinking about keeping him around from now on.
The rest of the drive was spent thinking about that. Even with a tiny animal in your hand that you were only half paying attention to, the main thing on your mind was the deputy that gifted the cat to you, and was now driving you around and paying for said cat’s supplies.
Your attention was only pulled from him when you felt the car make the final turn onto your street, then stop at your house soon after that.
“I’ll help carry all those bags in.” He offered, pulling the keys out of the ignition.
“Oh, thanks.” The words came out almost like a sigh as you got out of the cop car and headed for your front door.
The first thing you did when you got inside was grab the new pet bed you had just gotten and lay it out beside your favourite side of the couch. You got the cat settled on the fabric with next to no protest from him. Then from the same bag you brought in, you grabbed a squeeze tube of some fish concoction, ripped off the end, and began feeding your new friend for the first time.
He lapped up the puree, clearly enjoying the treat. A wide grin took over your face as you watched him settle in so comfortably in your house.
Gator walked in to drop off the last of the bags in your front hallway, so you waved him over to come behold the sight as well.
“Gator, c’mere!” You called, trying hard not to take your eyes off of the kitten. “Isn’t he so cute? He looks so happy already!”
Gator crouched down and squinted slightly. “Yeah, he does look happy. He’s gonna love it here.”
After a moment, you slowly pulled the treat away, earning a soft whine in argument from the kitten. You didn’t feel bad though, because you knew from the moment you saw him that you would be spoiling him for the rest of his life.
You rested the half-empty tube on top of a coaster on your coffee table, and then stood up, a motion that Gator copied.
“Well, I should leave you two.” He said. “Unless you need me to help unpack anything, set anything up, all that. But if not, I can go.”
“Could you stay?” You asked, feeling nervous for some reason.
“Yeah, of course.”
He turned around, looking at the pile of products by the door, but you stopped him before he could start walking.
“You don’t have to help with all that. You’ve done so much already. Let me get you a drink, you can just relax now.”
Gator didn’t argue against your offer, nor did he put himself on a pedestal or mention all that he has done for you today, even though he had more than enough reason to. You liked that.
From the door of your fridge, you grabbed a beer and the half-empty wine bottle you had left over. Using the magnetic bottle opener from the side of your fridge, you opened the beer and gave it to Gator before pouring yourself a glass of wine.
He lounged against your kitchen counter, and you had to admit he looked hot doing it. He wasn’t as casual as he was with most people in his life, nor as authoritative as he was when at work, instead he was in the sweet spot between there.
He was just Gator. Just Gator, in your house, letting you treat him after he’s been so nice to you all evening.
“You know, I can help you register him as yours tomorrow, once you decide on the name.” Gator said after his first swig. “I can drop by over my lunch break, bring the papers the vet gave me, and help with whatever you need.”
You put down your wine glass beside you and took a step or two closer to the man in front of you.
“What if you came by after work?” You mused, looking up at Gator and becoming increasingly shy with each passing word. “That way, you could help if I need anything, and then you could take me out to dinner.”
Gator stood up straight, trying to keep his composure after hearing your suggestion of a date.
God, he hoped it was a date. He wasn’t even sure he had heard you correctly, honestly. He wasn’t even sure this whole night had been real at this point.
“Really?” That was all he could manage. It was safe to say he was at least mildly panicking at your reciprocated feelings.
You nodded, then leaned forward and placed a hand on his chest. You fiddled with the zipper of his jacket as you continued. “Sorry I took so long to say yes. You’ve just gone soft on me now, Tillman. I like it.”
Gator smirked down at you and placed a hand on your hip. He hadn’t abandoned himself completely, of course.
He spoke with a low voice. “Yeah? Don’t go telling anyone that about me. Ruin my reputation. ‘M not soft for anyone else.”
You stepped back a bit, biting back a smile. “You’re soft for Gator Jr. too!”
The man looked over your shoulder, finding the cat still on his bed in the living room. “Well, he better not tell anyone either.”
That made you laugh. You squeezed his bicep gently before stepping back and taking another sip from your wine glass.
Gator had spent the night watching you look so happy because of him, and that made him happy. And now, you had just finally agreed to let him take you on a date after playing hard to get for so long.
A golden opportunity has just been dropped at his feet, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it and do his best to keep you happy for as long as you’d let him.
childhood enemy!gator tillman x reader - w.c. 16.6k
summary: when your dad takes off for a weekend fishing trip with his friend roy, he enlists the help of his son gator to keep you in line while they're away. unfortunately for you, gator might be the one person you hate enough to get grounded for.
tags/warnings: childhood enemy!gator x reader, no use of y/n, childhood/family friends (but you hate each other), enemies to lovers, reader and gator are 19, mentions of domestic violence, mean!possessive!douchebag!gator, hate sex, manhandling, play fighting but kind of not play (scratching, wrestling, etc), slut-shaming, degradation, praise, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, maybe elements of cnc if you squint?, cannot stress enough gator is mean in this
author's note: based on this request from a while back! i'm so proud of this and if no one reads it i will cry. please check the tags!
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You stand in your driveway watching your dad pack up his gear, your arms crossed and your face set in a scowl.
“Don’t give me that look,” he calls to you, loading his tacklebox into the bed of his behemoth truck. “You made your damn bed.”
You don’t argue back, already sensing how futile it would be. Your father is many things, but unpredictable is not one of them. And now that he’s made up his mind about how you’re going to be spending the weekend while he’s out fishing with Roy Tillman, you know there’s no changing it.
“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”
Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son.
As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter.
The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.
Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him.
Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you.
You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch.
Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”
Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.
Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”
“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.
Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”
The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.
Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.
You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.
The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.
He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks.
He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating.
In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.
Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.
And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him.
That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.
As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you.
Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.
You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug.
“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”
You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”
“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”
You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”
Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.
“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you.
You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”
“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”
“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.
“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”
Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”
He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage.
“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”
Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”
You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”
“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up.
“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand.
Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”
Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.
Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him.
Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window.
Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer.
“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again.
Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!”
His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him.
The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”
“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.
“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”
Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.
“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”
You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms.
“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”
He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying.
Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions.
“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him.
Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you.
Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him.
“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming.
Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?”
The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs.
Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”
“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”
He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”
You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.
A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly.
Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.
You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch.
Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”
“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”
“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”
You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”
Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”
You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”
“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”
You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”
You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him.
A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.
You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed.
You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.
Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward.
Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter.
“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”
Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”
Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”
“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”
“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”
He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”
You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks.
“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.
“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”
“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”
Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”
You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”
Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.
“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.
Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”
“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.
You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."
“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”
“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”
Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”
Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it.
“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.
“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”
“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”
Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”
His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”
The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always.
His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”
His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.
Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone.
You don’t care. You’re already gone.
It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears.
“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling.
Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”
“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly.
He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it.
You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.
“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”
“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him.
He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”
“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”
His chuckle echoes down the hall.
The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready.
Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.
“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.
“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.
You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.
You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.
The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.
“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.
You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”
“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”
You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”
He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”
When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh.
You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”
“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.
“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him.
Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”
“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”
“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”
“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.
“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”
“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”
Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”
“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”
“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.
“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”
“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”
“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.
Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”
“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”
“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”
“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.
“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”
“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.
“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.
“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”
For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”
“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”
“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”
“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.
“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”
The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.
Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life.
And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.
The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.
And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered.
Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.
With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath.
His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen.
Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh.
Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door.
You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes.
It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid.
After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape.
Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor.
You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened.
Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of.
Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”
Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately.
A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.
Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.
He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.
Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.
She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”
You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family.
But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.
“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”
Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator.
He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again.
When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”
“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.
You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.
The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up.
“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”
“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly.
“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”
“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”
He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”
“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”
“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”
You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”
“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.
“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”
You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”
“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”
“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”
He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”
“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”
“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”
You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”
Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.
“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”
Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.
“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”
He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”
“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”
“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”
“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”
Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”
“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.
Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”
You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision.
You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand.
So, that night, you don’t go back to your room.
You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.
You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.
Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.
“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.
“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”
You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.”
Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.
Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”
“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”
Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”
You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.
When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”
“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”
“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”
“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.
“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.
“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”
“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.
“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”
With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.
Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat.
It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.
Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore.
You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you.
You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won.
It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you.
You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.
You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory.
The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces.
And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off.
The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you.
Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it.
You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips.
You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.
Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth.
His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it.
Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs.
Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”
“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”
“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”
You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”
His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands.
“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there.
“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature.
“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”
You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.
When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”
“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”
With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”
“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch.
Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”
“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway.
“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest.
You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”
“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?”
Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”
You give him a look. “Excuse me?”
“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.”
“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”
“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you.
“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.
Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.
Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”
“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”
Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?”
You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”
He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”
“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.
Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”
“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.
“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp.
Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.
“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak.
“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.”
That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting.
Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.
Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”
Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it.
His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”
His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.
His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”
The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.
And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt.
He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks.
“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”
“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”
“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”
“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”
Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low.
Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”
You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”
At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips.
It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing.
As in most things, Gator feels different.
It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face.
Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”
“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed.
“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.
You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered.
“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”
“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows.
“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”
You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”
He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”
Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts.
“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”
The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.
“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”
You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”
“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.
“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”
Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.
“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”
“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”
Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again.
“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.
“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself.
Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”
Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”
“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”
“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.
“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”
“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”
“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.
“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up.
“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”
“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.
“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.
Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.
In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.
“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.
You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.
“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.
“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”
“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”
“Gator—“
“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”
He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.
Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together.
“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.
You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”
You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”
“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”
“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.
Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”
You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”
Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”
“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”
“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”
“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly.
He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”
“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.
“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly.
You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”
“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly.
“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”
“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”
“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”
“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.”
“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.
“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”
Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”
He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”
“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”
“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.
Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”
His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.
Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him.
“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you.
“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”
You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation.
Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”
“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut.
He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”
With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch.
“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”
You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain.
“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”
You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again.
A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring.
“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”
“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants.
He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”
“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.
“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”
Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”
Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again.
When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”
“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”
You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.
“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”
You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.
The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago.
“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”
“Shut up,” you breathe.
“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”
“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”
“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”
“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”
He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.”
You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”
He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”
“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”
“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”
“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.
“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”
Gator groans.
“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”
“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.
You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”
“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”
“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.
“Yeah, baby?”
You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.
“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.
You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours.
“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back.
He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”
Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”
His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.”
You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”
“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”
“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.
Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”
“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”
Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–
You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you.
He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion.
Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp.
For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too.
Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight.
Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum.
Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.
He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.
“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.
He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.”
You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”
Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”
You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”
“I am,” he insists, voice low.
The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off.
“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe.
“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”
“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”
You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”
“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”
You huff. “No.”
“Lunch.”
“Gator—“
“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”
“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.
Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”
“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”
“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.
“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.
He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."
You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”
“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”
“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”
He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”
You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.
Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”
“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”
“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”
You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”
“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.
“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”
Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”
“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”
“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.
The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”
You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.
You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.
When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”
“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.
“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”
You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”
“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”
“I’m not–”
“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”
You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”
Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“How do you know?” you press him.
“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”
You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.
She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?
Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”
Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you.
“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”
“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming.
He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”
You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.
“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”
You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat.
Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation.
So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”
About: You never expected to end up with Gator Tillman, but life is funny that way. Now you're expecting a child together, but your father-in-law Roy isn't making life any easier for your little family. It all comes to a head at your gender reveal party...
(Based on an idea/request by @louisbelongstome28 ; tysm and I hope I did this justice!! ^3^)
Warnings: 18+ MDNI; graphic sexual content, graphic language, mild violence, bullying/harassment/abuse, pregnancy (obvs), death of a parent; it's the Tillmans, so it's a little toxic.
Lehigh High School Prom
Your mom had taken approximately 438 pictures of you with your prom date, Jeremy McNulty, and he hadn't even put your corsage on your wrist yet.
You two had become really good friends, considering the fact that when you entered high school you both got relegated to the "weird artsy" corner for kids that didn't really fit into any of the other molds. You had bright, colorful hair that changed every other week, a snarky attitude, and mediocre grades. Jeremy was tall and skinny, really smart, but didn't play sports or an instrument, so he just hung around with you sketching in his notebook or painting in the art room after school while you smoked your cigarettes.
