At The Heart Of It : Part Twelve - Vasorum Collaterale
Gator Tillman x Reader
18+ | minors do not interact
Word Count: 15311
Summary: As Blackridge’s secrets unravel, Maggie pulls Gator into a dangerous late-night meeting with a biker gang, forcing you to confront the darker side of your family while realising just how deeply you’ve fallen for him
Note: Here it is, the finale and i'm posting early! Thank you all so much for reading this! If you get to the end you've officially read 166k words of my self-indulgent soft Gator! I hope you enjoy... surprise at the end.... Mimi <3
Masterlist
Vasorum Collaterale
Translation: Collateral Vessels
Side-by-side pathways. The body’s secret architecture.
You lay against the pillows in one of Gator’s hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, half-buried beneath the duvet despite the warmth of the room. Gator had gone to make tea maybe five minutes ago, though time had become strange lately. Slow and soft around the edges.
The last two days had mostly been spent exactly like this. Bundled up in bed together watching films on your laptop or talking for hours in the dim quiet between them. Sometimes Gator would stretch out beside you with one arm hooked beneath his head while you rested against his chest. Sometimes he would disappear long enough to make you tea or something to eat, before returning to your little bubble of peace.
The soreness had faded slowly. Your ribs no longer felt bruised every time you shifted and the ache in your chest had dulled into something manageable, surfacing only if you laughed too hard or twisted awkwardly in bed.
It should have felt frightening, the isolation and in some ways it did. You were effectively under house arrest without any real understanding of what was happening outside the ranch gates. But at the same time there was Gator and somehow he had made this whole bizarre little isolation feel easier than it probably should have.
You had barely touched your phone since Sunday. You hadn’t needed to. The only people you wanted to talk to were already here. Still, sitting alone now in the quiet while you waited for Gator to come back, you reached toward the nightstand and picked it up.
The group chat sat at the top of your notifications like a natural disaster. Three hundred and fifty-two unread messages. You let out a startled laugh under your breath; there was no universe in which you were reading all of that.
Underneath it, though, sat a separate message from Hannah sent Monday morning.
Hannah: Hey, mom said she saw u @ work last night. Is everything ok with u?
Hannah’s mom had worked at the medical centre for years now. Nurse, local gossip pipeline, unofficial auntie to about half of Stark County. If she had seen you there Sunday night, there was no chance Hannah hadn’t immediately started worrying.
Hannah had always been like that though. Gentle-hearted. Out of all the girls, she was the one most likely to message you separately just to check in. A little knot of guilt twisted in your stomach for leaving your phone untouched this long. You typed back quickly.
You: Sorry 4 late reply! Yeah im ok, just me being a drama queen. wtf is going on in chat?
The message barely delivered before the read receipt appeared underneath it. Then typing.
Hannah: u sure? Joe said Tucker and Walker arent @ school either?
You sighed softly through your nose. Joe was Hannah’s younger brother and played football with the twins. Of course people had noticed they were absent. Still, you knew Tucker and Walker wouldn’t have said anything. Maggie had made the cover story very clear Monday morning and nobody in this family was stupid enough to go freelancing after that. You typed back anyway.
You: Yeah, Ford is letting them break early for summer.
The lie sat awkwardly in your chest. But there was no reason to drag her into any of this or scare her more than she already clearly was. Three little dots appeared again.
Hannah: Chat is all Paige drama. Come 4 a smoothie soon and I will fill u in.
You: Sounds good. thanks 4 checking on me :)
Hannah: Always <3
You set the phone back onto the bedside table just as a soft knock sounded against your bedroom door.
“Come in.”
The door cracked open and Maggie leaned her head around it, platinum bob immaculate as ever.
“Baby,” she said, “I know you’re resting but I can’t open this file on my laptop and I’m about three seconds from throwing it out of the window.”
You laughed softly and pushed yourself upright against the pillows.
“Okay, let’s not assault the electronics. I’m coming.”
You shoved the blankets back and slid carefully out of bed before following Maggie out into the hallway toward her office.
You moved around the side of the desk and dropped into Maggie’s chair while she hovered behind you, one hand resting on the back of it.
“There,” she said, pointing sharply at the laptop screen. “That bloody thing.”
Her email inbox sat open. One message already selected. You barely read the contents at first, too focused on the attachment Maggie had evidently been trying and failing to open for the last several minutes. You double-clicked it once. Error message. Clicked again. Different error. Maggie made an aggravated noise somewhere over your shoulder.
“I hate computers,” she muttered. “Nothing good has happened since people stopped using filing cabinets.”
You smiled faintly to yourself and clicked through another menu.
“Patience.”
“That’s never been my strongest quality.”
“No,” you agreed absently. “I’ve noticed.”
Another click. A permissions window opened this time instead of an error and you adjusted the settings quickly before reopening the file. This time the file loaded properly, a spreadsheet filling the screen.
At first you only skimmed it, your eyes catching disconnected fragments of information without really processing them; site numbers, lease IDs, pipe routing maps, buyers, shipping allocations. Then your brain caught up to what you were actually looking at. Blackridge. Not just one or two sites either, but every single one of them.
Your eyes flicked rapidly down the sheet now, suddenly fully awake. North Dakota. Montana. Lease holders, transport routes, processing stations, private buyers. Every connected branch of the operation laid bare in neat little columns across the screen. Their entire network.
A strange little chill moved through you. Slowly, you looked back over your shoulder at Maggie.
“How did you get this?”
Maggie’s expression barely shifted.
“I have my ways.”
Which was not an answer at all.
She tapped your shoulder lightly and you stood, still staring at the spreadsheet as Maggie slid smoothly into her chair. As you stepped aside, movement in the doorway caught your attention.
Gator stood there holding a mug of tea.
He had clearly paused halfway in after hearing voices, broad shoulder leaning against the doorframe with his eyes on you. You nodded toward the mug, and he crossed the room, handing it over carefully, before his attention shifted toward Maggie.
“You two workin’ on somethin’?”
Maggie looked up from the laptop then, sharp-eyed and composed behind the glow of the screen.
“Your contact at the State Commission?”
Gator frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden question.
“Leland Gilltand.”
“Did he say how the audit of the Blackridge pads went?”
“Um… freeze was lifted, but last I checked the full report weren’t back.”
Maggie nodded once.
“What’s the likelihood he’ll find something?”
Gator gave a small shrug.
“Ain’t got m’hopes up. I was jus’ tryna hold ‘em off a bit. Dunno if there was actually a problem.”
Maggie leaned back slowly in her chair, one hand resting against the armrest as she considered the screen in front of her.
“And if I were to give him an incentive to find a problem?”
You looked at her properly then, your brow furrowing as the meaning landed. She was talking about bribing him. Gator barely reacted, gaze shifting briefly toward Maggie like this conversation was not nearly as shocking to him as it was to you.
“He’s got two kids an’ a gamblin’ problem.”
“Excellent.”
Before you could even process her response, she leaned forward to retrieve her phone from the desk, already unlocking it with brisk efficiency.
“I have a contact at the EPA,” she said, eyes fixed on the screen while her thumbs moved across the keyboard. “All I need is Mr Gilltand to make a contamination report.”
You stared at her in open disbelief for a second, waiting for the punchline that never came.
“Maggie? We can’t bribe government officials.”
She lifted her eyes from the phone and looked at you steadily across the desk before lowering it slowly into her lap.
“Baby, there are many things you know about me,” she said calmly, “And I think today you might learn a few new ones.”
Maggie gestured toward the armchair opposite the desk.
“Sit.”
Then she looked past you toward Gator.
“Gator, close the door.” Her tone stayed even. Controlled. “Take a seat.”
Gator closed the office door with a quiet click before crossing the room to the second armchair beside yours. The armchair breathed softly beneath his weight as he sat down, forearms resting against his knees. Behind the desk, Maggie closed the laptop slowly.
“The world isn’t black and white, or maybe it is for everyone else. But I don’t see it that way.” Her eyes lifted to yours. “There’s a little sliver of grey in the middle where I like to operate.”
Maggie tilted her head slightly.
“How much is the Hawthorn costing?”
The question caught you off guard enough that you blinked at her.
“What?”
“The Hawthorn project.”
“Oh.” You frowned faintly, mentally pulling up the figures. “Um… last report I saw, I think it was just over three million.”
“And where do you think that money comes from, baby?”
You looked between her and Gator uncertainly. Truthfully, you had never thought much about it before.
You worked for the Grace Foundation. You helped design shelters and housing projects and rehabilitation centres. You dealt with contractors and materials and layouts and permits and furniture samples and endless administrative details, but the money itself had always just… existed. Projects appeared and somehow everything needed to make them happen appeared too.
The permits were always approved. The funding was always secured. Problems dissolved almost as quickly as Maggie learned about them.
You swallowed lightly.
“I-I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess I just thought you, like… invested or something.”
A slow smirk pulled at Maggie’s mouth.
“Sure, baby. I invest. I invest my time, my temper, and my soul on occasion. But I also do a bunch of other shit I’m not exactly meant to do.”
Slowly, you lowered your mug onto the desk beside you.
“Like…?”
“I make good deals with bad people, sometimes I make bad deals with good people.” One shoulder lifted slightly as she held your gaze. “You think our building permits just fall out of the sky? That we never hit red tape because the government likes the name of a charity? No. They fall because I know whose mortgage is underwater, or whose kid needs a scholarship to Yale. So yes, I might test the limitations of the word legal now and then, but it protects this family, and I sleep just fine at night.”
You sat there staring at her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of you with the grandmother who kissed your head and spent hours debating wallpaper samples for women’s shelters because she believed traumatised people deserved beautiful places to heal. Did your grandmother just admit to being some kind of criminal? Your eyes drifted vaguely around the office.
“So you’re saying…” You gestured weakly around you. “All this? The house, the Foundation projects…”
“Some of it’s funded by property,” Maggie replied calmly. “Some by investments, some by donations, and some of it by things you’d rather not know about. But it all does some good. That’s what matters.”
You thought suddenly of all the things that had never quite made sense to you. The hushed phone calls behind closed office doors. The abrupt trips Maggie took for “meetings.” The way permits appeared impossibly quickly. The way men with important jobs always seemed eager to return her calls. Roy Tillman personally delivering paperwork to the house like a damn courier.
Things that had always felt unusual suddenly rearranged themselves into something else entirely. Not just social influence or wealth, but power.
“You okay with that, baby?”
You leaned back slowly into the armchair, trying to sit with the weight of it. The strange thing was, maybe you should have felt frightened. Maybe you should have been horrified. Instead, somewhere beneath the shock, you mostly felt… safer.
Like suddenly the shape of the world made more sense than it had an hour ago.
“Um… yeah.” Your voice came quieter than intended. “I guess I am. Why did you never--”
“Say anything?” Maggie finished easily.
You nodded.
“Plausible deniability.”
The answer came without hesitation. Then Maggie straightened slightly in her chair, all softness disappearing beneath sharp focus once again.
“Now,” she said briskly, “to the matter at hand. I’ve got my hands on Blackridge’s files. The attorney is already making a few of the land lease holders some irresistible offers, so at the bare minimum we’re about to put a hole in their finances. But if we can get the Environmental Agency to open an investigation, that hole becomes a crater.”
Maggie sat quietly for a moment after speaking, fingers resting lightly against the closed laptop before her attention shifted toward Gator.
“I also looked into that… thing you told me about.”
As she said it, her eyes flicked briefly toward you, deliberate in their vagueness. Before you could ask what she meant, Gator spoke first.
“Ain’t no need f'the secrecy,” he said evenly. “Y’can tell her now or I’ll tell her after. I ain’t keepin’ secrets from her.”
Your eyes moved to him automatically. Something warm unfurled quietly at the certainty in his voice. Across the desk, Maggie’s brow quirked slightly, though you caught the faint curl at the corner of her mouth a second later. Approval, in Maggie language.
Gator looked at you then.
“Told Maggie ‘bout them bikers,” he explained. “Ones watchin’ ya at the cake place.”
You frowned faintly as the memory surfaced again.
“Yeah. There were two of them. Kept staring.”
“Well,” Maggie said smoothly, “I found them. ‘The Hanged Men.’ Biker group operating out of a club called The Iron Pit. I’m still waiting on a few more details, but I’ve got reason to believe they’re providing security for the Blackridge crews. Hired hands, essentially.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” you muttered.
“On the contrary,” Maggie replied calmly. “It means they can be bought. My pockets run deep and my patience runs thin.”
“I know a deputy works organised crime outta Bismarck,” Gator said. “Can give y’his number. See if he can help y’with it?”
Maggie smiled then, slow and genuinely pleased as she leaned back into her chair.
“I always did like you, Gator. Your daddy never does give you enough credit.”
Something unreadable flickered briefly across Gator’s face at the mention of Roy, though it vanished almost immediately. Maggie reached for a notepad and pen from the corner of the desk and slid them across toward him.
“Give me his number,” she said, “and your guy at the State Commission. I’ll make some calls.”
Gator took the pad and started writing. While he did, Maggie’s gaze settled back on you, softer now than it had been during the rest of the conversation.
“I didn’t want you involved in the bad stuff, baby. I never did. I didn’t tell you because you do the good. You handle the Grace Foundation, and you do a damn good job at it.” Her expression held steady on yours. “I needed you to stay good for me. Let me be the one everyone’s afraid of.”
Beside you, Gator tore the page neatly from the pad and handed it back across the desk. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied nod and tucked it beside her phone. Then, just as quickly, some of the heaviness lifted from her expression again.
“Besides,” she added dryly, “someone in this family has to be able to walk into a church without the pews catching fire.” Her eyes flicked toward you. “That’s your job, Baby. Mine’s just making sure the church stays standing.”
A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“And performing acts of God apparently.”
Maggie chuckled softly.
“You’re giving me a little too much credit there.”
You looked between them both for a long moment before slowly pushing yourself to your feet. The truth sat strangely in your chest now. Heavy, yes. But clarifying too. All this time, you had kept your head buried in the sand because it had been easier that way. Easier not to ask questions. Easier not to examine the machinery underneath the life Maggie had built around all of you.
But you didn’t want that anymore.
“When all this is over,” you said carefully, “I want to know. All of it.”
For a second, her face searched yours like she was deciding whether you really understood what you were asking for. When you didn’t look away, she finally gave a small nod.
“Let me fix this mess,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”
You nodded back. Beside you, Gator rose to his feet too, falling into step at your side as the two of you left the office together and headed back down the hallway toward your bedroom.
Inside, the room still carried the soft warmth of the afternoon sun. The blankets remained tangled where you had left them earlier, your laptop abandoned open-faced on the bed. Gator crossed automatically toward the nightstand on the right side of the mattress, fishing his charger from the wall before plugging his phone in.
His side of the bed.
It was strange how naturally that had happened. A week ago you had barely let yourself think too hard about him at all. Now his boots sat beside yours near the door. His hoodie hung over the back of your chair. His phone charged beside your lamp like it belonged there.
This was happening fast. Maybe too fast. The last week had been so chaotic that you had barely stopped moving long enough to think about it properly. About what this actually was. About whether Gator even wanted all of this or whether circumstances had simply swept the two of you into something neither of you had paused long enough to question.
You had never really asked him, not properly. A strange nervousness tightened low in your stomach. Without saying anything, you crossed the room toward the porch door and stepped outside.
The afternoon air was cooler out there. You lowered yourself carefully onto the edge of the porch deck, bare feet against the wood as your gaze drifted out across the front pasture toward the gravel drive. The gate at the end of it was shut, you can’t remember the last time you had seen it closed.
A minute later the porch door opened again behind you. Gator stepped outside and settled beside you without speaking, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours briefly before he leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees. You kept your eyes fixed ahead.
“Thanks for that,” you said quietly after a moment.
“What’d I do?”
“You didn’t hide it from me, about the bikers.”
“Told ya,” he said. “I ain’t keepin’ secrets. Not from you.”
You looked at him then; he was already watching you. A small smile tugged faintly at your mouth before you turned your attention back toward the closed gate again.
After a moment, Gator spoke again.
“Maggie ain’t a bad person.”
“Oh, I know. Weirdly, I’m okay with it.” Your mouth curved slightly. “I think on some level I always knew she was sorta sketchy.”
Gator huffed a laugh beside you. Your tone turned teasing as you nudged his shoulder gently with yours.
“I mean… she does work with your dad.”
That got a proper laugh out of him, low and rough and warm enough to loosen something in your chest.
“And I know she does what she does to keep people safe,” you continued more quietly. “Everything with the Foundation… it’s about helping people. And she keeps us safe too. Just… I dunno. I’m kinda mad at myself for never asking.”
“I get that.”
Simple. He always did that. He never rushed to smooth your feelings over or tell you why you shouldn’t have them. Never tried to wrestle them into something smaller or easier to manage. He just met you where you were and stayed there beside you until you found your footing again. Just I hear you. You stared out at the gate again, thinking about how much you liked that about him.
The silence stretched comfortably between you for a while before you spoke again.
“Do you think… This is too fast? Us, I mean.” You swallowed lightly. “This has been a crazy week. I didn’t really give you a choice in any of it. I kinda just pulled you into the middle of the street in front of a speeding car and made you hold my hand. If you’re sitting there thinking this isn’t what you wanted, that it’s way too much… getting dragged into a stupid war…” Your fingers tightened together. “I’d understand. I really would.”
When you finally looked at him again, Gator’s brows had pulled together faintly.
“You’ve known me f’how long?” he asked softly. “I’m a Tillman. M’always in someone else’s war.”
There was no bitterness in the words. Just honesty.
“But this? With you?” A small shake of his head. “S’the first time I actually wanna be in the fight.”
Your breath caught slightly. Gator lifted one hand slowly, rough thumb brushing gently across your cheek before his palm settled there fully.
“I know how I feel ‘bout you,” he said quietly. “Ain’t been a week. I’ve felt like this f’years.”
A smile cracked softly across your face, his hand warm against your skin.
“Y’didn’t drag me anywhere,” he murmured. “M’exactly where I wanna be.”
Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your chest. You turned your head slightly and pressed a kiss into the centre of his palm.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I really like having you around.”
Something softened in Gator’s expression then, subtle but unmistakable, before he leaned toward you and kissed you slow and sure, one hand still resting warm against your cheek while the wind moved quietly through the grass around the porch.
You and Gator stayed out on the porch until the sun started dipping lower behind the trees and the evening chill crept into the air. At some point Ford poked his head around the bedroom door to inform you dinner was ready. By the time you made it into the kitchen, the whole family had gathered around the dining table.
Despite everything hanging over the ranch right now, it was… nice. How every night since Sunday the house had filled up for dinner and stayed full afterwards too. Movies in the living room, kids half-asleep against adults, bowls of popcorn passed around, blankets dragged out from cupboards. Even Logan had been coming up from the Cabin and staying for it all, stretched across the opposite end of the sofa trading sarcastic comments with Gator during movies like they were teenagers again.
Maybe it was because Gator was here. Maybe it was because whatever weird tension had existed between you and Logan for years had finally cracked open and aired out. Either way, you had found yourself enjoying his company again in a way you hadn't for a long time.
Brooks had started lingering too, staying for dinner instead of disappearing back to the Cabin afterwards. Noah less so, but Noah had always drifted at the edges of things even when everyone else crowded together.
Tonight had been no different. Dinner stretched long and noisy around the table before eventually dissolving into another movie night sprawled across the living room. By the time the credits rolled, Josie was asleep on Ford’s chest, Rhodes was out cold against Tucker’s shoulder, and Nicky had fallen asleep halfway off your side of the couch with one sock missing.
Eventually, though, you and Gator slipped away. The shower together had become another thing you had quietly started looking forward to every evening. Domestic in the same dangerous, intimate way everything else between you seemed to be. Warm steam, tired conversation, Gator’s hands settling at your waist while you stood beneath the water together.
By the time you returned to the bedroom, your skin still carried the lingering warmth of it. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed in one of Gator’s old t-shirts, slowly dragging a brush through your damp hair while Gator stood nearby in nothing but his boxers, roughing a towel through his own hair with absolutely no care whatsoever.
A gentle knock sounded against the bedroom door. Gator paused mid-motion. You glanced up and your eyes caught briefly on the outline beneath his boxers before you could stop yourself. Gator noticed, a slow smirk spread across his face as he lowered the towel strategically in front of himself.
You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your mouth.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Maggie stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. As she moved further into the room, her eyes landed squarely on Gator standing there half-naked. One perfectly shaped brow lifted.
“Thought I sent you home for clothes.”
Gator sheepishly reached down to grab a pair of shorts from the floor beside the bed.
“Leave him alone, Mags,” you said, laughing softly.
Gator pulled the shorts on quickly before stepping closer toward the end of the bed while Maggie leaned back against the dresser. The humour faded from her expression a moment later.
“Both your contacts came through, Gator,” she said. “I’ve got EPA moving on their sites.”
Gator nodded, attentive immediately.
“As for our friends on bikes,” Maggie continued, “organised crime didn’t have much. Couple members with convictions, nothing substantial. But I pulled on a few strings and managed to set a meeting with them.”
You lowered the hairbrush slowly into your lap.
“Is that… When?” You stuttered.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Where?” Gator asked.
“Their club.”
“Shouldn’t it be somewhere… neutral?” You frowned.
Maggie’s mouth curved faintly, calm and utterly unbothered.
“I’ll be fine, baby. I’ve got a plan.”
“Okay…” You set the brush aside fully now. “So what do you need from us?”
Maggie’s eyes shifted toward Gator then.
“From Gator, actually.”
Gator’s brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across his face.
“I need someone with me. Someone who knows how to read a room.” Maggie’s tone stayed calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s been made very clear to me that neither of my sons, nor our dear Sheriff, are capable of keeping their emotions in check or their egos under control. They’re useless to me in that regard. But you, you’ve got your wits about you, Gator.”
“Me?” Gator asked in disbelief.
“I ain’t your daddy, Gator. I’m asking, not telling. If you say no, that’s fine, I’m not barking orders. You’ve got the choice. But yes, I’d like you with me.”
For a moment he didn’t know what to say, stuck somewhere between disbelief and something warmer he did not quite know how to handle. Maggie Heaton trusted him. Wanted him there specifically. Not Brooks. Not Roy. Him.
Most of Gator’s life had been spent with people expecting the worst from him long before he’d opened his mouth. Roy especially. To his father, Gator was tolerable when he was obedient, embarrassing when he wasn’t, and rarely much else besides. Even now, at nearly thirty, some part of him still braced instinctively for criticism before praise.
So hearing Maggie speak about him like that did something uncomfortable to his ribs.
But uncertainty followed quickly behind it.
Because this wasn’t some harmless favour. Maggie was talking about walking into a biker club tied to Blackridge crews and sitting down across from dangerous people neither of them knew. Things could go wrong fast in places like that.
And then there was you.
His mind drifted once again, back to the kitchen after the bar fight, to you standing between his knees cleaning blood from his face while frustration and worry trembled beneath every careful touch. You’d looked at him like he was something worth being angry for. Worth protecting. Told him he was always throwing himself into reckless situations without thinking what happened afterwards and he didn’t want to be that man, not for you.
Maggie was still watching him patiently.
“It’s your choice, Gator.”
Slowly, he turned his head toward you where you sat cross-legged on the bed watching him.
“M’not doin’ it unless you’re okay with it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You told me t’stop bein’ reckless. T’actually think ‘bout stuff. M’thinkin’. An’ if you don’t want me goin’, or y’want me here with you instead…” He shrugged faintly. “Then m’not goin’.”
And he meant it.
Sure, there was a part of him that liked hearing Maggie say she trusted him. Liked being chosen for something other than his last name or his willingness to throw himself into ugly situations. But that feeling faded pretty quickly when weighed against you.
At the end of the day, there was only one person in this room, on this earth, whose opinion actually mattered to him.
Both Maggie and Gator were looking at you now, you suddenly felt very aware of how quiet the room had become.
Truthfully, you didn't know what the right answer was.
Some strange part of you felt almost proud that Maggie had picked Gator. Out of everyone she could have chosen, she trusted him. Trusted him to keep his head, trusted him to stand beside her if things got dangerous.
And if you were honest, there was something else warming quietly beneath that too; the fact Gator had listened to you. Really listened. What you had said to him that night in the kitchen after the bar fight had stayed with him enough that now, standing here, he was stopping to think before charging headfirst into something.
But none of that changed the fact this was dangerous. Neither of them truly knew what they were walking into tomorrow night. Maybe that was exactly why Gator needed to be there.
Slowly, you stood from the bed and crossed the short distance between you. Your fingers found the edge of his hand first, tracing lightly along his knuckles before curling gently against his palm.
“I don’t like it,” you admitted quietly. “I hate the idea of you in that club. Either of you. But Maggie’s right. You’re the only one I trust to keep it together and come back in one piece.”
His hand rose slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing warm against your skin.
“Y’sure?”
You looked back to where Maggie was still standing by the dresser.
“You’ll keep him safe?” Your voice tightened slightly despite yourself. “You both come home in one piece?”
For the first time since stepping into the room, something in Maggie’s expression softened completely. The sharp strategist disappeared for a moment and all you could see was your grandmother understanding exactly what you were asking her. Not about the meeting. About him.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Gator before returning to you.
“That’s the plan,” she said quietly, and you believed she meant it.
You held her gaze another second before finally nodding.
“Okay.”
The moment the word left your mouth, Gator stepped forward and pulled you into him. Your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you firmly enough that some of the tension sitting beneath your ribs eased. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady.
Behind you, Maggie pushed herself away from the dresser.
“I’ll let them know we’re coming.”
You felt rather than saw Gator nod. A second later the bedroom door opened and closed quietly again, leaving the two of you alone. Only then did Gator loosen his hold enough to look down at you properly.
“You’re sure?” he asked softly. “Y’not worried?”
A tired little laugh escaped you.
“I’m terrified. But I think I’d worry more knowing Maggie was there alone.” You looked up at him steadily. “I know you’ll keep her safe.”
“Course I will.” His hand slid up and down your back once before stilling. “Jus’ don’t want y’gettin’ yourself into a stress. Y’scared the shit outta me the other day. Need you t’be okay. If anythin’ happens to you…”
You cut him off gently by rising onto your toes and pressing a soft kiss against his mouth.
“I’ll be okay.”
He kissed you again, one hand settling at the back of your neck while your arms looped around his shoulders. And as you held onto him, you tried very hard to ignore the small uneven jump your heart kept making every few beats.
・❥・
The Hellcat tore down the empty highway, fields blurred black beyond the windows, broken only by the occasional wash of headlights from passing trucks or the distant glow of farmhouses sitting alone against the dark prairie. The engine growled constantly beneath them; Gator could feel it through the floorboards.
Maggie drove like a woman with absolutely no fear of death.
One hand rested lightly at the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped sharp acrylic nails against the leather in time with some unheard rhythm in her head, expensive heels digging into the gas pedal of eight hundred horsepower.
Gator had never been in a vehicle with Maggie before, he was beginning to think that had been intentional on God’s part. He kept one hand braced against the passenger door while trying not to visibly react every time Maggie took a corner ten miles faster than any sane person should.
