gator x reader where gator lets out his anger on reader by accident because he had a bad day and she just completely shuts down and is quiet doing the dishes or just distancing herself from gator until gator hears her sniffles and he’s like wait are u cryin? and he just gets so soft and fluffy pulling her into his lap hiding her face in his neck/chest letting her cry and apologizing the entire time kissing her forehead. i love soft gator😫 he’s the softest cutie ever
bad day
wc: 2.5k
summary: Gators bad day comes home with him, but what happens when he lets it out on you?
cw: mean!gator, hurt/comfort, happy ending, fighting, silent treatment, crying, mention of long nails, soft!gator at the end, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: thank you so much for the request!! i know it's a little similar from a recent fic i posted but i didn't wanna leave you hanging and wait for time to pass to put it out! religious!r x gator out next!! enjoy<333
You could tell by Gators texts he sent to you earlier that today's been a bad one for him.
Apparently his dad humiliated him in front of the whole squad, calling him names and pushing him around. Which then became fair game for the rest of the guys to treat him like shit even ‘pretending’ to spill his burning coffee on his leg when he got away from his old mans torture.
Once he was finally sent out for a call, some small job that normally he’d fight to ditch but with how the day was playing out he took it with a sigh. Turns out pulling over a guy who's practically blacked out drunk could lead to getting a punch in the face. Nice and heavy, full fist ready for Gator. To then go back to the station to get ridiculed even more, a punching bag physically and metaphorically.
Safe to say Gator wishes today never happened. Wish that he could fight back, lay his hands on anyone near him. Gain back some type of control that was stripped away piece by piece throughout the long day. Anything would make him feel better than he did right now.
Which is where you are left now. Waiting patiently for your boyfriend to get home with his favorite meal in the oven. The second he said his day was bad you got started on it, knowing it wouldn't cure him but hopefully help. That’s kinda what you've learned within these past few months of dating Gator, you couldn't fix him completely despite your tried efforts, it was just helping him in whatever way he’d accept.
The front door opened and closed loudly, letting you know his mood hadn't smoothed out any. Heavy footsteps made their way towards you as you tried to offer with the softest smile you could.
“Hey baby, i’m making dinner it’s got about 4 more minutes till it’s done-”
“Jesus alright.” He mutters with a finger to his lips in a ‘shh’ pose. A small way to tell you to shut up.
His focus is closed on the fridge that holds what he’s been thinking about all day, a cold beer. The start to forgetting this day happened and helping his mood change. But once he closed it his vision suddenly opened up. Taking in the kitchen, what you’re doing, and how messy it looks.
“What’ve ya been doing all day, sittin’ around? Place looks like a fuckin pig sty. I tell you I have a bad day and you don't even bother tryin’ to help?”
“What? No– no it’s just messy because I made you your favorite and I..” Your words somehow get lost in your own throat. A small ‘doing the dishes’ on the tip of your tongue. Because if his eyes were working at all he’d see you with the cleaning gloves, latex wrapping around each finger ready to wash dirty plates and silverware.
“Man, you really are useless huh?” A scoff leaves his lips as he shakes his head. Like he can't believe what he’s witnessing.
Really you feel the exact same. Because what about what he’s seeing makes you look useless? The dishes in the sink from you cooking for him or the dish soap in your hand getting ready to clean them, maybe it’s the food that was already in the oven– not held to the last minute.
There were no words good enough in that moment to say back. A screaming match wouldn't help, trying to gently parent him certainly wouldn't help, all you can do is remain silent. Go back to the task at hand, try and pretend his eyes on you aren't the worst feeling ever. Act like he’s not even there. Regardless of his rude words that are still replaying in your head or ripping at your heart.
The loud alarm that goes off to tell you dinner is ready is what snaps you out of your dissociative state. Bringing you back down to a place you wish you could run away from. Gators bad day now finding it’s way to spread to you, getting all over your home like some bacteria.
You let him eat the food alone at the dining table. Finishing cleaning up the kitchen he threw a fit over before he has another. He doesn't object to it, eating in silence. When he finishes he brings the plate to you, gently sliding it into the sink as you keep your eyes on what you're washing. Knowing if you let yourself look up at him he’ll see the tears flooding your eyes, threatening to slide down your cheek.
“Was real good doll.” He says off hand as he grabs another beer closing the fridge door softer than the front door.
It was only once he left the kitchen that you let yourself break down. Slight sobs leaving your mouth as your hand rests on your chest, feeling your lungs breathe air in and out. You decide to leave his dish unwashed, a small grudge you can hold to feel like you could get back at him in some way. Then it’s your chance to eat, taking small bites as your lashes wetten from the thick tears.
You can hear Gator snap the beer open and turn on the tv. Watching some sport you can't really make out. He turns it up almost like he knows what he’s doing. Drowning out your small plea to see he’s hurt you. The act only stirs you on more, leaving your plate there on the table before rushing to your shared room.
Except you don't shut the door like he does, you don't let him know you're crying, he has no clue about your now bad night. A small part of you wants to trash what's his in retaliation, make some stance to show him you can't be talked to like that. Although you know it wouldn't lead anywhere good, nor would it help. If anything you’d die of guilt only after cleaning everything up.
That’s when you decided on the silent treatment.
Completely shutting yourself off to him, not giving into his actions or words. Certainly not trying to force him how he’s in the wrong. All you can hope is he uses the distance and silence to think about what he’s done. Your crying hasn't been so extreme that your eyes are unable to go back to normal. Maybe your eyes are a little red and bloodshot but not swollen, nothing else showing that you just had a quick breakdown because your boyfriend yelled at you.
Simply going out into the living room where he was sitting and sitting at the far end of the couch. Creating physical space between you two. You let yourself get comfy, grabbing a blanket to drape over you with a book you’re almost done with in your hand. It’s a normal thing for you to do, late night reading.
Sitting this far from Gator however, is not normal. And you can see his head turn slightly as you stay in your spot. Not bothering to get up and move towards him for cuddles. Which now that he’s calmed down a bit he could really use. Your soothing voice in his ear telling him he’s much better than what they did to him or having your long nails scratch his head that's been trapped under a hat all day. Even better getting an ice pack for the growing bruise on his face. He’s unsure of how it looks but since you didn't have a freak out seeing him he’ll take a guess that it’s not ER worthy.
The book you're reading is placed perfectly to where you can't see Gator's face and he can't see yours. It feels unfair to him that he is given this distance after the day he’s had. And after he updated you on everything, you should understand how he's feeling. That’s why he shyly grabs at your ankle, using his thumb to rub at your skin. A little something to say ‘hey im right here’, which you’re so painfully aware of.
Typically you’d swoon for this type of touch from him. Any touch that isn't asked for or a return of your first touch is a win in your book. But staying strong with your plan is more important than his half ass olive branch he’s trying to give you. So you pull your feet under the blanket, tucking the fabric under your legs so he couldn't touch them if he wanted.
“Come cuddle.” His tone shows he’s telling not asking but it comes out terribly soft.
Maybe it’s him asking and doing things he doesn't regularly do or it could be his tone but for some reason it breaks you completely. Lip wobbling and tears sliding down your temples to your ears from the position your laying.
Seeing his head try and poke up above your book to get a look at you has your eyes widened, knowing you've been caught. Which in turn makes you shove your wet face between the pages trying to hide. Between the sniffles you let out you can feel him scoot closer to you.
“Wait, are you cryin’?” His hands hold you by your knees and even give them a squeeze when you don't respond right away. “Cmere, lemme get ya.” He says pulling at the security blanket you were using, trying to get you out of the self made trap.
The words are so sweet and the way he needs to hold you is even sweeter, it’s why you break. Letting him remove the blanket from you, grabbing your hips to bring you closer to him. Within seconds your arms are wrapped around his neck, letting the tears land on his skin while your legs cross around his torso. Fully sitting on his lap attached like a koala.
His large hand rubs your back as he lets you cry it out. Never once telling you to stop or to calm down, just waiting for you to catch your breath and loosen your tight grip on his shirt. Your face is burning hot in his neck which doesn't help anyone cause he runs hot. You must be made for him because anyone else would push him away, searching for air instead of going without.
So despite your lack of calming down he still tries to go for it.
“I know I was an asshole, angel. I should've never said any of that nasty stuff to ya, ya deserve much better. ‘M real sorry, if I could take it back I promise I would.” A beat of silence passes as he waits for you to say something but you don't so he continues. “Shoulda never taken it out on ya, just let my day take over which isnt.. It ain't healthy and I know it. Gonna be better for you, swear.”
Gator can physically feel your wet skin unstick from his neck, salt bonding you to him from how long you stayed in that position. This was the first time he truly saw you face to face since he got home and man does he wish he could do this day again. Not to have a better day at work but to handle his feelings differently that doesn't end with him looking at your red and blotchy face.
Your whole body is hiccuping, trying so hard to swallow the sobs that you end up breathing deeper and deeper– making it hard to take a full steady breath. His thumbs try to brush away any tears but they only fall faster at the gentle motion.
“Breathe baby, in and out I wanna see it.” He whispers doing a small version of it himself, guiding you to start.
The frown on his face almost makes you feel even, he looks so distraught and scared. Regardless of your body clinging to him it looks like he knows this isn't some easy fix, that by the end of this he can't just take you to bed and kiss you goodnight. Although you listen to his words and copy him, trying to get a handle on your breaths and fanning yourself to get cooler. Gator pulls your shirt off from your sweaty back and fans it letting air hit you.
It takes a bit but you manage to get a hold of yourself. Cooling down and being able to get out a stable sentence. He’s still fanning you but pressing small kisses to your forehead after you take a good deep breath. Your hands scratched at your face, trying to get rid of any leftover tears coming out from his words. This time they were quieter, any energy long gone.
“‘M really sorry baby.” You feel a kiss from your forehead to your cheek. “I’m so so sorry.” Pressing another kiss to your cheek before moving to your other cheek.
“You were s-so mean.” Maybe not as stable as you thought but it actually hurts Gator even more so for now it’s okay.
“I was awful, you're right doll. I shouldn’t have done any o’that. Need to be better for you. ‘M not just saying it to say it either. Mean it, okay?”
“How do I know that you won't do that again?”
“You can trust me, know it don’t seem like it but ya can. Gonna prove it to ya.”
All you can do is nod, letting him know you’re hearing him out. Watching him as he lets a sigh out, tension in his shoulders slightly releasing. Showing you that this was a lot for him just as it was for you.
“I’m sorry you had such a bad day.” Your hands are back on his shoulders, but this time softly rubbing at his knotted muscles.
“I’m sorry that I took it out on you.” His lips graze a part of your arm that's closest to his face, laying kisses.
Taking his apology to heart you move your hands from his shoulder to his jaw, giving him a kiss that he reciprocates with ease. Probably the first thing all night that's come naturally to him. But he doesn't take it any further, leaving it at a kiss that in itself means he’s sorry.
“How bad does your face hurt?” You gesture to his bruises that are coming in. They’re more so under his eye spreading to his nose than anything.
“Hurting like a bitch.” A smile comes out as he says it, relieved to be back to somewhat a normal conversation.
“I’ll get meds if you wanna get ice?”
“Smart girl.” He gives you another quick kiss before helping you lift your legs from his sides. One leg moving off the couch as your hands use him to stay stable, getting your other leg out. You can feel the fuzzy feeling of them falling asleep but the quick walk to the bathroom to get meds should wake them up.
By the end of the night Gator had done the leftover dishes, apologized about 20 more times, and offered to sleep on the couch which you denied. There was no more energy in you to try to be sly or picky about anything. Just saying you needed him to sleep and that was that. In the morning your puffy face will haunt him and you’ll get another 15 sorries but his growing bruise will make you feel like you got the easy way out.
Unwanted Transaction - IX. Failsafe (Gator Tillman AU Series)
In a house built on power, money, and control, you are trapped in a world you never chose—forced into an arranged marriage with a man that begins to mean something to you.
And in that world, even loyalty can be lethal.
This is a story about obsession, power, and the quiet terror of wanting someone in a world designed to destroy you both.