He had actually told you once that he was pretty sure he was gay. You told him you were so proud of him and that you'd fight anyone who made fun of him for it, but he still decided that he wanted to keep it a secret until he could get the fuck out of North Dakota, just to be safe. You sadly understood.
"Oh, Jeremy dear, lemme get a few'a you slipping the corsage on her wrist! Oh, golly, that's just adorable. You two make a really nice couple, just saying! Y'ad have real artsy little babies." Your mom wiggled her eyebrows with a cheeky little wink.
You and Jeremy cringed and gave her a mortified pity-laugh, then hurriedly bolted through the door.
The prom theme was 'Casino Night', because that's completely appropriate for a bunch of teenagers at a high school dance.
It was your and Jeremy's senior prom - you'd both just turned 18 this year, and were already making plans for getting out of this town and making it big somewhere else. Jeremy was going to be an artist. You were gonna be...not in Lehigh.
Even so, you both thought it would be fun and ironic to have one last hoorah at your prom. What could happen, right?
You were sitting slouched in a corner after a particularly raunchy rendition of the Cupid Shuffle, catching your breath and resting your aching feet.
You glanced over and saw in a darkened corner near the fake roulette table, Jeremy talking very closely to one Keith Connors from your class. He had really great hair. You were rooting for them. You caught Jeremy's eye briefly and gestured that you were gonna go outside for a smoke. He nodded and shooed you off.
Outside the air had a chill to it that your flimsy little dress did not protect against. You had a coat wrapped around your upper body, but your legs were freezing and riddled with gooseflesh. You lit up your cigarette and leaned against the wall outside the gymnasium.
A few puffs in, the doors flew open. You tensed, thinking it may be a teacher or a chaperone at first, but it turned out to the even worse - Gator fucking Tillman.
He barrelled outside with 2 or 3 of his football buddies, all laughing and hanging off of each other. You caught his eye, and he split off from the cluster of dipshits and staggered over to you. He'd clearly been sneaking some booze.
"Hey freakazoid, got another one'a them I can bum off'ya?"
You snorted. "Get lost, Tillman."
He sneered at you incredulously. "What'd you say t'me you fat little freak bitch?"
You glared at him with all the hate you could muster (which was a lot). "The fuck did you just call me, you limp dick piece of shit?"
He leaned an arm against the wall beside your head and leaned into your ear, harshly whispering "Fat. Freak. Bitch."
Oh yeah, he reeked of sour beer. You took a long inhale on your cigarette and blew it straight into his face. He just laughed.
"Whatever. Later, weirdo." He turned his back on you to horseplay with his friends in the parking lot.
They were further away, but still distantly visible and audible from where you stood. They threw things, jumped off of each other's trucks, lit small fires, and eventually they all revved up their big, souped-up engines and screeched off into the night.
Good riddance.
Prom night ended and Jeremy came to you outside with pleading, desperate eyes.
"Babe, is there any way you can get a ride home?" He leaned into your ear and urgently whispered, "Keith wants to go to the lookout, I'm not even fucking kidding right now."
The pure excitement and eagerness in his face was enough to lift your own spirits. You glanced over and Keith was indeed standing awkwardly by the doors, giving you a tiny wave in acknowledgement. You waved back and kissed Jeremy on the cheek.
"Go get em, Tiger." You winked. Jeremy squeezed your shoulders and walked briskly to his car with Keith beside him.
But shit.
There wasn't anyway you were gonna get a ride home. You had zero fucking friends, not ones at this prom at least, and your mom went to bed like 2 hours ago. Besides, if you called and asked her for a ride she'd want a full report on why things didn't work out with Jeremy, and you just didn't feel like dealing right now.
It was only a little over a mile to your house. It was a pretty, clear night, full of stars with a big, bright moon. What the hell.
You stripped off your heels, clutching the straps between your fingers, and started the trek back home.
It was getting a lot colder by the minute, and your feet were getting blistery from walking barefoot on the chilly pavement, but you absolutely couldn't do another second in those heels either.
You sniffled and trudged forward, face numb, but determined not to die of exposure walking home barefoot from your senior prom.
A pair of bright headlights shone from behind you. You could hear loud metal music blaring from the speakers, and you could just begin to picture the face behind the wheel when he called out to you.
"Hey, freak!"
You didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge his existence. He honked and it made you jump and drop your shoes. You heard him cackle. You turned and flipped him the bird, although the lights were so bright you couldn't actually see him.
He creeped forward alongside you, elbow hanging out the window.
"Well aren't you a ray of fucking sunshine. Where's your little fairy boyfriend? Ditch ya to go fuck Queef Connors behind the gym?"
You reared back and hucked your heels as hard as you could at his driver's side door. One left a small dent and the other a faint scratch. Gator slammed on the brakes and jumped out, then turned to glower right back at you.
"You little cunt! Look what you did to my truck, my dad's gonna fucking kill me!"
"Good!!" You boiled over with rage. "I hope so, then I won't have to deal with your fucking ass anymore! Do us all a favor and go die, painfully, Tillman!!"
You turned to leave in a huff and felt a rough hand grip your upper arm, hard. You tried to rip it from his grasp, digging your nails into his wrist, but he didn't relent.
"Hey, you're gonna pay for that, whore."
Whore.
You smacked him across his mouth, and he released you. When he looked back at you, you had big, fat tears welling in your eyes.
"I fucking hate you, Gator." The drops spilled over and trailed down to your chin. He just stared in awe. You turned and started to walk back home.
About 10 minutes later, not too much further from your house but still not close enough to see it yet, you saw the lights and heard that all too familiar engine.
Oh god, you had thought. This is it. Gator Tillman is gonna run me over in that big, stupid truck of his, his daddy, the sheriff, will blame it on the evils of underage drinking, and he'll get off scott free. A valuable life lesson learned for everyone. Hopefully it'll all be over quick.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You heard him clear his throat from the truck window, turning to look at him now. Surprisingly he wasn't seething with testosterone-induced rage. He looked...sad?
"Hey, I'm uh...I'm sorry. For the whore thing. Shouldn't have said that, m'sorry. You don't have to pay for the truck, I can probably just buff this out."
You stared at him in disbelief. No words escaped you.