His thoughts kept drifting back to you. To your face in the doorway of the Big House when he and Maggie left. You’d tried so hard to look calm, but right before he climbed into the car he’d glanced back and caught your thumb already finding its way to your mouth, worrying at the edge of your nail in that nervous little way you did.
The image had stayed lodged in his chest ever since. Part of him was still wondering if this had been a mistake, not because he thought Maggie couldn’t handle herself. After the last few days he was half convinced Maggie Heaton could probably overthrow a small country if she felt motivated enough. But this still had the potential to go sideways fast, and if it did…
He scrubbed one hand briefly over his jaw. You’d told him it was okay. Told him you wanted him there with Maggie. Wanted him keeping her safe. And he was gonna do exactly that. Assuming Maggie’s driving didn’t kill them both first.
Maggie glanced toward him briefly before returning her attention to the road.
“You nervous?”
Gator thought about it honestly for a second. He’d been in rooms like this before. Rooms full of men looking for reasons to start throwing hands. Roy had dragged him into situations like that since he was damn near still a kid. He wasn’t sure that made him feel any less nervous though.
“We’ll be fine, I don’t walk into any room without knowing I’ve got the upper hand.” Maggie’s eyes flicked toward him again. “Just let me do the talking.”
A short huff escaped him before he could stop it. Yeah. He knew that line. Roy used to say the exact same thing before meetings, backroom deals, and intimidation runs all across the county. Gator already knew his role in rooms like that. Two steps behind. It was all Roy ever really wanted from him anyway; Gator knew his place. He was there for the badge, the name, to look mean. A six foot deputy with a chip on his broad shoulders.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. M’two steps back ‘til someone makes a move.”
“No.”
The answer came sharp enough that he looked over at her. Maggie met his eyes only briefly before focusing back on the road again, headlights streaking pale across her face.
“If you’re coming with me, you stand with me, not behind me. I told you already; I ain’t your daddy and you’re not a child. I didn’t ask you to come because you’re a bit of muscle. I didn’t ask because you wear a badge. And I certainly didn’t ask because of whose son you are.” A dry scoff left her. “God knows that name’s more liability than asset most days.”
Gator stayed quiet but his eyes stayed trained on Maggie.
“I asked you because I trust you,” Maggie said simply. “You’ve got eyes. You read a room before most people have even found the light switch. I don’t need a guard dog, Gator. I need somebody looking for the shit I miss.”
For a second he genuinely didn’t know what to do with that.
Nobody talked about him like that. Hell, most days Gator figured people barely saw him at all underneath the Tillman name and the badge and the reputation attached to both.
But a compliment? Coming from Maggie Heaton? That meant something.
She could’ve brought anybody tonight. Roy. Brooks. Ford. Logan. Noah. One of the security guys she’d hired. Half the damn county probably would’ve shown up if Maggie snapped her fingers hard enough. But she chose him.
Maggie’s gaze flicked toward him again.
“Need you watching all of it,” she said. “You’re not my shadow. You’re my eyes. Got it?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Got it.”
The Iron Pit appeared out of the dark gradually. Maggie turned the Hellcat off the highway onto a long dirt road. A battered sign leaned crooked near the entrance.
THE IRON PIT
HANGED MEN MC
One of the bulbs had burned out long ago, leaving half the lettering swallowed in shadow.
There was a parking lot off to the back side of the club house. The lot itself was crowded with motorcycles packed tightly together in uneven rows, chrome and black paint gleaming beneath the lights. The only vehicle among them was an old Chevy truck sitting crooked near the edge of the fence line, rust creeping along the wheel arches.
Maggie eased the Hellcat into a space near the edge of the lot and killed the engine. She leaned over the chair to reach her purse from the backseat and as she pulled it free from between the seats she looked at him.
“Leave the glock in the car.”
Gator’s eyebrows knitted. There was nothing casual in her expression. No humour either. Slowly, he reached behind himself and pulled the .22 from the back of his waistband before leaning forward to slide it carefully into the glove compartment. The lid clicked shut softly between them.
Maggie’s hand was already resting on the door handle.
“Ready?”
Gator nodded.
The evening air hit cool against his face as they stepped out of the car. At first the place seemed empty, but the second they rounded the side of the building and entered the main yard, he felt attention settle onto them from every direction.
The yard was enclosed on two sides by buildings; the clubhouse and opposite a mechanic garage, the rest of it was walled by chain-link fencing. The place was full of men.
Big bastards too. Heavy across the shoulders, leather cuts stretched over thick backs and tattooed arms, the same skeletal insignia stitched across nearly every jacket in the yard. The whole place smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke and sweat.
Above them the sky had darkened into deep bruised blue, the yard illuminated by lights mounted above the garage bays. Despite the hour, the mechanic shop was still running. One man crouched beside a stripped motorcycle with grease blackening both hands while another worked beneath a car raised high on a hydraulic lift, boots visible beneath the undercarriage.
Conversation had not stopped when Maggie and Gator entered the yard, but it had shifted. Eyes tracking them openly. Maggie either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Gator assumed it was the latter.
She walked straight through the middle of it in towering heels that pressed cleanly into the packed dirt, platinum hair shining beneath the industrial lights and an expensive handbag resting lightly against her wrist like she was arriving at a dinner reservation instead of a biker clubhouse in the middle of nowhere.
Beside her, Gator kept his attention moving constantly without appearing to. Faces. Hands. Exits. Distances.
Maggie walked straight up to the man guarding the door without slowing. The guy was well over six feet with shoulders like a damn refrigerator, huge and broad with a thick beard spilling down the front of his leather cut. A black bandana sat low across his forehead and tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves all the way down to his knuckles. He stared down at Maggie like most men did when they underestimated her for the first time.
Maggie didn’t so much as blink. Gator let his attention drift briefly back across the yard. The men in the garage still appeared occupied with their work, but he knew better than to assume that meant relaxed. Nobody had stopped watching them since they arrived.
His eyes tracked upward. Two cameras mounted outside; one positioned above the garage bays and another pointed directly toward the entrance road. When he turned back toward the clubhouse, he spotted a third fixed high above the metal door, angled to cover anyone entering or leaving.
“You wanna let your boss know I’m here?” Maggie asked calmly.
The big man grunted but didn’t move. Maggie tilted her head slightly.
“Hurry it up, honey. My time is significantly more expensive than yours.”
The man’s stare hardened a fraction, though whether from irritation or amusement Gator couldn’t tell. Without taking his eyes off Maggie, the biker reached back and hammered a heavy fist against the metal door behind him.
A second later it swung inward and the guy moved aside.
Gator glanced through the doorway first. The entrance opened directly into the main bar area, dimly lit and mostly empty except for a handful of men wearing leather cuts gathered near the back of the room. One sat alone at a table while the others lingered standing around him.
Gator looked once toward Maggie and gave a small nod. She stepped inside, heels clicking sharply across the hardwood floor while the smell of smoke and stale beer settled thick in the air. Gator followed behind her and heard the heavy door slam shut at his back. Before Maggie could reach the table, two men moved to block their path.
“Search ‘em,” the seated man said.
The voice was rough and low, carrying easily through the quiet room.
One of the bikers stepped toward Gator, shorter than him by a few inches but built thick through the chest and shoulders. A worn name patch reading HARLAN was sewn onto the front of his leather cut above the pocket.
Gator looked at him steadily.
Harlan tapped lightly against his shoulder in silent instruction and Gator simply lifted his arms, letting the man pat him down. At the same time, another biker moved in front of Maggie and began patting her down too.
Something ugly flickered instinctively through Gator’s chest watching it. Some grease-covered asshole with dirt beneath his fingernails running his hands over her. But Maggie remained completely unbothered. Calm and still with an almost humoured look on her face, like she was letting children play out a routine.
Once the searches were finished, both men stepped back and looked toward the figure seated at the table.
“They’re unarmed,” Harlan said.
The man at the table chuckled softly.
“Not sure if that’s brave or stupid.”
Gator studied him properly. Older. Maybe mid-forties, long dark hair pulled back into a thick braid and a goatee framing a mouth that looked more amused than threatened. A faded black leather cut hung over a black vest, old tattoos disappearing across his chest and down both arms. Heavy silver rings wrapped nearly every finger. Similar name patch read BRIGGS.
Unbothered by the little performance surrounding her, Maggie stepped forward.
“I don’t need a gun to prove my point,” she said smoothly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be decomposing.”
For the first time since they entered, Briggs gave a genuine laugh. Beside the table, Gator reached down and pulled out a chair for Maggie. He waited until she sat, placing her handbag carefully beside her chair before taking the seat next to her.
Gator let his eyes travel slowly around the room while the silence settled across the table.
The place looked exactly like he expected a biker clubhouse in rural North Dakota to look; dark, stale and worn half to death. The hardwood floors were scuffed deep from years of boots dragging over them and the bar running along the far wall had cigarette burns scattered across the lacquer. Neon beer signs buzzed faintly overhead, one flickering every few seconds like it was on the verge of giving up. It was industrial, dirty, barely functional.
The two men who had searched them drifted toward the bar and perched on stools near the table without fully sitting back. Harlan stayed broad and still, arms folded heavily across his chest, while the other man lounged looser beside him. PIKE. Gator read the name off the worn patch sewn onto his cut.
He watched them both quietly while Maggie spoke, paying more attention to how they moved than what they looked like. People told on themselves in their movements long before they did with words.
“You need to work on the hospitality,” Maggie said smoothly. “The gargoyle on the door could do with some manners.”
Briggs snorted.
“We don’t keep ‘im around for ‘is manners.”
“Must be his shining personality then.”
The sarcasm in Maggie’s voice was dry enough to peel paint. Across from them, Briggs leaned back further in his chair like he was trying to occupy as much space as physically possible.
“I gotta say, I heard rumours of the infamous Maggie Heaton. Thought you was smart.” His eyes slid briefly toward Gator. “Walkin’ into the lion’s den with just a pup for protection. Bold move.”
“You suggesting I need protection?” Maggie asked lightly. “Thought this was a conversation.”
Gator barely reacted to the comment. Men like Briggs always did the same thing first; chest puffing, little dominance games, seeing who flinched earliest. Instead, he kept scanning. Pike caught his attention, the guy’s eyes kept shifting toward the back room every time Briggs spoke, subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t notice but frequent enough to matter. Nervous, possibly. Waiting for approval maybe. Or worried someone else was listening.
Gator’s gaze drifted back toward Briggs.
The man sat cocky. Legs spread wide beneath the table; one arm hooked lazily over the back of the chair. Every inch of him screamed practiced intimidation. Gator’s eyes moved over the patches on the front of the leather cut. BISMARCK over the left breast above the name patch, while the right side carried two more titles in black and dark red thread. FIRST 9. VICE PRESIDENT.
Gator’s brow furrowed slightly. Vice President. Not the man in charge. And judging by Maggie’s posture, she hadn’t clocked it yet.
“Not sure we’ve got much to talk about,” Briggs said.
“You can cut the crap. You know why I’m here.” Maggie leaned back slightly. “Blackridge. What do they want?”
“Never heard of ‘em.” Briggs shrugged lazily.
Under the table, Gator nudged the back leg of Maggie’s chair lightly with the heel of his boot. When she glanced sideways toward him, he tapped twice against the right side of his own chest without fully looking at her, subtle enough the others would miss it if they weren’t paying attention. Then he brushed imaginary lint from his shirt and resumed scanning the room like nothing had happened. A second later Maggie laughed softly.
“Okay, I’m not playing games with the help.”
Briggs’ face darkened instantly, Maggie continued before he could speak.
“Alright, I’m done with the children. Why don’t we let the grown-ups talk before your Vice President here gets himself into a situation he can’t unfuck?” She said, voice carrying louder now through the clubhouse.
Briggs shoved his chair backward hard enough that the legs screeched against the floor. Gator turned instantly, assessing distance, hands, angles. But before Briggs could say a word, the door behind him creaked open.
“Sit down, Briggs. You’re giving the lady a headache.”
The voice rolled through the room rough as grinding stones. Every biker in the room straightened.
The man stepping from the back room was older than Briggs and carried himself cleaner. Still broad, still dangerous looking. But deliberate where Briggs was loud. Bright white hair combed back at his temples and his beard was trimmed neat instead of wild. His leather cut carried only one patch across the front. PRESIDENT.
He dragged a chair over for himself and sat at the table without hurry. Gator watched him closely; calm eyes, controlled movements, no wasted energy. This was the actual threat in the room.
“Are we done with the dramatics now?” Maggie glanced around the clubhouse. “Feel like I’m sat in community theatre.”
The man smiled slightly.
“My apologies, ma’am. My Vice President sometimes forgets how we speak to guests.”
He shot Briggs a warning look sharp enough that Briggs immediately sat back down without argument. Interesting, thought Gator. There was tension there.
“I’m Cal,” he said. “Presuming you’re Maggie.” His eyes flicked to Gator. “Who’s the boy?”
“Gator,” Gator grunted.
One corner of Cal’s mouth twitched.
“Interesting name.”
“Great,” Maggie cut in. “Now we’re all introduced, are you going to give me some answers?”
Cal leaned back slightly in the chair.
“Well. That depends what you wanna know.”
“Blackridge.” Maggie folded one leg neatly over the other. “What do they want?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to tell you that.” Cal shrugged lightly. “See, I was paid to do a job and keep quiet about it.”
Gator looked toward Maggie then and caught the slight curl at the edge of her mouth. Not angry. No, this was… satisfaction.
“I want it on record, Cal, that I tried to do this the neighbourly way.” She gestured lightly around the room. “I sat here. I entertained the posturing. I’ve been patient and polite. I really do try to lead with the carrot. But sometimes people are just too stubborn to see what’s good for them.”
She reached into her handbag then and withdrew a thin manila folder. Gator watched every biker in the room track the movement. Maggie slid the folder across the scarred tabletop until it stopped directly in front of Cal’s folded hands.
“So,” she said softly, “let’s introduce the stick.”
Cal looked down at the folder, then back at Maggie, searching her face carefully for a bluff. Apparently he didn’t find one. He opened it and Gator watched as his eyes move across the pages.
“What’s this?” Cal frowned slightly. “Land leases?”
“I spent my morning buying up the ground beneath your feet, Mr Calvin Dorsey.”
That got a reaction, Cal’s eyes lifted immediately at the sound of his full name. Maggie smiled politely.
“This clubhouse. The garages. The bar in Dickinson. I own it all.” A slight tilt of her head. “Every square inch of dirt you’re currently occupying… it’s mine.”
To Gator’s left, Briggs visibly tensed. The man started to speak, but Cal lifted one hand slightly without even looking at him. Briggs shut up instantly. Cal never took his eyes off Maggie, his face gave away almost nothing, but Gator could still see it. The moment the balance shifted.
Maggie had won.
“So here’s the reality,” Maggie continued evenly. “You can keep your deal with Blackridge. Stay quiet, keep cashing their checks. And by Monday morning I’ll have sold this place to a developer who wants to tear it down and build a strip mall. A king with no kingdom, Mr Dorsey.”
Gator watched Cal’s hands then, not his face, the hands told the truth first. Knuckles tightening slightly against the edge of the folder.
“Or,” Maggie continued, “you can give me the answers I’m looking for, cut your ties with Blackridge and come work for me. You see, I’m a much better friend than I am an enemy.”
Her fingers tapped lightly against the file.
“According to this, we’re business partners now. And I do like when my businesses thrive. You want those garage books full? Want the bar filled every night? Want to…” her gaze swept the clubhouse, “spruce the place up a little? I can make that happen. Or you can keep playing foot soldier for the other team and I can liquidate the whole lot and buy myself a nice new purse.” Her eyes locked onto Cal’s. “Choice is yours.”
Cal closed the file carefully and slid it back across the table using a single finger. For the first time since sitting down, some of the ease had disappeared from his face, his jaw tightened slightly as he turned his head toward Briggs.
“Out. Take them with you.”
Gator watched Briggs’ expression harden for half a second before he pushed himself away from the table. Pike and Harlan followed after him without argument, stools scraping against the floorboards as all three men moved toward the front door. A second later the heavy metal door swung open and slammed shut behind them.
Cal’s eyes returned to Maggie.
“I was warned about you, Ms Heaton,” he admitted. “Seems I shoulda listened. What d’you wanna know?”
“I want to know what you know,” Maggie replied calmly. “Who they are, what they want, and why they’re hiring bikers to stalk my family.”
Cal exhaled once through his nose before standing from the table. He crossed toward the bar without hurry, reached over it for three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then carried them back. The glasses clinked softly against the tabletop as he poured.
“They started small, over in Montana under a different name. Logistics mostly. Trucking.” He slid one of the glasses toward Maggie and another toward Gator. “But they weren’t moving much oil back then.”
The whiskey bottle knocked lightly against the table as he set it down.
“They were moving weight. Coke. Crystal. Smack.” A shrug. “Hell, probably all of it. Oil was just camouflage. Half a truck full of crude, half a truck full of drugs.”
Maggie’s expression remained unreadable.
“So why move the operation here?”
“Access.” Cal rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Montana’s fine until border crossings start tightening up. They were having trouble moving product.”
“So why are they attacking my sites?”
“They got a tip. Some informant told ‘em about the boom in the Bakken.” He took a sip of whiskey. “So they rebranded, got themselves a new name and started setting up shop here. They run fleets of tankers across the border, no questions asked. Nobody’s checking for heroin in the middle of an oil shortage.”
The room fell quiet for a beat.
“But then Blackridge started seeing the numbers.” Cal’s mouth twitched slightly. “An’ what’s that saying about money an’ evil?”
“The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”
The verse left Gator’s mouth automatically, too many Sundays spent trapped in church pews as a kid. Cal looked at him with faint amusement.
“Don’t look like the bible bashing kind, Gator.”
Gator didn’t answer. Just held the man’s gaze steadily until Cal looked away first, taking another sip of his whiskey. Maggie and Gator’s glasses remained untouched in front of them.
“So Blackridge started as a front,” she said, “and now the front’s become the business.”
“Essentially. They run twice the number of trucks now; twice the oil, twice the drugs, twice the money.” Cal rolled the whiskey glass slowly between his fingers. “We were told to put the pressure on you and your guys, get you to back off, cause you issues that would pause your output and have Blackridge overtaking your spot as the Bakken’s supplier. Guess they hadn’t factored in your… tenacity.”,
Maggie smiled.
“And this informant? Who was he?”
“Never got a name.” Cal shrugged. “Guy got himself buried in drug debt and needed a way out. Had industry contacts, knew the oil business. Opened the door for ‘em.”
Slowly, Maggie lifted her whiskey glass at last and downed the entire thing in one smooth swallow before setting it back onto the table.
“Here’s how this goes,” she said calmly. “You and your boys cut the cord with Blackridge tonight. You block their numbers, burn the burner phones and get rid of every connection you have to them.”
Cal stayed quiet.
“You stop touching my crews. You stop touching my sites.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “And you don’t so much as breathe in the direction of my family again.”
“They’re gonna notice when their security disappears,” Cal pointed out. “And I’ve taken their money.”
“Keep it. By tomorrow, getting a refund from you will be the least of their problems.”
Maggie folded her hands together neatly atop the table. Gator watched Cal carefully while she spoke. The man looked wary now but interested too.
“You work for me now. My offer stands,” Maggie continued. “We clean those garages up; I’ll make sure the bar is the only place in the county where the law doesn’t come knocking. You can have legitimate, thriving businesses.”
For a second nobody spoke, then Cal slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her. Maggie clicked hers gently against it.
“But there’s a price for my friendship,” she added before drinking. “When the time comes, I’m going to need you signing testimony for the state.”
Cal sets his glass down, his face now visibly concerned.
“You want me talking to the feds? That’s a death sentence.”
“You underestimate me, Cal.” Maggie’s tone stayed perfectly even. “I’m going to bury Blackridge so deep they’ll forget what the sun looks like. We’re friends now. Business partners. And you’ll learn quickly I’m a very good friend to have.”
Gator sat there quietly watching her and honestly, he felt a little awed by it. The control she had over a room was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Roy ruled through intimidation, through fear and noise.
Maggie never raised her voice once. She didn’t need to. Her power sat quietly beneath every word she spoke, elegant and terrifying all at once. She walked into rooms already holding enough information to bribe, blackmail or bury every person inside them and somehow she still managed to sound polite doing it.
A small twitch pulled briefly at the corner of Gator’s mouth. Maggie pushed herself smoothly to her feet, clearly satisfied she had everything she came for. She slid the file back into her handbag before looking down at Cal once more.
“I want the name of that informant,” she said. “Then you cut the cord with Blackridge. I’ll be back Monday and I want every file you’ve got on your businesses waiting for me. I want a list of what’s working and what ain’t.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. “I can do that.”
“But if I see any of your boys near my family again,” Maggie warned, “the deal’s off and I’ll wrecking-ball this place myself.”
By then Gator had already stood, moving instinctively alongside her as she headed toward the door. Then Maggie paused and turned back once more.
“And Cal?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Teach your boys some damn manners.” Her mouth curved sharply. “I’ll overlook the disrespect today, but that Vice President of yours tries swinging his dick in front of me again and I’ll cut it the fuck off.”
Without another word, Maggie turned and headed for the door. Gator overtook her in a few long strides to pull it open for her and followed her back outside into the night air.
The yard had changed while they were inside. The mechanic bays were shuttered now and the floodlights buzzed harshly against the darkness overhead. Further down the building, Briggs and the others stood smoking against the wall, conversation stopping briefly as Maggie passed them. She didn’t spare a single one of them a glance, just kept walking across the packed dirt toward the waiting Hellcat.
Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat; Gator slid into the passenger side beside her and buckled himself in while the engine roared back to life. The Hellcat rolled out of the lot in a spray of dust and loose gravel before Maggie turned them back toward the highway.
For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Gator kept thinking about the meeting, replaying pieces of it over in his head while the dark fields streaked past outside the windows.
“You really gonna fix up their businesses?” he asked eventually.
“Technically they’re my businesses now,” she corrected lightly. “And yes. I am.”
“Dad woulda just burnt the place down. Probably with them still in it.”
Maggie gave a quiet hum of amusement.
“Well, your daddy’s always been a fool. His way of doing things is incredibly inefficient. Junior thinks if you beat a head long enough, eventually you own the mind inside it.” She shook her head faintly. “That’s not how people work.”
The highway lights flashed intermittently across her face as she drove.
“You keep beating,” she said calmly, “and eventually all you leave behind is a broken man plotting revenge.”
Gator stared out through the windshield quietly. Once again, Maggie was right. Everybody feared Roy. But nobody loved him. Nobody respected him either, not really. They pretended to because they were scared of what happened if they didn’t, but that wasn’t the same thing. Roy had spent his entire life demanding obedience through force and intimidation while Maggie achieved more than he ever could by simply walking into a room and letting people realise she was already ten steps ahead of them.
That was why Roy always needed her. Why even he listened when Maggie spoke. She didn’t have to raise her voice to command a room. The room just naturally quietened around her.
Beside him, Maggie spoke again.
“You did good tonight, Gator. That catch with the patches? I wouldn’t have spotted it. Thank you.”
Something tightened unexpectedly in Gator’s chest at the words. Pride. It felt stupid almost, how much that simple bit of praise affected him. Nobody had ever really told him he’d done a good job before. Definitely not Roy. Hell, half the time his father only noticed him when he’d fucked something up. But hearing it from Maggie, that meant something.
Maggie’s mouth curved slightly as if she could see the effect it had anyway.
“Now,” she said, settling back more comfortably behind the wheel, “let’s get you home to your girl, huh? Bet she’s chewed a hole clean through her thumb by now.”
The image of you waiting back at the ranch rose immediately in his mind. Curled up somewhere in one of his hoodies, anxious and trying not to show it, probably still awake despite the hour.
Maggie pressed harder on the gas pedal and the Hellcat surged violently forward down the highway, Gator grabbed the door handle and honestly, he was just hoping he survived the drive home.
・❥・
An uneasy feeling had been sitting low in your stomach since the moment you woke up that morning. At first it had been manageable, just a quiet kind of anxiety. But by the time Maggie and Gator were actually leaving the ranch, the feeling had worsened to something sharp and restless beneath your ribs.
You had tried not to let either of them see it. You stood in the doorway of the Big House while Maggie climbed into the Hellcat and Gator lingered long enough to kiss you goodbye, his hand warm against your cheek while he quietly promised he would be back before you knew it. You kissed him back, told him to be careful.
You had smiled, you had waved, you had held yourself together right up until the Hellcat vanished through the front gate and the sound of the engine disappeared into the distance. Then you stepped back inside the house and the hold slipped immediately.
You had been in your room ever since. At some point you had curled yourself into the pillows of the bed.
Dinner had come and gone a while ago, but the thought of food had turned your stomach so badly you nearly felt sick. You had told Ford no through the door and listened until his footsteps disappeared again.
Your phone lay beside you on the bed, lighting up every few minutes as you checked the time despite already knowing exactly how long they had been gone. Texting Gator was pointless, his phone sat abandoned on the bedside table where he had left it.
Every few minutes your fingers found your pulse point, checking and rechecking your heart rate until you no longer trusted your own judgement of it. Sometimes it felt normal, other times it seemed too fast, or uneven, or just wrong somehow.
The drive to Bismarck would take roughly an hour and twenty minutes, maybe less with Maggie driving. Then however long the meeting itself lasted. An hour maybe. Two if things got complicated. Then another hour and twenty minutes back to the ranch. Close to four hours total. Unless something had gone wrong.
By the time the clock crept past midnight, you had worked yourself into such a state that you barely trusted your own body anymore.
You were still sat upright against the headboard, not remotely comfortable despite the mountain of pillows behind you. One knee was drawn tight against your chest while your thumb stayed trapped between your teeth, worrying relentlessly at the torn skin around the nail until the metallic taste of blood spread across your tongue.
Your other hand remained pressed against the side of your neck. Checking. Always checking. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump. There. That skip again.
You pressed harder against your pulse point and started counting over from the beginning, breathing shallow without meaning to while you focused entirely on the rhythm beneath your skin. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump.
Wait. Was it getting faster?
Your fingers shifted slightly.
thumpthumpthump^thump
Okay. That definitely felt wrong. Panic crawled sharply up your spine as you squeezed tighter against your neck, already preparing to count again when a soft knock sounded suddenly against your bedroom door.
The door cracked open before you answered and Ford leaned his head around it.
“Baby?” His voice stayed gentle. “Just wanted to check on you. You’ve been super quiet.”
The second he saw you sitting there with your thumb in your mouth and your fingers pressed anxiously against your neck, his expression changed completely.
“Baby…”
Worry etched in his face as he crossed the room quickly and sat down on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping carefully beneath his weight.
“Baby? Shit, you’re bleeding.”
He reached carefully for your hand, tugging your thumb gently away from your mouth so he could inspect it properly. The skin around the nail was torn, but you barely cared about that. Instead you grabbed Ford’s free hand and pressed it against the side of your neck.
“Does this feel weird to you?”
Ford looked at you, for a second concern sharpened his features, but then his fingers settled properly over your pulse point while he concentrated. You watched his face anxiously while he counted silently, after a moment he lowered his hand.