Part VIII
Author’s note: Look… all I’m saying is I’M SORRY 😭 But the plot demanded it. Please forgive me.
Morning at the ranch unfolded with a hushed, almost reverent patience. The sun had only begun its slow climb over the horizon, stretching pale gold fingers across the dew-specked fields. Light spilled over weathered fences, seeping through the tall, narrow windows of Roy’s kitchen, illuminating the drifting motes of dust that danced lazily in the warm beams. Somewhere beyond the house, a horse shifted its weight, hooves tapping softly against the earth.
Inside, the air held a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional clink of ceramic or the soft scrape of fingertips against polished wood. Karen moved with careful deliberation around the kitchen island, her hands steady as she set two mugs on the table. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, dark and sharp, curled into the corners of the room—the kind Roy favored, black and unyielding.
Across from her, Artem sank into his chair, his broad shoulders relaxed but his eyes alert, carrying a subtle tension that contradicted the ease of his posture. One hand cupped the warm mug in front of him, yet he hadn’t yet touched the liquid, as if he were holding onto it for courage rather than comfort.
Roy’s gaze lingered on the glossy black surface of his coffee, silent for a moment, before he finally spoke.
“So,” he said, the single word carrying weight.
Artem met his eyes steadily. “So.”
Roy leaned back, the wood of the chair creaking softly under his shifting weight.
“My son,” he began slowly, voice low and measured, “and your daughter… decided to get creative yesterday.”
Karen’s hands stilled mid-wipe at the counter, hovering over a section of granite she’d polished to perfection, before she resumed, her movements smooth but slightly too precise.
Artem lifted his mug, tilting it to take a deliberate sip. “They’re young,” he said, a faint shrug in his tone.
Roy’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn’t fully arrive.
“That’s one word for it,” he muttered, letting the pause stretch between them.
Outside, the distant rumble of a truck rolled along the gravel road, fading gradually into the quiet of the morning.
Roy set his mug down with a soft clink, the sound echoing slightly in the still room, as if marking the fragile truce between patience and exasperation.
“Vows,” he continued, voice low, almost simmering. “In front of half the damn property.”
Artem finally leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the worn wood of the table, fingers lacing together for a moment.
“They wanted to make a point,” he said, calm, measured.
Roy’s eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing, locking onto Artem’s.
“Oh, I know exactly what they wanted,” he said, the edges of his tone taut with something unsaid.
Karen set the sugar bowl beside Roy’s mug with deliberate care, though he never touched it. Her hands hovered for a beat, careful not to jostle anything, the motion slowed as if she were walking on fragile glass.
Roy’s voice stayed smooth, almost conversational, but the steel beneath it cut through the morning stillness.
“They think if they say the words themselves, it changes the meaning. Makes them feel… above the arrangement.”
Artem shrugged, a faint lift of his shoulders that carried both acknowledgment and dismissal.
“Maybe to them it does.”
Roy studied him, letting the silence hang between them like heat over the pasture in July.
“You don’t seem particularly concerned,” he said finally.
“Oh, I’m concerned,” Artem replied, tone even. “Just not surprised.”
Roy leaned back again, chair groaning under the shift, folding one arm over the backrest.
“Your daughter… always been this dramatic?”
Karen’s response tumbled out before she could stop it.
“She’s not dramatic,” she said, voice steadier than her pulse.
The room dropped into a sudden, heavy stillness. Dust motes floated in the sunlight, but the air felt thicker, charged. Roy turned his head toward her—not sharply, not with a snap—but slowly, deliberately, every inch of the movement measured.
The look he gave her wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It didn’t explode.
It was worse.
It settled over her like a weight, quiet, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.
By now, both men understood that Karen had somehow taken a liking to you—that you had become precious to her, and especially to the twins—but that didn’t change one thing: she had no place wading into a conversation meant for men.
Karen felt her heart lurch violently against her ribs, a sudden, painful stumble that made her stomach tighten. Roy said nothing. He didn’t have to. The sheer weight of his gaze pressed down on her, shrinking the space around her, making the air feel thin and almost suffocating.
Her fingers clenched around the dish towel in her hands, knuckles whitening as though trying to anchor herself.
“I—” she began, voice small and brittle, faltering under the invisible pressure. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Roy held her gaze for a long, deliberate moment, silent but insistent, the kind of silence that spoke louder than words ever could. Then, with slow inevitability, he turned back to the table, leaving the unspoken reprimand lingering like dust in a sunbeam.
Karen exhaled shakily, retreating from the counter as if moving could dispel the weight pressing on her chest. She busied herself with the sink, running her hands over empty dishes, though there was nothing to wash—a ritual to mask the tremor of her nerves.
Artem watched the entire exchange in silence, his expression unreadable, shoulders steady, eyes calm but attentive.
After a pause that felt measured and deliberate, Roy lifted his mug again.
“As I was saying,” he continued, voice calm but edged with gravity, “they made their little performance.”
Artem’s eyes flicked briefly toward Karen, then returned to Roy, steady and patient.
“And?” he asked, voice even.
Roy brought the mug to his lips, drinking slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the words he was about to deliver.
“And rebellion has consequences.”
The statement hung in the air, heavy and deliberate, wrapping the room in a tense, almost tangible silence. Artem didn’t respond immediately. He merely held Roy’s gaze over the rim of his own mug, weighing each word, measuring the pause, letting the meaning settle between them.
“You’re talking about your son,” he said after a long pause, voice even but sharp enough to cut through the stillness.
Roy set his mug down with a soft, deliberate clink.
“I’m talking about order,” he replied, calm but edged with authority.
A faint breeze rattled the kitchen window, whispering through the room, stirring the dust motes that hung in the sunbeams. Karen kept her back turned to them, but she could feel the tension vibrating through the air, prickling her skin like static.
Artem leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed but deliberate, one hand brushing the rim of his mug.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, voice carrying a hint of wry amusement, “if we’d wanted obedient children, we probably should’ve raised different ones.”
Roy’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing briefly in a controlled display of irritation.
“That little stunt doesn’t change anything,” he said, tone flat but heavy.
Artem met his gaze steadily, unflinching.
“No,” he agreed.
A quiet pause stretched between them, thick and loaded, before Artem added under his breath, almost to himself, “But it does mean they’re willing to fight for it.”
Roy’s eyes darkened imperceptibly, a shadow passing across his expression.
“And that,” he said slowly, voice heavy with warning, “is exactly the problem.”
He lifted his mug again, studying the black surface of the coffee as though the answer might be hiding there, the steam curling upward in fragile, ghostlike tendrils.
“That little stunt doesn’t change anything,” he repeated, deliberately calm, like a taut wire straining but holding.
Artem shifted slightly, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, posture casual yet deliberate, a quiet counterpoint to Roy’s rigid focus.
“No,” he said, steady and calm. “It doesn’t.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence settled into the room, thick and weighty, stretching long enough that Karen almost convinced herself the conversation was finished.
Then Roy set his mug down again, slow, final, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet kitchen like a punctuation mark—and Karen knew the discussion was far from over.
“I’ll call Gator over this afternoon,” he said, voice calm but carrying a weight that made the words land like stones on water.
Karen’s hand froze mid-motion, the rag hovering above the counter. The scrape of fabric against granite paused, sharp in the sudden silence.
Artem’s gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly as he leaned forward.
“For what?”
Roy’s expression remained steady, almost casual, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed the true gravity of his intent.
“To put some sense back into him.”
The words were light, almost offhand—but the subtle tension in Roy’s posture made the meaning unmistakable. Karen felt a cold prickle run down her spine, tracing a line along her neck and settling in her stomach. She had lived in this house long enough to know exactly what Roy meant by “putting sense into someone.” It was never a discussion. It was a warning, a promise of consequences measured in more than words.
Artem studied him across the table, voice even, controlled.
“He’s your son,” he said.
Roy’s eyes lifted slowly, sharp and unwavering.
“Exactly.”
Karen forced herself to keep moving, to continue wiping the counter, but her hands had lost their steadiness. The dishcloth slipped slightly between her fingers, and her stomach knotted as she caught herself.
Roy noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
He didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, he addressed Artem, his tone deceptively casual.
“Boy’s forgetting where he stands,” Roy said, eyes narrowing as if the thought alone tightened the room’s air. “Forgetting what this arrangement actually is.”
Artem’s fingers tapped lightly against the side of his mug, deliberate and slow.
“And you think knocking the lesson into him will fix that?”
Roy finally glanced toward Karen. Just a flick of his eyes, a brief, almost imperceptible motion—but it was enough. The weight of that look pressed against her, warning her, reminding her of her place, and of exactly what Roy could do if provoked.
Karen’s stomach clenched like a fist, and she dropped her gaze to the counter, pretending to inspect a faint water spot. Her fingers brushed the smooth surface, but she barely registered the sensation.
Roy leaned back in his chair again, the wood creaking under his weight.
“He’s my responsibility,” he said, voice calm, precise, carrying a quiet authority. “I’ll deal with it.”
Karen swallowed, the motion tight in her throat. Her heart had begun a rapid, anxious rhythm, hammering against her ribs in a way she couldn’t entirely hide.
Before she could stop herself, words tumbled out, hesitant and small.
“Sir… maybe—”
Roy’s head turned. Slowly. Deliberately. That look, heavy and unyielding, fell over her like a shadow. Karen’s chest tightened sharply, and the rest of her sentence died in her throat, swallowed by the sudden weight of his attention.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The room seemed to shrink around her, every sunbeam and moted shaft of light holding its breath. Roy didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Karen felt her pulse skip under the pressure of his gaze, a staccato rhythm that made her fingers itch with tension.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, lowering her eyes.
Roy held her there for another suspended second, letting the quiet press against her, then shifted his attention back to Artem, as if nothing had happened.
Karen turned toward the sink, forcing her movements to seem casual, though her hands had begun to tremble. She busied herself with invisible dishes, pretending to scrub, though her nerves screamed with every gesture.
Across the table, Artem watched the exchange, calm and unhurried, his interest quiet but unmistakable.
“You know,” he said after a measured pause, “beating stubbornness out of a man doesn’t usually make him less stubborn.”
Roy’s mouth curved faintly, just enough to hint at the edge of a smile, but the steel in his eyes didn’t waver.
“We’ll see,” he replied, voice soft, deliberate, and full of promise.
*
You shouldn’t have been this far out.
Roy had made that clear weeks ago—after what you’d found. The edges of the property, where the dirt paths narrowed and the tree line behind the barns thickened like a wall of black. The places sunlight barely reached, where the air smelled damp and the shadows seemed to shift if you blinked. Off limits.
And yet here you were.
Then came the sound: soft, deliberate footsteps, cracking twigs under weight you didn’t recognize, echoing through the oppressive stillness of the woods. Your head snapped toward the darkness, heart hammering, senses flaring.
The forest seemed alive. The wind whispered through the trees like murmurs, the branches groaning under some unseen weight. Leaves rustled in patterns too precise to be natural, shadows stretched unnaturally, crawling along the gnarled trunks toward you. Every instinct screamed to run.
A shape moved between the trees, a slow, deliberate silhouette. At first, your mind tried to rationalize it—a ranch hand cutting across the property late. Safe, familiar.
Then the figure stepped into the weak spill of light from the yard.
Gator.
But not the Gator you knew.
His hair hung loose and damp against his forehead, sweat and wind tangling it into a messy halo. Dirt streaked his face—one jagged line dragging from cheekbone to jaw, smeared as if he’d wiped it with the back of his hand, making it worse. The faint light caught the curve of his jaw, the hollow under his cheekbone—but it was his eyes that made the blood drain from your face. Sharp, yes—but something coiled in them tonight. Predatory, waiting.
His shirt clung to him, darkened in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, the fabric streaked and mottled. And his hands…
Your stomach twisted violently.
Blood.
Dark, sticky, smeared across his knuckles and palms, catching the dim light in uneven, dreadful flashes.
“What the hell happened to you?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, rough and urgent. You stepped forward, though every muscle screamed at you to stop, to retreat into the fragile safety of the yard’s light.