He huffed an unamused laugh.
"Well, you can say something? Cat got your tongue, ya fucking weirdo?"
Your jaw set in a hard line.
There he is.
"Whatever, Gator. Just leave me alone."
"Lemme give you a ride."
You looked at him, flabbergasted.
"Uh, no. You're drunk."
"I am not, I had one beer at prom. Just hammin' it up for the guys. S'prom night. Just get in."
Why on earth was he suddenly being so brutally honest, with you of all people? Was he gonna kill you after all?
"I'm not that far."
"Girl you look like you're bout to pass out, and I can see your foot's bleeding."
You looked down and sure enough one of your heels was raw and blood-smeared. You winced and looked back up at Gator. He was smirking with that cocky, lop-sided grin of his, and if you didn't absolutely hate his guts you might think he could be handsome. Maybe.
Too bad you did. Hate his guts, that is.
"I dunno, Tillman. I think I might would rather bleed to death than ride with you. Hard to say."
He actually chuckled at that, and a shiver ripped through you when a sharp breeze sliced through the air. He looked you over, top to bottom.
"What about freezing to death? Would you rather do that than hitch a ride with me? Cause it seems you're heading there, fast."
He quirked a brow at you, and that gave you pause. You adjusted your coat over your top half and groaned at the painful chill on your bottom half. With a huge sigh and a deadly roll of the eye, you relented.
"Fine, dude. Just take me straight home. No weird stuff."
"Weird stuff? I thought that was your domain, you do all the weird shit."
"Oh yeah? Enlighten me."
"Well fer starters, your hair is bright fucking pink."
You nod for him to continue.
"Go on? Is that all you've got? Pink hair?"
He shrugs. "S'pretty weird."
Oh, sweet, stupid Gator. Well, not too sweet. But very, very stupid.
You rolled your eyes again with a chuckle, but as you started to round the hood to get in the passenger seat you heard him swinging his door open and half-jogging to beat you to the door.
He opened it for you. He held out his hand to help you up. You both made just a microsecond of eye contact with some realization in it, but you both quickly broke it.
No way am I going for him./No way am I going for her.
Once you'd settled in your seat you gave him a curt nod of thanks and he gave you one back. Then, Gator Tillman was driving you home.
It took him approximately 8 minutes to get to your house. Like you had said, you weren't far. But, he parked in front, killing his headlights. You didn't get out right away, and he didn't make you. You both sat and talked; then you offered him that cigarette he'd asked for, and you smoked and talked; then you started to kiss and talk; and before either of you really knew what was going on, you were straddling his lap in your prom dress, sucking hickeys onto his neck as he ground himself into your soaking panties through his tux.
"Goddamn, girl. You trying to eat me or somethin'?"
You pulled back and glared at him. "S'at another fat joke, Tillman?"
He groaned. "Jesus, lighten up, not everything's so serious. Now can you shut up and show me your tits, please?"
That brought out a genuine laugh in you that you hadn't expected.
"You're such a little prick."
"I think you know that's not true."
He highlighted his point by thrusting against you once, and the sensation was excruciatingly, teasingly good. Your body demanded more, so you circled your hips down over him and his head lolled back, showing off his neck with 6 fresh purple hickeys.
"Fuck, that's good."
"You got a condom, Gator?" You panted out.
His head snapped up and he looked at you with genuine bewilderment. His mouth gaped like a fish trying to breath out of water. You smacked his cheek lightly a couple of times to bring him back.
"Earth to Gator Tillman. If you don't wanna, that's fine. Was just...askin'. We can just keep doing this if ya want."
He swallowed and shook his head.
"Nah, nah, I do. I have one, and I do wanna use it. Um, do you wanna? I mean, you're sure you wanna? With me?"
"Tillman I've never seen you so flushed an' flustered. It's honestly kinda cute, you should drop the big dumb jock act more often. Suits you."
He went to protest and you silenced him with a soft, tender kiss. He traced his fingers up your back and tangled them into the hair at the nape of your neck.
Through some awkward fumbling in his glovebox, you both managed to get his pants down around his ankles and get the condom on. You couldn't see very well, but you could feel that he was a lot bigger than what you'd been used to - which wasn't a huge data pool for comparison, granted, but there were two others before him and they didn't even come close.
Foreheads pressed together, mouths parted and breathing each other's air, you slowly lifted your hips and guided him to your entrance. Then you sunk down slowly, gently bouncing little by little to take him deeper each time.
His lower tip was sucked between his teeth as he watched, enraptured by the sight of himself slowly disappearing into you.
When your hips finally met and you were completely seated on top of his thighs, feeling more achingly full than you'd ever felt in your life, you met eyes with him. His are normally some nice shade of hazel, but his pupils were blown wide and look desperate leaving them just looking black as night.
You slid your spaghetti straps down your shoulders one by one and peeled the top of your dress down to reveal your breasts to him. He immediately broke eye contact to gawk at your tits, bringing both hands up to knead and twist at them. You'd put your hands over his to stop him.
"Easy, dude! They're not just fun bags you can bat around like that. Be nice or I'm putting' em away."
He scoffed. "I think I know what to do with a pair'a tits."
You tilted your head and folded your arms over your chest, covering it.
"Oh yeah? Then how come it feels like you were trying to twist mine off? Maybe none of your girlfriends have ever had the balls big enough to tell ya before now, but that wasn't good, Gator."
He looked away, embarrassed. When he dropped the act for just that moment, you saw him.
Your walls clenched around him involuntarily and you both gasped at the sensation.
He mumbled, still not meeting your eyes.
"Well what the fuck do ya want me to do to em then? Show me."
You tipped his chin up to have him look at you properly, and gave him a warm smile.
"That's a good boy. It's always fun to learn."
He twitched inside of you.
You'd put your hands on top of his and showed him the proper way to caress and twist and flick, and before long he was a pro and had you whimpering in his lap.
"Perfect, that's...that's perfect, Gator. Now I'm gonna start, just kinda..."
You rose up and sunk back down, and a moan escaped his lips sending a twisting hot flare through your lower belly. You repeated the motion slowly a few more times and then the dam broke and you were clinging to each other, fucking properly in the driver's seat of his truck.