“Feels normal,” he said calmly. “Little quick, but you’ve got yourself into a state so that’s to be expected.”
“Felt weird.”
“Probably because you’ve been checking it every two minutes.”
Your brow furrowed. How did he know? The faintest flicker of amusement slipped from Ford despite the worry still lingering in his eyes.
“I know you, baby.”
Ford gave your injured thumb another look before pushing himself upright from the bed.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Kids are asleep. Let’s go get your thumb fixed up and we’ll wait on the couch together till they get back.”
You let him pull you to your feet and he kept hold of your hand the whole way out of the bedroom, your chewed-up thumb lifted carefully between his fingers while he guided you toward the kitchen.
Ford hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you up onto the counter beside the sink. He switched on the tap and carefully guided your hand beneath the stream of cool water. The skin stung, but even that hardly registered over everything else spiralling through your chest.
“Has Maggie text you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But you know she doesn’t text and really, the last thing we need is Maggie texting and driving. Woman’s already lethal behind the wheel.”
A weak little smile pulled at your mouth. He shut off the water and reached for a dish towel, drying your hand with exaggerated care. His large hands stayed impossibly gentle while he wrapped a band aid neatly around your thumb.
“They’ll be home soon, I promise. C’mon, kid.”
He slipped an arm around your waist again and lifted you back down from the counter before steering you gently toward the living room with his arm draped around your shoulders.
When you reached the couch, he dropped heavily into the corner cushion and tugged you into his side. You let yourself fold against him bonelessly, your head tucked beneath his chin while he reached for the remote.
The television flickered on. Ford scrolled aimlessly through channels for a minute before eventually settling on a rerun of Friends.
The bright apartment colours blurred together while the canned laugh track echoed through the room. Your mind kept drifting, circling, spiralling. Without thinking, your hand started lifting toward your mouth again.
Ford caught it halfway there. He grabbed both your wrists gently, pulling your hands down into your lap before wrapping his arms more securely around you.
“Stop chewing or I’m gonna put you in one of those cones they put dogs in at the vet.”
“Sorry.”
Ford loosened his grip on your wrists slowly but kept one arm looped tightly around you, his other hand drifted up into your hair. He smoothed it back from your face in long absent strokes.
“They’ll be home soon,” he repeated quietly.
His fingers continued moving through your hair while you tried to focus on that instead of the panic still crawling restlessly beneath your skin. After a while Ford spoke again, his voice lighter this time.
“I hope you would’ve been this worried if Maggie had taken me as her bodyguard.”
You let out a small laugh against his shoulder.
“She never would’ve taken you. Doesn’t look very professional if your bodyguard has a black eye.”
Ford gave you a gentle poke in the ribs.
“Still got jokes, huh? Don’t you think it makes me look rugged? Little mysterious. Dangerous, maybe.”
You tipped your head back enough to look at him.
“Ford, you are a forty-year-old father of five. I don’t think you need to look dangerous.”
“You’re mean when you’re worried.”
You shoved lightly at the side of his head and tucked yourself closer into his side again while your eyes drifted back toward the television. Onscreen, Monica, Rachel and Phoebe sat crowded together in wedding dresses inside Monica’s apartment while the laugh track played over the top of them.
Ford managed to keep you distracted for a while. Every now and then he laughed quietly at something happening on the television and nudged you until you half-smiled too.
But when you see headlights seep through the front window and hear the familiar pop of tyres over gravel, your entire body reacted before your brain did.
You shot upright off the couch so fast Ford barely had time to move out of the way before you were across the living room. You yanked the front door open just as Maggie and Gator stepped out of the Hellcat. The cold night air rushed against your skin as you bolted across the yard.
“Jesus--”
Gator barely got the word out before you collided with him full force. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs locked around his waist while he caught you with a low grunt, both arms hooking securely beneath you to stop the momentum from knocking you both sideways.
Behind you, Ford had wandered out onto the porch in time to witness the entire thing. Maggie glanced toward him while shutting the car door.
“Don’t you run at me like that,” she called dryly. “Not a chance I’m catching your big ass.”
Ford snorted.
“Thanks, Ma. So glad you’re home.”
Your face stayed buried against Gator’s neck while he adjusted his grip beneath your thighs and started carrying you back toward the house across the gravel.
“Miss me?” he murmured, voice rough with amusement close to your ear.
“Mhm.”
The answer came muffled into the side of his throat. Gator huffed softly through his nose and pressed a kiss against your temple.
“M’back now,” he said quietly. “S’alright.”
Gator carried you all the way up the porch steps and through the front door without putting you down, one hand spread securely against your lower back while he rounded the corner toward the kitchen. Only once he reached the counter did he finally ease you down onto it. Even then he stayed standing between your knees, your arms remained looped stubbornly around his shoulders like letting go might somehow make him disappear again.
Ford and Maggie followed in a moment later.
The kitchen lights flicked brighter overhead and Ford moved toward the kettle out of pure habit, switching it on before Maggie walked past him, reached over, and clicked it back off again, opting for the bottle of wine in the fridge.
Ford laughed quietly under his breath and reached up into the top cabinet for a wine glass. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied hum before pouring herself a generous amount.
“I’ve got a few calls to make,” she said after taking the first long sip, “but all in all I’d say it was a rather successful evening.”
Ford leaned back against the island.
“Yeah?”
“Our new biker friends gave us enough information to do a great deal more than simply push Blackridge off our land.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I’m wiping them off the map. By Monday, that company won’t be able to buy a gallon of gas in this country, let alone drill for it.”
You still had your arms around Gator’s shoulders, but you smiled softly at Maggie across the kitchen.
“I’ve also acquired a few new businesses that I’ll be needing your help with, Ford.”
Ford barked out a laugh.
“Trust you to walk into a thieves’ den and leave owning part of the treasure.”
“I like to seize opportunities when they present themselves.”
Ford just shook his head fondly while Maggie took another drink of wine. Then her attention shifted toward Gator.
“I can’t take all the credit tonight though. Gator was… impressive. He’s got a knack for finding the rot in a room. Saved me a great deal of time and a fair amount of breath.” A small smile touched the edge of her mouth. “I think we’re going to make quite the team, Gator.”
Gator felt the heat rise into his face, a small, crooked smile on his face as his eyes dropped briefly to the kitchen floor. Impressive. Not a word he was used to hearing about himself. Your arms tightened gently around his neck in a quiet supportive squeeze, like you understood exactly what the moment meant to him.
Maggie drained the last of her wine and set the empty glass down onto the counter with a soft clink.
“Right,” she announced. “I’m gonna go make these calls. See you all in the morning.”
“Ma, it’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Ford frowned.
“I like to skin my corpses while the flesh is still warm, Ford.”
As Maggie passed, she gave Gator a brief pat against the arm, he moved aside, watching as you leaned toward her and wrapped your arms briefly around her shoulders.
“Glad you sorted it,” you murmured. “And that you’re home in one piece.”
For a second Maggie’s expression softened completely, every inch of the cold, calculated person he had just witnessed in the clubhouse disappearing as she hugged you back.
While you embraced, Gator drifted quietly closer to Ford near the counter. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“She alright?”
Ford’s expression changed instantly, the teasing ease slipped away, replaced by something heavier.
“Stayed locked in her room all night, refused to eat, torn her thumb to shreds. I managed to pull her into the living room about an hour ago, but honestly she was borderline catatonic when I went to get her.”,
“Shit.”
The word left Gator before he could stop it. Guilt hit him hard and immediate now, sinking low in his chest as his eyes flicked instinctively back toward you on the counter.
“Thought she’d be alright. She said it was okay t’go.”
Ford looked at him for a long second, not accusing, just tired and understanding.
“She was scared. It’s been a fucking insane week,” he said simply. “And she loves you, Tillman.”
Gator looked at him properly then. You had already said the words to him yourself, but hearing somebody else say it so casually, like it was obvious enough for everyone around you to notice, sent something warm and almost dizzying through his chest.
Ford caught the expression and smirked.
“God knows why,” he muttered. “Really should’ve raised her with better taste.”
A quiet laugh escaped Gator. When he looked back toward you, Maggie had slipped away and you were watching them both with narrowed eyes like you already knew they had been talking about you.
Gator crossed the kitchen and scooped you straight back into his arms. Your arms returned to his shoulders; legs hooked instinctively around his waist. You could have walked yourself but that wasn’t the point. Gator simply wanted you as close to him as physically possible.
You murmured a quiet goodnight to Ford over Gator’s shoulder as he carried you out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward your bedroom.
The second the bedroom door shut behind you, Gator kissed you. Deep and immediate and almost desperate in the way his mouth found yours while he still held you against him, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers tangled into the hair at the back of his neck.
And just like that, the panic dissolved. All the spiralling thoughts, the counting, the sick dread that had been sitting in your chest for hours seemed to finally loosen and fall away the second his lips found yours.
Gator broke away slowly, his forehead resting against yours while both of you breathed the same air for a moment.
“Hey,” he murmured softly.
“Hey,” you smiled weakly.
Still holding you easily, he carried you over to the bed before finally setting you down gently on the edge of the mattress. Then, instead of stepping away, he crouched down in front of you. Your chest tightened slightly at the sight of him there between your knees, big hands carefully taking yours while he looked down at the band-aid wrapped around your thumb.
“Ford says y’didn’t eat,” he said quietly. “Been holed up in here all night.”
Guilt sat heavily in his voice.
“I didn’t want y’worryin’ like that.” His thumb brushed lightly over the bandage. “If I’d known… If you’d told me not t’go, I wouldn’t’ve gone.”
The distress in his eyes made your heart ache. You reached out, hand settling against his cheek while your thumb brushed softly through the roughness of his stubble.
“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “You’re back. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
Gator shook his head slightly and leaned into your touch like he needed it.
“I don’t like it when y’get like that. Don’t want y’panickin’ over me an’ chewin’ yourself t’pieces when I ain’t there.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours. “I love you too much t’be the reason you’re hurtin’ yourself.”
“Well,” you murmured softly, “I love you too much not to worry about you.”
A dry little laugh escaped him then, tired and fond all at once, and he lowered his forehead briefly against your knee.
“Guess we’re jus’ fucked then?”
You smiled for real this time and leaned down enough to press a soft kiss against the back of his neck.
“But at least we’re fucked together.”
Gator laughed quietly beneath his breath and stayed there for another moment while your fingers stroked slowly through his hair. Eventually he pushed himself back to his feet and kissed you again.
He only stepped away long enough to change out of his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before crossing to his side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet and climbed beneath it before leaning across the mattress toward you where you still sat near the end of the bed.
Without warning, both his arms wrapped around your waist. You let out a startled squeal as he hauled you bodily backward up the mattress toward him, laughing softly against your shoulder while you squirmed uselessly in his grip.
He settled you securely against his chest, your back tucked into the solid warmth of his body while one arm draped heavily across your waist beneath the blankets, his breath brushing softly against the back of your neck and for the first time all day, you finally relaxed.
・❥・
By the next afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Big House had shifted completely. Not normal exactly. But the suffocating tension that had been hanging over the ranch for days had eased.
You sat cross-legged on the living room rug with Josie settled happily between your legs, helping her with one of her shape sorter toys while the television played quietly in the background. Every few seconds she would grab a brightly coloured block and attempt to jam it violently into whatever hole happened to be closest. Most of the time unsuccessfully.
Behind you, Gator and Ford occupied opposite corners of the sofa, half watching the television while talking over the top of it. Gator’s socked foot rubbed absently against your hip every now and then where you sat on the floor between them.
Upstairs, the sound of the kids thundered intermittently through the ceiling.
The twins had been surprisingly good all week about keeping Nicky and Rhodes occupied while they were off school. Video games, movies, wrestling matches that inevitably ended with Tucker being bundled on the floor. The younger boys had barely left Tucker and Walker’s orbit since Monday, following them around the ranch like devoted little shadows.
At your knees, Josie made an increasingly furious sound as she repeatedly tried shoving a square block into a triangular hole.
“No, Josie-jo,” you laughed softly. “Wrong one.”
She scowled at the toy as you reached around her and rotated the sorter slightly, so the square opening faced her instead, not that it seemed to help much. You barely noticed Maggie entering the room until the television abruptly changed channels and Ford let out an offended noise from the couch.
“Ma,” he complained, “I was watching that.”
But Maggie ignored him completely, her attention fixed on the screen while a news channel replaced the documentary.
A helicopter shot swept across the television screen showing County 22 from above, but instead of the usual slow crawl of oil traffic and tanker routes, the roads were clogged with armoured BearCats and blacked-out federal SUVs stretching in a line across the valley. Men in olive-drab tactical gear moved between the vehicles carrying rifles across their chests.
Maggie turned the volume up so you could hear the reporter.
“…massive coordinated enforcement action is currently underway against Blackridge Extraction in what appears to be a multi-agency operation led by the DEA. We’re hearing reports of federal indictments and involvement in racketeering and Schedule One narcotics trafficking.”
The footage switched suddenly to Dickinson. Blackridge headquarters stood surrounded by police vehicles while shattered glass glittered across the pavement outside the building entrance. Federal agents swarmed the site while another smaller video frame appeared in the corner showing suited executives being marched out in handcuffs earlier that morning.
“…sources close to the investigation suggest that the oil giant has been operating as a front for a multi-state narcotics distribution network. Federal agents spent the morning breaching Blackridge sites across the Bakken region and there have already been dozens of arrests, including company CEO Lukas Donovan…”
Maggie lowered the volume again as she rounded the couch and sat down beside Ford like she had merely switched on the weather report.
“Ain’t ever seen a strike team move that fast,” Gator muttered. “Takes ‘em months of red tape usually.”
Maggie crossed one leg neatly over the other.
“Well, it only takes about…” she said calmly, glancing at her watch, “…eight hours if you happen to have the Regional Director’s personal cell phone number.”
You looked between Maggie and the television in disbelief. At this point you genuinely were beginning to wonder just how many terrifyingly powerful people Maggie Heaton had on speed dial.
“But won’t this screw Brooks over too?” you asked. “What if they padlock the whole valley while they investigate? He’ll lose access to the shared pipelines.”
And the last thing Brooks needed right now was more financial damage while federal agents squeezed the entire oil region into paralysis. But Maggie only waved one dismissive hand lightly through the air.
“I already handled it.”
Of course she had.
“The Blackridge sites along the 22 are being cleared as low-risk assets. State wants production operational again as quickly as possible to avoid an energy crisis in the county.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Which means they’re currently searching for a reputable local operator willing to manage the seizure sites under temporary receivership.”
“And let me guess,” Ford chuckled, “you’ve already got Brooks’ name sitting at the top of their list?”
“I’ve already drafted the intent to buy. While Blackridge are busy hiring criminal defence attorneys, we’ll be purchasing their most profitable leases for pennies on the dollar. All while maintaining the cleanest books in the country. Work smarter, not harder, Ford.”
Ford barked out a laugh.
You sat there looking at Maggie in quiet disbelief. Because somehow, impossibly, she always won. Only now you were finally beginning to understand why. All these years you had thought Maggie’s power came from money. But that was only part of it. The real truth sat deeper than that.
Maggie Heaton was a viper wearing designer heels. Everyone underestimated her, too busy looking at the shine of her scales to notice the length of her fangs.
Everyone sat watching the coverage for another few minutes. Eventually the segment ended and shifted into the local weather report, the screen now filled with a smiling meteorologist.
“So,” Ford said, “no more house arrest?”
“You make it sound like Guantanamo, Ford. Privileged problem to be on house arrest in a multimillion-dollar ranch in rural North Dakota.” A faint smile curved at the edge of Maggie’s mouth. “But yes, you’ve got early release for good behaviour. Make sure you stop by the gift shop for a souvenir on your way out.”
Ford snorted a laugh. On the rug, Josie had apparently grown bored of even trying and was now repeatedly slapping the shape sorter against the floor hard enough to make plastic blocks scatter across the rug. You scooped her up beneath the arms and passed her backward toward Ford. He settled her bouncing on his knee as you shifted on the rug to face Maggie.
“And what about the bikers?”
“Actually,” Maggie said, “I wanted to ask you about that.”
You frowned faintly.
“I’ve scheduled a meeting with their president, Cal, on Monday, we’re going to go over everything they have and what needs work. I was wondering if you would like to work on it, lead the project. You can liaise with Ford about the construction, work with Cal and his crew to make a plan.”
You stared at her for a second. Maggie wanted you in on this? Sure, you had worked on Grace Foundation projects for years. But this was different. These were actual profiting businesses. A corporate portfolio.
“You want me…” You blinked slightly. “To lead it?”
“Can’t think of anyone better. I’ll come with you Monday and make introductions,” Maggie said. “We’ll assess what we’re working with and I’ll help however you need me to. But I think it’s time you took the reins on something. You in?”
You kept looking at her for another second, still trying to process the fact she was offering this to you so casually, like she had no doubt you could do it. Slowly, you nodded.
“Yeah,” you said, a little breathless. “Yeah… I’d love that.”
Maggie smiled faintly and leaned back against the couch cushions again, looking entirely unsurprised by your answer.
“Good.”
Beside her, Ford reclaimed the remote from Josie’s sticky hands and switched the channel back over. The nature documentary somehow managed to pull all of you; one minute the television was background noise and the next all four of you were silently watching two lions stalk a zebra through tall grass while a softly spoken British narrator explained the brutal social hierarchy of the Serengeti.
Josie had fallen half asleep across Ford’s chest by then, one small hand still clinging loosely to the television remote while Gator’s fingers drifted absently through the ends of your hair where you leaned back against the sofa between his knees.
Then Maggie’s phone pinged, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled the phone free, unlocking it with one hand while her attention shifted to the screen. Ford glanced over lazily.
“Plotting more hostile takeovers, Ma?” he teased. “You make these lions look friendly.”
Maggie barely looked up, her eyes moved steadily across the message.
“No. It’s Cal. I asked him to do some digging into Blackridge’s informant.”
“Informant?” Ford frowned.
“Yeah,” Gator answered before Maggie could. “Some little junkie led ‘em our way.”
“Cal said whoever it was had oil knowledge, basically pinpointed on a map where to set up shop.” Maggie elaborated.
Ford shifted slightly beneath Josie’s weight.
“So what’s he saying now?”
“He’s got a name,” Maggie read from the screen. “Max Porter.”
“Max Porter?” Ford shook his head slightly. “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither,” Gator muttered.
Maggie’s eyes narrowed faintly at another notification appearing.
“Hang on, he says he’s got a photo.”
You all waited while the little typing bubble flickered on Maggie’s screen, then another message came through and suddenly Maggie went completely still.
You watched the colour drain from her face so quickly it was almost comical, her eyes locked onto the screen.
“Ma?”
Maggie didn’t answer. The silence stretched, all you could hear was the hushed narration from the television.
“What is it?” Ford asked again, quieter this time.
Slowly, Maggie turned the phone around toward the rest of you.
The photo was grainy. Clearly taken from a distance and probably without the subject knowing. A young man stood in the open doorway of a truck somewhere beneath harsh daylight, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, faded denim jacket hanging open over a plain white t-shirt. His face looked tired, drawn. But it was unmistakable.
Noah.
Your heart lurched so violently it almost hurt.
“That’s…”
Beside you, Ford stared at the screen in complete disbelief.
“This can’t be right,” he mumbled.
Nobody moved, nobody even seemed to breathe. Then Maggie quietly took the phone back into her hand and rose smoothly to her feet. Her face had gone unreadable again now, every trace of emotion locked back down.
“I need to make another call.”
Note II: So this was supposed to end in a neatly wrapped little bow, like all of my fics and when I started writing it, it did, I had the ending planned. But as I wrote it I just fell more and more in love with these characters and wanted to explore them all more, SO, this ends here, on a cliffhanger. But Part Two is already planned and half-written, another 12 part series of Baby x Gator! The catch is, i'm on vacation for two whole weeks, so be patient with me- it's coming, you'll just have to wait a little bit....
Taglist: [Comment to be added] @keerygirlie98 @mystickittytaco @imdjoverit @lofi-fics @kristywidget97 @janehartt @ms-mountebank @eller41 @slutforpumpkins @roridemie @louisbelongstome28
OH MY GOD! honestly this series is so amazing it could be a book, you are an incredible writer. i’m so glad you’ve fallen in love with the characters and want to write more for them because i was so sad it was close to ending!
summary: one thing you and your fiancé have in common: you both hate people meddling in your business. it's a good thing gator has a plan to get everyone's hands off of your big day.
tags/warnings: fiancé to husband!gator tillman x reader, no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, suggestive content, domestic fluff, elopement, rude!gator (but you love it), soft!gator, use of petnames (mama, baby, sweetheart), use of "stupid" and "woman" as petnames, gator tillman doing anything to make his girl happy
author's note: based on this request, which has the companion proposal fic attached!
---
It’s been five months of planning, and you still barely feel ready.
Five months of booking the church you didn’t think was busy enough to require a reservation. Five months of running over menus six times just to make sure the one vegetarian in Lehigh has something edible on their plate. Five months of technicalities and requirements for your wedding you couldn’t care less about.
And the unkillable, unending source of your frustration is that everybody and their mother seems to have an opinion on it. And for five months, everybody and their mother has elected to share those opinions with you.
From the reception hall to the party favors left out on the tables, there hasn’t been a single thing that’s escaped the judgement of the people of this miniscule, insipid town. They’ve dropped by your house with fabric samples; stopped you in the grocery store and absolutely insisted you use their cousin’s flower shop for your arrangements. Roy had even been so bold as to write the entire guest list himself and pass it off to you like a memo. And no matter how many nights you spent sitting between Gator’s legs crying to him about the mountainous stress on your shoulders while he listened and wiped your face of tears, there was nothing either of you could do about it. Lehigh was Lehigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, and what was worse was that they knew it.
You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, even now. This was supposed to be your wedding– theoretically, the happiest day of your life. So why were everyone else’s hands all over it?
You knew Gator felt the same way, evidenced by how many times he’d grumbled in your ear over the past weeks that the next person to approach you and give you a direction was about to be told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. He’d even offered to help with some of the planning, which had made you loose an exhausted laugh– Gator planning anything would have been more of a hindrance than a help at this point. You hardly needed the man who couldn’t tell the difference between a rose and a chrysanthemum to be picking out dinnerware with you.
But you got through it– little by little, meltdown by meltdown, you forged forward, slapping away the helping hands clamped onto your shoulders, all with your eyes on this day and this boy and everything everyone told you you were doing wrong about it.
So why is there still a knot in your gut?
You stare back at the dolled-up version of yourself in the vanity mirror of the room you’ve secured for the bridal party, and you hardly recognize your own face. It’s the first moment you’ve had alone all day, and you only barely managed to force your bridesmaids and your mother and Karen out of the room, but it’s less peaceful than you’d thought it would be. Your makeup is flawless, your hair swept halfway up with sprigs of tiny white flowers. Your dress is perfect– just the way you pictured it. And you’re exhausted by all of it.
For a moment, a memory flashes through your mind. One perfect night, some eons ago– right at the beginning of all of this, back when you hadn’t ever pictured you and Gator might be built to last. It was late, and dark, and you were still in your pretty white sundress and the cowboy boots you’d been dancing all night with him in. He was reckless driving, drifting around corners and kicking up dust behind his truck. Country music was blaring from the radio, and you were screaming at the sharp turns, cackling with laughter as you grappled for purchase on the door handles, your hair flying in your face from the wind coming off the open windows.
And Gator was looking over at you, his face split ear to ear in a grin. So consumed with happiness it felt like it was piercing your chest, driving itself straight into your heart, so foolishly open and waiting. And you thought, nobody makes me laugh like this boy.
It didn’t matter that you’d lost track of the number of times you’d been told to stay away from him for your own good. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d already had, even just at the beginning of things between you. It didn’t matter that he called you a tease, mocked you for playing hard to get, just because you were insistent upon hiding your heart from him until you were sure he deserved it. In that moment, country lights blurring by, stretching your legs out into his lap so he could grip your shin, nothing Gator Tillman had been before he met you meant a thing. What mattered was who he could be– who he became on a perfect night, when you got him alone, when he sagged into your arms and admitted his bravado was defeated. You could see it happening, day by day, that change. He was growing toward you slowly, cautiously, like a houseplant that had never learned how to face the sun.
That was the night you finally gave in. You loved him. You’d loved him always. You’d love him forever.
You leaned across the car and tugged his face toward yours for one brief, searing kiss. Gator laughed against you, the noise rasping in his throat. The sound transformed him into a different person– a person he might have been long before he met you, if only life had dealt him a different hand. But he was here now– alive and sweet and grinning. And you grinned right back, unashamed and unhidden.
The memory flutters in your chest, soft and aching. That joy isn’t gone now– you know better than to think that. It’s just buried under miles and miles of stress and anxiety and shit people have been shoving on you for months. It’s too easy sometimes to forget why you wanted all this in the first place.
The door opens somewhere behind you, and you’re glad for the changing screen that stands between you and the doorway– you need a moment to school your face back into bland enthusiasm for whatever new visitor wants to impose upon your time.
“Baby?”
You whip around on your vanity stool, your heart leaping. That’s not Karen, and that’s not your bridesmaids, either. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Gator?”
“Hey, mama,” he returns, satisfied. “Where are you?”
“Gate, you can’t be in here,” you hiss. “It’s bad luck– we talked about this.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I couldn’t stay with you last night, either,” he gripes, and you hear his footsteps as he nears. “Stupidest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.”
You shoot off your stool, equal parts exasperated by his ongoing irreverence with wedding traditions and thrilled he’s actually here. You haven’t seen him all day, or for most of yesterday, and damn it, but you’ve missed him like hell. “It’s not stupid,” you say again, although considering how much you wanted him next to you in bed last night, that argument is a little weak.
“Come out and let me see you,” he says, thankfully staying put on the other side of the screen.
“I can’t,” you tell him, heart pounding in your chest. Something about the one person you’ve been dying to see all day standing feet away from you and not being able to touch him is getting to you. “You can’t see me. We’ll be cursed, or something.”
“You tryin’ to kill me, woman?” he tosses at you. “You’re about to be my wife. I’m gonna see you every damn day. Now get out here and let me look at ‘ya.”
You roll your eyes and loose a reluctant laugh, and mostly because you can’t stand to do anything else, you step gradually out from behind the screen.
Gator looks unfairly good.
His hair is neat, but still loose the way you like it. His brown suit jacket sits crisply over his black dress shirt, the leafy boutonniere with white flowers pinned to his lapel expertly enough you know immediately he didn’t do it himself. There’s a formality to him, a stiffness that betrays how foreign these clothes feel on his body, but he still wears it exceptionally well. And when his dark eyes find you, he smiles at you in the way nobody else ever could.
He reaches out for you immediately, taking both of your hands in his. “Look at you,” he nearly whistles, spreading your hands so he can see you better. “Spin around for me, baby.”
You feel a little silly, but you do as he asks, a blush high on your cheeks. The gauzy, petal-like skirts of your dress swish against your legs as you turn, the short, flowy sleeves tickling your arms. Gator’s hands slip around your waist as you come back to him, and yours find his arms, smoothing over his pristinely ironed sleeves.
“You’re perfect,” he tells you, his eyes glittering as he smiles wider at you.