He froze.
The forest seemed to pause with him. Leaves stopped rustling, wind ceased its whisper, even the distant crickets held their breath. The world had narrowed to him, chest rising slowly, the faint hiss of his breath sounding impossibly loud in the stillness.
His gaze locked on yours, and the air thickened, pressing against your skin, coiling around your limbs. Something alive and dangerous lurked in those eyes—something that didn’t belong, something waiting to strike.
A low dread settled in your bones. This wasn’t the Gator you knew. This was something else. Something hungry.
And it was watching you.
“Another job?” you pressed, voice sharper now, cutting through the thick, heavy air. “What did they make you do this time?”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but enough to make the shadow of one linger in the dim light.
“You always this curious?” His voice was rough, rasping from disuse, carrying the weight of things left unsaid.
You stepped closer anyway, anger pushing past the unease curling in your chest, the fear gnawing at your gut. Every instinct screamed caution, but you ignored it. “I’m serious, Gator. What did you do?”
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing as he studied you the way predators assess prey—calculating, patient, unsettling. Time seemed to stretch between you, the woods around you thickening, the branches whispering and creaking, shadows shifting like living things.
Then he shrugged one shoulder, a lazy, chilling motion.
“Why don’t you go look?” he said, voice quiet, almost casual, but heavy.
Your brow furrowed.
“What?”
He gestured vaguely with one bloody hand, the dim light catching streaks of dark crimson in uneven flashes, painting the forest like some macabre canvas.
“You did it before.”
The words landed between you, thick and oppressive. Anger surged, hot and sharp, crawling into your veins.
“Don’t do that,” you snapped, chest rising, hands trembling despite yourself. “Don’t stand there acting like this is normal.”
He laughed under his breath, a sound that twisted in the heavy air, scraping along the edges of the trees. Normal.
“That’s rich,” he muttered, eyes glinting with something dark, unspoken.
“You think this is a joke?” you shot back, gesturing toward his hands, toward the blood that smeared them like a warning. “You look like you just crawled out of a nightmare.”
His expression hardened, shadows crawling over his face with every flicker of light between the trees.
“And you look like someone who should mind her own damn business.”
The words hit like a slap, sharp and unyielding, echoing through the tension-choked air. The forest seemed to lean closer, branches pressing in as if eavesdropping, shadows curling around the two of you. Every heartbeat thudded in your ears; every step, every breath, felt measured, watched.
And all around, the woods waited—alive, patient, and hungry.
You took another careful step forward.
“My business?” you repeated, voice sharper, carrying through the thick, still night. “We’re both in this, remember? Or does that only matter when your father and mine want something from me?”
Something flickered across his face—a shadow, a twitch—but it vanished almost instantly.
You didn’t stop.
“You think I don’t see what’s happening around here?” you pressed, voice slicing through the air. “What you’re doing for them? What this place actually—”
“Careful.”
The word fell quietly, low, like a warning from some unseen presence in the trees.
You ignored it.
“You want me to be quiet about it?” you said, every syllable deliberate. “Fine. But don’t pretend this is just ranch work.”
His jaw tightened. The muscles flexed under the dim light, a barely contained force.
“Enough.”
But the anger that had been coiling inside you snapped free.
“If I wanted to,” you said, voice rising, almost shaking with the weight of it, “I could expose everything. The ranch, the jobs, the things you’ve—”
“(Y/N)—”
The crack of your hand against his face cut the sentence short.
You hadn’t planned it.
It just happened.
The sound echoed sharp, brittle, bouncing off the trees like gunfire in the heavy darkness.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze.
Gator didn’t move. Not really. His head had turned slightly from the impact, strands of damp hair falling across his eyes, hiding them from your view. Then he looked back at you. The shift in his expression was almost imperceptible—but it was there.
Something colder. Something restrained.
It radiated from him like ice, crawling along your nerves, sinking into your chest.
The woods leaned in closer, shadows thickening, branches scraping against one another like whispers of warning. The air around you tightened, pressing in, charged and alive. Every leaf seemed to tremble. Every rustle of wind sounded like a footstep.
Your pulse thundered in your ears, but it wasn’t your heartbeat you were hearing—it was the anticipation, the dread that had settled between you and him, heavy and unrelenting.
You felt it immediately: the balance had shifted. The night had grown sharper. And Gator—he was no longer just standing there. He was waiting.
“You done?” he asked quietly.
The calm in his voice made your stomach twist. A weight settled in your chest, heavy and cold, and your knees felt suddenly too weak to hold you.
You stepped back without meaning to, as if the ground itself were pushing you away.
“I meant what I said,” you forced out, voice thin and shaking. “If I talk—”
His shoulders stiffened, rigid but controlled. Not aggression—something far worse. Like a predator keeping a leash taut, waiting for the right moment.
“You should stop,” he said.
Then you saw it. The effort it was taking just to stay still—the muscles coiled under his skin, the slight twitch of tension in his hands. The space between you felt suddenly too small, too dangerous, as if the shadows themselves had contracted around him.
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. You took another step back.
He moved too. Just one step. Slow. Deliberate. Not rushing. Not threatening. Yet somehow, that single measured step made the air grow thicker, heavier.
Your pulse spiked.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said, low, calm—but you didn’t wait to respond. You were already backing away, desperate to put space between you and the darkness radiating from him.
Your heel caught the edge of the dirt path. You stumbled, heart hammering, breath ragged, but managed to right yourself—
—and then you ran.
The yard blurred beneath your feet as you sprinted toward the darker stretch of trees. The branches clawed at the edges of the moonlight, shadows stretching long and jagged, reaching for you like they had a mind of their own. Every footfall sent shards of sound bouncing off trunks and underbrush. Your own heartbeat roared in your ears, a drum of fear.
Behind you, for a moment, there was nothing. No shout. No chase. Just silence.
Then—you heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Unhurried.
Walking.
Not chasing. Not panicked. But coming.
The forest seemed to shift around you, leaning in with the weight of it. The wind whispered through the leaves, branches scraping like fingernails across dry wood. Shadows pooled and rippled, stretching farther than they should, hiding shapes just out of sight.
Your lungs burned, your legs pumped, but you knew, deep down, you weren’t running from him. You were running through the forest itself, and it had awakened.
And whatever waited behind you was patient.
You risked a glance over your shoulder.
He was following you.
Just walking.
Like he had all the time in the world.
The realization ignited panic in your chest, a white-hot flare that made your lungs tighten and your legs tremble. You pushed yourself faster, forcing your way toward the narrow path cutting between the trees. Branches whipped at your arms, snagging at hair and clothes, clawing at skin as if the forest itself resented your intrusion.
The ranch looked different at night. Everything shifted. Paths twisted where you remembered them straight. Shadows pooled and deepened, crawling across the ground like living things. Every direction looked wrong, alien. Every familiar landmark warped into something you couldn’t trust.
Behind you, the footsteps never quickened. They didn’t need to.
He knew these woods. Every trail, every hidden clearing, every dead end memorized in his mind like the lines of a map no one else could read.
Your breathing grew ragged, hot and panicked in your throat. Your heart pounded so violently it felt as if it might burst your ribs.
And somewhere behind you—closer now—Gator kept walking.
Slow. Relentless. Patient. Like a hunter who already knew exactly how this hunt would end.
Branches whipped against your arms, and the ground dissolved beneath your feet into uneven dirt, roots that snatched at your shoes, forcing you to stumble, to lunge forward, to claw your way deeper between the trees. The ranch behind you faded into distant shadows until the only sounds left were your own ragged breaths and the thundering pulse in your ears.
You told yourself to keep going. Keep going. Don’t stop.
But the woods had awakened.
It swallowed direction.
Left and right blurred together. Trunks loomed, gnarled and black, pressing close, narrowing the path. Every shadow seemed to twitch, every rustle of leaves a whisper of threat. The path you thought you knew curved in ways you didn’t remember. You tried to trust your instincts, but the forest refused to cooperate.
The darkness pressed closer, thick and heavy, curling around your shoulders, hiding things you didn’t want to see. The trees weren’t just trees—they were walls, claws, teeth. Alive. Watching. Waiting.
And behind you, steady and patient, Gator walked on.
Behind you, the footsteps stayed steady.
Not rushing.
Never rushing.
Crunch.
Pause.
Crunch.
The sound drifted through the trees like a warning, a reminder that he wasn’t trying to catch you quickly. He was letting the fear do the work.
Your lungs burned. The air was thin and sharp in your chest, tasting metallic and bitter. Your legs felt like lead beneath you, trembling with each step, muscles screaming for relief.
You stumbled over a root, nearly pitching forward, and caught yourself against the rough bark of a tree. Splinters dug into your palms. Heart hammering, you risked a glance behind you.
The shape in the shadows was closer now. Too close.
Your chest slammed with a blind, panicked force.
“Gator!” The name tore out of you before you could stop it. “Stop!”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to. He just kept walking.
Your breath came in jagged bursts as you forced your legs to obey, pushing forward even as a hollow weakness crept up from your core, the kind that comes when adrenaline begins to fade but terror refuses to let go.
Without realizing it, you broke into a small clearing. Moonlight spilled across the ground in a thin, pale silver wash, illuminating the uneven dirt, the tangle of roots, the trees like silent sentinels.
For a heartbeat, you thought maybe you’d lost him.
The woods behind you stood still. Silent. Empty.
Hope flickered—thin, desperate.
Then a branch snapped somewhere to your right.
Your head whipped around instinctively.
He stepped out from between the trees.
Closer than you expected. Closer than he should be.
Your breath caught in your throat.
In the moonlight, he looked different. The dirt on his face was darker now, streaked and raw. His hands glinted with dark, unmistakable stains. His chest rose slowly, methodically, as he studied you—not with explosive anger, but something colder, something contained.
Controlled.
Measured.
Like he was watching something inevitable unfold, and you were powerless to stop it.
The clearing itself seemed to shrink. Shadows stretched toward you, wrapping around your legs, the trees leaning in as if the forest itself had taken notice. Every leaf, every branch, every rustle in the underbrush became a whisper of menace.
And there he was. Patient. Waiting.
A predator who knew exactly how this night would end.
“You’re tired,” he said.
Your chest heaved, lungs screaming as you instinctively stepped back.
“Don’t come closer.”
The words shook from your throat, thin and unsteady despite your effort to steady them.
He tilted his head, just slightly, like he was weighing your request. Then, deliberately, he took a step forward anyway.
“You shouldn’t have run.”
Your foot stumbled back. For a heartbeat, your heel hit nothing but air before you caught yourself on uneven dirt. Roots snagged at your shoes, branches clawed at your arms. The clearing seemed smaller now, suffocating, the moonlight slanting through the trees in jagged, skeletal fingers.
“You’re scaring me,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
Something flickered in his eyes. Something conflicted, almost human—but it didn’t stop him.
“You were already scared,” he said quietly, almost gently.
The trees pressed closer, shadows pooling at your ankles, winding around your legs, reaching. The clearing no longer felt open—it felt like a cage, every step a measured trap.
You turned to run, heart hammering, lungs burning—
—and collided with him.
You hadn’t even heard him close the distance. One second he was several steps away. The next, his hand caught your wrist before you could pull back.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp.
His grip wasn’t crushing—but it was firm. Immovable. Certain.
Panic flared through you like fire, the reality of how easily he had caught you sinking deep into your chest. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of damp earth and the whisper of branches. The forest leaned closer, alive and watchful, every shadow a silent witness.
You tried to pull free, but the world had narrowed to him and the weight of inevitability coiling around you, and for the first time, you felt how truly alone you were.
The clearing had vanished. The night had swallowed space and time. And he was there—steady, patient, unyielding—as the woods waited with him.
“Let go!”
Your other hand lashes against his chest, pushing, scrambling, but he barely shifts.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, carrying a weight that makes your pulse hammer in your ears.
You twist against his hold, heart slamming against your ribs. “I said let go!”
He tightens his grip just enough to stop you, pulling you a half step closer before you can react. The sudden proximity steals your breath, a sharp hitch that lodges in your throat.