Your ass beeped the horn once and you both froze. When no one came to check it out, you both burst into a fit of giggles and kept fucking (just a little more wary of your asscheeks this time).
At one point he looked over your face and in a soft voice you hadn't really heard from him before you hear him say, "You're really beautiful."
You flashed him a smile. "You're just pussy drunk, Gator. It'll pass."
"Nah. Always thought yer beautiful. Huge bitch, but a beautiful one."
You chuckled and smacked at his chest while your heart lurched in yours.
"You're pretty too, Gator."
"I ain't."
"You is." You proved your point with a hard thrust that had him gripping your hips with a groan.
"Goddamn, woman. You're gonna snap my dick off."
You pouted at him and he let loose a low chuckle that rumbled through both of your chests. Then, still gripping your hips, he languidly thrusted and rolled up into you, angling himself to hit a spot that you weren't reaching before. You started seeing stars in your vision. You placed a hand on his shoulder and one on the roof of the truck to stabilize yourself, desperate to keep this angle at all costs.
"Oh, Jesus, Gator. That's...that's really good."
"Yeah? I like it when you drop that moody bitch act, was gettin' old."
"Shut the fuck up, and keep fucking me right there."
You whimpered and moaned, clutching at your own chest. Gator watched, completely enchanted, and furrowed his brow to keep this exact angle and pattern of thrusts going (no matter if his right thigh was cramping up something awful). He was gonna see this through to the bitter end.
Your cries hit an apex as you came, fluttering heat pulsing from where you were both joined, over your legs, through your chest, and straight to your head.
You gripped the collar of his suit jacket and crashed your lips into his, and he could feel you quivering around him. Just that sensation alone made him explode into the condom with a few needy thrusts of his own.
You both stayed there a moment to just breathe.
Then the post-nut clarity began to set in for both of you.
Oh god.
•••
You don't call and he doesn't call. You walked out of the truck that night with a quick peck on the cheek and a small wave, and you both made an unspoken agreement to never talk about this again.
School was more of the same.
He'd pick on you occasionally, you'd glower and roll your eyes, but looks lingered more and insults didn't sting quite like they used to. Instead they just felt like lines in a play - memorized and recited words in a fictional character's voice.
You both graduated a month later. Gator went into the police academy, of course. And you - well you and Jeremy did what you said. You both got accepted to the same art school, and both got the fuck out of North Dakota.
You majored in Graphic Design and got a pretty cushy gig in St. Cloud. You'd been up there about 3 or 4 years when you got the call that your mom had died.
Your dad had died when you were 6, so she was quite literally all you had left in the world. Now you were alone; hundreds of miles from home, and alone.
Even Jeremy had met someone in college that he now lived with in the Twin Cities, and you didn't see each other as often as you'd both like. You chalked it up to life, and sent each other the occasional funny video or meme that the other person would politely respond with '😂' to (whether they watched it or not).
That evening, without much fanfare, you poured a glass of wine, put your mom's favorite Jewel album on, and packed your life back up into boxes.
•••
Your mom's funeral was actually really nice. Lots of people came. She was everyone's third grade English teacher for the last 2 decades, so there were lots of kind, lovely words to be said about her.
People brought you so many casseroles it was sickening. No one brought you things like toilet paper and toothpaste though, which you quickly realized your mother had been out of.
At the grocery store people stopped and hugged you on every aisle, giving their condolences and welcoming you home. You assured them you weren't staying long, but they all just gave you a sad, knowing nod and kept going about their respective days.
You turned the aisle to grab some cereal and your breath hitched in your throat.
Now, God? Why would you test me in this way?
Because standing there, reading the flavors on all the boxes of Pop-Tarts, was Gator goddamn-motherfucking Tillman, all dressed up for work in a tactical vest and camo pants with heavy combat boots.
This was Stark County. There was absolutely no need for all that.
But you had to admit - the pants fit him real nice.
No, stop that. Bad girl.
You quickly tried to look busy perusing all the sugar-coated puffs and rings and flakes, grabbing one without really even seeing what it was. You threw it in the basket and kept moving, but his gruff voice stopped you.
"Hey, weirdo."
A chill went down your spine. You slowly turned and did your best to act surprised.
"Well, as I live and breathe. Gator Tillman. How are you?"
He smiles at your fake niceties.
"I'm doin' just fine. Heard about your mama. I'm real sorry."
You swallowed the lump in your throat, but it just bobbed and got stuck there.
"Thanks." You managed to croak out.
He kicked his boot against the ground, and you both stared down like you'd decided that the grocery store floor was the most interesting thing you'd ever seen. Then you both tried to speak at the same time.
"Well I'll let ya -"/"Would you wanna-"
"Huh?"/"What?"
You gave a small laugh and gestured at him to go on. He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet.
"Nah, I was just - it's stupid, I was gonna say if you wanted I can get ya some dinner down at the diner. Catch you up on what you been missin' since you been over in fancy land."
You made a face.
"St. Cloud, Minnesota is fancy land?"
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't, but it's fine, Gator. You don't have to do that, my mom -" The damn lump was back, unswallowable. "She and I talked all the time, I'm pretty caught up. Thanks though."
He nodded and pursed his lips, gave an attempt at a polite smile but it came off as nothing but a harsh, straight line.
"Alright then. Well, I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure."
"Lucky me." You muttered sarcastically.
The corner of his mouth twitched and for a second you saw that devious little smile of his, for real. Then he quickly turned on his heels, Pop-Tarts forgotten, and leaves the store.
•••
You got a temporary work-from-home design job that occupied part of your days. The rest of the time you were cleaning up the house, going through your mom's stuff, and crying with a glass of wine listening to Jewel.
One evening it had been a triple threat (work + cleaning + drunk-crying), and you were feeling completely emotionally and physically spent, when there came a knock at your door.
You looked at the clock. 9:45 PM.
You threw a baggy sweatshirt over your pajamas and cracked open the door. Gator looked up and frowned at your puffy, red eyes and messy bun.
"Deputy Tillman, to what do I owe this esteemed honor?"
"Jesus, you look like shit."
You snorted. "Gee, thanks. You've always been a smooth talker."
"Are you drunk?"