“Yeah?” you ask gently, a little ashamed to still need the assurance.
“Most beautiful woman in the world,” he affirms, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “You make a pretty fuckin’ bride.”
The words send another flutter through your chest, and some of your nerves dissipate. “Karen said the dress makes me look promiscuous,” you inform him sardonically. You’d thought it was absolutely beautiful until she said something, and despite how you joked it off, the comment had been needling at the back of your mind all day.
“Karen’s a bitch from hell,” Gator retorts evenly.
Your lips press together to hide your laugh, your self-consciousness slipping away. “Gate, she’s your stepmother.”
“So?” he intones, dipping his head to kiss the side of your throat. “She’s still a bitch. She’s just jealous.”
“Jealous of me?” you snort.
“Mm,” he agrees, the vibrations travelling along your neck. “You’re younger and prettier and have a tighter ass.”
You huff a breathy laugh, still fighting your sour mood. It’s easier now that Gator’s hands are on you– now that you’re back in his grip. People have never understood how much he lifts your temper, but then, they’ve never been in love with Gator Tillman like you have. You’d take this boy over any of them– over anything in the world.
Gator pulls back, noticing the dryness in your tone. He lifts a hand and pokes your cheek with his knuckle. “What’s with the face, huh?” he asks, and even though he’s still teasing you, a flash of concern is in his eyes. “You thinkin’ ‘bout backing out?”
“You wish,” you joke back, your hands lifting to thread behind his neck.
Gator grins at you. “Come on. You gettin’ cold feet, or what?”
You heave a long sigh, borne on the exhaustion and clamor and stress of the day. “I hate everyone,” you admit, defeated, staring up at him guiltily. “I only like you. And I just want everyone else to fuck off.”
“That’s my girl,” he laughs, pushing in to kiss you again. “You tell ‘em, baby.”
“They don’t listen to me,” you protest weakly, letting him mess up the makeup on your cheek as he nuzzles into it. What the hell– you have time to fix it later, anyway. “Nobody does. I feel like this whole stupid thing is more for them than us.”
“That’s ‘cause it is,” he agrees into your skin. Finally, he pulls back to look at you again, his eyes sweeping down your face and back up. The mischief and humor haven’t left his expression, and they certainly don’t leave when he slips his hand back into yours and retreats a step back toward the door. “Come on.”
You frown, your brow knitting as he pulls you along. “I can’t go out there. Karen’s probably guarding that door like a pitbull.”
“Relax,” Gator intones, dragging you out the door and into the thankfully empty hallway. “How d’you think I got in here?” His head turns left and right, checking for members of your bridal party. He doesn’t find any, and the two of you forge ahead.
You’re amused but compliant as he tugs you down the hallway and towards the front door. You don’t know what insane idea has worked its way into his head, but you’ve learned over the years that it’s always best with Gator to just let it play out. “Where are we going?” you finally ask him as you make it out of the house unnoticed, spearing for his truck, parked in the driveway.
Gator doesn’t glance behind him as he says, “We’re goin’ to get married.”
You snort. “Yeah, I think you’re jumping the gun a little, Alligator. Ceremony’s not till five.”
You reach the truck, and he drops your hand to open the passenger side door for you. He’s grinning again— ear to ear. “Who said anything ‘bout a ceremony?”
Your eyes widen as you stare back at him. “What are you talking about?”
He nods to your seat, not budging. “Get in the car, sweetheart.”
The order leaves no room for debate. A little thrill runs through you at the words– at the realization of what, exactly, his batshit-crazy plan is. You give in quicker than you mean to and climb into the car, and he reaches over to tuck in your dress before shutting the door behind you.
As Gator backs the truck out of its spot in the driveway, you worry your hands, nerves and excitement indistinguishable inside you. “This is so stupid.”
“I can always drop you back off,” Gator threatens mildly, pulling onto the main road and gunning the accelerator.
“It’s our wedding, Gator!” you protest, though an anxious smile is already growing on your face. “We’re running away from our wedding. People are gonna care when they figure out we’re missing.”
“The hell are they gonna do about it?” he deadpans. “You’re my woman. You’re gonna be my wife. I can do what I want with ‘ya.”
“They’re probably gonna come after us on horseback,” you propose, biting at the skin beside your manicured nail.
Gator notices and grabs your hand away from your face, pulling it over to him and wrapping his fingers around it. “Relax, mama. You’re too stressed all the damn time.”
As the landscape of the ranch fades behind you, your smile grows and grows on your face. You can almost feel the expectations lifting one by one off your shoulders, kicked up like the dust behind Gator’s truck.
Gator glances over at you, glimpsing your expression. His own grin spreads, his eyes alight. “Hey, there she is.”
You press your lips together, but it’s a useless endeavor. You feel lighter than you have in months, that bubbling joy of being with him back in your chest with a vengeance. “This is so stupid,” you say again, shaking your head.
Gator huffs a laugh and reaches over to pull your head toward him, planting a kiss on your temple. He ruffles your perfectly-done hair as he lets you go, and you bat him away, your crinkling eyes on the open road.
By the time the truck skids to a stop outside a church you’ve only been to once in the middle of town, the ground is slick with rain.
“Alright, let’s go,” Gator announces plainly, throwing the truck in park and popping his door as casually as if you’re stopped outside a megamart. He comes around the truck and opens your door, too, and you stare past his shoulder at the drizzling rain.
“Gator–” you protest a little. “Gate, it’s raining.”
“So?” he drawls. “You’re not gonna melt like that chick in that stupid movie you showed me.”
“The Wizard of Oz?” You correct him flatly. “You don’t remember the name of The Wizard of– oh!”
Gator cuts you off by planting his hands on your waist and lifting you out of the truck. His arms bunch around your middle, carrying you over the puddle on the ground he sloshes through, uncaring. You yelp as you land unsteadily back on your feet, the icy rain already peppering your skin as he steadies you.
“I’m gonna look like a drowned rat,” you giggle, gripping his arms.
“Y’think that’s gonna stop me?” he teases, then slips his hand into yours again.
Your eyes flick back to the building before you, tall and white and imposing.
“This was the church you wanted, right?” Gator asks, voice low.
You glance over, surprised. “You remember that?”
Gator rolls his eyes. “I listen to you sometimes.”
In the early days of wedding planning, you’d scoured the area for chapels that might meet Gator’s father’s requirements, and this place had checked every single box.
It was large enough to hold all your guests, but not so much as to intimidate; it was close enough to the middle of town that no one would have complained about the commute like they did now with the chapel near the ranch. The pastor was an amenable type of man who would have let you have your wedding any day of the year you wanted.
And, perhaps selfishly, it was stunningly beautiful. Clean white walls, dark oak pews. Stained glass windows cut kaleidoscopically into the walls, and a stark gold crucifix at the altar.
It had been perfect– that is, perfect until Roy determined that he wouldn’t accept anything other than his home parish for the two of you. That decision, more than perhaps anything else these long months, had broken your heart the hardest. It had been the first night you’d cried to Gator about all of this, his fists clenching as he thrashed against that feeling he hated the most– being useless to you.
You shove down the emotion rising in you at the sight of the church– the one real ask you’d had, and the one thing you’d resigned yourself to lose. Emotion at the fact Gator had known what it meant to you, committed it to memory– and brought you here anyway, damning what anyone else thought. This was where he wanted to marry you. This was what he wanted to do: make you happy. Simple, unspoken, and rawer and more passionate for it.
He had always loved big, your Gator. It didn’t matter to you if he couldn’t say it well.
You grin at him again, eyes fighting tears as your voice falls back on teasing. “Boy, I’ve really got you whipped, huh?”
Gator shoots you a look. “I can still turn and run, baby.”
You cackle, slipping your hand into his again. “Aw, I’d like to see you try. Come on. Time’s wasting.”
When you stumble through the tall wooden doors of the church, you let out a breath at the opulence. It’s exactly as you remember from that one, heartbreaking visit– more beautiful like this, even, now that it’s empty of people and sunlight.
You aren’t really the religious sort– never have been. But when you and Gator walk through those doors, slick with rain and unable to kill your rowdy laughter, you’re sure for a moment that something different is in the air. In the shadows growing against the walls, the hazy overcast pushing dull light through the multicolored glass, there is a reverence, a meaning you hadn’t anticipated cloaking the quiet space.
Gator pulls you through the church, rapping his knuckles on the door of the pastor’s office. It takes some negotiating to get the man to come out, to make him understand that you’re not both crazy people, that you really do have a marriage license, but eventually, he relents and lets Gator drag him up the aisle to the altar.
You stand in front of the pastor resolutely as you wait impatiently for him to agree to marry you, the sight of Gator’s wet hair dripping in his face and your makeup smearing under your eyes not helping in convincing him you’re taking this seriously. He recognizes you from your visit, at least, but Gator’s pushiness has a way of getting under people’s skin, and the man doesn’t look as though he’s inclined to give in.
The pastor glances between you, skeptical. “I assume you have the rings?”
Gator pats his breast pocket. “Right here. She won’t get away that easy.”
“And you’re sure this marriage is made of your own free will?” The pastor clarifies with you, studying your face with mild concern.
You give Gator a look. “What should I say?”
Gator’s eyes flatten. “You think you’re so damn funny.”
You laugh, turning back to the pastor. “Yeah, I guess I love him pretty bad. Might as well.”
The pastor heaves a resigned breath. “And you wouldn’t like to invite anyone else to bear witness?”
Gator turns back to you, and you exchange a brief, incredulous look.
“Fuck no,” Gator barks, and you have to press a hand to your mouth to stifle your laughter.
Gator’s lips twitch at your expression, and he corrects himself. “Sorry– I mean, no. It’s just us.”
“Just us,” you affirm, eyes dancing.
The pastor sighs and goes to collect his book of rites.
Gator leans forward, his freshly-shaven face brushing your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “This is how it should have been this whole time– me and you and that dress. And whatever’s under that dress.”
You burst into laughter again, quieting yourself when the pastor turns slightly. “We’re in church, you cretin.”
Gator presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls back, smiling at you. “I love you.”
“I love you,” you repeat, etching that smile, that sweetness, into your memory forever.
Gator holds your hands as the pastor reads through the marriage rites– the shortcut version, at Gator’s impatient request. The quiet, rain-soaked church stares down at you, empty of judgement and opinion and objection. It’s only you and Gator and Gator and you, the mud flecks on your white skirt and the wilt of his boutonniere the only evidence it was a struggle getting here at all. And you think for a moment that whatever sealed you together to begin with, tangled you together like snarled fishing line, must be with you for this second in this church.
You’ve given a thousand furious words to this boy. He’s hurled hundreds right back at you, razor-sharp and meant to cut the both of you free from each other. It’s never worked. And the two that you utter, alone at the altar, are somehow the easiest to say.
You’re forty-five minutes late to your own wedding. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
By the time you make it back to the right chapel, the one with all of your flower arrangements and bridesmaids and overbearing relatives stacked up inside, the parking lot is so full Gator has to pull his truck over on the side of the road. The rain hasn’t stopped, seeping into your white dress and all but destroying your meticulously-styled hair. Gator isn’t in much better shape. His blazer is discarded in the backseat after he tried to make you use it as a canopy. His black dress shirt is sticking to his skin.
“Get your ass in gear and let’s go, woman!” Gator yells at you, waiting as you stumble away from the truck and run toward him again, pushing your sopping hair out of your eyes.
“It’s these fucking shoes!” you argue, yelping as your heels sink into the muddied grass. “I can’t exactly sprint in these things, Gator!”
Gator rolls his eyes and comes back for you, grabbing your hand and tugging you along once more. “Goddammit, you’re slow. Hope our kids don’t get that from you.”
“Not all of us played quarterback in high school,” you snap at him, though everything lacks its usual bite. You haven’t stopped grinning like an idiot since you left the empty church, and neither has Gator, much as he tries to hide it.
He all but drags you across the lawn in a shortcut to the church, laughing when the mud catches you again and you’re pulled out of one of your shoes. He goes back for it, and for the other one when you lose that, too, and then you’re booking it toward the church barefoot, your white pumps clutched in Gator’s free hand.
“We are in such deep shit,” you giggle, staring at the nearing chapel doors, which are suspiciously flung wide open despite the rain. They’re all waiting for you– probably furious and worried sick.
“That’s mud, stupid,” Gator teases, not slowing his pace. “And it’s on your face, by the way.”
“Better than looking like– whoop!”
Gator catches you just before you slide and eat shit on the slippery ground, and he hauls you upright with a laugh so infectious you wouldn’t have believed it came from him if you hadn’t seen it for yourself.
Finally, you make it to the chapel, skidding to a stop in front of the bleached wood of the old, white stairs.
Standing at the top of them is Roy Tillman, dressed and dry, staring down at you with twenty-seven years of disappointment and unchecked anger.
The humor drains out of you, Gator’s hand in yours the only thing keeping you from trembling with icy fear.
“Look at the two of you,” Roy drawls, still in that careful tone you’ve come to realize means he’s still holding back. “You keep these good people waiting, run off to do fuck all on the day a’your wedding?”
Neither you nor Gator offer an explanation– just wait.
“It’s a goddamn fuckin’ disgrace.” Roy shakes his head at you, his eyes simmering. “Now get your asses in there, clean yourselves up, and do what you’re fuckin’ told.” With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back into the chapel, leaving you to soak in his disappointed hopes.
Your eyes slide to Gator, examining his reaction.
He’s already looking at you, mollified. But then his lips curl up, and he shrugs, guilty but uncaring.
You burst into laughter, and he clamps a hand over your mouth to shut you up, his shit-eating grin the same as that first day in his truck. Humor, elation, and not one ounce of regret.
“You heard him,” Gator mutters in your ear. “Better get in there, huh?”
You giggle again, pressing your lips together to hide it, and Gator loops your clasped hands over your head and around your waist, hurrying you both inside after his father.
By the end of the night, both you and Gator are exhausted.
Your clothes dry and your face wiped of mud and makeup, you sit in Gator’s lap in a chair in the reception hall, one of his arms tucked tight around you and the other resting on your leg. You’re ignoring the dirty looks Karen is shooting you from across the venue at the gall you have to be sitting in the same seat. People are making idiots of themselves dancing drunkenly, the lights are low and the candles in the centerpieces are glowing gently, and everything is almost exactly how you pictured it— except for one thing. You’re happier. Much happier than you would have been had things gone to plan today.
You lean back against Gator’s chest, heads pressed together in a comforting weight.
“It is pretty damn beautiful,” he admits, staring past your central table and toward the dance floor that’s only just starting to wind down.
“All that planning had to count for something,” you agree mildly. “And people aren’t nearly as mad at us as I thought they’d be.”
“They’re drunk,” Gator replies, snorting. “Trust me, when they sober up, they’ll be pissed.”
You huff a light laugh, his cheek resting on your head. “I don’t care,” you tell him.
Gator lets out a small, contented breath. “Yeah, me neither.”
“How’s it feel to be a husband?” You ask him, fingers rubbing up and down on his forearm. One of your hands finds the gold ring now sitting on his ring finger, and you fiddle with it, turning it around and around.
“The same,” he huffs, then snorts again when you pinch his arm. “How’s it feel to be a wife?”
“A wife?” you hum, lazy and contented. “Feels like I’ve gotta step up my casserole game. Your wife?” You pull back, turning to smile at him. “Feels pretty fuckin’ great.”
“Mm,” he smiles back, prodding his nose into your cheek, nuzzling at your skin. “My wife. Sounds kinda nice.”
You give him a flat look, amused. “Oh, you think so?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs against your cheek. “I like you bein’ mine. All this bein’ mine. Think I’ll probably stick with it for a while.”
Your smile spreads at his teasing, and your hands smooth up his arms as he begins to place kisses across your face. “Hate to break it to you, Alligator, but all this has been yours for a long time.”
The words make something shift in him, evidenced by the tightening of his hands on your body, the deepening of his kisses. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, you know that?” he tells you, the words gentle.
“I know,” you murmur, the noise of the reception hall fading into nothing in your head.
“Every damn day,” he promises, his voice muffled by your jaw. “Gonna give you anything you want, pretty.”
“I really do have you whipped,” you laugh lightly, scratching your nails gently against his arm.
Gator pulls back and meets your eyes, his expression so serious, so overwhelmingly focused on your face. “You gonna put up with me? Even when I’m a total shitbag?”
Your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, one of your hands coming up to touch his face. “Till I’m nothin’ but bones, baby.”
His lips curve upward, an unbelievable softness entering his dark eyes. “You know I’m gonna love you forever, right?”
“I’m pretty much banking on it,” you whisper, your thumb stroking over his cheek. “It’s a good thing I love you more.”
Gator leans forward and kisses you, so gentle it makes your chest hurt. “Sorry, stupid. Not possible.”
When he kisses you again, you feel that declaration sink into you, melt into your bones, seep into the very core of you. And for a moment, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You’re too tangled.
That feeling stays in your chest, tucked away like the secret you etched into stone today, hidden and sacred and beautiful. And it remains there, pressed somewhere between your intertwined arms, deep down where no one else can ever touch it.
---
author's note: this is so cornball but I tried. might come back to edit more later. thank you for the requests!!!
you return from college for the summer running errands downtown, even moving from store to store is unbearable in the heat. your last stop is family video. as you open the door the chill from the A/C hits you in a wave of relief.
sweat beads at your brow and one tiny bead runs slowly down your chest as you look up and catch eyes with steve harrington.
steve freezes when he sees you, he isn’t sure where to look first. his eyes move from your eyes, to your lips, your glistening chest, the small white dress you’re wearing that clearly you bought during your time at college, as no store in hawkins would sell a dress that short.
and you’re no better. half frozen, glancing from his eyes, to his polo - top two buttons undone because of course they are. that glorious chest hair you convinced him to stop shaving peaking out.
the bell chimes behind you and with a whiff of weed and a jangle of chains, eddie munson’s presence is announced before he even opens his mouth. you feel an arm slide around your waist, register a kiss pressed to your temple and then a grope of your ass.
steve finally breaks his gaze, looking from you, to eddie, to eddies hands, to eddie’s hands groping you. you. the one that got away. the one that left for college and wanted to do long distance. the one steve stupidly let go because he convinced himself he couldn’t do long distance.
and now you’re here. back for the summer. and apparently, shacking up with eddie fucking munson.
cw: 18+, cheating, smut, angst, p in v, 69, spanking, violence
a/n: we are at the end folks. thanks so much for reading :) one more chapter after this!!!!
“Olive!”
She’d recognize that voice anywhere. She ignores it. She hasn’t seen him in three fucking months…
“Olive!” the voice comes again. Along with a pebble at her window.
And when that’s ignored, a handful of pebbles hit her window. His voice says, “Olive, don’t be a fucking coward. I’m not fucking leaving!”
She jumps out of bed, runs to her window and opens it. Looking out, she sees Steve. He’s wearing a beanie, his facial hair is overgrown, like he hasn’t shaved in a while. He sees her, his face lights up. Her stomach turns.
“Let me in,” Steve calls up and it’s clear how angry he is. Cute. Very cute but angry.
“Are you crazy?” Olive yells down to him.
“Damn right,” Steve tells her, “you won’t let me in? I’ll just sit and press the buzzers until someone does.”
“Steve, no,” Olive scolds, “Just go home.”
Steve walks towards the door and Olive’s buzzer goes off, repeatedly. She buzzes him in because she really doesn’t want him waking her neighbors. She swings her door open, hearing Steve coming in the lobby and walking up the stairs. The closer he gets the more her stomach erupts in butterflies. God, she’s missed him. She’s missed him so much. And this scruff he has… patchy, sure, but god it looks sexy on him. She looks up at him as he walks past her into her apartment.
“Hi,” she chokes out, closing her door and leaning against it.
Fuck, he looks gorgeous, she thinks. As he whips around and says, “Hi? That’s what you have to say to me? Hi?!”
And yeah, Olive’s kind of speechless. His hair is shorter, like he cut it. Where it used to practically reach his shoulders, now the bit sticking out of his beanie looks about three inches shorter. He’s wearing his wire frame glasses, a black and white striped t-shirt that’s obviously well loved, it’s covered in holes. She just keeps staring at him.
“Well, I… I think you owe me, like a real explanation. That’s why I’m here,” he exhales, looking down at her. “Your pajamas are cute.”
“Thanks,” she looks down at her pink striped satin set and looks back up at him.
“Can you just tell me why?” Steve asks, “I can’t fucking take it anymore, Olive. I’ve been a fucking mess and it’s because the way you fucking did it. You didn’t explain shit to me and you ran off like a coward and that’s not fucking fair to me! You know, that’s not fair!”
Olive watches as Steve gets more heated, the way his eyes move and his cheeks flush as his lips move around his words, rising in volume. And there’s something sick about her, she knows that, but she likes when Steve raises his voice at her. Maybe she likes him standing up for himself.
“I did run off. If I didn’t, you would’ve talked me out of ending it,” she says, softly.
Steve laughs, that cruel one he does when he’s upset, “Do you even have a reason? Did you just want to hurt me? Were you fucking bored of me?”
Olive crosses her arms, part of her wants to make Steve leave but a bigger part of her can’t let him leave. That part wants to jump on him, tell him she takes it back and she needs him. She’s stubborn, though.
“Yeah. You hurt me, so I hurt you,” she says, finally admitting that this was because he slept with someone else.
Steve rubs his hand against his mouth and chin and Olive can’t help but take note of how big his hands are. It’s one of her favorite things about him physically. He shakes his head before he speaks again, “Biggest mistake of my fucking life.”
“Yeah,” Olive mumbles, “I told you that you could, but I didn’t really want you to.”
“I shouldn’t have, even if you said it was okay. I wish I didn’t,” he whispers back, “but I guess part of me… felt like I was getting back at you. Because I’m your second choice, I’m the—“
“Are you joking? Second choice, Steve, you were—,” she swallows because that’s not true and she knows it.
“I was what?” Steve says, “I was a secret. Kind of a horribly kept secret but a secret.”
Olive can’t say anything, she just shakes her head as her stomach turns.
“So like one time, I fucked up yes, but like you’ve been with someone else this whole time and I never gave you an ultimatum or anything. I’m like a fucking obedient dog for you, Olive. I just do whatever the fuck you want, I put up with being treated like shit just to be with you,” Steve laments, “That’s not fair. Do you think that’s what I deserve? That’s how much I mean to you?”
She has tears welling in her eyes, she can’t look at Steve because it just makes it all worse. She just stares at his shoes. It’s not true, she thinks Steve deserves better. That’s part of why she did this. But then having him right here in front of her, she’s completely regretting breaking up with him. She wants to touch him, but she’s scared he’ll push her away.
“You can’t even look at me,” Steve exhales, “Do you feel bad? Is that why you can’t look at me?”
Olive shakes her head, “Of course I feel bad.”
“You should,” he says, “you should feel bad. You told me you loved me. And I fucking believed it, maybe because I’m an idiot.”
She can’t say anything, she just stares down at his feet. She thinks about the state he’s been in, what Amelia has told her. But he seems to be clean. Then again, he’s wearing a beanie. The point is, she knows she broke him. And she feels awful. Because she does love him.
“I do,” she whispers softly.
Steve steps closer, puts his fingers under her chin and pulls her face up to look at him. “Look at me, then,” he whispers.
Their eyes meet and Olive feels herself melt. His eyes are glassy, they’re both on the verge of tears and Olive’s first instinct is to pull away, run from this intensity. But she holds still, eyes scanning over his face. His mustache is thicker than she’s seen before. And the rest of his facial hair is grown out, it’s patchy. Olive reaches up and grazes her fingers against it. A small smile plays on her lips, Steve mirrors it.
“Still feel bad?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she whispers, strokes his face gently, “I like all this hair, though.”
“Glad to know me neglecting self care is attractive to you,” he replies with a raised brow.
Olive sighs, “No, no, I— Amelia told me how you’ve been and I, I’m sorry…”
“Yeah, huge pity party over at my place. But hey, I showered for you,” he says, with a smile. “Couldn’t be bothered to shave.”
Steve puts his hands on her hips, Olive loves how it feels. The familiarity of his hands on her. She wants to kiss him so bad. It doesn’t matter that she broke up with him. She doesn’t care about it right now. She missed him. She missed his touch. Steve pulls her into him, so their hips touch. And then they’re both leaning in.
When their lips touch, Olive swears there’s fireworks and she feels like a fucking idiot for not listening to those natural tells. She feels incredible when Steve’s around. He never makes her feel insecure or bored. His arms wrap around her waist as he pulls her closer. Olive’s hands push his beanie off his head and her fingers card through his hair. It’s so much shorter, and she mumbles against his lips, “You cut your hair.”
Steve laughs into her mouth and fuck, did she miss that sound. He mumbles back, “Had to. It was bad.”
Olive kisses him again, keeps feeling through his hair as she licks against his lower lip. Steve licks her back and it ignites something in her, feeling true actual arousal for the first time in weeks. Steve’s hands move down to her ass, squeezing momentarily before he’s lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and keeps playing with his hair as he carries her to her bedroom. Lays her back on her mattress and crawls onto her, between her legs. She grabs his shirt and pulls him close, connecting their lips again. Steve moans against her lips, grinding down against her and Olive giggles because she can feel his erection in his jeans. And she’s so flattered that he gets that turned on just by kissing her.
She drags her hands down his back, grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling it up and over his head. Steve starts unbuttoning Olive’s top, kissing her tenderly. His hands find Olive’s breasts, squeezing her gently. Olive whines, “Steve…”
He smiles, pulling back and looking down at her. Then Olive realizes how he’s cut his hair and she giggles, “You have bangs.”
Steve raises his brows, still smiling as he moves his thumbs against Olive’s nipples. “Is that what it’s called?”
She nods, smiling at him, “I guess it’s like a mod cut. It’s cute. I like it a lot. You look good.”
“Thanks,” he says, leans down and kisses her neck. Olive moans, hand moving to the back of his neck as she tilts her head, exposing her neck more for him. She feels so needy, so desperate for Steve. He sucks against her skin, surely marking her up and before, Olive would’ve stopped him. She doesn’t care, those seven weeks away were brutal and she can’t be without Steve ever again.
So Olive lets Steve cover her neck in bruises, writhes up against him as he does it. She revels in the sounds he makes against her skin whenever his strained cock manages to catch on Olive’s clothed pussy. He goes lower, kissing across her clavicle and leaving marks there. Then her breasts. He spends his sweet time but Olive is getting eager and she wants to look at his face again, so she tugs him back by his hair and Steve sits up.
“Sorry,” he chokes out when he looks down at her bruised skin. “Kinda went a little overboard with that, huh?”
Olive sits up too, reaching for Steve’s pants and starts unbuttoning them. He helps her get them down, leaving him in his briefs and she says, “I don’t care, but I’m gonna have to give you some to make it fair.”
He grins, so wide and so pretty. With his briefs tented. And Olive missed his cock. There’s nothing like it, she thinks. She reaches for it, purely because she can’t help herself. Steve huffs, that gorgeous grin still on his face. So Olive just says it, “Missed him.”
“Are you referring to my penis?” Steve asks with a giggle.
“I am,” she nods, and Steve purses his lips then.