“Do you have any idea,” he says softly, words curling around you like ice, “how easy that was?”
A cold shiver slides down your spine. You freeze—not because he forced you, but because you know he’s right.
His eyes linger on your face, watching the realization settle there. His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but one that feels like it carries more than he intends.
“I didn’t run,” he continues, voice quiet, measured. “I didn’t have to.”
The words wrap around the clearing, thick and suffocating. Silence stretches between you, a living thing that presses against your chest, the shadows of the trees leaning closer as if the forest itself is holding its breath.
His gaze searches yours, slow, patient, unyielding. Every branch seems to stretch and twist, every rustle of leaves echoing like whispers of warning.
“You threaten to expose everything,” he says finally, voice lower now, deliberate. “You slap me. You run.”
His grip loosens slightly, just enough to remind you it’s still there—but he doesn’t release you.
“And you still think you’re the one in control here.”
The words land like stones in your chest, heavy, immovable. Your heart hammers painfully, each beat echoing against the stillness of the night.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The moonlight slants through the trees, pale and brittle, catching dust and mist in the air. The forest feels alive around you—every shadow shifting, every branch seeming to lean closer, pressing in, listening.
He exhales slowly, the sound low and almost human, yet edged with something you can’t name. Something uneasy flickers behind the fire in his gaze.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
The words should feel reassuring. They should. But in the quiet of the clearing, with his bloodstained hands still wrapped around your wrist, they do not.
Because the way he’s looking at you now suggests something else entirely.
Not just anger.
Not just fear.
Something darker.
The terrifying possibility that, if the night had tilted even slightly differently—if one moment had gone another way—he might have.
And the forest around you seems to know it. Shadows curl, branches scrape, and the air itself feels alive with the weight of it, pressing, tightening, watching.
You jerk awake, heart hammering in your chest, lungs burning as if you’d been sprinting through the dark, twisted woods yourself. The dream doesn’t fade—it lingers, clinging to your skin, pressing into the ache of your chest, the memory of those bloodied hands, the weight of inevitability in his gaze. You swallow hard, forcing the words into yourself: it’s over, it was just a dream. But your pulse refuses to obey, thundering in your ears, dragging your thoughts back into the shadowed forest you just left behind.
A shadow shifts beside you. A hand lands lightly on your shoulder.
“Hey,” Gator’s voice is low, careful, measured. “Breathe. You’re okay.”
You flinch, twisting against him instinctively, but he doesn’t tighten. He stays close, steady, unhurried. His other hand brushes damp strands of hair back from your forehead, gentle, grounding. “I’ve got you.”
You blink through the remnants of the nightmare, chest heaving, throat tight. “It… it felt so real,” you whisper, voice raw and trembling.
“I know,” he murmurs. His forehead rests briefly against yours, the warmth of him solid, grounding, pulling you back to the real world. “But you’re awake. You’re safe. Right here. No one’s coming to hurt you.”
Your hands clutch the sheets, trembling, knuckles white. He shifts slightly, draping an arm over your shoulder, letting you lean into him. The steady thrum of his pulse presses against your ribs, and slowly—shakily—your breathing begins to even out. The darkness loosens, receding like smoke curling at the edges of your mind, though the memory lingers, faint but sharp. Somehow, your mind twisted your deepest fears into something tangible, and for a heartbeat, it feels like Gator has felt that fear with you.
You let out a long exhale, trembling through it, finally beginning to release the tension.
You tilt your head, eyes wide, still scanning the shadows of your bedroom. “I… I don’t know how to feel.”
“That’s… normal,” he says quietly, almost a murmur, thumb stroking lightly along your arm, anchoring you to the present. “It’s over now.”
The tension in your body begins to dissolve, muscles unclenching, shoulders dropping as though gravity itself has softened. You finally let yourself sink fully against him, surrendering to the steadiness of his presence. Silence settles around you—heavy, but safe—while outside, the morning continues, quiet and indifferent, and for the first time since the dream began, you feel like it really is over.
Then his voice drops, low and steady, but threaded with an edge that pulls your attention fully back.
“Roy called.”
Your stomach twists into a tight knot.
“What?”
“He wants me at the ranch,” Gator says, eyes locking onto yours. “Said we need to talk.”
A shiver runs through you, cold and sharp, the lingering echoes of the nightmare paling in comparison to this—this is real. Your chest tightens, breath catching.
“Talk?” you murmur, voice small, uncertain. Your mind races, leaping from your vows to the worst-case scenarios, each one darker than the last.
He shifts closer, keeping you pressed against him, warmth a fragile shield against the chill creeping through your bones. “I’ll handle it,” he says quietly, deliberately, as if he can carry the weight for both of you. “But I wanted you to know.”
Your pulse spikes again—not from the dream entirely, but from the looming reality. The calm, the quiet safety of this moment, feels fragile, borrowed, like it could shatter at any second.
By the time Gator rides up the long, winding drive, the engine of his truck cuts through the morning silence like a blade. Roy’s call had been curt, unyielding: “Get over to the ranch. We need to have a talk.” No room for discussion. No nuance. Gator knew exactly what that meant, as well as you did—that your small act of rebellion would not go unnoticed by either of your fathers.
He had only wished he didn’t have to leave you alone at the lake house after the nightmare, when all you needed was comfort, not absence. He didn’t know the exact shape of your fear, only that it had been real—sweat on your skin, your rapid breaths, the way your hands had trembled. That was enough.
The ranch greeted him with deceptive calm. Barns stood silent, their weathered wood glowing faintly in the morning light. Horses pawed softly in the paddocks, ears flicking, nostrils twitching at the scent of hay and earth carried on the wind. But beneath it all, a presence lingered—the invisible weight of Roy’s gaze, felt long before he even stepped inside.
Gator’s boots crunched against the gravel, sharp in the stillness, each step measured. The house loomed ahead, empty of its usual warmth. No Karen, no twins bustling in the kitchen. The silence inside swallowed him as he pushed the door open. The air was cool, almost unnaturally so, a contrast to the sun-warmed morning outside. He took another step in, senses sharpened, feeling the tension coil through the house, waiting, patient, as though it had been holding its breath for him.
Every movement, every creak of floorboard, felt magnified, like the house itself was listening. And somewhere deep in his chest, Gator knew: whatever conversation awaited him, the calm he’d glimpsed outside was a thin veneer. The storm was already here.
“Gator.”
The sound of his name cuts through the morning air like a whip. Demanding. Commanding. Unmistakably powerful. Gator’s muscles tense before he even dares to turn. Not “son,” not a nickname—just his name. Raw, precise, absolute.
Roy stands a few steps behind him, immovable, eyes narrowed, face unreadable beneath the harsh morning light. Every line of him radiates control, authority, and expectation.
Gator’s jaw ticks. He turns slowly, forcing his expression neutral, though every fiber of his body knows it’s a lie. His father’s gaze is sharp, surgical, dissecting, reading him the way a hawk measures prey.
“Yeah?” he grunts finally, voice rough, trying to anchor it steady. But it comes out thin, too high—childlike in a way that makes him flinch inwardly. Years of muscle and skill, honed reflexes, mean nothing here. Roy can still make him feel small.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until Roy moves. Deliberately. Slowly. His hand dips into his pocket.
Gator freezes.
A single bullet appears between Roy’s fingers.
It’s his bullet—the one from his own gun, the one he engraved, the one he carries ready for a moment exactly like this.
Roy rolls it between his fingers with casual precision, calm as a predator circling its prey, before his voice cuts through the silence, low and dangerous.
“You forget things when you’re distracted.”
The accusation hangs in the air, unspoken yet heavier than words. Gator’s blood turns ice in his veins.
His heart hammers in his chest, deafening, as the implications of that single bullet sink in. He had been careless. Too comfortable. Too distracted. Too foolish to account for the consequences. And now, staring at the weapon he knows all too well, the weight of that recklessness presses down on him like a fist.
Gator clenches his fists, forcing down the anger, forcing down the panic, the adrenaline. His voice comes out gravelly, raw. “What of it?”
Roy rolls the bullet once more, deliberately, letting the cold metal scrape between his fingers. Then, almost reluctantly, he tucks it back into his pocket. His eyes never leave Gator’s—cold, calculating, assessing every flicker of emotion.
“You tell me.”
The challenge lingers between them, heavy, suffocating, electric. No further explanation is necessary. Gator knows exactly what it means.
Distractions have consequences.
And Roy will make sure he never forgets.
Gator’s jaw clenches, teeth pressing tight, a silent shield against the storm in front of him. He refuses to give Roy the satisfaction of a visible reaction. But deep down, a spark of frustration gnaws at him—the truth he can’t swallow: his father still wields this power, still makes him feel small, no matter the years or the skills he’s built.
The room seems to shrink around them. Silence stretches long and heavy, charged like static, thick with unspoken threats. Every breath feels measured, every heartbeat amplified, echoing in the space between them.
Gator forces himself to look away, breaking the staring contest. It’s useless to argue with Roy, he knows that well enough, but defiance is a small, bitter victory he can still claim.
He scoffs, a dry, bitter sound that slices through the quiet like a knife.
“And? Do you want me to say sorry?”
Roy exhales sharply, a sound that almost hints at a laugh—but it’s hollow, cold, devoid of warmth.
“You misunderstand,” he murmurs, stepping closer, the movement slow and deliberate. Close enough that Gator can smell the sharp tang of his cologne, see the veins pulsing at his temple, the tight control in his expression.
“I don’t need your apologies.” A pause. A cruel, measured smile. “I want your obedience.”
The words settle over Gator like a leaden weight, suffocating, absolute. He knows. He knows that Roy never asks twice. The silence that follows is a hammer poised to fall.
Gator swallows hard, throat dry. He’s not sure which cuts deeper: the sharp edge of his father’s anger or the cold, relentless sting of disappointment.
Roy doesn’t speak again. He reaches once more into his pocket slowly, deliberately. His fingers emerge clutching a thick leather strap, heavy, worn, the kind that doesn’t snap but leaves a lesson burned into memory. Gator’s stomach twists.
“You think your little stunt with the vows went unnoticed?” Roy’s voice is low, deliberate, every word measured, deliberate. “You think defiance has no cost?”
Gator keeps his gaze forward, jaw tight, chest rigid. He knows the answer. Knows exactly what’s coming. And yet, despite the dread coiling in his gut, he doesn’t flinch. He can only brace himself for the consequences he already understands.
“Down.”
Roy’s voice cut through the quiet, low and measured, almost deceptively soft. Gator’s jaw clenched instinctively before he swallowed hard. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to his knees, gaze fixed on a point just beyond Roy, unwilling to meet it.
The first strike landed across his shoulders, sharp and precise, reverberating through muscle and bone. Gator flinched, a twitch in his shoulder, but no sound escaped him. The second followed almost immediately, then another, each blow controlled, each one a reminder of limits, obedience, consequences.
“You think you can just ignore the rules? Disrespect the process? Disrespect me?” Roy’s voice cut through the rhythm of the strikes, steady and relentless, like a metronome marking each failure. “I don’t tolerate mistakes.”
Gator gritted his teeth, muscles coiling to absorb the punishment. He had known this was coming—he had anticipated the consequence—but anger flared inside him anyway. Not at Roy—never at Roy—but at himself, at the recklessness that had led him here, at the foolishness of testing boundaries that were never his to touch.
The strikes didn’t relent. Each one landed with surgical precision, driving lessons into flesh and memory alike. Between them, Roy’s voice pierced the tension:
“Vows aren’t words on paper, Gator. They’re contracts. They’re loyalty. And when you break them—even in a small way—you break trust. That’s something you can’t fix with excuses.”
Gator’s back burned, arms taut as steel, every nerve alight with pain, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t resist. He understood. Physical punishment could be endured—muscle could recover—but betrayal, breaking trust, that was a wound of a different kind. One that festered if left untreated.
Even as the strikes landed, echoing sharp against his shoulders, Gator’s mind drifted back—unsummoned, relentless. He could feel the weight of the strap, the sting of leather pressing into muscle, and with it came memories of other nights. Nights when he was smaller, younger, barely able to understand the rules but already learning their cost.