You bit your lower lip and nodded, silently.
He sighed, a little annoyed.
"Well, I'm just doing a kind of a welfare check on ya. Haven't seen you around in days, worried you mighta fallen and broken a hip or something."
"Help, I've fallen and I can't get up? That's what you thought I was doing in here?" You giggled, but he isn't nearly as amused.
"Just seein' how you been, freakazoid. Don't get your panties in a knot."
"I'm so good, Gator. So good. I had to leave my gorgeous little city apartment, take a shitty little remote job, and settle myself right back here in little Lehigh, North Dakota. Ooh! And to top it off, I'm an orphan now! Can you believe? A real, bonafide orphan. Don't even sound real, does it?"
Tears were streaking down your face, a sharp contrast to the wild, frantic grin on your face. Gator stared at you in awe.
"Hey, s'fine. I'm sorry, I...I was just checking on ya, that's all. I'll leave you be."
You clutched at his hand before he could turn, and you crumbled to dust at the touch of another human being.
"You can stay. But I'm not gonna be much fun." You sniffled.
"I'm not too much fun these days, either." He smirked and followed you inside.
That night you shared some coffee and stories about growing up in Lehigh. You talked about your mom a lot, and Gator listened. He told you about how she had failed him on a third grade reading assignment at least twice before she finally passed him once, but that he wasn't mad about it.
"Was the first time in school I actually felt like I learned something. Wasn't just me plugging stuff in or getting a grade cause of my dad. I liked your mom. Good teacher."
You nodded tearfully.
"Thanks, Gator."
"Daughter's stubborn as a mule though."
You kicked him playfully under the table and shared a quiet laugh.
The quiet stretched out, blanketing you both in your cozy kitchenette. Gator patted his hands on the table and stood, and you stayed sitting.
"Alright, well, I'll get outta your hair. I can see you're still alive, which is...good. Thanks for the coffee."
You gently hooked your fingers around his, and he grasped you back.
"You got anywhere you need to be?"
"Nah. Heading home."
"You could stay. If you want."
"I could. If you want."
You inhaled shakily. "I think I could want that, yeah."
•••
And it started there.
Gator swinging by, bringing you treats from the bakery on his way into the station. You returning the favor by bringing him a lunch or a milkshake on his break.
He'd come by and spend the night once or twice a week, then 3 or 4 times, then suddenly he had a toothbrush, a half of a bureau, and an entire side of the bed. By 6 or 7 months, he was all but moved into your home with you.
Then, on your one year anniversary, he'd brought you to a big surprise party at the Tillman Ranch. You had honestly been shocked his daddy had let him, considering Sherrif Roy Tillman, to put it bluntly, hated the dirt you walked on.
To him you were trash - a common, city-slicking, foul-mouthed, liberal snowflake. A harlot and a whore.
But as Gator grew up and out of his high school bubble and realized how much of an outcast he actually was, he started to see that it wasn't such a bad thing. He'd decided that you two could make your own little clique just by being yourselves, together. He was absolutely head over heels in love with you, and you with him.
The anniversary party was lovely, and during a slow-dance under the stars Gator had kissed you and dropped to one knee. He pulled a ring from his coat pocket - his own mother's ring - and you dropped down on your knees right along with him, sobbing and nodding yes.
You were really wishing that both of your mothers could see you two right now.
Karen, Gator's stepmom, clapped politely along with the other guests. But her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Roy's eyes, on the other hand, burned with hellfire, boring into you with a hatred and an inability to do anything about this without causing a huge scene. Gator hadn't asked his permission. And that was not gonna fly.
Roy made your lives hell in special little ways after that. First, he had had a house built on the ranch for you both as an "early wedding present". You insisted that you'd be happier staying in your childhood home, but the glare he had given you was enough to send a chill through your spine. It felt like someone was walking over your grave.
So, with a broken heart, you sold your mother's home and moved onto the ranch.
Gator knew how upset it had made you, so he surprised you by having the house painted and decorated as close to your home as possible. He even bought the same candles and soaps to stock the house up with so it'd even smell the same.
You had swept him up in an enormous hug right there on the porch.
For Roy, it was strike two. He had tried to take the upper hand, but here'd came Gator, blindly in love and licking your wounds.
•••
The wedding was an ordeal, but you released as much of your control as you could manage to keep the peace. You didn't have any family there other than Jeremy and his partner, Dillon, so you figured that the Tillmans may as well get the majority of the say. They were footing the bill, after all.
But Roy had suggested you color your hair to something more natural for the wedding instead of your rich, emerald green (which matched your wedding colors) and you would not yield on that.
Gator didn't make a huge fuss, but just mumbled that "She can't color it that often, Dad. She'll go bald. It's just a little green, what's the harm?"
Roy had nearly flipped the table. Gator flinched and quieted, and it didn't come up again.
Well, until the wedding speech, given by Roy, of course. And in it, he made it a point to bring up how easy you were to spot in a crowd with your green hair, and how even someone dumb as Gator wouldn't be able to lose you. He even hinted at the fact that it was such a shame that the only support you had there today was a gay couple from Minnesota, but that he was so, soooo happy for you both.
Then he had winked, and everyone but you, Gator, Jeremy, and Dillon cheered.
•••
That night, Gator had begged for your forgiveness. And you liked the way he begged.
He crawled up under your wedding dress and peeled the garter off with his teeth. It was typically a tradition done for the crowd, but you refused to make that scene in front of Roy and all his cop friends. So Gator did it here, just for you.
He'd grazed your inner thigh, sticking his tongue out slightly so he was licking your leg all the way down to the ankle.
He'd popped out from under the layers of toulle and silk, hair a mess and garter between his lips, smiling like a fool.
You giggled with a snort, and covered your mouth, blushing. Gator crawled over you, spitting out the garter and pulled your hand away.
"Don't hide from me, beautiful."
He ghosted his lips over yours, and you waited for the kiss but instead he slowly licked into your mouth.
"You wanna take this huge, white monstrosity off so you can fuck your wife, Mr. Tillman?" You tugged at the layers of your princess gown.
He propped himself on his elbows, hovering above you with a grimace.