“Have you been thinking about it?”
Olive flushes, because of course she has been. She nods slowly, “And other things too. Like the way you smell when you’re asleep, and the way you hum and whistle while you cook, and how you take care of me when I’m sick.”
Steve leans close to kiss Olive, full of passion and love. Like he’s been waiting to hear her say those words. Like he needs to be told she missed him. And she really, really did. Life went back to boring and mundane without him. She’d forgotten what it felt like to wake up unhappy. To feel like everything she did was dull and pointless.
His hands find the elastic of her satin shorts and he pulls them down. She wasn’t wearing underwear, and she can feel Steve smile against her when he notices. Olive giggles and goes for his briefs, tugging them down. Gets her hand wrapped around his cock and she sighs, a happy relieved sigh and it makes Steve laugh.
“I told you I missed him,” she says.
He reaches between her legs and tells her, “I missed her too.”
Olive gasps, feeling his big hand cup her pussy and says, “Fuck, she missed you.”
Steve’s middle finger slips inside Olive’s core, she inhales sharply and squeezes the base of Steve’s cock. His hips stutter and she strokes him slowly, as he fingers her. Their eyes meet, the pair of them breathing heavily as they work each other over. Olive’s heart pounds, she’s gazing at his pretty face and she’s never felt more stupid in her whole life. She can’t believe she almost let him go. She swears she’s never going to do it again. This is the man for her, she’s letting herself realize and accept that. She deserves someone like Steve, she deserves Steve and she swears she’s going to be better for him. She’s going to let him in, she’s going to give him everything.
Then Steve moves, scoots down the bed like he’s going to eat Olive out. And that’s all fine and dandy but…
“Wait… I want you, I want to suck your cock,” she says and Steve smiles at her.
He wiggles his brows, “69?”
And Olive laughs, nods enthusiastically and lays back down. Steve moves over her. This is a nice view she thinks, looking right up at Steve’s dick and balls. An excited giggle bubbles up from her chest, her hand wrapping around his cock. She strokes him as she tilts her head up and licks against his balls. Steve moans softly, Olive feels his breath fan against her swollen lips. Then she feels his tongue, she cries out. She missed this, he’s so incredibly talented. She remembers that she doesn’t even ask Pilot to eat her out because he’s so bad at it.
But Steve’s so good. He works hard at it, teasing through her folds, focusing on her clit for just a beat before moving back down. Then, he sucks against each of her lips before gliding his tongue down to dip into her core. Olive moans out, so lost in the pleasure that she’s completely forgotten about pleasuring Steve. Though he doesn’t seem to mind. He licks against her hole, moaning like he’s deriving pleasure from it. Then his cock sways from his movements, right in front of Olive’s face and she’s reminded.
She wraps her lips around his tip and sucks, then circles her tongue around it. Her legs spread a little wider, Steve’s hips jerk forward just a tiny bit but it pushes his balls against Olive’s face. She giggles softly, but Steve’s thrusting again, sinking into her mouth another inch. So she sucks harder, takes him as deep as she can. And he’s just as enthusiastic, works back up to her clit and wraps his lips around it. Sucks and licks until Olive can barely breathe. She’s moaning around him, trying to focus on giving him an incredible blow job that he absolutely deserves. But he’s too good at eating her out, she gets distracted.
And Steve can tell, he reaches down to hold his cock as he pulls it out of her mouth. Then he sits on the bed and softly laughs, “It’s fun in theory, but ya know…”
“It’s your fault,” Olive turns to him. “You’re so good, I forget what I’m doing.”
He shakes his head, lays next to her and puts his hand on her hip. He nudges his nose against hers and kisses her soft and slow. She puts her hand on his jaw as she kisses back, matching his pace though she wants more. Steve’s unlike anyone. He really takes his time, offers more than enough foreplay, but more than anything… he’s never in a rush. Even when they should be. Their bodies inch closer, his erection grazing against her navel as they make out. But there’s no urgency. He moans softly, could be from the stimulation on his cock but Olive thinks it’s just from the kiss.
And she’s certain she’s more eager than he is. She tries to tell him as much, sucking on his tongue, making the kiss a little sloppier, grinding against him. Steve takes the hint, smiling as he reaches down and pulls Olive’s leg over his middle before moving his hand to guide his cock to her entrance.
Then she stops him, “Wait—“ she swallows because she’s not trying to ruin the mood, she just has concerns. “With Willow, did you….?”
Steve sighs softly, not like he’s upset with Olive and more like he’s upset with himself but he assures her, “I used protection. Hell, Olive, you’re the only person I haven’t used it with.”
And well, “Me too.” It’s the truth. She makes Pilot wear condoms.
“Can I? Or we can use one, I.. I don’t have one on me but—“
“No, it’s good. I just had to ask,” she whispers, hand on his cheek.
Steve nods then, dipping back down to kiss her as he slips his cock inside. She gasps, against his lips as the sensation of him stretching her out fills her with ecstasy. She can’t believe she almost gave this up. She grips onto his shoulder as he sinks in deeper and deeper.
“Steve!” she moans, “Oh.”
He nuzzles against her face, rolling his hips as she mewls and whines. His hand wraps around her thigh, squeezing the flesh as he pumps into her. Slowly dragging against her walls and Olive is on an entirely different plane of existence. Mouth agape, drawn out moans and cries falling free.
The tip of his cock rubs against that sensitive spot deep inside, in such a way that has her close to crying. This reconnection is what she’d been longing for, even if she wouldn’t admit it. And Steve mumbling repeatedly how much he loves and missed her against her cheek isn’t helping.
His voice is so soft, a little raspy and so incredibly needy, “I love you so fucking much… I missed you so bad. Was making me fucking sick, baby. I need you, I need you, I love you, I love you…”
She squeezes his shoulder as she whines back, “Missed… oh, fuck, missed you, too… love you, too… Stevie, oh, God.”
“Not fucking letting you go again,” he groans, his hand moving to her hip and squeezing rough. Like he’s got to keep her here.
And well, he never did. She’s the one who let him go. Pushed him out, actually. But she’s absolutely certain she’s never doing that again. So she kisses him, sloppy and messy. Lips not exactly meeting, kisses on his cheek and his chin. Tongue darting out to taste his sweaty skin. Tastes herself on it, too.
His thrusts get a little rougher then, deeper. Until the position they’re in gets a little too awkward, so he’s pushing her onto her back and moving between her legs. And like this, he’s only that much deeper and Olive’s head tilts back as she gasps out. Her hands find his back, scratching down it as he pounds into her. Then she looks at him, their eyes meet and Olive absolutely fucking melts. The adoration, the lust, the desperation in his hazel eyes makes that knot in her stomach tighten. She’s on the verge of an orgasm, while also being on the verge of tears. And she can’t imagine sharing this kind of experience or emotion with anyone other than Steve. He’s made from her. Olive never quite believed in soulmates. But Steve has Olive believing in the world.
It creeps up quickly, the rubber band snapping as her orgasm rushes through her. Mouth hanging open as she gasps, eyes trained on Steve’s gorgeous face as she cums. He looks so focused yet so in awe as he watches. His face is flushed. He gives her a moment to come down before he grabs her hands, pins them above her head and crashes his lips into her. His hips quicken, the force of his thrusts increasing as he moans against her lips. They still as he reaches his peak, before offering two more involuntary thrusts.
The pair of them stay like that for a moment, catching their breath, staring into each other's eyes. Before it gets too uncomfortable and Steve’s pulling off. He offers a quick smooch before he’s off the bed and retrieves a wet towel.
Steve lays back on the bed after he’s cleaned them up and he turns to her, takes a deep shaky breath and says, “Okay, we gotta really talk about that.”
“About how good that was?” Olive asks with a lifted brow, giggling softly.
He shakes his head, looks visibly nervous so Olive sits up and turns to him. Her stomach drops with the idea that he might be regretting all of that. She rubs her lips together, patiently waiting for him to talk again. But he doesn’t. Looks like he keeps mulling over what he’s gonna say in his head so Olive has to speak first.
“What do you want to say?” she asks in a quiet, shaking voice.
Steve looks a little bit like he might cry when he finally opens his mouth, “I have to give you that ultimatum. I probably should have a long time ago. But, fuck, Olive. I’m not doing that again with you. It’s me or him. And that was really fun and amazing and I feel so deeply connected to you when we have sex but… I can’t do it again unless you break up with Pilot and commit to me.”
And she saw this coming. The idea of breaking up with Pilot is deeply terrifying for some reason, yet the thought of losing Steve again is much more daunting. So she nods, looks at him earnestly.
She must be silent for too long because Steve sighs, “Alright, well… I’m not gonna stay any longer if–”
“Wait, Steve. I’ll do it. I’ll break up with Pilot,” she tells him, hand moving to his arm as he tries to get up. “I can’t spend that long without you again.”
“This time would be longer if you don’t pick me, Olive. Like, forever,” Steve tells her.
“I know,” Olive whispers, “I want you.”
Steve holds her hand, intertwines their fingers, “If it helps, I’ll be a much better boyfriend.”
Olive giggles then, squeezing his hand as she tells him, “I know you will be. You’re not gonna keep me a prisoner in this city.”
“As long as you come back home to me sometime.”
“Or you could… come with me,” Olive offers with a purse of her lips.
Steve grins, “If that’s a possibility. I’d follow you anywhere.”
Then he grabs her phone and hands it to her, “Better go ahead and text him that it’s over.”
“Steve! I can’t do that!” Olive exclaims.
His face falls, then turns pensive as he sits up and tilts his head, “I thought we literally just had this conversation about you picking me?”
“We did,” she insists, “but I can’t dump him over text. I have to do it in person. We’ve been together for way too long to break up over a text.”
“So, when are you gonna do it, then? I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and you changed your mind,” his voice is so stern and it’s kind of turning her on. She pushes him on his back, straddling his waist and lacing their fingers together. Can’t help but grind a little bit on him.
“Promise I’ll do it tomorrow,” she tells him before leaning down and connecting their lips.
Steve can’t argue, his arms wrap around her middle and pulls her closer. He opens his mouth, like he wants her tongue. So she gives it to him, licks into his mouth as she pushes her fingers through his hair. And like magic, she feels his cock start to fill out against her thigh. She wonders why she let him go, because Steve can always keep going.
But he pulls back from the kiss and says, “I mean it, Olive. If you change your mind tomorrow, I’m done. I really can’t do it anymore. And who knows, I might tell him myself—“
“Steve! I said I will. I really will. I promise,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows. “I don’t think you should tell him. That would be bad.”
“Well, I will,” Steve threatens, “If you don’t, I will tell him myself.”
Olive shakes her head, then rolls her eyes, “You wanna start a whole bunch of drama, don’t you?”
“If I don’t get what I want,” he replies with a playful shrug.
“Oh, wow, you’re such a brat, Steve. I might have to fuck it out of you,” Olive says, seductively.
Steve’s expression changes. He swallows hard, his cock twitches against her ass. His hands move to his sides as he looks up at her. “I’m going to be an even bigger brat if you change your mind tomorrow.”
“Well, if you’re gonna be such a brat, maybe you need a spanking,” Olive counters.
And Steve scoffs, a laugh falls from his lips as he sits up, holding onto Olive’s hips, “I think actually, if any of us need a spanking, it’s you.”
Olive’s never been more excited in her entire life. She deserves it for sure, but is it really a punishment if she’s going to be enjoying it so much? She pouts, tilts her head and says, “You think I need a spanking?”
Steve nods, “After all that shit you put me through, yeah, absolutely.”
“Well… if you say so…” she says and moves off of him. She stands and looks at him expectantly. He loves to sit on the edge of her bed, looks up at Olive with his brows raised.
“Bend over my lap,” Steve tells her. The tone of his voice is incredibly arousing, calm yet domineering. Something she hasn’t exactly heard from him. And she thinks how quickly they can make that switch, how she trusts that he won’t push it further than she wants and that it won’t change how they feel about each other has Olive certain of one thing, this is the man she was meant to be with. Forever.
She easily obeys, bending over his lap. She glances back at him, seeing how his eyes skate over her back and behind. His hand is gentle, rubs against her ass carefully. And the anticipation is killing her. Olive inhales sharply and holds it, eyes dropping to her hardwood floor as she waits. Steve takes his time here too. Fingers tapping along the flesh as he moves his hand, edging close to her soaking entrance. He teases with a ghosting touch, has Olive clenching her fists and curling her toes because she’s not sure what his next move is. Then he tsks, and her head turns to look up at him.
“Dripping wet… just at the thought of me spanking you…” he sucks against his teeth before continuing, “That’s pretty naughty, Olive.”
“Can’t help it,” she gasps out. His eyes meet hers momentarily.
“Head down,” he instructs and she listens.
Fuck, she loves him. He’ll give her everything she’s ever wanted. Even if she doesn’t think she deserves it.
His fingers move up, light touches against her cheek. And then a particularly sharp smack. The sound of it reverberates through her room. A yelp falls from Olive and Steve’s hand soothes over the sore, hot skin. Between her legs is uncomfortably wet, dripping down her thighs as Steve delivers another harsh slap. Another yelp and this time as Steve rubs the skin, he asks, “You okay?”
And maybe it breaks the illusion but she’s thrilled he’s concerned. He’s just so attentive. She mumbles a sound of agreement. Wiggles her ass for him to continue. Instead of spanking, his hand dips between her legs and he laughs, deep and soft.
“Yeah, you’re definitely okay.”
Another slap. And another. Surely enough to make her pale skin bright red. Steve makes sure to soothe her skin each time. Then, he moves his hand up her spine. Slides his fingers into the hair at the back of her scalp and pulls her up. Pulls her into his lap and kisses her intensely. She whines into it, falling with him as he lays on his back. Straddling him, she grabs his jaw and kisses him back with fervor.
His hands are still in her hair, tugging as he writhes against her.
“I love you,” she babbles out, “I love you so much.”
“We really need to have a talk about why that shit turns you on so much,” he laughs and Olive pulls back to raise her brow.
“Like that didn’t turn you on?”
He rolls his eyes and tells her, “I’ll do whatever you want me to. Even if it’s to be mean to you.”
“It’s not about being mean,” Olive admits, “It’s about trust.”
That seems to intrigue him, his brow lifting, “That turns you on because you trust me?”
She nods, “I trust that you’ll take care of me. You’ll never push it too far. You’ll listen.”
“Huh,” he says, seeming like he’s realizing something. “You really do love me.”
“I’m sorry I made you question it,” Olive tells him sincerely.
He moves his hand up, caressing her face and smiles somberly, “I always knew deep down. Think I knew it before you did.”
“I’m scared, a lot of the time… you scared me because I didn’t… I couldn’t like, control it. I was falling and I didn’t have a say. I was—“ Olive stops because she feels the urge to cry crawling up her throat.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay… you’re worth all the effort I have to put in. So if you fucking, if you go back on all this tomorrow, like that’s it… I can’t… I need you to be mine completely, or I can’t have you. For my own good, ya know?” Steve tells her.
“You’ve been talking with Robin about this a lot, huh?” Olive teases.
Steve rolls his eyes, “If I was listening to her, I wouldn’t even be here. I had a lot of time to think. And I was thinking that… if we happened to not be able to control ourselves, I deserve one last time but if you couldn’t commit to me fully, I don’t deserve to be dragged around. I’m not gonna spend my life being a secret, or second best to some fucking asshole who doesn’t appreciate the woman I love.”
Olive puts her hand on his cheek, tells him earnestly, “You’re the right one for me, Steve. And I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like that wasn’t true—“
“Oh, I knew that,” Steve snorts, “Been waiting for you to realize.”
“And I have,” she smiles. “I promise you, I’m not going to lose you again. I’m going to end things with Pilot and I’m going to commit to you one hundred percent. So much that Robin’s gonna have to find a roommate.”
He smiles at that, big and goofy. “You want me to move in?”
“What? Like you’re not gonna spend every night here?” Olive giggles. “You only ever left my place because I made you. And I only did that because you weren’t my boyfriend. If you’re gonna be my boyfriend, you might as well move in.”
Steve kisses her, smiling as he does. His arms circle her waist. And his erection comes springing back to life, present against her ass. And Olive thinks, what better time than now. She reaches behind her, grabbing his cock as she lifts herself up so she can guide it inside her easily. They moan in unison as she sits, sheathing him inside to the hilt.
Slowly, she begins grinding down on Steve. His eyes focus on Olive and she swears she sees hearts in them. She puts her hands on his hairy chest, using the leverage to speed up her movements. Steve’s hands hold onto Olive’s hips, squeezing her as he moans out shakily. And she loves how whiny Steve gets whenever she rides him, it makes her feel sexy and powerful. In general that’s how Steve makes her feel.
Gazing down at him like this, she really gets to appreciate his new haircut. It’s all messed up from her fingers being in it but she really likes how his hair falls on his forehead. And god, the way he’s looking up at her with those big eyes. Olive reaches for his hands, brings them up to her chest and Steve cups her breasts in his hands. Squeezes softly. Grazes his thumbs against her nipples. Olive’s mouth hangs open, she arches her back as she picks up the pace.
Then Steve blurts out suddenly, “I’m gonna fucking marry you.”
And Olive laughs, “I was just thinking that.”
He grins, “You were?”
“Amongst other things,” she giggles, motioning down to where their bodies meet.
Steve licks his lips as he watches, Olive rising up and sinking down, “Why do you think I’m gonna marry you?”
“Just for the sex?” Olive gasps dramatically.
He rolls his eyes, “Yep.”
She grins, leaning down and kissing Steve. Purely to get them to shut up. His hands smooth up Olive’s back, into her hair and he tugs as their tongues meet. They work in tandem for a beat before Steve’s flipping them over. On her back, Olive rises her hands above her head and moans. Steve nuzzles his face against her neck, kissing along the bruises he’s left.
“You feel so fucking good,” he mumbles.
“Stevie…” she moans out, spreading her legs wide for him. His fingers run along the undersides of her thighs and the sensation makes Olive gasp. She grabs the sheets, her back arching. Steve licks against her neck, then sucks.
Steve’s pumps get a little quicker and deeper, her eyes roll back as the tip of Steve’s cock hits against her g-spot. Steve squeezes her thighs, pushing them up. Every thrust he presses into her just right. She grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss, but it’s sloppy, uncoordinated. It’s heady, Olive can’t help but giggle and Steve mirrors it.
“You like that?” he asks, smile in his voice.
“Yeah,” Olive moans, “feels so good, Steve… just like that, fuck me… you’re so big, fuck!”
His eyes rolls back at that, “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”
And Olive laughs, smugly. “I love watching you fall apart for me,” she tells him as she wraps her arms around his neck, giggling.
“I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he mumbles, kissing her softly.
“I want you to cum for me, Stevie. Can you do that? Need you to fill me up,” Olive begs, holding the back of his neck.
“Only if you cum with me,” he chokes out, then licks his fingers before reaching his hand between them and rubbing circles against Olive’s clit. Steve has a gift, truly. Olive’s in awe, he knows exactly how to touch her and she can’t believe she ever let this go. She’s the luckiest woman in the world.
She gasps and moans, nodding at him before pleading, “Fuck me harder.”
Steve thrusts harder, working his fingers quick and experienced. He kisses Olive as his orgasm hits him, Olive following suit. They cling to one another, moaning as they ride the waves together. Steve kisses her, “I love you.”
“I love you, Stevie.”
—
The sun peeks in through the curtains, waking Olive slowly. She rolls over, stretching as she looks over to Steve’s side of the bed and finds it empty. She panics momentarily, heart sinking to her stomach. Until she hears Steve’s voice in the kitchen, singing along to music playing from the TV. She slides out of bed, slipping into a nightgown before walking into the kitchen. Steve’s in his briefs, bouncing around and wiggling his hips with a spatula in his hand and the smell of bacon in the air.
Her heart beats a little faster as her lips spread up into a smile. She watches him in awe, before he notices her standing there. Steve flips an egg, swaying his hips from side to side. Olive giggles and Steve’s head snaps back, a wide open mouthed smile on his face.
“You’re finally up!” he cheers, “Let me make you some coffee.”
Steve moves towards the coffee pot and Olive goes to get water from the fridge. She watches him make her coffee exactly how she likes as she takes her morning pills. Then Steve hands her the coffee, kissing her lips softly before then handing over her pack of cigarettes. He returns to cooking and Olive sits at the island counter, lighting up a cigarette and watching him cook. Bacon, eggs, home fries and sourdough toast. He spreads avocado on the toast, then plates Olive’s breakfast.
They sit and eat, Olive moans at the first bite. Thinks she could get used to Steve living here. Though, she’s going to have to invest in a gym membership. She doesn’t usually eat breakfast, but she’s feeling rather hungry after all the cardio they did last night.
“How’d you sleep?” Steve asks, piercing a potato with his fork.
Olive smiles, remembering how cozy she felt with Steve spooning her all night. It was perfect. “Really good. How about you?”
“Best sleep of my whole life,” Steve says with a smile. “So I was thinking, I could like, go home and pack some stuff while you meet with Pilot. And maybe we can go out tonight? Like celebrate. Give me the chance to really show you off.”
Olive raises her brows, flush settling over her cheeks but fear twirling in her stomach. Breaking up with Pilot. That’s going to be hard to do. Pilot can get quite the temper and he’s going to want answers. So Olive is going to have to be honest.
“You’re scared,” Steve notices, reaching over and putting his hand on Olive’s. “But you haven’t changed your mind, right?”
“Of course not,” she says, “I’m going to do it today. I promise.”
“Are you gonna do it in public?” Steve teases, smirking.
She rolls her eyes but that was her plan, “He can get pretty explosive.”
Steve hums, watching as Olive reaches for the Tabasco to put on her eggs, then he snatches it from her and does the same to his, “Maybe I should come with.”
“Oh, god, no. That would make it ten times worse,” Olive tells him.
Steve shrugs, “He did like me, ya know. Maybe he’ll be stoked for us.”
“I think the seven months of us fucking behind his back will put a damper on his fondness of you,” Olive winces.
“You’re gonna tell him that?” Steve raises his brows, looking shocked.
She nods, “He’s gonna expect an explanation. I might as well tell him the truth.”
Steve purses his lips, like he’s thinking over it. He sighs and tells her, “I guess that’s fair.”
They finish their breakfast and work on the dishes together. It all feels very domestic, even if there is a tension in the air. They work well together, Olive scrubbing at the dishes while Steve dries and puts them away.
After, Steve lifts Olive up and places her on the counter. He slips his fingers into her hair, leaning close and tilting her head up towards him. Olive’s heart beats a little faster, she feels her stomach drop as Steve nudges his nose against hers. And she thinks, she’s so deeply in love. Steve’s going to make her feel this way forever. The butterflies will never dull. She’s sure they could be married for fifty years and Steve’ll still be making her feel like this.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Olive smiles, her hands moving to grab Steve’s hands and she intertwines their fingers.
“I love you too, Stevie.”
Their lips meet and they melt into it. Olive tilts her head, Steve kisses her top lip. His hands find her waist, he squeezes as they kiss. It quickly becomes heated, as it usually does with them. There’s this electric deep energy between them, a chemistry that just can’t be ignored. Olive feels like she cannot help herself around him. Her hands move into his hair.
“Can’t believe you’re my girlfriend,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing her.
Olive giggles, hugging back and says to him, “Finally, eh?”
“Girl of my dreams,” Steve mumbles against her lips, continuing the kiss and Olive feels like she’s floating.
She reaches into his briefs, licks into his mouth as she wraps her legs around Steve’s waist. He pulls the straps of her nightgown down her arms and the slip drops down to expose her breasts. Olive moans into his mouth as his hands touch her breasts. She squeezes his cock, begins to slowly stroke him and Steve whines. His hips jerk forward and he gasps.
“Love how easy you are for me,” she tells him between kisses.
To which Steve replies, “It’s totally your fault.”
Then he’s licking into her mouth while he fondles her tits. Olive begins stroking him a little faster. Then she hears the door opening and before she can pull away, she hears Pilot’s voice.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
They turn to him, Olive pulls her hand out of Steve’s underwear and starts to pull her nightgown back up. But Pilot’s stalking over, his footsteps load on the hardwood floor. Steve takes a step back, lifts his hands up but Pilot’s winding back his fist.
“Pilot, no! Don’t—“
Olive’s plea is interrupted by the sound of Pilot’s fist cracking into Steve’s face. She jumps off the counter as Steve makes a pained sound and stumbles back. Pilot winds back again but Olive’s grabbing his arm. He turns to her then, “The fucking Dogwalker? I can’t fucking believe you.”
He looks at Steve then, shakes his head and turns to leave.
“I should’ve fucking believed Ezra,” he says on his way out.
Olive’s reaching for her robe, slipping it on and a pair of heels. She runs to the door to follow Pilot, but before she leaves, she turns to Steve.
“Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”
Steve stands, holding his hand over where he was just socked in the face. He lifts the other to wave and Olive runs out. Chases Pilot down the street before she catches up to him.
“Pilot, wait! Let me explain!”
He whips around, “Explain what? That you’ve been fucking this guy you apparently hate behind my back?”
“I know… I shouldn’t have— I—“ Olive swallows. She hadn’t even had time to think about what she was going to say. How she was going to explain this.
“How long?” Pilot asks her then.
Olive chews on her lip, looks at the sidewalk and then up at Pilot. “I’m sorry.”
“How long, Olive?”
“Seven months. Pretty much… immediately,” she admits.
“Wow,” Pilot scoffs.
Olive sighs, “I… I broke it off, that’s why he kinda disappeared for three months and well… last night he showed up and I…” she swallows hard, feeling like her breakfast might come back up, “I’m really sorry, Pilot. I shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”
“Well, fuck, Olive… I can’t believe you’d do something like this. It’s gonna take a while to forgive you… we’ll work through it but, it’s gonna be work,” Pilot says, “As long as it was just ya know, sex. I know we’ve been pretty stale in that department but—“
“Oh, no… I… Pilot,” she sighs, looks back at him and confesses, “I’m in love with him. Like, really, really in love with him.”
Pilot rubs his hand over his face. Scoffs again and says, “So what? That’s it? It’s over?”
Olive nods softly. Looks over her shoulder, she’s half expecting Steve to come.
“Why didn’t you just break up with me ten months ago?” Pilot asks.
“I should’ve,” Olive admits, "But, I was terrified… I was in denial. I didn’t realize how deep it had gotten with him… and when I did I broke it off but…”
“But you’re jerking him off in your kitchen this morning, so clearly it didn't stick,” he mumbles. “Ezra told me… and I trusted you and fuck, I had this whole talk with Steve and he fucking lied to me… right to my face.”
“You punched him. He got punished enough. He was only trying to protect me,” she mumbled. “Don’t hate him. Hate me.”
“I hate you both,” Pilot grins, “I’ll pack up all your shit and bring it over soon. Bye.”
He turns and keeps walking. Olive feels like crying. She turns and walks back to her apartment. Inside, Steve’s sitting on her couch holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. Olive kicks out of her shoes and rushes over to him, she sits and grabs the peas.
“Let me see…” she mumbles.
He lets her pull it off his face, showing her his swollen eyelids and the beginning of bruising. It’s gonna be a pretty gnarly black eye.