He remembered the first time Roy had taken him to the barn after a mistake he didn’t even fully comprehend. The cold air of the hayloft, the scent of straw mixing with sweat and tension, the way Roy’s eyes had drilled into him as if he were nothing more than a shadow to be shaped. The lesson had been the same then—pain exacted with precision, words sharp as the strap, imprinting obedience into his muscles, his mind, his very soul.
Another memory surfaced: a broken fence post he had ignored, thinking it trivial. The strap had found him across the back again, every strike accompanied by the same calm, lethal words: You test limits at your own cost. You betray trust, you pay. He could still feel the sting along his spine, the cold weight of disappointment heavier than the leather, heavier than the pain itself.
And now, here he was, older, stronger, more skilled—yet the lessons carried through time, unshakable. Pain still burned the same, obedience still demanded, and Roy’s gaze still cut sharper than any strap. Gator clenched his fists, the muscles in his back coiling against the blows, and for a moment he allowed himself the bitter truth: no matter how many years passed, no matter how much he had grown, he would never be free of this weight. Roy’s lessons had become part of him—an indelible mark he carried in muscle, memory, and bone.
When the final strike landed, and Roy lowered the strap, Gator inhaled shakily. The physical pain would fade. The burn in his shoulders would dull. But the lessons—the obligation, the loyalty, the cost of missteps—those would stay. Always. He could endure, he could survive, but the echo of every punishment he’d ever received whispered in his bones, a reminder that Roy’s control had always been absolute.
Finally, Roy stopped. The strap lowered slowly, deliberately, as if giving Gator a moment to breathe in the silence between them. Sweat clung to his brow, muscles trembled, and every inch of his back throbbed with the memory of the strikes. Yet his eyes met Roy’s as he stepped in front of him, unflinching, steady.
And in that moment, kneeling in the quiet aftermath, Gator realized the truth he had never liked to admit: obedience wasn’t just demanded. It was forged—again and again, strike by strike, lesson by lesson—into a part of him that would never fully belong to anyone else.
“You understand now?” Roy’s voice was quieter now, almost conversational, but steel ran through every word. “I don’t want to see this happen again. Not with me. Not with them.”
“Yes, sir,” Gator replied, voice steady even as his body betrayed him with shudders and lingering heat.
Roy let the strap hang loosely now, just inches from Gator’s shoulder, a silent threat held in wait. “Good. If you pull a stunt like that again… next time, it won’t be lessons.”
Gator swallowed hard, every fiber of his body still trembling. The sting in his shoulders and back was temporary, but the lesson—the weight of those words, those strikes—pressed into him with a permanence that burned deeper than any physical mark. Keeping the vows wasn’t just about promises. It was about responsibility. About protection. About survival. And he would carry that truth with him, every moment, every breath, from this day forward.
Gator’s mind drifted, unbidden. Pain and memory intertwined, the present colliding with years of history. He could still feel the sting of every lesson Roy had ever handed down, each one a reminder that mistakes were never tolerated, that loyalty was demanded and anything else carried a cost.
And beneath it all, a quieter, more insidious truth pressed itself into his chest: he had never been enough for Roy. Not the way the twins were. Not the way Karen’s little girls—Grace and Lily—were. He remembered watching them, warm and bright and unconditionally loved, their father’s pride radiating in a way he had never felt directed toward him. He had trained, fought, survived, and endured every punishment, every calculated lesson—and still, he had always been a tool. A measure of obedience. A son who could be shaped, corrected, and probably discarded if the need arose.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight against the ache in his chest. Every strike reminded him of it: he had never been the one Roy loved, never the one he had protected, never the one whose missteps could be forgiven without consequence. And yet he had stayed. He had followed. He had tried. Every scar in muscle and memory was a testament to that.
“You should’ve run with Nadine,” you finally say, voice low, steady, more a statement than a question.
The words hit him like a physical strike. Gator flinches, almost violently, the sudden movement jerking you with him. His fingers loosen on your skin, trembling like they can’t hold on anymore.
He clenches his jaw at the memory, the muscles tightening hard beneath his skin.
Why them? he thought bitterly. Why Grace and Lily, innocent and small, and not me?
Perhaps it wasn’t fairness at all—perhaps he was always meant to feel the weight, to learn obedience, to be a cautionary tale, a reminder of limits. And if he could bear that, if he could survive that, what would it matter if loyalty demanded more of him than anyone else?
The realization struck him sharply, mingling with the sting of leather: maybe this had always been the truth. He had never been Roy’s heart, never his cherished child. He had only ever been his instrument. And like every instrument, one day he might be broken, replaced, or discarded when the need arose.
Even kneeling, sweat running down his temples, body trembling from punishment, Gator understood something he had never admitted before: surviving Roy’s lessons had never been about earning love. It had been about surviving a man who had never intended to give it.
And that understanding—that harsh, bitter knowledge—would linger long after the sting faded.
**
The lake house was unnervingly quiet with only yourself here, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes every creak of the floorboards feel louder than it should. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, stretching shadows across the room like fingers reaching for you, elongating it beyond its actual size. You had been pacing for what felt like hours, waiting for Gator to return from the ranch. His truck should have been pulling up any minute, the familiar rumble breaking the silence—but still… nothing.
Boredom gnawed at you, sharp and restless. Nothing seemed capable of holding your attention. With a long, frustrated sigh, you got up from the couch, turning off the TV, the sudden silence even more oppressive. Since this lake house belonged to Artem, you decided to occupy yourself by exploring the corners of the property you hadn’t examined yet: the basement, the attic, the small west-side office, the library, hell, even the garage. Each space was stacked with the detritus of years, boxes and piles of paper abandoned like forgotten memories.
You rifled through them, running your hands over old land acquisitions, contracts, and documents that smelled faintly of dust and varnish. Nothing of immediate interest surfaced. Still, your curiosity propelled you forward. What were you looking for?
Evidence of the ranch’s operations?
Clues about your mother?
Answers to questions you didn’t fully know how to ask yet?
You didn’t realize it until you found it.
Hours passed like minutes. Artem had a compulsive habit—everything meticulously preserved on paper. Old paranoia, old routine—but it was exactly that habit that led you to it.
A sealed envelope, tucked away between stacks of documents. Blank except for a single word scrawled in block handwriting—bold, deliberate, unfamiliar. Not Artem’s.
Failsafe.
Your stomach twisted. A warning. You knew instinctively you shouldn’t open it.
But the envelope wasn’t tightly sealed—only folded shut, fragile, as if daring you. Fingers trembling, you slid the paper free before your mind could fully protest.
Inside, a document waited. Typed, rigid, clinical. Every line precise. Structured. Impersonal. The kind of document meant to record, to control, to measure—and maybe to judge.
Your pulse quickened. You had crossed a line, and somewhere in the shadows of the house, it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what you would do next.
The title glares up at you in stark, typed letters:
Contingency Structure — Tier Three Liability Containment
You frown, unease prickling at the edges of your mind. Most of it reads like dry, impenetrable legal strategy: financial channels, distribution chains, corporate shields, bureaucratic contingencies. Words meant to control, to anticipate every possible problem—but not meant for human eyes in the way you’re reading them now.
Then, halfway down the page, your breath catches.
A section header, simple, cold, deliberate:
Primary Absorption Asset
Beneath it, your stomach twists.
Gator Tillman
Your eyes jump across line after line, scanning faster than your brain can keep pace. Each phrase hits sharper than the last, precise, impersonal, merciless:
..........If federal pressure escalates beyond controllable thresholds, asset will assume operational visibility.......... Asset involvement provides credible prosecutorial focus..........Family structure remains insulated from higher chain accountability..........
Your mind tries to digest it, and fails. It’s clinical. Cold. Like a blueprint for human sacrifice, stripped of emotion, written in the language of power and calculation.
Then you see it. The line that burns into your bones, freezes your hands on the paper:
In the event of collapse, Gator Tillman becomes the designated point of sacrifice.
The word is there. Sacrifice.
Your chest tightens. Your heart hammers in your ears. Louder. Faster.
You turn the page almost without thinking. At the bottom, signatures stare back at you with grim finality:
Roy Tillman
Artem Devora
And a date.
Years ago.
Before you ever set foot on the ranch.
Before you and Gator finished high school.
Before he had even been aware of his father’s shadowed operations.
A chill runs through you. The words aren’t just history—they’re prophecy. And somehow, horrifyingly, inevitability.
You shove the document back into the envelope, your fingers trembling as if even touching it has left a faint burn along your skin. You slide it carefully into the box where it belongs, pressing down on the lid until it snaps closed. The sound echoes in the stillness, sharper than you expect.
Your hands won’t stop shaking. Your chest feels impossibly tight, like a fist is wrapped around your ribs, squeezing, suffocating. Too tight.
Because the thought you can’t push away is jagged and insistent:
Gator doesn’t know.
He can’t know.
Not with the way he talks about Roy. Not with the loyalty still etched into every word, every motion, every muscle when he defends him. Every time he says something like, “My father’s got this.”
If he knew—really knew—he wouldn’t still be standing there, following, trusting, moving like a son who believes in his father’s protection. He wouldn’t still be alive.
You step out of the library slowly, each footfall deliberate, as if moving too fast might tear the fragile quiet apart. The hallway stretches before you, unnaturally long, shadows pooling along the walls like liquid, pressing close, whispering reminders of all the secrets you’ve just unearthed.
Your mind replays every moment you’ve watched Roy send Gator into danger. Every mission, every subtle smirk, every reassuring word. Every time Roy said:
“My boy can handle it.”
Your stomach twists violently. The words don’t sound like pride anymore. Not preparation.
Not protection.
They sound like design. Calculated. Predetermined.
You let out a shaky, uneven breath. The kind that rattles through your chest and leaves the back of your throat raw.
Because the truth pressing down in your bones is simple. Brutal. Unforgiving.
His father has already decided how he dies.
And there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.
“The land, the structure, continuity,” Roy had said, his finger sliding along the blueprints, tracing the lines as if they were the lifeblood of the world itself. “Everything else falls into place.”
You’d asked, half-joking, almost careless, “And Gator?”
Roy hadn’t answered. Not a word about succession, about loyalty, about the future. Only the structure mattered. Only the system.
And now, after finding those files, the truth was undeniable. Gator’s name appeared over and over, attached to assignments, tasks that carried real danger, tasks that could get him killed.
“Gator’ll handle it.”
Always. Placement, not trust. Instrument, not son.
Your mind flicked back to that very first dinner at Artem’s house, the night you and Gator had gotten drunk out of spite. You remembered the fragments of conversation you’d laughed off then:
Artem leaned forward, voice low, casual, almost teasing.
“Tell me, Roy… if things collapsed tomorrow, who would you let burn first?”
Roy had shrugged, almost indifferent, like it was a theoretical exercise, then his eyes flicked to Gator.
“The one who can survive the fire.”
At the time, you had laughed nervously, tipsy and disbelieving, taking it as praise, confidence in him.
Now—horror.
“Gator is uniquely positioned to absorb attention. “
Even Artem treats him like a variable in a system, not like family. At one point, you’d thought it sounded like praise. Now you see the truth: he draws the blame. He is the containment point. The buffer. The one who can burn so everyone else remains intact.
A wave of dizziness hits. Your breath comes in short, uneven gasps. You lean against the cold wall, trying to steady yourself, to force your mind to slow, to think.
You have to tell him. Gator needs to know.
No.
Your head shakes, slow, heavy, reluctant.
You can’t walk in blind. Not yet. Not with this much at stake. You have to be sure it’s still true, still actionable, before you unleash a truth that could shatter everything between you, between him, between the world he thinks he knows.
What if Roy and Artem abandoned the plan years ago? That’s why the envelope exists—forgotten, outdated, no longer useful.
Right?
Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, willing yourself to believe it.
But deep down, even in that quiet rationalization, a whisper gnaws at you: No. It’s still real. And he’s still in danger.
You glance at the clock, a faint, persistent reminder of time slipping past, before forcing yourself to move again. Every second feels heavier than the last.