"First off, no Mr. Tillman bullshit. Sounds like you're fucking my dad and that makes me wanna puke." You retched dramatically in agreement. "Two, hell no I'm not taking this off. I'm fucking you in it, it's tradition."
"Whose tradition?"
"Mine." He kissed your throat. "Y'look so pretty in it." He kissed between your breasts. "And I wanna see if you're just as pretty..." He flipped your skirt over your knees and peeked over the mountain of fabric. "...when I'm making you scream my name in it." He grinned and dove down between your legs, wasting no time in licking straight into your center.
You couldn't see him, but that just made everything more sensitive somehow. You didn't know what was coming next. He nibbled, licked, and sucked at your clit, then added two fingers inside you and scissored them. You were quickly coming unglued.
"Oh, fuck, Gator!!"
He had smiled proudly and kept on at it until he felt you coming undone on his fingers and mouth.
He shot up with a smug look on his slick face and you looked wrecked. Your flushed skin was exaggerated against the stark white of your dress, and your green hair was pulled free from it's loose pins and strewn about your head like a halo.
His face softened as you caught your breath and smiled cheekily at him.
"Well, Gator? Was it worth it?"
He swallowed. "You look like an angel."
You'd tilted your head and tears pricked at your eyes.
"Th-thank you."
"I like your green hair."
You chuffed. "Thank you! I didn't even tell your dad why it was so important to me to keep it."
"It's our wedding colors?"
"Yeah, but also the color on the box...it was Gator Green."
You'd bitten your lower lip and his eyes had lit up.
"Then it's my favorite."
"Mine too, I think."
He crawled back over you and fucked you in earnest, lovingly and slowly and nothing at all like the Gator you used to know or the version he put on for everyone else in town.
This was your own secret Gator, and you were completely and totally, head over heels, bonkers in love with him.
A couple of months later you were working on a design project on your couch when this huge wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere.
You'd ran to the little bathroom and puked your guts out in the toilet, then felt your head for a fever and checked the expiration dates on all the food in the kitchen.
Gator came in that afternoon from working on the ranch, sweaty and sun-kissed, hair flopping over one eye. You were laying on the couch in the dark, computer put away and an untouched glass of water beside you.
"Hey, what's up? You sleeping, it's like 2:00?"
You grumbled. "Don't touch me, I'm sick. I think I got a stomach bug or something, been puking all morning."
"Aww shit. Yeah, stay over there, I don't want it."
You shot him a seething look and he smirked and sauntered over beside you. He put a hand to your forehead. You were sweaty and clammy, but no fever.
"Think you ate something?"
"I dunno. Haven't really eaten since dinner last night other than my morning coffee. And we had the same thing, and you're not sick, so. I dunno. Hopefully it's just one of those day-bugs, and it'll be gone by tomorrow."
•••
It wasn't just one of those day-bugs. You puked up anything you tried to eat for the next three days before Gator forced you to go to the clinic in town.
"Hey, you fucking hard-headed little thing. You're gonna hurl yourself to death. You're going t'see a doctor, no arguin'."
You hadn't really had the energy to argue anymore anyway.
•••
They said you were definitely dehydrated, so they'd hooked you up to an IV to get you some fluids. That had made you feel a bit perkier. They ran some samples and tests, and when the doctor came back in she'd had this odd, shit-eating grin on her face as she looked between the both of you.
Gator sat in the tiny hospital chair beside you, tracing small swirls on your thigh as you both awaited the results.
"What's up, doc? Is it the flu or something?"
"I'm not dying, am I?" You half-joked. Gator tensed beside you.
The doctor chuckled.
"Not dying, no. But, you do have a little something extra going on in there."
The doctor handed you your result sheet.
Your urine sample.
Your pregnancy test from your urine sample.
Your positive pregnancy test from your urine sample.
Your eyes went wide as anything, and as you'd stared at Gator they'd started to glisten. He'd looked terrified.
"What? Is it contagious?"
"No, dummy! We're having a fucking baby."
He'd looked even more terrified.
Gator has since taken this pregnancy very seriously. He's reading the books, he's building the furniture, he refuses to let you lift anything or walk anywhere without offering his arm for support, and he'll shoot a death glare to anyone who seems like they might even be thinking about touching your belly.
When you'd shared the news with your in-laws, that was strike 3 for Roy. Now there really was no way of getting rid of you, was there? At least not easily.
Karen had clapped and hugged you stiffly, patting your belly briefly before seeing the fire in Gator's stare. You'd squeezed his hand reassuringly, as if to reel him back in. He'd relaxed, but just a bit.
"You think y'all are really ready to be rearing a child right now?"
You gave Roy a pointed stare, face serene but rage boiling beneath.
"Well, don't really have much choice, do we Pops?"
"Please, call me Roy. And no, I suppose not. But, if you still needed some time to get used to the idea, Karen and I are right here and we'd be happy to step in for the first few years or so."
You gave Gator a panicked look. He'd already started shaking his head.
"S'alright, Dad. She's gonna be a great mom, she takes good care of me already. She's real loving, and she works from home already so it won't be a problem. Thanks, though. Kind of you to offer."
He held your hand, but you could feel him trembling beneath your touch - be it from fear or anger, you couldn't possibly know.
•••
Karen was the one to suggest hosting a gender reveal for the little one. You were both finding out the sex this Friday, and she had seen so many "adorable" internet videos of little gender reveal parties that she wanted to try her hand at throwing one.
Essentially that meant that she had already planned one, and you, as the mother, were invited to be there. You hesitantly agreed that it could be fun, although you never really saw the point of them.
You just wanted a healthy baby, you could wait to find out on the day and be just as happy.
But, Gator had admitted that he was a little excited about the affair, too, so you leaned into it for him. He somehow managed to find blue and pink camo and was way too eager to show it off to everyone.
You wore a simple, cream dress that showed off your growing bump just so, but you colored your hair platinum blonde with pink dipped ends on one half and blue dipped ends on the other.
Gator had lost his mind, said you looked "Just like Harley Quinn" and had ravaged you on the bathroom counter, hair still wet and hanging down your back.
You had to hand it to him, your growing, changing body was not curbing his interest in you whatsoever. If anything, he saw it as a challenge to overcome, always trying new positions and techniques to make sure you still got yours.