“Aw… baby…” she puts the peas back over it. “I’m so sorry…”
Steve shrugs, “Guess I deserve it. Feel bad that’s how he found out.”
“Shocked it didn’t happen sooner, honestly,” Olive whispers, “I mean… the tent.”
He laughs, pulling Olive into his lap. “I should’ve been punched forever ago.”
Olive kisses Steve’s temple.
—-
Three weeks later, Steve was all moved in. Olive was forcing herself to compromise. Steve’s stuff didn’t exactly fit her aesthetic and now her apartment looked a whole lot more disorganized and cluttered. But, it really was worth it. Spending every single waking and sleeping second with Steve wasn’t as suffocating as she thought it was going to be. Mostly, Olive felt completely relieved.
Steve handled chores, he planned meals and he expanded his doggy client list so that Olive could have enough alone time to write her articles. He really was the perfect roommate, even if he had a penchant for junk that made Olive think her apartment was ugly.
Sleeping has never been easier, though. She thought the cuddling would wear off, that after enough nights spent together, he wouldn’t cling to her. But he still does, every night. He’s incredibly clingy. And it’s exactly what Olive needed. He softens her edges, she’s in a good mood every morning. Partly because she’s booked the longest, extended “vacation” with a big chunk of her savings.
Tonight, they’re doing the official new partner dinner with her friends. Even though they already know Steve, it’s still tradition. That’s where Olive will announce her trip.
“Hey, babe,” Steve greets Olive when he gets through the door, pushing his little old man cart. She teased him but it’s actually brilliant. Olive would only get enough groceries to fit in one bag because she didn’t want to struggle to carry it all. Steve never struggles. And, he brought her flowers. He hands them over and kisses her cheek.
“So pretty, thank you,” Olive smiles, bringing the flowers up to smell them. “Are you gonna be able to get this all done by the time they arrive, Steve?”
“With your help,” he says, snatching the flowers back from Olive so he can trim them and put them in a vase.
Olive groans, “I don’t wanna ruin it, Steve.”
“Then, you’re just gonna have to follow my instructions really well,” he lifts his brows and Olive feels her thighs heat up. It’s truly a gift, he can turn her on so easily. He must recognize the look in her eyes because he says, “No. We do not have time for that. Don’t tempt me. Now, start cutting up the veggies.”
“Yes sir,” Olive says, obeying him and Steve groans.
“You’re such a tease. Knock it off.”
They work together to make dinner and the timing is perfect. Everyone starts to arrive just as they finish. As they all sit at the table, Olive stands to make a toast.
“First of all, I want to thank all of you guys for coming. This feels like a long time coming, to be honest. You’ve all been so supportive of Steve and I, and I wanted to thank you guys for that,” she says, and turns to Steve, “I also wanted to thank Steve for putting up with all my bullshit for the past year. And I’m looking forward to making up for it…”
“Oh, my god, are you proposing?” Amelia interrupts, her eyes widened.
The smile on Steve’s face grows and Olive has to crush it, “Oh, god, no! Amelia, what is wrong with you?”
“I’m hopeful,” she rolls her eyes.
“I’m not proposing. God. I am trying to say, I’ve booked a trip. A very extended one. Six months,” she says, smiling ear to ear. It’s all she could think about after the breakup with Pilot. She was finally allowed to leave again.
Steve tilts his head, Olive’s kept him in the dark this whole time about it. “You… huh?”
Robin snorts, “That sick of Steve already?”
Olive gasps, shakes her head, “No! No! Actually… I planned to take him with me.”
“Wait, really?!” Steve asks, excitedly as he jumps up from his seat.
“If you’d go, yeah,” Olive tells him just as he wraps his arms around her tightly, spinning them in a circle which has Olive spilling her wine down his back but he doesn’t seem to care.
I need to see Steve and reader from Harrington household finally get the house to themselves 😉
Summary: Your birthday party is a disaster, and Steve surprises you with a weekend free of kids as an apology - along with some other ways to show you just how sorry he is.
WC: 4.4k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, 18+, minors dni!!! explicit smut - oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, breeding kink, talks of birth control and pregnancy, explicit language.
Harrington Household Masterlist
putting reqs on pause so i can catch up on what i have! feel free to still send me chats! 🫶🏻
this would probably take place like a week or so before the oldest went off to college
Main Masterlist If Interested
Peach’s Note: hii anon!! this is my first time writing smut 🙈 so pls be gentle w/ me but im open to constructive feedback!!
im combining this with another request… so its still got plenty of plot (yall already know i yap in my fics). max and lucas are in it, and they’re just the best support system for reader & steve 🥹
smut is labeled and at the end of the imagine after the bday party, in case the anon that requested that does not want to read the smutty part!! hope y’all enjoy lovies 🧡
The moment you enter the threshold of your home, Steve twirls your body around - pressing you up against the door and revealing to you that the kids aren’t there.
“No kids?“ You ask in disbelief, stunned at what Steve’s just told you.
He grins, hands coming down to rest on your waist, “Nope.”
“For the whole weekend?” You hook your arms around his neck.
“The whole weekend,” he confirms, grinning wildly.
“How the hell did you pull that off?” You laugh in disbelief, playing with the wisps of hair at the back of his neck.
“Dustin offered to watch them,” he replies.
You raise your eyebrows at that, “Dustin? Dustin Henderson voluntarily offered to take care of our children?”
Dustin and his wife were the godparents of your eldest girl, and Dustin loved your kids - but letting all six of them stay at his place was rare.
“Well, he also owes me a few favors for constantly saving his ass as a kid. And after the absolute nightmare that your birthday party was, I decided to cash in one of those favors,” Steve shrugs sheepishly.
You bite your lip in amusement at the memory, because your birthday party had been a bit of a train wreck.
It was going to be a surprise, but living in a house with seven other people meant things that were supposed to stay quiet spilled easily.
It’s not shocking that your four year old was the one who told you either.
You already knew Steve was up to something with the way he was rolling into bed late each night - claiming he was working on coaching strategies for the summer baseball leagues he was teaching.
Which was strange, because he always left work at work - stating that he wanted to be as present as possible for you and your children at home. So when it had been nearly two weeks straight of him acting like he still had things to do, you were growing suspicious.
It was another night without Steve in bed, and you were tossing and turning without the warmth that he usually provided, when there’s suddenly a quiet pounding on your door - making you push up on your elbows as it swings open.
Your youngest boy’s standing there, tears streaming down his face with his favorite stuffed animal clutched in his small fists.
“What happened, baby?” You call softly, and he quickly scrambles over to the bed, hauling himself up.
“I had a bad dream,” he sniffles, crawling across the covers and laying himself next to you.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” you reply, pushing his messy hair back.
He grasps onto the sleeve of your shirt, “It was scary.”
“I’m sure it was. Nightmares scare me too,” you reply, rubbing soothing circles on his back.
“They do?” He asks with interest.
“Oh yeah, for sure. They scare Daddy too. It’s okay to be scared of them. Sometimes they feel real, but you know the good thing about them is that they don’t follow you into the real world,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
He nods into your shoulder, before pulling back and looking around the room.
“Where is Daddy?” He questions, the mention of Steve making him realize he’s not in the room with you.
“He’s working on something,” you answer.
Your boy's eyes light up at that, “I know what he’s working on!”
“And what’s that?” You smile as you see that sweet little grin of his.
He sits up on his knees, leaning in close and whispering, “Your birthday party tomorrow.”
“My what?” You ask incredulously, caught off guard by that response.
“Shh, it’s a secret, Mommy,” he giggles, holding a finger to his lips.
“Okay, babe,” you laugh lightly, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” Steve’s voice resounds as he walks in.
He looks tired - disheveled hair and bags under his eyes that make you want to trace the delicate skin there. It clicks into place then, what he’s really been spending his time doing, and it makes affection for him bloom throughout your chest.
“About Mommy’s party,” your son says giddily.
Steve closes his eyes in defeat, hands planted on his hips, “Awesome.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. She won’t tell anyone,” your boy says seriously.
Steve collapses onto the bed next to you and slings an arm over your waist. Your hand instinctively comes up to brush over the arm that's now tucked around you.
“Guess you know now,” he grumbles into the side of your neck.
“It’s okay baby, I’m not telling anyone,” you laugh softly.
He hums sleepily in response, eyes cutting to the clock on the nightstand which reads just past midnight.
“Happy Birthday, honey,” he reaches up to press a kiss to the underside of your jaw.
Your boy repeats the statement while he worms his way in between you and Steve.
“Stop hogging your mom, buddy,” Steve says teasingly.
You start to drift off cuddled up next to them - gratitude stirring deep within your heart, contentment lulling you back into a peaceful sleep.
When the party started, Steve kept refusing your attempts to help - insisting that he and the kids had it under control.
They did not have it under control.
The party was mostly taking place outside with friends and family crammed into the backyard, but you came inside with Lucas and Max to take a break from the summer heat.
“Is Steve alright?” Max asks, eyeing your husband over the rim of her cup.
You glance over at him, watching as he bounces around the kitchen - constantly running his hands through his hair. It’s a tell-tale sign that he’s stressed, and you narrow your eyes in frustration because he won’t let you do anything to alleviate that tension.
“No, I don’t think so. But he keeps telling me he’s fine,” you mumble.
“He’s staring at that cake pretty hard for someone who’s supposedly okay,” Lucas laughs from where he stands next to her.
She gently elbows him, “Why don’t you go offer him a hand?”
He snorts at that, “No way. He nearly bit my head off when I asked him where the presents were supposed to go.”
“I’m gonna go check on him again,” you sigh.
The second you enter the kitchen, it’s like a mental radar goes off in Steve’s head, because he turns and starts shooing you out.
“Babe, I told you to go enjoy the party,” he emphasizes.
“Steve, I can’t when I can practically see you vibrating with nervous energy. Tell me what’s wrong,” you try to convince him, sliding your hands up his shoulders.
He gives in, melting at your touch, “The cake is lopsided.”
You smile a little, “So?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in aggravation, “It’s really lopsided.”
“It’s my fault, Mom. I was on cake duty and hit a curb trying to get back here in time,” your eldest girl remarks from her space at the island. She cringes while she waits for your reaction to that, because Steve’s already gotten on to her about safe driving.
You take a deep breath, “You’re more important than the cake. I don’t care what it looks like. I’m sure it’s still gonna taste great.”
Lucas comes in at that moment, “Sorry to barge in, but you should probably head into the living room.”
“What now?” Steve asks anxiously.
“The twins,” Lucas says, which is enough of an answer because the two of them had been arguing more than usual lately - developing attitudes the closer they got to fifth grade.
Max is standing in front of them with her arms folded, disappointment clouding her eyes. In her hands is a ripped birthday card, and your kids are on the verge of tears at getting a scolding from their favorite aunt.
“What happened?” You hesitantly ask.
Your girls face crumples, “I worked really hard on my card for you, and he spilled his soda all over it.”
Your boy looks regretfully over at her, “I tried fixing it.”
“Yeah, and then you ripped it!” Your girl bites out.
“It was an accident!” He gripes back.
“I bet you were just jealous because my card for Mom was better than yours,” your girl seethes.
That comment makes your boy's tears spill over, and he turns around to run up the stairs. The sound of his door shutting reverberates throughout the house.
“I’ll go talk to him,” you decide, getting ready to follow him.
Steve turns to you, “No, honey, please sit down. I can handle it.”
“I can talk to him,” Max offers, and you shoot her a grateful look because it’s clear Steve’s stubborn tendencies are taking over his rational decision making.
When she disappears up the stairs, Steve turns to his middle girl - giving her a pointed look.
It makes her start crying too, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it.”
Your oldest boy interrupts - carrying your toddler, who you heard before you saw because she’s screaming up a storm.
“She wants Mom,” he says, looking a little guilty.
“I’ve got her,” Steve cuts in, grabbing her from his boy.
It doesn’t soothe her, and Steve’s eyebrows pinch downwards as he tries to console her with no avail.
“Steve, I can take her. It’s fine,” you say calmly.
He looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, and you reach up to cup his face in your hands, thumbs lovingly skimming over the stubble on his jaw.
“Let me take her, baby,” your eyes glance over to your ten year old who’s dropped onto the couch in a fit of tears - quietly insinuating that he’s got another child that needs him.
He reluctantly lets your toddler squirm her way over into your arms before crouching down in front of his girl to talk to her.
It’s then that the fire alarm sets off, and your eldest girl squeals about forgetting to set the timer for the food in the oven - running back into the kitchen.
“Are you kidding me?” Steve barks out sarcastically.
Lucas claps a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder, “I’ll take care of it, man.”
“Thanks, Lucas,” you smile, cradling your youngest babe in your arms.
Steve continues his conversation with your daughter, and since he has his back turned, you hightail it to your toddlers room before he can intervene - having a feeling she really just needs a good nap after all the excitement from the day.
When you try to lay her down on her bed, she starts clinging onto you, “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”
“Mommy, stay,” she begs.
You’ve never been any good at telling her no, especially when she gives you her puppy dog eyes - the color just like yours but the expression of it resembles those doe eyes Steve likes to give you.
“Just for a little bit, babe,” you concede, curling up next to her.
Eventually her breathing evens out, and the gentle puffs of air from your girl drags you into your own slumber.
“Baby,” Steve whispers, and you blink wearily when you feel his hand curl around your bicep.
“Hmm?” You muse groggily.
He reaches out to smooth down your top that’s riding up, “Been looking for you.”
“You found me,” you mutter, looking over to see your girl has turned around in her sleep - facing away from you now.
You sit yourself up, and Steve’s hands reach out to help you stand to your feet.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice down.
He guides you out into the hallway, shutting your girls door silently behind him. You expect him to usher you back to the party, but he leads you towards your bedroom.
“Steve?” You question, tone laced with confusion.
“Wait right here for me, please?” He requests.
When you nod, he heads into the walk in closet - clearly searching around for something.
A muffled screech of laughter catches your attention, and you peer out the window that overlooks the backyard. You smile at seeing all the people you love in one place and startle slightly when Steve’s arms wrap around your middle, pressing his body against yours as he stands behind you.
“God, I just wanted one day where you didn’t have to worry about anything,” he grumbles dejectedly, head dropping into the crook of your neck.
“Steve, we have six children,” you remind him, letting yourself relax in your hold.
“Yeah, who you take care of every single day. Just wanted you to have one day where you felt taken care of,” he refutes.
You turn in his arms, slipping yours around his waist, “How could you possibly think I don’t feel taken care of?”
You lightly run your fingers over the dark circles that still remain under his eyes from the work he put into planning this day for you.
“You take care of me, Steve,” you affirm.
He swallows hard, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough for you.”
“Not enough? Babe, you go to work to teach middle schoolers, then you coach baseball, then you come home and still ask what you can do to help me. You spent weeks staying up way too late to try to plan something special for me, and just because it didn’t go exactly the way you planned doesn’t mean it’s any less appreciated. You do more than enough,” you declare, turning your head to tuck yourself under his chin.
“Do it because you’re everything, you know that?” He murmurs, resting his head on top of yours - making you grip tighter to the back of his shirt at hearing the emotion behind the words.
“Got another present for you,” he whispers, ducking down to press a kiss to your cheek.
“Steve, you’ve gotten me plenty already,” you object.
“It’s not finished, but thought you might wanna see what the kids and I have been working on for you,” he lets go of you, turning to grab whatever he was looking for in the closet.
He places a scrapbook in your hands, and on the front cover is a picture of you, Steve, and your babes posing cheesily for the camera last year on Christmas Day.
You start to flip through the pages, memories from milestones and celebrations filling them, and your throat constricts as you feel the familiar prick of tears.
“You crying, honey?” He asks fondly.
“This is literally the sweetest thing I’ve ever gotten, of course I’m crying,” you hiccup, thumbing each sleeve of the book adoringly.
“It was supposed to be another surprise, but I just had to show you it now. Guess I’m not much better than our four year old,” Steve says playfully.
“Don’t worry, baby. Remember, I won’t tell anyone,” you refer to your words from the night before.
“Good, because I think if you told the kids they’d riot against me,” he chuckles
You beam at him, setting the precious gift down on your bed before extending your hand to grab his - heading back to the chaos of your birthday party, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Though you reassured Steve that the effort put into the birthday party is what counted, he was still trying to make it up to you.
It’s why he’s just treated you to dinner at your favorite restaurant and promised the house as all yours for the next couple of days.
“And just what are we going to do with all that free time?” You ask coyly, hands coming up to toy with the collar of his button down.
“Hmm, I’ve got lots of ideas, honey,” he replies, dipping his head to nip at the base of your throat.
“Steve,” you say breathlessly, fingers messily popping open the buttons on his shirt so it hangs open, providing you with the heavenly sight of his naked chest.
He grunts in response, lips trailing down the valley of your breasts while his hands are pawing at the zipper of your dress - trying to get the damn thing off.
He shoves the fabric down, letting it pool at your feet - leaving you stripped down to your underwear.
He instantly drops to his knees in front of you, cupping his hands around the backs of your thighs - lips pressing eagerly against the exposed skin.
“Stop teasing,” you whine, pushing at his head - desperate for him to just be inside you already.
Steve doesn’t let up though; instead he moves his mouth to your panties, which are already wet with your slick.
“Play nice, baby. Wanna taste you first. Haven’t in god knows how long,” he mouths over the fabric that’s clinging to you.
Your head falls back against the door, fingers threading in his hair as he continues to tease you through the material before slowly taking them off.
“Oh, god,” you gasp at the feeling of being laid bare before him.
“That’s it, honey,” he coos, grasping at one of your legs - lifting it to have better access to your core.
He kisses your inner thigh that’s now hooked over his shoulder, hovering over your heat. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his tongue laves over your entrance - prodding inside gently, before licking his way up to your clit. A loud moan is torn from your throat, followed by a string of curse words as Steve’s lips secure themselves over the little nub.
“Taste so good, baby,” Steve moans, tongue working expertly against you.
Your hips rut involuntarily against his mouth, and you can feel the tension building faster than you’d like it too - embarrassingly close already from how worked up you are.
“Gonna come,” you whimper.
“Already, baby? Damn, must be good,” he smirks cockily, bringing two fingers up to sink inside of you to get you there faster.
You feel the coil in your stomach tighten as his fingers pump in and out of you - eyes rolling back when you feel the band snap.
Steve pulls away, breathing hard with your juices coating his mouth and jaw. The sight makes you needy, and you tug him to stand up.
“Bedroom, now,” you demand.
“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, sliding his hands down to cup your ass and lift you up into his arms.
He’s trying to multitask - kicking off his shoes while walking up the stairs at the same time.
As expected, it doesn’t end well. When his second shoe is off, he steps on it, causing him to tumble down at the top step that leads to the landing of the second floor.
Thankfully he catches your fall, arms still nestled securely behind your back. Once the shock wears off, you start giggling - back splayed out on the floor while Steve’s holding himself up over you.
“Sorry, baby,” he laughs, leaning forward to kiss you, and you can taste the remains of yourself on him.
It spurs you on, hands shooting out to eagerly unbuckle his belt. You toss it behind you somewhere before trying to shove his dress pants and boxer briefs down.
He helps you get them off, and your lips part at the sight of his member on full display. Your breath hitches as lust pools inside of you while you admire cock - fully hard and thick, with a prominent vein running down his shaft. The pretty pink tip is flushed, leaking incessantly with precum.
Steve takes the opportunity to hike your legs up and over his shoulders while you’re distracted, slipping a hand under your lower back to help guide you up off the hardwood floor.
His knees are digging into the steps of the stairs, back protesting the angle, but he can’t be bothered - greedily wanting to pull another orgasam from you.
“Please, just fuck me already, Steve,” you cry, weakly trying to move his head away.
“Patience, baby,” he replies, dragging his tongue up your slit - tasting your previous release, and he groans loudly when he feels your thighs press against his head.
“Shit, Steve, I’m too sens-,” you break off with a whine as his tongue flicks out to lap at your clit, lazily tracing circles over it.
When you come for a second time on his fingers, you know you’re not making it to the bed.
You push at his chest, forcing him to lay on his back. His eyes blow wide at your actions - hands shooting out to grasp at the meat of your hips when you sit down on him, cock nudging at your entrance from the movement.
You reach down to grab him, stroking unhurriedly - thumb brushing over the head, spreading the precum that’s now dribbling down towards the base.
Steve whimpers when you line him up, torturously gliding down on him - taking your time as each inch of his dick slides in until the hilt.
“Oh, fuck me,” Steve moans when your pussy flutters around him.
You pause, letting yourself adjust to the size of him before you start to rotate your hips slowly against him.
“Stop, it’s your birthday. I’m doing the work,” he pants, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.
Steve starts to thrust up into you, steadily creating a rhythm that has you rocketing towards your third orgasam of the night.
“Feels so good,” you whimper as his hips jerk upwards into your tight cunt, deliciously stretching you open.
“C’mere, want you closer,” he pleads, reaching up to your necklace that’s swaying in the air.
He pulls at it, tugging you down so you’re flush against him. He’s relentless, continuing to thrust shallowly, so it’s more of a grind than anything, but you’re aching with need for him to move faster.
“Need you to go faster,” you mumble against his neck, fingers running through the dark hair on his chest.
His hips pick up speed at your request, pulling back till his ruddy tip nearly slips out before snapping forwards - burying himself deep inside of you.
“Steve, oh god, right there,” you cry out at the feel of him grazing your sweet spot.
“Doing so good for me, baby,” he starts planting sloppy kisses anywhere he can reach on your exposed skin.
The praise has your head spinning, clenching around him each time he bottoms out.
“Shit, ‘m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, honey,” Steve moans, bucking up into you to chase his release.
At the realization that he’s about to come, you remember something that makes you panic.
“Wait, wait, wait,” you breathe worriedly.
Steve’s hips still immediately, “What? What’s wrong?”
Being stuffed full of him without moving is maddening, and you close your eyes blissfully - mewling at the feeling.
Steve leans forward to press his forehead against yours, “Baby, hey, tell me what’s wrong.”
You’re brought back to reality by him pinching lightly at your hipbone to get your attention.
“I, uh, I forgot to take my birth control today,” you admit.
Steve nods in understanding, “Okay. What do you wanna do?”
“The risk of getting pregnant is pretty low when you miss just one, but we’ve been so busy lately, and I haven’t exactly been taking it regularly because we haven’t had any alone time,” you trail off.
“That’s alright, honey. We can stop, and I’ll just finish w-,” Steve starts to try to lift you, but you grab onto his shoulders, refusing to let him move.
“No, no, don’t,” you protest frantically.
Steve runs his hands up your back lovingly, “You know I’m weak babe, haven’t ever been able to pull out.”
You scoff into his neck, “Yeah, you and your breeding kink. Trust me, I know.”
“Hey, don’t tease me. I’ve never heard you complaining when you call me Daddy,” his teeth skin over the shell of your ear and you lose all resolve.
“Just come inside me,” you whine, hips moving against his length.
Steve chokes out in surprise at the sudden action, before forcing you to stop again, “Wait, baby, seriously. Do you want that?”
“Do you?” You reply, looking into his eyes curiously.
“I mean, you know I love kids. I love our kids. And I love seeing you full with my kids,” he brushes a hand over your tummy, making you flush.
No matter how much your body has changed over the years, he still never fails to make you feel beautiful.
“But, it’s you who has to carry a baby - not me. And, six has been a lot on you. I know it has, and I don’t want you to feel forced into having another one,” Steve replies earnestly.
“God, I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.
“Love you too, gorgeous. But that’s not exactly an answer,” he mumbles against your lips.
You make a high pitched noise of pleasure when you feel him twitch inside of you, and you subconsciously start to move your hips up and down - feeling sweet relief at the friction.
Steve huffs a breath of laughter, “You listening to me?”
“Mhm,” your nose nudges against his before capturing his lips in another swift kiss.
“What’s the final verdict? Cause I can’t hold off much longer,” he grunts at the feel of you rocking against him.
“Want you to fill me up, give me another baby,” you’re babbling at this point, nearing your climax again.
Steve lets out a guttural sound at that, shifting his hips to feverishly meet yours, and it stuns both of you when you feel him spurting thick ropes of cum into your pussy - flooding you with his release.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby,” he mutters miserably, “didn’t mean to come before you.”
You push at the sweaty hair that’s sticking to his temples, “It’s okay, handsome.”
“No, gonna keep going, need you to finish,” he jerks upwards, pushing his seed further into you while also forcing some of it out - causing it to trickle down his balls.
Your jaw drops at the feeling, hand slipping down to rub at your clit, which Steve pushes away and replaces with his own fingers.
“C’mon, baby,” he urges, breath fanning across your cheek.
You’re completely gone for him, and when you finally tip over the edge, gushing over his cock, you collapse on top of him - bones dissolving into mush.
Steve’s breath is ragged in your ear, heart beating rapidly against your own - hands coming up to caress through the tendrils of your hair.
“You okay?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
You laugh lightly, “Better than okay.”
The two of you grow quiet as you lay there, basking in each other’s presence for a few moments more until the ache in your muscles encourages you to get up off the floor.
Before you’re able to move, Steve brings his hands to your face - grasping it tenderly and looking at you a bit timidly.
“You meant it, right?” He questions.
You lean into him, “Of course I meant it, babe. I love you.”
“I’m so in love with you,” he replies, kissing the spot below your ear.
You nuzzle into him, pleased with the affection, “Besides, I probably won’t even get pregnant.”
Those were famous last words for someone who would be staring in shock at a positive test a month and a half later - two pink little lines strikingly clear.
lmk in the comments or message me if you wanna be added to the HH taglist!
okay y’all, based off my last post for HH, majority rules for baby #7! BUT i wanna assure those of you who chose to keep it at 6 nuggets that i have plenty of reqs im still working on that will just include the six original babies and i do not plan on just writing for a new baby either!
hopefully that’s a good compromise 🫶🏻 anyways, lmk if baby should be a boy or girl 😁
So I’m being really moody right now because of PMS, and I’d like something where the reader is also really moody, but I don’t know which would be better—I’d really like it if Steve put a bratty reader in her place with rough, sexy stuff, but I’d also like it if it were cute and caring. So maybe it could be some dom-sub rough sex, and then as “aftercare,” something cute and caring where and the girl falls asleep on his chest. (And it would be so good if the reader were that short and there was a little age gap between them, like 10 years max.) Actually, it could be Joe or Gator or Steve—whatever :)))
Bratty Moon
Gator Tillman x Reader
Summary: You’re deep in a vicious PMS mood, snappy, restless, and spoiling for a fight. Gator has zero clue what PMS even is and zero patience for your bratty attitude. When you push him too far, he decides to put you in your place the only way he knows how.
Word count: 1.1K
Warnings: NSFW, rough sex (unprotected p/v), dom Gator, dirty talk, spanking, manhandling, creampie, tiny bit of ass play if you squint
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The ranch was suffocating tonight. Every little sound grated on your nerves, the hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards, Gator’s boots scraping as he paced around the kitchen. PMS had you in its grip: your lower back throbbed, your tits were sore, and a restless, mean energy buzzed under your skin like a live wire. You wanted to bite, to push, to make someone else feel as shitty as you did.