If this is still real—if the words on that document aren’t just some relic of the past—there’s only one person who could confirm it. Only one person who would speak the truth, however ugly, however unforgiving.
Artem.
The drive to the house is a blur, reckless and desperate. You don’t even register the stop signs, the yellow lights, the cars that honk behind you. Laws are meaningless right now. All that matters is reaching him, finding the answer, and knowing the full weight of what’s been set in motion.
The study smells of tobacco, leather, and old paper, a combination that should feel comforting but instead presses on your chest like a warning. Artem sits near the window, half-bathed in the amber slant of afternoon light, glasses perched low on his nose as he examines a stack of documents. The quiet click of your entrance barely registers, and he doesn’t even glance up immediately. He rarely looks surprised anymore.
“You look like something inconvenient happened,” he says, calm, almost sarcastic, his voice smooth but edged with precision. You hate how effortlessly he reads you, even now.
You close the door behind you, the latch echoing too loudly in the tense silence. Your pulse drags your ribs with it, fast and uneven.
“Did you sign a contingency plan with Roy,” you say, voice tight and controlled despite the storm inside, “that names Gator as a sacrifice?”
No preamble. No sugar-coating. Every word is deliberate. You don’t have time for anything else.
Artem doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers linger over the papers, deliberate, measured. Then he lifts his glasses, folds them carefully, and finally, his eyes meet yours.
“Where did you see that?” he asks, voice quiet, neutral—but you catch the subtle shift, the tightening of his jaw, the shadow behind his calm.
“So it’s real,” you murmur to yourself, the words barely audible, but sharp enough to cut through the air.
A long pause.
“Yes,” he says finally.
The single word lands like a hammer, heavier than denial ever could have. Your chest constricts. The tightness spreads through your lungs, your ribs, your stomach, and for a moment it feels like the air itself has thickened.
You realize, fully, that nothing will ever feel the same again.
“You planned to hand him over.” Your voice trembles, but you force it steady, a shard of anger and disbelief cutting through the tightness in your chest.
“Containment,” Artem corrects, his tone flat, almost clinical.
“You wrote the word sacrifice,” you say, each syllable sharp, heavy.
“Yes.”
His calm is unbearable, a suffocating weight pressing down on you. No hesitation. No remorse.
“You were planning to let him go to prison for all of it,” you continue, voice rising despite yourself, hands clenching at your sides.
“For enough of it,” he replies evenly, the words like ice water.
Your chest hitches.
“He’s your son-in-law now,” you snap.
“That is a recent development,” he says, leaning back in his chair, every movement controlled, deliberate, untouchable.
“And that doesn’t change anything for you?”
Artem’s gaze doesn’t waver. He speaks quietly, almost kindly, but it’s worse than anger—it’s inevitability.
“Dear,” he says softly, and you flinch at the intimacy of the word, “structures like ours survive because someone always stands where the collapse lands.”
Your stomach twists, sour and tight.
“So… you picked him.”
“He was already standing there,” he replies, voice flat, almost matter-of-fact.
Your hands tighten until your nails bite into your palms.
“You’re talking about him like he’s a tool,” you hiss, disbelief and fury coiling in your chest.
“In this context,” Artem says evenly, like it’s nothing, like it’s all perfectly logical, “he is.”
You stare at him, unblinking, your mind struggling to reconcile the truth with the man you thought you knew.
Something cold settles inside you, deep in your chest, creeping into your bones. A creeping, gnawing certainty that some people—no matter what blood runs through their veins—are never chosen. They are always expendable.
And Gator…
He’s already standing in the fire.
“Does he know?” The words feel heavier than air, hanging between you like a storm ready to break.
Artem’s gaze sharpens, a subtle narrowing of the eyes that feels almost predatory.
“No.”
“You were never going to tell him,” you whisper, disbelief and horror curling tight in your chest.
“That would defeat the purpose,” he says, his tone calm, measured, as if discussing the weather rather than a man’s life.
Suddenly the room feels smaller. The walls press in. The air is thick, every breath dragging, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.
He studies you, silent, the faint rustle of papers under his hands the only sound. Then, quiet, precise, he asks:
“Are you planning to?”
You don’t answer. Not because you can’t, but because the question itself is far more dangerous than any words you could speak.
If Gator finds out—
The structure shatters.
Roy’s authority crumbles.
Everything shifts.
Artem tilts his head, calm as a predator watching prey tremble.
“You care for him,” he observes.
“Yes,” you admit, your voice low, brittle.
“That complicates things,” he says, voice soft, almost conversational—but each word lands like a weight.
Your voice drops even further, quiet now, ragged.
“You helped build a plan that ends his life.”
Artem’s gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, cold, unyielding.
“No,” he corrects softly. “We built a plan that saves everything else.”
Your chest tightens, ribs constricting around your heart. You take a step closer, defiance rising despite the fear knotting your stomach.
“Everything else?” you repeat, voice tight, trembling on the edge of breaking. “Everything else except him.”
He doesn’t flinch. He never does.
“He was always the variable,” he says, voice deceptively casual, almost conversational, as if discussing a chess piece rather than a man. “Always the one we could afford to lose.”
The words slice through you, knives twisting in your chest. You swallow hard, throat dry, pulse hammering.
And in that moment, you realize: neither your father or Gator’s father is worse. They are the same.
“So all those jobs,” you spit the words, voice tight and trembling, “all the risk you placed him in… it wasn’t trust. It was preparation.”
“Yes,” Artem says simply, his tone smooth, unflinching, almost surgical. “And don’t think for a second that Roy hasn’t calculated the same. Gator has been positioned from the start. The moment we needed a valve, he would be it.”
Your hands shake violently, nails digging into the surface of the desk until the wood bites back. With a sharp motion, you slam them down, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.
“And you,” you hiss, teeth clenched, “you forced him to marry me, to live in our circle, let him believe he belonged—while all along, you were ready to throw him to the fire.”
Artem leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled in that calm, unreadable way he always does. His eyes are steady, almost mesmerizing in their chill.
“(Y/N), it isn’t about cruelty,” he says, voice quiet, deliberate, like a blade sliding across glass. “It’s strategy. The structure. The continuity… they are bigger than any one person. Bigger than loyalty. Bigger even than love.”
Your stomach twists, bile rising, the words scraping at the edges of your gut.
“And if he finds out?” Your voice drops, ragged, almost a whisper, but the fear and anger collide in it, sharp as broken glass.
A faint shadow flickers across his face, just for a heartbeat. “Then he becomes unpredictable. Dangerous. That is why you—” He pauses, letting the weight of it settle between you, suffocating. “—you exist in this equation now. You are the bridge. The influence. The one who can steer him.”
Your breath catches. Cold realization curls through you like ice water. He isn’t just talking about Gator’s expendability—he’s talking about manipulating your relationship with him, bending the man you care for into a tool.
“I won’t be that bridge,” you say, low, trembling with anger that feels like fire in your veins. “I won’t let you or Roy do this to him.”
Artem leans back again, smooth, unreadable. The faint afternoon light glints across the sharp lines of his face, casting half of him into shadow.
“Perhaps not,” he says. Calm. Unyielding. Terrifying. “But you will have to decide what matters more: the man you care for… or the survival of everything we’ve built.”
The words hang in the room like lead, heavy, suffocating, pressing down on your chest. Your pulse hammers, your fists clench, your lungs ache—but beneath the fury, a cold clarity settles.
If Gator doesn’t know yet… he has to.
Soon.
Because the moment he does… everything changes.
Your eyes don’t leave your father, tracing the calm, almost statuesque posture that has always made you feel impossibly small—like a single, replaceable gear in a machine he’s been perfecting for decades. The quiet of the study presses down on you, thick and suffocating, heavier than the words you just heard, as if the walls themselves are leaning closer to watch you unravel.
And then it hits—the sick, twisting clarity that gnaws at your gut and twists your stomach into knots: this is exactly why Roy never wanted you poking through the ranch, the files, the hidden corners of the past. They both knew—probably from the very beginning—that if you dug too far, if your curiosity edged past its boundaries, you would find this.
The envelope. The contingency plans. The word sacrifice burned into your mind like a brand searing through your chest.
And Gator…
He wanted to stop you from investigating not because he wanted to hide the truth from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, not because he wanted to manipulate you—but because he understood the stakes. Because deep down, he feared you could end up like your mother—gone, broken, or worse—if you stumbled into their world unprepared.
He didn’t lie lightly. He never plotted betrayal. He never imagined a scenario where the people he respected—or maybe even loved—could see him, could see you, as nothing more than expendable pieces in a game of survival.
The weight of it presses against your chest, tightening, making every breath a struggle. Your throat burns, raw and constricted, and your pulse hammers like a warning drum: the world you thought you understood is colder, sharper, and far more brutal than you ever realized.
And in that moment, it feels as though the air itself has thickened, trapping you inside the truth you can’t unsee, the truth that might destroy him if you dare to reveal it.
It hits you in a way that twists your stomach into knots—Gator’s refusal before wasn’t defiance. It was protection. Every carefully chosen word, every silence, every half-truth he let slip—it was all a shield, a desperate attempt to keep you alive in a world he could see was already rigged against you.
And now… now that you know, the impossible weight of his position presses down like iron on your chest. The burden he’s carried all these years—the suffocating loyalty, the constant fear, the quiet, and new, impossible love—finally makes sense.
Your stomach twists again, sharper, more vicious this time, because you see it with absolute clarity: the web they’ve spun doesn’t just ensnare him. It ensnares you, too. Every step you’ve taken, every question you’ve dared to ask, every act of defiance you’ve allowed yourself—it’s all been leading straight to the fire they had already planned to pour him into.
And worse, your heart stutters violently because he’s standing there, completely unaware. Unprepared. Trusting them. Still loyal. Still blind to the knife-edge he’s been teetering on since birth.
Your hands clench, nails biting into the palms, as a storm of rage, fear, heartbreak, and helplessness collides in your chest. Your vision blurs. You want to scream, to rip the papers from the desk, to shake him awake to the truth—but the cold, awful part of you knows that screaming won’t save him. Shaking him awake might kill him.
You force down a shaky breath, lungs burning as you obey them. The study feels impossibly small now, walls pressing in like they’re watching. Every shadow, every flicker of light, reminds you of the same unyielding truth: the people who made him, molded him, protected him—those same people could also destroy him without a second thought.
The thought lands like a punch to the chest. The room tightens around you, thick with inevitability. You can’t expose anything. Not now. Not ever, maybe.
Because if you do… it won’t be Artem or Roy who pay the price. They’ve built this machine too well. They’ve insulated themselves, calculated every variable. They will survive. They always do.
It will be Gator.
And the knowledge burns hotter than any fear you’ve ever felt.
Your mind flickers back to his face—eyes steady, trusting, loyal, a stubborn anchor in the chaos of the world he’s always known. That unshakable belief in the men who molded him, who taught him to stand and take orders, to endure and obey… and now you see it all for what it truly is. He has been walking blind through a battlefield you are only just beginning to map.
And you—his anchor, his partner, the one he’s chosen to stand beside—hold the power to destroy him with a single truth.
You can’t.
Not yet. Not like this. Because if you expose the plan, even a sliver of it, even a hint of what’s etched in those cold, clinical pages… it will break him. It will shatter the world he has built in his mind. He’ll hate you. He’ll hate the people he’s trusted. He may even risk everything to fight back—and you’ll know it’s because of you.
Your chest tightens, a vise locking around your ribs, each inhale a jagged battle against the panic clawing at your lungs. You force yourself to breathe, shakily, painfully, trying to quell the rising storm that threatens to betray your control.
Artem leans back, serene and unreadable, fingers steepled like some cold, distant statue. Roy’s sharp, precise face hovers at the edges of your memory, a reminder that they will endure, no matter what happens. They always do.
But Gator…
Gator will not.
The realization ignites a new kind of heat in your chest, more unbearable than fear, sharper than anger. The truth is not just dangerous—it is excruciating, impossible, unbearable. And the only way to keep him alive is to sit in the quiet, to hold it tight, to carry a weight meant for two hearts but now resting solely on yours.