When you stepped foot into the main Tillman house, Roy had scoffed at your hair.
"So close to something normal this time, we might just get you there yet."
You smiled through the grimace that threatened to expose your true feelings and thanked him for the compliment (?).
Most of the guests were Roy and Karen's most important constituents and cop friends, as election season for sheriff was just around the corner and this party was really just an opportunity for showing off their good, wholesome, Christian family.
Oh, if only Roy knew his only begotten son had had his tongue up your very ass just last night. Maybe then the sheriff wouldn't be so far up his own.
Jeremy and Dillon got the invite, but politely declined. You didn't blame them. A few of your friends and acquaintances from around town were there, but only the ones approved by your in-laws.
Whatever, you were just ready to do the reveal and go home so Gator could rub your feet while you complained and ate Cheetos off your stomach.
You smiled at just the thought.
An hour or so into the party, Roy tapped on his glass for everyone's attention.
"Thank y'all for coming to celebrate our little future grandson...or daughter, we'll find out soon enough." A polite chuckle moves through the crowd. "Gator, if you wanna bring your little lady up here and do the honors?"
Gator beams at you and squeezes your hand. It doesn't miss you that Roy only technically addressed him, and just asked him to bring you along, but what did you expect really?
You smile and stand there awkwardly, taking in the set-up. You expected a little cake to cut into or a balloon to pop, but all there was in the table was a loaded shotgun.
You looked to your father-in-law confused. He smugly smiled back.
"Alright son, grab your gun and let's go outside."
•••
"Are you absolutely shitting me?" You whisper harshly in Gator's ear.
He shrugged and kept walking to the mark where we would be shooting the target from.
"It's...kinda cool. I get to blow something up."
"Oh my god, you're a child. I'm married to, and having a baby with, an actual child." He stops you with a quick peck on the lips and a boyish grin.
"What color you hoping for?"
"It could be green for all I care, I just wanna take a bubble bath. My feet hurt."
"Gator green?"
You grin up at him and agree. "Gator green."
Roy stands on the porch with the onlookers holding a megaphone.
A fucking megaphone.
"Alright, Gator. Shoot when I say. Ready?"
Gator gives a thumbs up and aims at the barrel in the middle of the field.
"3...2...1. Fire!"
You plug your ears and Gator shoots.
Pink smoke plumes out of it, filling the sky like a beautiful cotton candy cloud. He does a little jump in place, puts the gun down on the ground and sweeps you up into his arms.
A girl, a little tiny girl. Gator's girls. You don't even feel them coming, but your joyful tears are thoroughly wetting his shirt.
He swipes them away with his thumbs and you look at each other so tenderly, when the slamming of the front door to the main house rips you out of the moment.
Gator turns to look, and the party-goers awkwardly shuffle their feet with one notable exception - Roy has stormed into the house.
Karen, who had been filming on her phone, slowly stops the video and puts it away, giving you a tense, pained smile. She follows inside.
You look up at Gator, furious.
"He just can't let us have anything, can he?"
Gator's face hardens and he squeezes your shoulders. Then he storms inside, swiping at his mouth angrily.
The crowd parts, and you hurry after him as fast as your swollen body will allow.
•••
In the den, Roy is sitting with his feet up and a glass of whiskey in his hand like it was nothing.
Karen was nervously rearranging things in the kitchen and starting party clean-up early. You decided to help her, because you know that the last thing you'd be welcome to do is sit down with Roy in the den after all that.
Gator went in though, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
Roy didn't look up, just stared into nothing.
"What was that, Daddy?"
"Big fucking waste of time, I'd say."
Gator huffs. "Don't say that. That's your grandbaby. Granddaughter."
Roy rolled his eyes and sipped from his glass.
"House is already overrun with women. Needed a boy, someone to carry on the Roy Tillman name."
That one hurt Gator, deeply. He was technically supposed to be the next Roy Tillman in a long line of them, but he never got that. His daddy just saw him as a puny little gator.
"We'd picked out a name already. Was gonna call him after her daddy if it'd been a boy. But it's not. It's a girl. And her name is gonna be Sunny, and you are gonna love her like a grandaddy, or --"
Roy shoots up from the couch and smashes his glass on the floor.
You and Karen freeze in the kitchen, listening.
"You're telling me an awful lot of things I'm gonna do, boy. Since when do you ever tell me what I'm gonna do?"
Gator begins to shrink, but something in him straightens his spine and strengthens his resolve.
"Because I'm someone's daddy now, too. I'm her daddy, Sunny's. And I can see now that it ain't hard to love your kids, hell, mine ain't even born yet and I'd kill for her. Die for her. So something must just be wrong with you. You made me feel like dog shit my whole life, and I thought that was my fault, like I didn't do enough to earn your affection. But I shouldn'ta had to, Roy. That was a failin' on you, not me."
Roy slaps the back of his hand across Gator's face and he takes it, licking the inside of his cheek where he can already taste blood in his mouth.
"You little pussy-whipped dog, how dare you talk to me like that?"
"I ain't whipped, or nothing. I just found someone who treats me like a goddamn human being!"
Gator raises his voice to a yell and Roy slaps him again, twice this time and twice as hard.
Gator rears back a fist and punches Roy square in the jaw, sending him backwards with a look of shock on his face. Gator's never hit back, and there was some real steel in that punch.
"Get the fuck out, take your whore with you." Blood trickled from the corner of Roy's lip as he stroked his jaw.
Gator ripped the door open, moving to the kitchen and grabbing your hand.
"Later, Karen." He mumbled as he blew through the house.
You two moved past all the guests still out on the porch, and Gator waved a hand in the air.
"Party's over, thanks for coming." He bites out, spitting blood onto the dirt like he was chewing tobacco.
"Gator, you're bleeding!" You hiss, trying to stop him.
"Yeah, but we both are this time."
A smile spreads across both of your faces. You tuck into the curve of his arm as he walks you back to your home.
Wistfully, he muses. "A little girl."
You beam up at him. "Gator's girls."
His eyes water, melting back into their honey sweetness reserved just for you (and Sunny, now).
"My girls." He kisses the top of your head and looks forward to the future.