You’d already snapped at Gator twice: once for chewing too loud on his chips, once for asking if you wanted a beer like it was the stupidest question in the world. Tonight, you were determined to test exactly how much he’d take.
“Jesus Christ, will you sit still?” he muttered, tossing the empty chip bag in the trash. “You’ve been twitchy as hell since you got here.”
You rolled your eyes from your spot on the sagging couch, tugging the hem of his oversized flannel down over your bare thighs. It dwarfed your smaller frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you stopped breathing so loud. Everything you do is annoying right now.”
Gator’s head snapped toward you, dark eyes narrowing and right now he looked like he was one second away from snapping. “The fuck is your problem tonight? You’ve been a mouthy little bitch ever since you walked in.”
The words should’ve stung. Instead they lit a fire low in your belly. You smirked, crossing your arms under your chest. “Maybe I am. What are you gonna do about it, Tillman? Arrest me?”
He stalked over, boots heavy on the hard wood floor. Towering above you, he planted one knee on the couch cushion beside your hip, caging you in. “Keep running that smart mouth and I will put you over my knee. I ain’t in the mood for your attitude.”
You tilted your chin up defiantly, even as heat flooded between your legs. “Try it. See what happens.”
Gator’s jaw clenched. He didn’t know shit about PMS, hadn’t even occurred to him that your mood might have a reason beyond “being a pain in the ass.” To him, you were just being a brat, and brats got handled.
In one swift motion he grabbed your wrist, yanking you up off the couch. “Bedroom. Now. And lose the attitude before I lose my temper.”
You stumbled after him, heart pounding, but you couldn’t stop pushing. “Or what? You gonna cry to your daddy about how your girlfriend’s being mean?”
He shoved the bedroom door open hard enough that it banged against the wall. The second it slammed shut behind you, Gator spun you around and slammed you back against it, his big hand wrapping around your throat not squeezing, just holding you there, reminding you who was bigger.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. His other hand shoved the flannel up roughly, exposing your bare cunt and sore tits. “No panties? You came over here dressed like this just to piss me off and get fucked, didn’t you?”
You gasped as his fingers immediately found your slick folds, parting them roughly. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, and he noticed.
“Goddamn. Look at this messy pussy. Acting like a spoiled brat but dripping down your thighs for it.” He pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against your front wall. The stretch burned in the best way, his knuckles pressing deep.
“Gator—” you started, half moan, half protest.
“Shut up.” He pumped his fingers faster, thumb grinding mean circles over your swollen clit. “You’ve been begging for this all night with your little comments. Now you’re gonna take what I give you.”
He finger-fucked you mercilessly, the wet, obscene sounds filling the small room. Your knees buckled but he held you up by the throat and the relentless thrust of his hand. When your walls started fluttering, he ripped his fingers out, leaving you empty and whining.
“Not yet, brat.”
He manhandled you to the bed, stripping the flannel off you completely and shoving you face-down onto the mattress. You tried to push up but he planted a heavy hand between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest pinned while he yanked your hips up high.
“Ass up. Yeah, just like that. Arch that back.”
You heard his belt buckle, the zipper, then the heavy thud of his jeans hitting the floor. His cock slapped against your ass, thick, hot, already leaking. Gator was big and girthy enough that even when you were soaked it was a tight fit.
He dragged the fat head through your folds, teasing your entrance before slamming in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, the sudden fullness punching the air from your lungs. He didn’t pause. He started pounding into you hard and fast, hips snapping against your ass with loud, wet smacks.
“Fuck— so tight,” he grunted, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “This little pussy is choking my cock. All that attitude and you still open up so easy for me.”
Every thrust dragged along every sensitive inch inside you. The angle had him hitting that perfect spot over and over, making your toes curl and your eyes water. You pushed back against him, desperate and greedy, and he rewarded you with a sharp slap to your ass.
“Greedy little brat. Can’t even pretend you don’t love getting used like this.”
He reached around and rubbed your clit roughly, three fingers pressing hard while his cock split you open. The orgasm crashed over you without mercy. Your walls clamped down on him, pulsing, gushing around his shaft as you screamed into the mattress. He fucked you through it, hips never slowing, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Gator pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half, and drove back in even deeper. The new position made you feel every thick inch, every vein as he stretched you wide.
“Look at me,” he demanded, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. His face was flushed, hair messy, eyes dark with lust and lingering irritation. “You wanted rough? This rough enough for you?”
He fucked you in long, punishing strokes pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, grinding deep on every thrust so his pelvis rubbed your clit. Sweat slicked both your bodies. Your tits bounced with every impact, sore and sensitive, and when he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth and bite it, you nearly came again from the sharp sting.
“Gator—fuck—too much—” you gasped, but your hips rolled up to meet him anyway.
“You can take it.” He switched to the other nipple, biting harder while his cock battered that spot inside you. “You’re gonna come on my dick again like the needy slut you are.”
He released your wrists to grab your ass with both hands, tilting your hips and driving into you at a brutal pace. The wet squelch of your pussy taking every inch filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. When he pressed his thumb against your asshole, just circling the tight ring while he fucked you, the added sensation sent you spiraling.
You came hard a second time, vision blurring, walls milking his cock in rhythmic spasms. Gator cursed, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, flooding your pussy with thick, hot ropes of cum.
For a moment he stayed there, buried inside you, both of you panting. Then he pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from your abused hole with dark satisfaction.
You expected him to roll away or make some asshole comment, but instead he surprised you. Gator collapsed beside you and hauled your smaller body against his chest without a word. His arms wrapped around you, one big hand stroking down your back in slow, soothing sweeps.
“You done being a pain in my ass?” he muttered, but his voice had lost its edge. He tucked your head under his chin, letting you curl up small against him. His skin was warm, heartbeat steady under your ear.
You nodded weakly, the fight draining out of you. “Yeah… sorry.”
He huffed a laugh, fingers threading through your hair. “Didn’t know what the hell was up with you tonight. Figured you were just being a brat on purpose.” His hand moved lower, rubbing gentle circles over your aching lower back. “Next time just say you need to get fucked stupid instead of picking fights.”
Despite everything, you smiled against his chest, already drifting. The cramps felt muted now, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion and the safe weight of his arms around you. Gator kept stroking your hair and back, surprisingly tender for someone who’d just railed you into the mattress.
“Sleep, baby,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I got you.”
You fell asleep like that, naked, sticky, wrapped around Gator’s larger frame, his steady breathing lulling you under while his hand continued its slow, comforting path along your spine.
🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
📕 Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 43 (extended chapter)
🕊️ The Games -> The Capitol -> Hawkins
🏹 Day 5 of the Games
-> Read next part here [coming soon]
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹
🏹 SUMMARY: At long last, Steve Harrington finally emerges from the 2-day long fog that kept him under. He has no clue where he is or how he got here, only that all of his belongings are neatly stashed beside him, along with his bow and arrow...
And there's a message written for him in the ground.
🏹 AUTHOR’S NOTE: These are the chapters I dreaded most, yet couldn't help but fall in love with while writing. Dear Ro, you are the sweetest little lost boy in all of existence and Neverland... Katniss & Rue fans, this next stretch of alliance infused chapters are for you. And yes, I kept Ro alive a little longer because it was killing me imagining him being gone after only one day.
*sobs into cereal bowl*
p.s. this is a longer chapter, so the next part [Part II] will come tomorrow.
Xx,
Misha
🏹 OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.
Chapter Forty-Three
DAY 5 -> The Games
The first thing Steve sees is U R SAFE.
It’s spelled out on the dirt in front of him in crooked little bursts of color — yellow leaves, red leaves, tiny purple flowers, a couple of white petals, one busted sprig of green that looks like it got shoved in there at the last second because whoever made it ran out of pretty things and said fuck it, this’ll do.
For a long second, he just stares at it.
Not because he doesn’t understand the words. Because he does.
Because right now… his brain is moving like something dragged up from the bottom of a cold lake. Slow. Groggy. Not stupid, exactly. Just… delayed. All hot syrup and static. He knows those words. Knows what they mean. Knows they’re meant for him.
He just can’t immediately make the rest of the world catch up around them.
You are safe.
The sentence sits there on the ground like a hand held out flat.
Steve blinks hard once.
Then again.
And only then does he start to feel the rest of himself.
His mouth… tastes foul. Bitter. Like he swallowed the world’s nastiest penny and let it rot on his tongue overnight. His body feels heavy in a weird way — not injured-heavy exactly, but slept-too-hard heavy. Like every muscle in him got left out in rain and dragged back in before dawn. His cheek is warm where it had been pressed into something lumpy. His neck feels tender. His forearm too. One knee throbs in this low, distant kind of way that tells him whatever happened there was bad enough to matter, but not bad enough to be all he can think about.
His back is warm.
There’s something draped over it.
He turns his head just enough to catch the black of his windbreaker over one shoulder, and that’s weird enough to make him frown a little.
Then he notices the leaves.
There are chewed-up green leaves plastered over his forearm.
More of them at his neck.
And when he shifts his leg carefully, dragging one knee up under himself to look, he sees his cargo pants have already been rolled above the sting there too, the leaf poultice mostly slipped off sometime in the night as he moved in his sleep.
He sits up slowly.
Very slowly…
The whole place around him comes into focus by miserable little degrees.
He’s under some kind of tree shelter. A shallow one. Barely two or three feet above his head even kneeling. Twigs woven into brush. Branches bent down and overlapped. Leaves shoved into every gap where light might’ve betrayed it. It’s not clean. Not fancy. Not even particularly symmetrical. It’s just… well, there. Effective. Tight and close and hidden as all hell. Like some little fairy hut out of one of Dustin’s rambling campaigns. Like a child built a fort in the woods and then got weirdly, terrifyingly good at it.
His backpack is under his chest.
Empty.
Used as a pillow.
That makes Steve’s eyes flick around more sharply now, and that’s when he sees all of his stuff lined up neatly along one curved side of the little hut.
Knife.
Iodine.
Jerky.
Crackers.
Rope.
Wire.
The little box of matches.
Toothbrush.
Toothpaste.
Water bottle.
His bow and quiver.
Everything is arranged in a line so respectful and careful it almost makes his chest pinch. And next to his stuff, in their own neat little gathered piles… are other things.
Tiny speckled eggs.
Berries. Roots. Tubers. Nuts. Wild herbs.
A whole little scavenger spread of arena breakfast.
Steve just kneels there for a second in complete, groggy disbelief. “What the hell,” he whispers hoarsely to nobody.
The sound of his own voice startles him a little. It comes out rough. And dry. Sandpapered by sleep and bug venom and whatever the fuck else his body’s been doing while he’s been dead to the world.
He reaches down and peels the leaf mash off his forearm first.
The skin underneath looks icky. Red, swollen, bruised around the edges. Still a trackerjacker sting, still nasty enough to make him hiss softly through his teeth at the sight of it.
But not nearly as bad as it should be.
Not even close.
That’s what makes his brows lift.
He rubs his thumb lightly around it without touching the center, feels the heat there. The raised welt, like a spider bite that’s still healing.
Better.
Way fucking better.
His fingers go to his neck next — feeling the damp, half-dried mash tucked against the skin there. He can’t see that one, but judging by the way it feels? Same thing. Angry, but healing. Then his knee. That one’s still throbbing, still ugly as hell, but even it looks more manageable than it has any right to after the amount of venom that got pumped into him.
Steve sits back on his heels a little, rubbing both hands over his face.
He remembers flashes.
The nest.
The screaming.
Glimmer.
Jesus Christ — Glimmer...
His stomach drops at the mental image of her body when it all comes back to him. Bloated. Ruined. Swarmed. Dead in a way that no seventeen-year-old girl should ever have to be dead.
He shuts that down fast.
Then comes another memory.
Yours.
Your face, splitting and doubling and tripling in front of him while he sat there out of his goddamn mind before you hauled him to his feet. Both your hands on his shoulders. Your voice, desperate and sharp and furious all at once.
Run, Steve. Run.
His eyes go distant. The whole little hut seems to shrink around that memory. You’d been there. Not with the Careers. Not helping them. Not leading him to slaughter.
You had been there trying to get him the hell out.
And now…? Kneeling in this tiny hidden hideout with his backpack under him and his wounds treated and his supplies all stacked in neat little rows and a whole message spelled out on the ground so he wouldn’t wake up and lose his shit—
Steve feels something twist hard and strange inside his chest.
Because whatever your angle was, it had never been what he thought.
Some sick, jaded, angry part of him wants to keep fighting that. Wants to just keep saying no, there’s another explanation, there has to be. Wants to stay cynical because cynicism’s far easier than feeling grateful to somebody who could still matter this much.
But the evidence is all around him.
And it’s hard to argue with mercy when it has physically kept his ass alive.
“Shit,” he breathes, his hand moving without him thinking.
Instinctive.
Reaching for his right wrist.
Not the left wrist, with Robin’s tattoo.
His right wrist, where—
…wait.
Steve glances down…
Only to find bare skin.
He stiffens instantly, looking around himself, looking for—
But then he sees it.
His olive branch.
It’s now tucked right into the quiver, nestled beside his arrows… like whoever found it understood exactly what it was and decided it should not be lost. That does something vulnerable to his face. Pulls one corner of his mouth up despite himself in this tired, crooked little almost-smile which vanishes just as quickly as it came.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.
How many times does a guy have to come within breathing distance of death before the universe just commits? How many near-misses before somebody up there decides — alright, enough of this sad bastard — puts him out of his misery?
The dark thought lands exactly where it always lands now.
Easy. Familiar. Morbid as a shrug.
He doesn’t sit in it long, though, because his mouth tastes like actual roadkill and suddenly that’s the most pressing problem in the world.
So he grabs the toothbrush.
Squeezes out a little toothpaste.
Brushes around his mouth and gums and teeth with all the solemn misery of a man who’s trying not to gag on his own morning breath inside a woodland hobbit grave. Then he unscrews the water bottle and pauses.
It’s full.
Here it comes again.
That soft little quiet punch of being tended to by unknown guardians of fate.
Steve stares at the water bottle for half a second like it personally betrayed him by being decent, then tips some into his mouth and swishes hard, spits into a far corner of the hut, and does it again.
When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lets his gaze sweep the hideout again while he drinks from it.
It all feels… deliberate.
Safe in a way the arena has no business being.
…and that’s exactly when he hears something rustle above him.
Steve moves before he thinks.
Bow in hand.
Arrow notched.
Aimed straight upward at the shadow now shifting through the tiny gaps in an opening of brush overhead.
Everything in him goes cold and sharp all at once…
Then a familiar little face appears.
Little enough that Steve’s whole body changes in one staggered beat.
Ro!
The kid freezes halfway through climbing down, his eyes huge, all wiry little limbs and caution and immediate alarm at finding himself now being aimed at by a broadhead arrow before breakfast.
Steve lowers the bow at once. “Hey— hey, man.” His voice comes out rough but warm in a hurry. “S’alright. M’not gonna hurt you.”
He tosses the weapon aside and raises both hands, palms open.
Ro is still hanging there halfway down — one small foot on a jut of root, one hand gripping a branch — staring at Steve like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of test.
Steve softens even more.
“You’re all good,” he promises. “I swear.”
Ro blinks. Then he climbs down the rest of the way very carefully, like a cautious little animal approaching a fire it hopes is friendly. Steve watches him land inside the hut and has to fight the bizarre urge to laugh — because Jesus Christ, this kid really did build the place for himself. Standing there now, Ro almost fits it properly. He can hunch. Turn, and move around. Steve, meanwhile, looks like an overgrown golden retriever trying to hide in a rabbit hole.
Ro doesn’t say anything at first.
He just stands there with those giant dark eyes on Steve, little hands folded up near his chest, equal parts shy and wary and weirdly pleased all at once.
Steve clears his throat. “You did all this?”
Ro nods.
Steve looks around again. Then back at him. “The leaves too?”
Another nod.
“And the water bottle?”
Ro nods harder this time.
Something about that makes Steve smile for real. Small, but real. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Well. Thank you.”
Ro’s shoulders ease a tiny bit.
Steve watches him tenderly, then his brow pinches. “How long was I out?"
A beat lands.
Ro glances down at his fingers before shyly peeking up through his lashes… quietly murmuring, in the gentlest little voice, “two days.”
Steve’s brows shoot up, forehead creasing.
Two days?
“Days three and four,” Ro adds timidly. “It’s Day Five now.”
A soft, almost sheepish sigh slips past Steve’s nose. He watches Ro another moment, then glances down at his own lap. Then he glances at his forearm.
“This stuff worked,” he tells Ro. “Like… really worked.”
Ro lights up so suddenly it’s almost startling.
Not in a loud way.
Just the way little kids do when praise hits them square in the chest and they don’t know where to put it.
“I changed them,” he blurts before he can apparently stop himself, voice soft and quick and a little breathless from finally using it. “A couple times. And—I put more ointment on your burn too but only a little, I promise, and I didn’t eat any of your food or touch any of your stuff—except I had to use two of your matches but that’s just because it’s way faster to cook eggs with a match and I’m sorry about that and—”
Steve stares at him for a second before he very, very gently asks, “Why are you apologizing?”
Ro looks confused by the question itself. Then guilty. Then both.
“I just… didn’t want you to think I was stealing.”
That hits Steve so hard and stupidly that for a second he doesn’t even know what to do with his face. He looks over at the neat little piles of food. At the lined-up supplies. The full water bottle. The carefully rewrapped olive branch.
Then back at Ro.
“Buddy,” he says, and there’s something almost helpless in his voice now. “I would not have cared if you ate half of it.”
Ro still looks uncertain.
Steve reaches over for the jerky and crackers. “Seriously. C’mere.”
Ro shuffles a little closer on instinct but still stays cautious, cross-legged now on the dirt floor while Steve opens the packet and breaks off a piece.
He offers it.
It takes another moment before Ro slowly takes it with both his hands, like it might disappear if he’s not respectful enough.
Steve hands him a cracker too, then takes one for himself. “There.” He nods toward the little scavenged spread. “Now we’re sharing. No crime committed.”
That gets the tiniest little smile out of Ro.
Steve leans back one shoulder against the side of the hut, gesturing vaguely with his cracker. “So where were you just now?”
Ro’s chewing slows.
He swallows, then says shyly, “Making birdcalls.”
Steve tilts his head. “Birdcalls.”
Ro nods, then reaches for a few seeds from one of his little piles — bringing them between them like this is just part of breakfast now.
“There’re mockingjays,” he explains. “They copy back whatever you sing, like a parrot. So if I do the right four notes and they’re close enough, they’ll carry it to you. Then if you do your four notes back, they’ll carry them to me.”
Steve stills halfway through another bite.
There’s a tiny pause in the hut.
“Me?” he repeats carefully.
Ro blinks. “Well, yes but… no. Not you.”
Then, as if realizing that sounded dumb: “Ren.”
There it is again.
Your name.
But now it’s spoken out loud and now Steve’s whole body goes kind of eerily still around it… Because whatever he’d expected out of waking up in this tiny woodland bunker, it sure as hell wasn’t a nine-year-old very calmly dropping confirmation that you and he apparently have some kind of secret birdcall- communication alliance.
And you’re alive.
“…you and Ren have a signal,” Steve says slowly.
Ro nods.
“…you’re allied.”
Ro nods harder, then he seems to realize this is maybe important information and starts talking faster about how you teamed up with him.
It comes out in pieces at first, shy and a little tangled up.
But Steve is good with kids. That’s the thing. No matter how much this world has hollowed him out, no matter how much venom and violence and grief and trauma have turned everything else inside him into barbed wire, that part still works. So he doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t interrogate.
He just nudges the story along. “When’d that happen?”
“Back at the Capitol.”
“Before the Games?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Who all knew?”
“Me and Wendy Bird and Jack and Hannah. Oh!—and Hopper. Hopper went over the cave part again with Hannah and Jack after.”
Steve blinks. “Wendy Bird?”
Ro says it like it’s obvious. “That’s Ren.”
Oh, so you have another bird-assigned nickname?
That’s the first thing that runs through Steve’s mind until then, because Steve apparently has somehow woken up inside a fever dream run by emotionally intelligent children.
Ro proceeds to explain the whole damn thing, bit by bit, chewing seeds and taking tiny bites of jerky. Talking with his hands sometimes… when the words come easier that way.
You were Wendy Bird.
Steve was Pan the Man.
Ro was a lost boy.
Hannah was a lost girl.
Jack was a lost boy too, even if he acted tougher about it.
And the whole plan had been built around getting the lost ones hidden first. The cave for Hannah and Jack. The signals in the trees. The markings along the stream in case Ro had to go looking. The birdcall. The fallback birdcall. The trail marks. The rule about not panicking if nobody answered back because that probably meant you’d made it safe. The rule about waiting for the sky at night before assuming the worst.
The whole thing laid out in this innocent, devastating little-boy cadence that somehow makes every piece of it hit Steve harder than if Hopper himself had walked in and barked it at him.
Because Ro explains it all like he’s telling Steve how to play a game that he missed the rules to all this time…
And buried inside every part of it is the same awful truth:
You had planned for him.
You had worked all of this out after the interviews.
After he’d lashed out at you backstage. After you went on live television and said the thing he’d least wanted anyone to say. After he made it ugly, after he stormed off and left you standing there.
And somehow, after all of that, you’d still built a strategy that kept not only three kids alive…
…but him too.
Steve sits there, very quiet through most of it, only asking questions when he has to.
“So… Hopper knew all of this?”
Ro nods. “Some of it. Most of it.”
“Hannah and Jack knew the cave part already?”
“Ren told them in the morning. Hopper repeated it later.”
Something about that irks Steve.
The fact that Hopper planned all of this, without ever considering that maybe Steve was capable of planning something too…? Something about that just doesn’t quite sit right yet.
But still. Steve’s far too blown away, too grateful, to let that take precedence.
“And you…?” Steve has to stop and start over. “You knew I was supposed to end up with you?”
Ro shrugs one shoulder. “Not exactly with me. Just… if I found you first, then yeah. Because she didn’t want any of us near the Careers.”
Steve rubs a hand over his face again.
It is not helping.
Nothing about this is helping. Because Ro is so matter-of-fact about it all. So sweet. So trusting. So completely certain that of course this all makes sense because Wendy Bird said it would!
There’s something brutally unselfconscious in the admiration Ro has for you too. Every time that he says your name, it’s like he’s talking about someone brave and clever and magical and surreal. Someone who made a hard thing sound possible just by explaining it softly enough.
Steve smiles sometimes despite himself.
That’s the worst part.
He can’t even keep the smile off his face, because Ro is so damned earnest about all of it. And apparently? You’d explained the whole alliance through Peter Pan analogies and secret signals and lost boys and hidden places and prioritized how important it was to keep the little ones safe first.
Because apparently it worked.
Because apparently Steve Harrington, bitter bastard of the fucking woods… got kept alive by a plan made by a girl he hurt and a little boy who still looks at him like he hung the moon.
He hates what that does to his chest.
He hates that it isn’t simple.
Ro is talking about the cave now.
About how Hannah and Jack were supposed to stay put no matter what.
About how he’s gone out looking for your signal already.
About how he tried the mockingjay call.
Steve’s eyes go a little glossy around the edges at that. Not enough to show. Just enough to feel it everywhere inside of himself.
“You were out there this morning doing that?” he asks.
Ro nods. “I thought maybe if Wendy Bird— I mean if Ren—”
“If she answered back,” Steve finishes.
Ro nods again. “But she didn’t.”
Steve takes a slow breath, dread beginning to show in his features.
Ro rushes to add, “But that’s probably good. Ren said if I can’t hear her? It might mean she made it back where she needed to go and is staying quiet.”
There’s that faith again.
That calm little child-faith in your competence.
…and God help him, Steve feels himself borrowing from it.
Just for a second.
Just enough to feel relieved that you’re still alive.
He looks down at the half-eaten saltine cracker in his hand and thinks about your beautiful face again. Your voice. Run.
Then he looks back up… and he finds that Ro is now watching him now with all the patience in the world. Like he knows some grown-up silences are just things you have to let happen.
Steve laughs under his breath once, dry and small.
“What,” Ro asks curiously.
Steve shakes his head. “Nothing, man.”
But it isn’t nothing.
It’s the soul-crushing, inconvenient realization that your angle had been him all along. Not to betray. Not to manipulate. Not to trap. To keep him alive.
And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.
So he doesn’t try to.
Not just yet.
Instead he takes another bite of jerky and helps Ro keep talking.
“So alright then,” Steve says, sly and warm. “What else’ve I missed?”
Ro has gotten less shy now. The words come easier. Quicker. He tells Steve how Hannah nearly cried the first day and didn’t want Jack seeing, so she’d turned away first. How Jack acts tougher than he is but he still gets a wrinkle between his eyebrows when he’s scared. How he himself can climb higher than anybody if he has to. How the cave’s on the opposite side of the arena, and if they go down the stream long enough, they should be able to reach it.
It’s a whole world in here… This tiny hidden ecosystem of children surviving because you gave them a language to survive in.
Steve listens to all of it.
And then, when it’s finally all on the ground between them, when the plan is laid out and the crumbs have been gathered and the children accounted for and the terrible, impossible mercy of it has had time to settle—
Ro goes sly.
It happens so suddenly Steve almost misses it.
One second the kid is earnest as church.
The next, there’s this little cat-who-ate-the-canary glint in his eye.
“Is it true about you guys?”
Steve blinks. “What.”
Ro wriggles his eyebrows.
He actually wriggles them.
Then he makes this ridiculous lovey-dovey face and a little kissy shape with his mouth and says, “You and herrrrr?”
Steve chokes a little on absolutely nothing.
It is humiliating how his cheeks go hot immediately. That’s worse. So much worse. He has not blushed like this since puberty kicked down the front door and moved into his awkwardly growing bones. He looks down. Laughs once in this awkward, disbelieving way. Rubs the back of his neck.
Ro is grinning like a little menace now.
And on top of that, Steve knows the cameras are on him.
That’s the slimiest, stupidest part. Even now, even tucked away in this little root-hut, he can feel the awareness of being watched. Of the whole country maybe seeing his ears go pink while a child tries to get gossip out of him like some tiny woodland tabloid reporter.
He could deny it.
Should deny it, probably.
Should say no, kid, don’t be ridiculous.
Except…
Something about that feels wrong.
Maybe because it helped keep everybody alive.
Maybe because Ro believes it with his whole little chest and Steve just can’t bring himself to stomp on that.
Maybe because saying no to anything that has your name wrapped up in it suddenly feels like trying to spit a mouthful of blood onto a grave.
He still can’t bring himself to say yes.
That feels wrong too.
So Steve does what Steve Harrington does best whenever he’s cornered by something soft and dangerous and true: he sidesteps.
He tilts his head, looks back up at Ro through a half-smile that’s still flushed around the edges and drawls, “I think that Wendy Bird’s got enough going on without you running her business for her.”
Ro gasps.
Then he dissolves into the most delighted little snickering fit that Steve’s ever heard in his life — shoulders shaking, hand slapped over his own mouth like that answer was even better than confirmation.
“Oh my God,” Steve mutters, but he’s laughing too now despite himself.