You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to dart to the papers on the desk, then away. The envelope. The documents. The word sacrifice seared into your mind like fire on skin everytime you blink. Every piece must remain hidden. For now.
Because to save him, you will have to be silent.
And that silence… that crushing, suffocating silence… might be the hardest thing you will ever endure.
I'm currently writing this, but I'm so excited and impatient that I had to share the mood board I made for my upcoming Gator Tillman Soulmate AU fic. 🥹
(Also, beeg-massive-huge thank you to @gatorgirlie for chatting with me about the story, ilysm and hope it delivers. 🤍)
Invisible Strings
Gator Tillman may not know it yet, but he has a soulmate.
He didn't typically do "girlfriends", just the occasional one-night stand or a trip to the titty bar with the boys. His focus was primarily on work and making his daddy proud.
But, when a man named Ole Munch shows up to a business meeting with his adoptive daughter (you) at his side, you immediately realize that you know Gator Tillman...
And you have been deeply in love with him for a long, long time.
🩸 An Ongoing FARGO Fanfic Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
☾⋆ MERCY Full Series Masterlist & File -> click here.
BOOK ONE • Chapter 26 [Final Chapter]
COMING SOON -> BOOK TWO • Next Monday, October 20
Gator Tillman x OC!fem!reader • circumstantial childhood friends to teen rivals to slowburn lovers. angst to the max, dark humor drenched, heavy smut with heavier plot, hurt/comfort, Tillman Kingdom compliant madness. S4+ universe hot-take. Seedy town collides with old money and elite underworld. 18+
🩸CHAPTERS SUMMARY: All aboard Sharon. So long, New York. Fargo, here comes trouble. Gator, Baby M and Andy are homeward bound, along with new-to-the-crew, Tiff Kerrington.
Between Roy’s cryptic obligation looking after Jonathan’s daughter, the new family that just moved to town, Andy entering senior year, and girls devouring the lawless sheriff’s lawless son who undresses them with his eyes first, it looks like September is shapin’ out to be one helluva month.
🩸OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS/NOTES: strong foul language, dark morbid humor, TOXIC Gator Tillman (who I shamelessly give way too much redemption arc throughout) ruthless banter, bad childhoods, deeply rooted traumas, mutually detailed dark backstories, hatred mixed with underlying codependency (but it’s justified in this fic bc I said so) mutual jealousy, dirty politics.
THIS IS AN 18+ FANFIC. Minors, do not initiate.
It’s a slowburn in hellfire: circumstantial childhood friends → teen rivals → inevitable lovers. Four novels of dark humor, heavier plot, sharper edges. Hurt, comfort, and every ugly thing in between.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Getaway Plans
The rental van was silver. Glossy. Gleaming. So sleek it practically glided across the Manhattan pavement like it had something to prove. The kind of van that screamed ‘I’m a reasonable woman and I drive my twins to violin practice, but I could also bury a body before brunch.’
She was a sturdy woman.
And her name was Sharon.
Gator didn’t name cars. That was Andy’s thing. But even he had to admit that it fit. Sharon had Bluetooth, seat warmers, tinted windows, and a glove compartment that doubled as a mini wine cellar (Andy’s discovery, not that anyone asked). She was the perfect getaway car. That is… if your getaway involved two large pizzas, five shopping bags, a fifteen-hour drive, and a pair of freshly graduated middle school hoodrats, plus a pending high school senior.
Gator sat on the curb, worn combat boots flat against the concrete, picking sesame seeds off the top of his bagel like a grandpa who’d seen some shit. He had on his go-to jeans, that faded black tee that said Hail Satan, Pay Your Taxes, and a denim jacket with a rip in one shoulder and blood on one cuff that he wouldn’t be elaborating on (unless you were some girl that got wet over it and gave him some messy head in exchange for the story…). The sun was still early, hanging low, and the iconic bagel spot behind them smelled like garlic and cream cheese and everything nice that Gator would never admit he liked.
Andy, meanwhile, looked like the inside of a Times Square gift shop exploded on his body. His I ❤️ NY t-shirt was aggressively tight. The Statue of Liberty foam crown drooped over one ear, and his newly purchased souvenir sunglasses still had the tag flapping on the bridge of his nose.
“Jesus Christ,” Gator muttered, chewing. “You look like a discount Disney mascot.”
Andy beamed like that was the goal. “I’m leaning into the culture. Ever heard of immersion, Tillman?”
“Heard of embarrassment,” Gator deadpanned around another big mouthful of bagel. “Witnessin’ it live.”
Tiff, leaned against the side of Sharon, let out a sharp cackle. “Nah, Gator’s right. You look like the kind of tourist that would get mugged and then ask the mugger for restaurant recommendations.”
Andy threw a hand over his chest, offended. “You wound me, Queen TiTi.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started yet,” she grinned, sipping her iced coffee like it was champagne.
Gator side-eyed her with a reluctant smirk. He liked that she could talk shit. She had nails like a pharaoh, eyes like a blade, and she didn’t play nice just to keep the peace. Tiff was from the upscale city life but built like she’d survived something uglier than gentrification. Maybe that’s why he didn’t mind her. There was grit under her gloss, same as Mercer. Same as him.
And speaking of Mercer, she was perched on the edge of the curb, her phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, talking to her daddy with a lilt of laughter in her voice that made Gator glance over, if only to watch her grin with a practiced sort of ease. Andy was loading the rest of their boxes and bags into Sharon’s back hatch, balancing two pizza boxes on one knee like he was a waiter at some NY high-end deli that ran like a mom and pop business.
Tiff caught Gator watching Mercer and hummed under her breath. “She’s different with you two. Looser. Less… on guard.”
Gator tapped his vape. “She’s been around a long time. Knows when to relax. Wishes can do that with.”
Tiff hummed, slowly nodding. “She didn’t relax with anyone back at the studio,” she said, like she was just talking to herself. “Aside from me, but. Even so. Not like with you guys.”
He shrugged, still watching Mercer. “Good,” he said simply. “Means she still knows better than to trust blindly. Even at some pretentious arts program.”
Tiff hummed again, her eyes scanning him carefully. She noted the jaded tone of his voice, in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders, muscles taut and on edge, even when eating a bagel with no looming threat.
“Smart girl,” she mused, testing a bit.
Gator didn’t respond. He hit the vape, shuffling his feet a bit as he stayed cool. Closed off. Even though he really didn’t mind her. But he wasn’t gonna let her know that. It was still way too early for that sort of satisfaction.
Tiff didn’t mind it. Rather, she respected it.
“Guess New York really was a good trip for her then,” she concluded with ease.
He exhaled the sugary nicotine vapor. “Guess so.”
She took a beat then turned slightly toward him, one manicured brow arched. “You always look at her like that?”
“Like what.”
“Like she’s the last thing on this earth worth protecting,” Tiff said casually. “But also like she might run straight into traffic and take you down with her.”
Gator grunted. “She’s Mercer. You figure her out, let me know.”
Tiff just smiled. “You’re funny. You’re an asshole, but you’re funny.”
He lightly snorted at that. “Likewise.”
They stood there, two wolves from different coasts, circling without teeth. A mutual dick-measuring contest that ended not with posturing but… with a handshake. Tiff’s long nails cool against his wrist, her designer rings clinking like coins.
Mutual respect. No drama.
“Glad to know Fargo’s got more folks built for the streets,” she said mid-handshake.
Gator’s firm calloused grip matched her own, a smirk teasing at his lips. “Wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
Tiff grinned, just as Andy returned in time to see it.
He blinked behind his novelty sunglasses. “What the hell did I just walk in on? Are you two shaking hands or forming a blood pact?”
Mercer hung up the phone and wandered over beside him, eyebrows drawn together. “Did I miss something?”
Tiff turned with a loud sigh and wrapped herin a huge, unexpected hug. Mercer yelped, literally yelped, but then she immediately melted into it with a surprised, crooked grin.
“You’re the best friend I didn’t know I needed,” Tiff said against her ear, almost teasing. “You’re a weirdo, Mercer, but like, the best kind.”
Mercer’s lips parted slightly mid-hug. She blinked, hugging her a little bit tighter. “Okay, well. Now I’m gonna cry.”
“You do that and I’ll slap you with a bagel.”
They all laughed. Even Gator.
Andy, ever the drama queen, threw his arms out. “This is where I give my Oscar-worthy goodbye speech, isn’t it?”
Tiff rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna see me in like, two weeks, dude.”
“Don’t kill the magic!”
She didn’t. Tiff barked a laugh and pulled him in anyway, into a tight, aggressive hug that made him wheeze and mutter something about internal bleeding. Then she turned to Gator and gave him one last look, all cool confidence and unrushed intention.
“You boys take care of her,” she said pointedly. “And maybe I’ll come raise hell over on your side of Fargo.”
Gator cracked the barest grin. “We’ll leave the porch light on.”
She snorted at that, shook her head like of course you will, and then turned to Mercer for one last girl chat before her cab showed up. The two of them stood on the curb, bathed in morning light and exhaust fumes as cars honked and taxis beeped. Mercer promised she’d stay with her till the cab came, insisted on it rather, and Tiff teased her for being soft.
Meanwhile, Andy was already halfway through demolishing a second slice, having wandered to the back of the van to “supervise” them… and the pizzas…
Gator watched the girls. Not staring. Not eavesdropping. He just stood beside Sharon, this ultra-sleek soccer-mom rental van that looked like it could either haul strollers or be used in a homicide, and took them all in.
He quietly observed the way that Mercer’s arms folded loosely across her chest, face tilted up as she laughed at something Tiff said. How they bumped shoulders and argued briefly over airport snacks, then fell quiet again after Mercer picked lint from Tiff’s jacket and earned herself a boop on the nose.
It was such a normal moment. And somehow, that’s what made it feel heavy. As if ending this way, despite knowing they would all still find themselves in the same town in a couple of weeks… was wrong.
All it took was Mercer scrunching up her nose at Tiff, just enough to make her grey eyes crinkle at the corners, and the breeze making her linen pants and loose T-shirt flit around her lithe frame to seal the deal.
Gator sucked once on his vape, blew the cloud toward the grimy gutter, then ambled over. “Alright,” he muttered, interrupting gently. “You’re both idiots.”
Mercer blinked. “Huh?”
Tiff arched a brow.
“I mean, why stand out here waitin’ for a cab when we got four seats and this dumbass already started the engine?” He jerked a thumb toward Andy, who was now fiddling with the aux cord and swearing at Spotify.
Tiff tilted her head. “You offering me a lift, Tillman?”
“Obviously,” Gator deadpanned. “You think I like standing in New York traffic longer than necessary?”
Mercer’s face lit up. Not exaggerated. Not loud. But bright enough to make Gator look at her for a second too long.
“Gator,” she said, like it was a revelation, “that’s actually kind of…considerate.”
He tensed, eyes narrowing at her slightly.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Dare I say sweet?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t get weird about it, Baby M.”
But even as he looked away, Mercer’s smile already had the corners of his lips curling upward, his big brown eyes glinting with his own joy that only ever filled him up like that anytime he did something little that made her happy in the simplest of ways. Ways that were always somehow huge to her, as if he’d just handed her the whole world. Not just a ride to the airport for a new friend.
Tiff grinned, clearly amused. “You pretending this isn’t sentimental is the funniest part.”
“You wanna walk?”
“I wanna see what you look like when you finally admit you like people.”
“That’s not happening today, Tiff.”
“Thought not.”
But she was smiling wide as she climbed into the back with Mercer, who looked like she was one step away from bouncing in her seat.
“All aboard Sharon!” Andy hollered.
Gator shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, slipping into shotgun. “Louise, Sharon… y’all name these cars like they’re Golden Girls.”
Andy, mouth full of anchovies, shrugged. “It’s called character, Gator Tillman.”
“It’s called stupid.”
Mercer leaned forward between the seats as Sharon purred beneath Andy’s foot. “You sure this lady’s gonna get us all the way to North Dakota?” she asked, half-joking.