Ro points at him triumphantly. “That means yes!”
“Oh, does it now.”
“It does in my language.”
Steve squints at him playfully. “That sounds like communism.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
Ro’s still grinning ear to ear, looking like he’s about to explode from knowing a secret. “Jack has a crush on Hannah, too.”
The pivot is so sudden Steve almost gets emotional whiplash from it.
“What?”
Ro leans in. “He does.”
Steve stares — lips parted, already smirking. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Whaaaat?” Steve pretends to gasp, jutting his chin. “How do you know.”
“Because he told me.”
Steve lets out a long exaggerated breath. “Well. Sheeeeyit.”
That earns a little giggle from Ro as he snacks on another cracker.
Steve just shakes his head, smirking warmly. “Jack told you, huh?”
Ro nods very solemnly now, as if delivering battlefield intelligence even while he smiles. “He started liking her on picture day.”
“Picture day?”
“At the Capitol. In the pink dress.”
Steve actually grins at that. Full grin this time. “Damn. Kid’s got taste.”
Ro giggles.
“And Hannah likes him back?”
Ro lowers his voice like this is serious. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“She looks at him kinda weird.”
Steve nods like a detective cracking the case. “Got it. Very damning.”
“And Hannah likes you,” Ro adds helpfully.
Steve adorably snorts. “Buddy, that is not the same thing.”
“No, I know. She likes you like Tigerlily likes Pan.”
“Oh good,” Steve chuckles.
“And Jack likes her like…” Ro trails off, then makes another kissy face.
Steve actually laughs out loud now.
It feels rusty. Strange. Good in a way that nearly makes him angry. Because all at once he’s sitting in a dirt hut in the arena swapping little kid gossip with a boy who should not be here at all… and every piece of this pure innocence makes him want to tear the whole goddamn sky down with his bare hands.
He cannot let that show.
Not now.
Not to Ro.
So he leans into it instead.
“Alright,” he drawls, nodding gravely. “Well. That is huge news. We’ll have to handle that very delicately.”
Ro brightens all over again. “Yeah.”
“Can’t have any heartbreak in the lost-kid division.”
“Nope.”
“Too much paperwork.”
Ro laughs so hard at that, he almost falls sideways.
Steve watches him with this secret, aching kind of fondness that hurts worse because of how easy it feels to let it completely take over.
Then his eyes drift.
To the little piles of gathered food.
The roots.
The eggshells.
The berries.
The signs that this child has been surviving in the wild on scavenged scraps while Steve lay on his stomach drooling into a backpack like Sleeping Beauty with a concussion.
The fondness in his face changes shape.
Gets sharper.
More resolved.
He looks at the bow. Then at Ro. Then back at the little scavenged breakfast and the shelter and the whole careful setup of it all.
“Tell you what,” Steve says.
Ro looks up.
Steve shifts, settling more squarely on his knees, and holds out his hand like this is a business deal being struck in a boardroom instead of a dirt den held together by sticks and divine intervention.
“You show me the ropes,” he says. “Teach me which plants won’t kill us while we go looking for the others. I’ll teach you how to hunt. Show you how to set snares. We’ll catch us something decent to eat.”
He lets the grin come back, crooked and warm and very himself.
“How’s that sound, ally?”
Ro’s whole face transforms.
It isn’t just happiness.
It’s this huge, glowing, can’t-believe-his-luck kind of joy that makes him look even younger than he is.
He reaches out at once and grabs Steve’s hand in a very serious shake.
“Deal,” he says.
And there they are.
One big, bruised, freshly reawakened golden boy.
One tiny lost boy with dirt on his knees and night-watch courage in his bones and enough bravery for his entire alliance.
Shaking on it in the dark little heart of the arena, while danger still prowls just outside and the morning keeps climbing toward whatever horror comes next.
For now, though, the hut holds.
For now, the breath inside it is warm.
For now, Peter Pan and his shadow have found each other.
And when their hands part, they’re both still grinning.
By the time that the sun had properly hauled itself up over the arena, it still looked tired. No gold. No real warmth. Just a pale, overcast kind of morning that made the whole place feel bluer than it ought to be, as if even the sky had woken up sore. The woods wore it well. Everything looked damp without actually being wet. Bark darkened in broad streaks. Leaves held shadows in their veins.
The little hidden world that Ro had built beneath roots and woven branches stayed tucked in its own cool hush, safe from sight and softened by the kind of gloom that made daylight feel less exposing.
It had been barely an hour since Steve woke up.
Barely three hours since he’d found the colorful little message for him spelled out in leaves and flowers onto the earth — U R SAFE — and felt something deep in his chest go strange and quiet.
Now he and Ro were out in the woods together.
Not far enough from the little hut to lose their bearings. Not stupid-far. Steve would rather eat bark and die than wander off without a plan now after finally finding the one corner of this hellhole that didn’t feel like a loaded machine gun pointed at his mouth. But still far enough to work. Far enough to use the trees. Far enough that if he and Ro did what they were doing right, any game would have no clue they were there until it was too late.
And what they were doing right now was moving.
Quietly.
Ro led as often as Steve did… which was maybe the first thing that really got under Steve’s skin in the best possible way.
Not because the kid was bossy. He wasn’t.
Because he was good.
Little freakishly good.
There was no other word for it. Ro moved like the forest made him itself and forgot to tell anybody. He hardly bent a twig wrong. Hardly shifted a fern. Half the time Steve had to keep his eyes glued on him just to make sure he didn’t lose the kid completely to the shadows. One second he’d be there, small frame slipping between two trunks with that little knapsack over one shoulder and the water skin bouncing softly at his side, and the next he’d be three feet farther ahead with barely a sound to show for it.
On top of that, he’d made himself a slingshot.
A real one.
Not some half-assed kid toy either. It was a genuinely decent little makeshift slingshot… built from a sturdy forked branch and some elastic from his pack, tucked against his side like he’d been carrying it all his life. Every time Steve looked at it, something in him snagged.
Because it reminds him of back home.
Of the little boy whose name he unknowingly called Ro while hallucinating.
Lucas Sinclair.
The parallels hit him every goddamn time... Lucas with his bandana and his stubborn little face and his slingshot held like it was Excalibur. Lucas, who’d mouth off first and think about the consequences later. Lucas, who would absolutely call this whole setup “sick as hell” — before immediately asking a thousand questions and wanting a turn.
Steve swallowed hard and kept moving.
He didn’t say any of that out loud.
Didn’t need to.
A lot of whatever this was with Ro happened without much talking. A glance. A hand signal. Steve touching two fingers to his own chest then pointing left. Ro nodding and drifting that direction like smoke. Steve raising one hand flat whenever he heard something in the underbrush. Ro going instantly still. Not scared-still. Listening-still.
It should have felt ridiculous, being this locked in with a nine-year-old inside a death arena where the game makers would probably cream their pants at the sight of the two of them playing wilderness scout troop together.
Instead it felt…
Good.
That was the fucked-up part.
It felt so goddamn good.
Not normal. Nothing about this was normal. But lighter, somehow. Less like he was dragging his own carcass through the woods by the teeth and more like there was… actually another pulse beside him now. Another heartbeat. Another person who wasn’t trying to kill him or leave him or force him into the one-man-against-the-world mode, including himself… because that’s always been his default since surviving the Purge night.
Lone wolf, Harrington.
That had become the whole bit.
But now? Now there was this tiny ghost-boy beside him, floating through the trees with a slingshot and an earnest little face and all the patience in the world, and Steve couldn’t even pretend he didn’t feel fuller for it.
Every now and then he’d glance down and ask, quietly, “You good?”
And every single time Ro would just nod.
Not with bravado, not trying to prove anything. Just simple confirmation.
He was good.
Once, after maybe the fourth time Steve asked — Ro even looked up at him like he was very politely trying not to laugh.
Steve squinted at him. “What.”
Ro shrugged, mouth twitching. “You keep askin’.”
“Yeah,” Steve muttered. “Well. You’re little.”
Ro’s eyes widened in theatrical offense. “I know that.”
That got a soft snort out of Steve before he shook his head and kept moving.
A while later, when the forest floor got nastier underfoot — roots buckling up like old knuckles, bramble patches creeping too close, the earth uneven in that ankle-breaking way — it became easier to just lift Ro onto his back for longer stretches.
The first time Steve did it, he crouched a little and jerked his chin over one shoulder.
“C’mon.”
Ro blinked. “What?”
Steve gave him a look. “Don’t make this a whole thing.”
Ro did not, in fact, make it a whole thing.
He just climbed right up, all light little limbs and careful hands — settling on, piggyback, all while Steve hooked an arm under his knees and rose back up. Easy. Way easier than it should’ve been. Ro barely weighed anything, which wasn’t exactly comforting because it reminded Steve a little too hard that this kid was supposed to still be losing baby teeth somewhere safer, not crossing through a murder forest on another kid’s back.
But even so, they made due.
Ro fit there like he belonged.
And once he was up, he’d lean in close and point sometimes.
A tap on Steve’s shoulder.
A finger to the right.
A whisper barely shaped by breath.
“There.”
The squirrel had been Ro’s find.
Steve froze when the little finger tapped his shoulder, followed the direction of the point… then saw the flicker of gray-brown fur on a low branch ahead. Small thing. Twitchy. Alert. Head ducked forward while it gnawed something invisible between its paws.
Steve shifted slowly, careful as sin, and lowered Ro to the ground.
Ro stayed glued to his side. And he watched Steve set one hand lightly over the back of his neck — not holding him down, just keeping him close and still — then reached for the bow over his shoulder.
The woods seemed to take one long breath.
Steve notched the arrow.
Pulled.
Released.
The whir of it cut the hush clean in two.
The squirrel dropped like a stone.
Ro’s whole face changed.
Not with horror, although not with delight either. Just this solemn, awestruck kind of stillness as he looked from where the squirrel had fallen to Steve and back again.
Steve went to collect it without saying much.
When he came back with the limp little body in his hand, Ro looked at it and then up at him.
“That was really fast,” he whispered.
Steve’s mouth twitched. “That’s the idea.”
Ro nodded like he was filing that away under very important information.
Later, one of the snares paid off.
That feat took longer.
Steve had spent a chunk of the morning showing Ro how to set them right. Where the ground told on itself. How trails looked if you actually knew what you were seeing. The difference between random brush movement and a path used often enough to matter. How to find all of the narrow places where rabbits liked to cut through because it saved them time and made them feel hidden even when they weren’t.
He’d shown Ro how to bend a young branch without snapping it. How to tie the loop clean. How to make the wire look like nothing at all.
Ro watched every second of it like the lesson was scripture.
Then he’d tried one himself.
Hands small but steady. Brow pinched. Tongue barely tucked into one cheek with concentration so fierce Steve almost laughed. The kid’s first loop came out a little crooked. Steve adjusted it with two fingers and a quiet, “Here—like this,” and Ro immediately corrected the next one better.
By the time they’d circled back to check them, Ro spotted the caught rabbit before Steve did.
He froze, little hand snapping out to grip Steve’s windbreaker sleeve.
Steve looked down automatically at the tiny fist hooked into the fabric. Then followed Ro’s gaze and saw the rabbit hanging there… kicking weakly in the snare, the branch bent high with tension above it.
Ro didn’t say anything.
Neither did Steve for a moment.
Then he murmured, “Good eye.”
Ro swallowed and nodded once.
Together they approached it.
Together they made it quick.
After that, Steve made the call to prep and cook away from the hut.
No debate.
No risking the smell.
No risking the sightline.
No leaving a pretty little trail of smoke curling up anywhere near the place Ro had built for them.
So they carried the squirrel and rabbit farther out — still careful, still under cover — until Steve found a tucked-in little patch between three big boulders and a fallen trunk where they could work fast and kill any trace faster.
That was when he tried, as casually as possible… to spare Ro.
He set both of their kills down and reached for the knife at his belt. “You can stand lookout for me if you want.”
Ro looked up at him.
Steve kept his tone as even as he could. “I can handle this part.”
Ro’s gentle eyes dropped briefly to the rabbit, then the squirrel…then back to Steve’s face. “I know.”
Steve waited.
Ro shifted his feet once. “But… I should learn it.”
Steve’s brows drew together.
“If I’m gonna learn how to hunt proper,” Ro kept going, sweet and brave all at once, “then I gotta know this part too, right?”
That hit harder than it should have.
Steve looked at him for a long second. The easy out would’ve been to say no or to play rank. To tell the kid he was too young or too small or too whatever and leave it there.
But that would’ve been bullshit.
And worse…? Ro would know it.
So Steve crouched instead, knife in hand, letting out a somber sigh through his nose. “Alright,” he said finally. “But you stay right here by me—and if you feel weird about any of it? You say so. No proving shit to me, cool?”
Ro nodded immediately. “Cool.”
Steve pointed the knife at the dead game. “And this is gonna be ugly.”
Ro’s mouth went small. “Okay.”
“It’s gonna smell bad too.”
“Okay.”
Steve glanced at him again. “You don’t have to be tough about it.”
Ro blinked. “I’m not.”
That one got him.
Steve huffed a quiet laugh, shook his head, and got to work.
He didn’t pretty it up.
Didn’t use baby words, or act like it was anything but what it was.
He showed Ro where to cut first. How to hold the body steady. How the hide needed easing more than sawing. How to separate the flesh from fur without ruining the meat if you could help it. He explained what to save time on and what not to rush unless you wanted to make a big mess of the whole damn thing.
All the while Ro watched.
Not green. Not gagging. Not flinching like he was watching gore. But his kind eyes did go glossy once or twice. So did Steve’s, honestly… because killing and cleaning innocent things for food never actually stopped feeling ugly, no matter how used to it he got. But Ro never pretended he liked it, and Steve never pretended he did either.
That maybe made it easier.
By the time they were skinning the rabbit, Ro asked questions.
Quiet ones.
“Why do you pull it like that?”
“So it doesn’t tear weird,” Steve answered softly.
Ro pointed. “This part good?”
“Yeah,” Steve smirked. “Good eye.”
Another little point from his shadow. “What about that?”
“Don’t nick that unless you want a smell you’ll never forgive.”
Ro made a face.
Steve snorted. “Exactly.”
The squirrel went faster.
The rabbit took longer.
Then came the fire.
That part somehow felt worse than the skinning. Maybe because fire meant smell. Meat meant reality. Hunger meant there wasn’t even room left for guilt that stayed clean and theoretical.
Ro used one of the matches before Steve could stop him. He struck it fast, brought it down to the little nest of dry material they’d built, then winced at Steve like he’d just committed a federal crime.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately. “I meant to ask.”
Steve stared at him.
Ro held the still-burning match in his fingers like he expected to be scolded.
“You apologized,” Steve said.
Ro blinked. “Uh-huh.”
“For using one match?”
Ro looked wary now. “Supplies matter.”
“They do.”
“I just—”
Steve held up a hand. “No, hang on... I’m still processing the fact that you apologized for one match while I was fully about to use one anyway.”
Ro’s face went pink.
And because this whole situation was apparently insane from every possible angle, Steve had to bite back a grin.
“Buddy,” he muttered warmly, “you can use a match.”
Ro seemed to deflate with relief.
“Okay.”
“Within reason,” Steve said mock-seriously.
Ro’s face went serious again too. “For sure.”
Steve fully grinned now. “I’m seriously messing with you.”
That finally earned a sheepish little sniff-laugh from Ro, who still stared up at Steve like he absolutely hung the entire galaxy.
They both cooked the meat carefully. Nothing fancy. Just enough. Turning it. Watching it. Letting the fire do its job, hating the smell less… once it changed from raw to cooked and edible.
Ro asked more questions there too.
How did you know it’s done?
Would it make you sick if it wasn’t?
Could you eat it burnt?
Why did the rabbit smell different than the squirrel?
How many squirrels would it take to make someone full?
…that last one made Steve pause.
He looked over.
Ro was asking it honestly.
Steve stared at the little strip of rabbit in his hand for a second, trying not to laugh at that inquiry, then back to the fire. “Depends who,” he finally answers with a sweetly amused glint in his eye.
Ro took that answer and sat with it.
When the meat was ready to go, Steve had them line the outer pouch of his backpack with broad leaves they gathered nearby — creating a makeshift buffer of sorts so that the meat wouldn’t just slime up the inside like a horror movie lunchbox.
His ally helped with that too.
Holding leaves.
Passing them over.
Packing the cooked cuts carefully.
Watching Steve redistribute the rest of his supplies deeper into the bigger, main pouch of his backpack.
The whole thing felt absurdly domestic.
Well, arena domestic, which meant every two minutes Steve had to stop and listen. And twice? He heard enough to make his whole body change.
It happened fast.
One second he’d be tying off a leaf bundle or crouching over the little dead fire pit, the next he’d go still as a blade and turn, bow in hand, arrow notched low but ready.
Ro never questioned it.
He just moved closer.
The second time, he ended up almost pressed to Steve’s side… his little fist caught in the sleeve of the windbreaker again while Steve scanned the trees with his jaw set and eyes sharp as broken glass.
Nothing came of it.
Some rustle.
Some branch complaint.
Some small movement in the underbrush that turned out to be nothing worth killing over.
Even so, Steve didn’t lower the bow until he was sure.
Ro stayed close until he did.
Something about that — something about the total trust of it… felt almost too big to look at directly. So Steve didn’t. He just touched the back of Ro’s head once, brief as a blink, and murmured, “We’re good,” before returning to their journey back to basecamp.
Later they hit the stream.
Ro led, of course.
He knew the way. He didn’t hesitate once, slipping through the woods with the confidence of somebody who’d already mapped out half the arena in his head and then asked it politely to make room. Steve fondly followed with the backpack over one shoulder, quiver of arrows over the other, knife at his hip, and watched the kid work while he held the bow at his side.
At the stream, Ro knelt first and refilled the water skin while Steve filled his water bottle. They drank. Steve splashed his face once and pushed back his damp hair — blinking the grit from his lashes. Ro watched like this somehow counted as strategy too.
“We’ll wash up properly tomorrow,” he said quietly, washing off his arms. “In the morning. See if the sun comes back out, lets us wash and dry our clothes too. Out on some rocks or tree limbs.”
Ro nodded, shaking his shoes and socks free of dirt before beginning to slip them back over his newly cleaned feet. “Okay, yeah.”
Steve smirked warmly. “C’mere.”
He was gesturing for Ro’s foot.
He curiously gave it, tilting his head.
Then his eyes went round with shyness and gratitude alike as Steve tugged up the hem of his t-shirt and carefully dried off both Ro’s wet little feet with it.
Ro swallowed, peeking up at him through his lashes.
“Thanks,” he breathed.
Steve winked, slipping his sock back on. “Got you, brother.”
That made Ro adorably beam to himself.
Brother?
Did Steve really consider him a brother?
At last, the two of them stood back up after washing off enough.
Then they headed back.
And coming back to the hut with daylight still on it (even dim daylight, flat and overcast) made Steve appreciate all over again…just how batshit impressive the whole thing was.
Ro had to actually point it out.
“It’s there,” he gestured.
Steve stood there squinting at what looked like nothing but root cluster and brush pile and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
Ro beamed a little. “Good, right?”
Steve gave him a look. “Good? Brilliant. And creepy. But in a useful way.”
That got the tiniest laugh out of Ro.
“Best kind, then.”
Steve snorted and ducked low to crawl inside.
Once they were in, the little place somehow already felt more like theirs than it had that morning. Not… safe exactly. That word still came with conditions. But lived in. Claimed. Shared. The arranged supplies. The scavenged food. The sleeping bag. The bow propped again. The little message on the ground now kicked just slightly out of its originally perfect shape from Steve moving around earlier…
U R SAFE
He tried not to look at it too long.
Tried and failed.
They ate there. Quietly, at first. For a few minutes, it was just the sound of chewing, little breaths in between, the occasional brush of fabric when one of them shifted. The cooked rabbit tasted like survival and not much else. The squirrel was gamier. Ro liked both, pretending not to be absolutely starving until Steve noticed the way he kept eyeing the pieces before taking them.
So Steve quietly made sure the better portions kept ending up closer to Ro’s side.
Ro started noticing that too, but he didn’t comment. He just looked at Steve once with those big dark eyes and then down again, like he was storing the moment somewhere private and enormous.
It was somewhere in the middle of eating that Steve finally asked, “Who’s still up.”
Ro licked a bit of grease from his thumb and answered immediately, because of course he knew. “Thresh,” he said first. “Tommy and Carol. Marvel. Jack and Hannah. Foxface. Syl.” Then he looked at Steve, adding with shy matter -of-factness, “You. Me. Wendy Bird.”
Steve’s mouth twitched.
“Wendy Bird.”
Ro nodded. “That’s Ren.”
“I gathered.”
“She’s the Wendy Bird,” Ro grinned. “Because you’re Pan.”
Steve smiled and shook his head like he was exhausted by the whole world and not secretly a little wrecked by it. “Cool.”
“She’s suuuuper pretty,” Ro quietly sang, all sly and cheeky.
That earned the cheekiest little eye roll in return from Steve, who didn’t even bother trying to wipe that smile off his face now. Maybe because it was real.
“Yeah,” he agreed softly, nodding down at his squirrel meat. “She really is.”
Ro gladly accepted that.
Then, while picking a tiny seed from a fold in his knapsack and popping it in his mouth, he got to mentioning the cornucopia.
At first it was just bits.
The Careers waking up.
Syl getting caught trying to steal.
Tommy and Marvel dragging her out…
…not killing her.
Steve’s brows rose a little at that. “They didn’t kill her?”
Ro shook his head. “Nope. Made her stay.”
“…stay.”
“Guard.”
Steve sat back slightly, one knee drawn up, a strip of rabbit gone forgotten in his hand. “They made her their bodyguard?”
Ro shrugged. “Kinda.”
And then he explained it as only Ro could.
The pacing. The shouting. The spear at Syl’s throat. Tommy stalking around all mean and snarly like he owned the sun. Marvel standing there like some big dumb scary statue with eyebrows. Syl freaking out and then not freaking out and then definitely freaking out again. Them pointing at stuff around the cornucopia like they were giving her the world’s worst tour. Handing her an apple. Untying her wrists. Giving her the riot act.
Steve listened to all of it with this increasingly crooked expression of his that hovered somewhere between disbelief and dark amusement.
“So now she’s just…” He gestured vaguely. “What. Their unpaid employee?”
Ro chewed thoughtfully. “Basically. They pay her in apples.”
“That sucks.”
Ro nodded. “Yeah.” Then, after a second: “She’s kinda mean, though.”
Steve looked over at him.
Ro shrugged. “Only nice to the little kids.”
That made Steve pause.
“Huh.”
“Well… some. She wasn’t mean to Hannah,” Ro clarified. “Just…didn’t talk to her. She grew up with brothers, so she kinda brushed her off.” He glanced at the pieces of meat still free, sighing quietly. “And Jack hated that.”
Something about the seriousness with which he said that almost got Steve.
He bit the inside of his cheek instead. “Got it,” he said. “Jack held a grudge. And a good one at that.”
Ro nodded solemnly. “Mhm.”
Honestly? That was enough for Steve.
Not because he wanted to write Syl off as expendable or anything noble and clean. Mostly because he already had too many people lodged under his ribs in this arena and the thought of adding one more half-unhinged girl from Five to the list made him want to chew glass.
Ro kept going.
The landmines.
The squirrel.
The boom.
That part made Steve’s whole face change.
“They planted mines…?”
“All around,” Ro confirmed, eyes widening again just at the memory while he recounted it. “They made Syl memorize all of them.”
Steve blinked, processing all of that.
Then Ro slyly grinned around his next bite. “We should set them all off, make them all go ka-boom.”
That one got a bark of dark laughter out of Steve before he could stop it.
It startled them both a little.
Ro immediately smiled bigger.
Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Not a bad idea.”
They grinned around their food.
And then the mood shifted a little.
A sound came from outside — not super close, not huge, just enough. Some odd scrape or far-off animal call made both of them go still.
Ro edged closer without thinking.
Steve automatically opened one hand for him.
His shadow took it, shuffling closer as Steve held his small hand between both of his palms while listening, bow within reach — shoulders going hard and alert for one long stretch before the woods settled again.
That was when Ro brought up the monster.
“There was somethin’ out there last night…”
Steve turned fully toward him.
Ro swallowed.
“…what do you mean?” Steve asked, voice low, already dreading this.
Ro sighed through his nose, shuffling just a few inches closer.
And then he described it.
Not well at first, because how the hell do you describe something you never physically saw and just barely survived hearing? So he started with sounds. Wet sounds. Dragging sounds. The kind of noises that made all of the leaves shake when it circled the hut. The scream that had made him hide his face in Steve’s back. The way he’d stayed still. The way it had been right outside.
Steve listened without interrupting.
That was maybe the scariest part of all…how little he moved while Ro talked, how his stillness got sharper and sharper until it was practically a weapon of guilt towards himself.
Inside, something in him went cold. Because this kid had clung to his back in the dark while some unknown thing circled them all night…and Steve had been dead to the world. Useless. Out cold. No help at all.
He did his best to keep all that off his face by force.
And when Ro finished recounting everything, he just sat there staring at the dirt between them for one beat too long.
“Hey,” Steve said quietly.
Ro’s eyes flicked up to his.
“You don’t gotta worry about that alone anymore.”
Ro didn’t say anything.
Steve squeezed his little hand once between both his big palms. “Whatever bullshit they throw at us in here? Whatever monsters or mutts or freakshow nightmare fuel they cook up next—we deal with it together now. Alright?”
Ro’s whole face softened with something almost painful in how pure it was.
He nodded hard. “Alright.”
Steve smiled a little then. Realer than before.
“Cool.”
That seemed to settle something in both of them.
Not the danger.
Not the fear.
Just the shape of it.
They finished eating after that.
When there was only one rabbit leg left, Steve held it out.
Ro immediately shook his head. “It’s okay.”
Steve looked at him, brow furrowing.
“I’m not that hungry,” Ro lied.
Steve gave him a flat stare.
Ro tried to hold it… but failed in about half a second.
Steve pushed the rabbit leg closer. “Brother.”
Ro went rosy-cheeked at the nickname and being caught.
His handsome ally’s mouth softened at one corner. “Take it.”
At last, the shadow did. And the second it was in his hands, he devoured it like a tiny feral king who had absolutely, definitely, very much been that hungry all along.
Steve watched him for a second with this sad, helpless little fondness pulling at his face. Then he shook his head and slung an arm around the kid’s small shoulders.
Ro leaned right into him without hesitation, still chewing.
The hut went quiet around them.
Outside, the arena kept breathing.
Leaves shifting.
Wind rubbing itself along the brush.
Far-off life making far-off sounds.
Inside, Steve sat with a little boy tucked under his arm and a whole ugly knot of worry twisting through him anyway — about you, somewhere out there in the woods. About Hannah and Jack, all alone in that cave unless you’d found them. About how many names were still up and how many wouldn’t stay that way for long.
He didn’t say any of it.
Just kept his arm where it was.
He kept Ro close while the kid finished the last of the rabbit.
And for one impossible little pocket of the day, beneath a crooked little dome of branches and camouflage and scavenged mercy… it almost felt like they had made a home out of something that was never meant to hold one.
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