Gator met her eyes in the rearview. “Sharon’s got faith. You?”
She grinned slowly. “Always.”
He smirked. And just like that, they pulled off the curb. Four teens. Two New York pizzas. One road trip home. And freshman year just a few state lines away.
“Alright,” Andy said, licking his fingers. “First stop?”
“Please say anything but a casino,” Mercer monotoned.
Gator said nothing, one intrigued brow arching ever so slightly that you’d miss it entirely if you simply blinked. Or better yet, might only catch it if you squinted.
Mercer sighed deeply.
Andy wiggled his eyebrows. “One last heist for the road?”
“Shoulda kept my mouth shut,” Mercer murmured.
Tiff gaped from the backseat, an incredulous glossy smile hinting at the corners of her lips. “Oh so you’re literal felons.”
Gator just leaned back in his seat, his legs up on the dash, smirking. “Depends on how you look at it.”
“More like,” Mercer leaned in, subtly and conspicuously. She put up air quotes, “Robin Hood’s rejects.”
“The Morale Mania,” Andy chimed in. “Less tights, more questionable justification.”
Tiff just stared between all three of them, lost on the plot in all the right ways. “Oh I’m definitely sticking around now,” she leaned back crossing her arms with a white, toothy smile.
Mercer couldn’t help but grin at her. “I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah?” Tiff asked her loudly. She nudged her shoulder, soaking up the teasing. “You ready for some cafe au lait in your world, Miss Thang? A little caramel mocha to your white chocolate?”
“Please broaden my horizons,” Mercer said flatly, cheeks flushed with joy and sheepish delight. It made Tiff cackle, throwing an arm around her and tugging her closer, and Mercer didn’t even flinch or fight her on it. She let her do it.
Which, given the lack of warm physical affection in her life, especially when the source was female, was a beautiful thing to experience.
It was also a beautiful thing to witness.
Gator’s eyes watched them both in the rearview, seeing how some estrogen in Mercer’s world had been a missing puzzle piece. It made sense, given her mother’s untimely demise, back when she was barely four years old. She’d never really known her.
Just like he’d never really known his own mom.
“In the name of nostalgia,” he drawled now, Cherry Coke vapor rings puffed from his lips.
Andy whooped. “To the slots!”
“Airport,” Gator and Mercer corrected at the same time.
“To the airport!” Andy recovered quickly, just as much zeal in his delivery that made Tiff laugh from the back while Mercer shook her head with an inevitable smile across her face.
“Alright, but next time?” Tiff pointed to all three of them. “I’m in on this.”
Gator snorted, glancing back. “Just like that, huh?”
She shot him a mock-wry look, all sly and challenging. “Don’t worry, Sheriff, you can put me through whatever test you gotta make me pass first. I get it. I know how group inaugurations go.”
He actually turned to look at her better now. A challenge made its way into his eyes, meeting hers. There was an exchange here between the two of them, all expressions, no words. A flicker of something mutual flashed in both sets of eyes, his tainted hazels and her knowing cocoa tinted irises.
She didn’t back down. Nor did he.
Mutual understanding.
“Good,” Gator murmured, a smirk hinting at the corner of his lips. “Saves us time.”
Tiff grinned at him like a menace, one her arm still tight around Mercer as she offered up her palm.
“Need me to bleed on a contract before we make it to JFK?” she asked, only half kidding.
Gator lightly rolled his eyes, turning back around. “At ease, soldier.”
Tiff snickered.
And Mercer just… watched. She took in the whole exchange quietly, between the boy she trusted more than anyone else on the planet and the only girl in her world who made her feel like one herself.
She felt something warm coil up inside of her. It was new, and it almost felt too warm to hang onto without worry. But Mercer found herself not letting that internal worry override the good, and her mind shoved whatever doubt tried to take over off to the side. She banished it. Exiled it. Told it to fuck off, and let herself have this.
Mercer’s eyes flicked onto the rearview, finding Gator’s already on her. She couldn’t help but lightly smile, and while she couldn’t see his lip, she could see the hint of one in his own gaze. He winked, eyes back on the road.
“Alright, troops,” Andy announced, finally setting down his phone after setting his GPS maps. “We’ve got ourselves an added pit stop between JFK and a Holiday Inn Express, just outside of ______.” He propped his phone up on the magnetic holder on top of the dash, throwing the van in drive. “Larkspur & Luck!”
“You’re kidding,” Mercer deadpanned.
“Nope!” Andy chirped theatrically, tires screeching into NYC traffic.
Gator grinned, his boots back up on the dashboard.
And with that? Miss Sharon, in all her sleek, stupidly-named-Sharon glory… turned onto the open road.
Toward JFK.
Toward Fargo.
Toward whatever dumb, wild, terrifying thing was coming next.
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You know. I've come up.with the most hilarious and insane au here recently.
Y'all know the movie Fargo? (No, I haven't watched the series yet and I need to.) It's my favorite of all time. Like by a long shot.
And I really, really have been thinking about making it a TigerGhost au.
Which would be insane. I wouldn't probably follow the original crime and chaos, but make it supernatural. Make Danny the chaotic and genius police captain of the Fargo Police department.
Like I'm huge on Danny becoming some version of a first responder (if he doesn't do something space related, of course) and he ends up getting the trifecta fire, EMT, and becomes a detective and eventually leaves Amity Park and gets a job at Fargo, moving to North Dakota.
And he's like a cryptid, my guys.
He's just chaos incarnate. He's constantly causing his officers stress. They're all like. Chief, you gotta eat. Chief, your eyes are glowing can you fucking not? Chief, your husband got arrested starting a bar fight. Chief, no you cannot fight perps while you're pregnant.
Manny would be Danny's nice artist husband, because I can't get over the interaction of. No, I'll make you breakfast. You got to eat Danny. I'll make you some ranch eggs. You gotta eat.
Danny would be a damn good investigator and then there is this murder. And he's like. Damn it. Why is someone trying to summon some ghost zone shit in a car abandoned on the side of the road. Fuck me. Wait I think imma puke. No wait I'm fine. I better not get summoned for some ghost king shit over this.
And he looks at Lou and is like. This is gonna be a whole thing. What have you done?
I've ran the plates. Nothing yet. Lou would say as he waved to the car.
Lou, it's got dealer plates. It's an unregistered car. Danny rubs between his eyes.
Oh geez. Didn't think about that. Lou rubs the back of his neck.
Danny's ghost sense is going crazy and here he is solving a supernatural murder all across the north.
A scene from Hannibal done in the style of Fargo (both the movie & the show) by the Coen Brothers.
***It is crucial that the dialogue in this be read with the most ridiculous, over the top, northern Minnesota accent you can imagine.***
disclaimer: i wrote this in 20 minutes with not a whole lot of thought or effort, PURELY for my own fun and amusement. only posting it in case someone out there likes this style just as much as i do :P
- - - - - - - - - -
This is a true story.
The events depicted took place in Minnesota in 2013. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.
. . .
The drive to work that morning was the same as it was every morning. Will blinked slow, settling into the comfort of routine, a few minutes of winding roads, a house flicking by now and again. A few more minutes and the vents began to rattle, heat finally kicking in, borrowing warmth from the engine. Will pulled his gloves off with his teeth and let them drop into his lap, fingers curling around the frozen steering wheel. He drummed, light, to the music on the radio. It cut out every now and again, some decades-old upbeat dance number.
It was a cold morning for this time of the year. Although, Will mused, that sentence could work on any odd morning, year round, in this part of Minnesota. Perpetually, unusually cold. He looked down, picked up his coffee and gripped it, heat seeping into his palms.
He glanced up just in time to see it. A half second more he’d have hit it for sure.
Enormous, and impossible. A deer, or an elk? The size of a small moose, black as the void. A full rack of twisting, gorgeous antlers. A tuft of inky feathers encircled its back, its neck, the front of its chest.
Will slammed on the brakes, tires locking up, car lurching forward. Forced hard into his seat belt, neck whipping forward, coffee exploding everywhere. His car screeched to a halt inches from the… thing.
It blinked, calm. Huffed once, turned, and walked slowly off the road and into the brush.
Will, frozen, gripping the steering wheel, exhaled. A moment to allow his breath, his heart, to slow. He frowned. Looked into the spot in the brush where the creature had disappeared. Saw nothing. He slumped back into his seat. Whispered, to himself,
“…what the heck?”
. . .
Will darted immediately for the bathroom the moment he entered the precinct. Head down, quick strides, hoping no one would notice all the coffee, not noticing himself that the office was unusually empty. He splashed water from cupped hands onto his shirt, figuring it’d be better to be soaking wet for a while than have too deeply stained a uniform. The sink shut off every time hands were not moving underneath it, making the cleanup clumsy, awkward. Finally, half satisfied, Will left the bathroom, still dabbing away at himself with a handful of paper towels.
Standing in the hallway, just outside the mens room door, was Beverly. Hair tucked behind both ears with red barrettes, dark lip liner, pants a bit too high on her waist.
“Oh hey there Bev. How are ya - ” the bathroom door hit Will behind him. He gestured to the front of his dripping uniform. “Can you even believe? Deer, I think, or something… right in the road, had to slam on my brakes. And my coffee,” he made a vague explosive hand gesture, “Lucky I didn’t burn myself.”
Beverly chewed her gum once. Twice. Deadpan. “Ya, so, chief needs us both out in the field. Real grisly one today.”
“Oh ya?” Will, wadding up the towels.
“Ya. Something about a body, staged and all. Like a horror film I heard.”
“Ah geez.” he glanced around awkwardly for a moment, then leaned back into the bathroom to toss the crumpled paper towels into the bin. “Well. Best get going.”
. . .
Despite having just been warned, Will wasn’t entirely prepared for the scene they pulled up to, the nightmarish stage someone had set before them. It looked, somehow, less and less real the closer walked. The girl, stark naked, cut open and stitched together, held in her graceful pose by impalation alone, stag antlers poking out from her flesh at strategic points across her body. Will’s eyes fixed to how pale the bright sun rendered her skin, the stark contrast of small trails of blood. Buzzing in his ears, caws of the birds startling him every time.
Then, through the buzzing, “Ya ok there?”
Will blinked, eyes focusing again. Turned, saw the chief trudge up to him, hands in his pockets.
“What’s that now?”
Crawford repeated. “Ya doin ok? You look a bit sick. Price threw up, and, while I can’t say I blame him, I can’t have ya... not this close-”
“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Will put out his hand, eyes closed. “It’s just… this is…”
“You’re telling me.” Chief, nodding, eyes fixed on the girl, a vague haze over them, as if deep in thought but completely lost all at once. Will couldn’t help but feel the same.
“What do we know so far?” Bev, hat pulled tight over her ears, breath bright in the air, no nonsense. “Gotta be connected to the others - you know, the guy who’s taking all those college girls, one who killed that Nichols daughter.” Nodding as she spoke. Will nodded along with her, but frowned.
“Ya, you’d think, but… I don’t know now. Something about this strikes me odd.” Will, nodding towards the young woman impaled upon a stag’s head.
Bev, frowning, forehead scrunched in thought. “You mean, other than her being on a deer out in a field and all?”
“Course.”
“Well, she fits the profile.” Chief Crawford, with his curt words, short sentences. He made strong, confident hand gestures as he spoke. “Of those missing girls, I’m sayin. Height, weight, hair and the like. Plus the antler mounting too. On the other hand, organ removal is different. Poor girl got her…” a pause, a breath, “… lungs ripped right out while she was still using em.”
Beverly closed her eyes. Chief did too. Will frowned.
“Well, ya wouldn’t rip the lungs out of someone ya liked, now would ya?” Will, with a modest shrug. “Our guy wanted to say sorry, right? He loves, or thinks he loves these girls. No sir, this is something else.”
“So… you’re saying... what are you saying?”
“I’m sayin, guy did the Nichols girl loved this girls, and well, I know it’s just me and the dogs and I’m no expert, but this sure as hell isn’t love.” Will, gesturing to the girl, the unnatural angle her head arched back. The dark blacks and blues around her ears, her jaw, the veins in her throat. “No way this was him.”
