thing about buddie canon is that if it does happen we will never see it coming. this show lovessss to set up and complete a storyline in 2 episode max. we are not getting any warning it'll be like 9x17 buck and eddie have more scenes than usual and we're like huh. lol. and next episode they're gonna be like 'IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOU' and start making out. even if they give us one episode of warning we probably won't clock it because what are they gonna do, make them weird around each other? fork found in kitchen. we must accept that we will never anticipate buddie canon buddie canon exists in a quantum state until the second they start making out on screen. maybe not even then ngl.
We Were Friends - Gator Tillman x Reader ~ Part Two
Back in town after the death of your parents, an old childhood friend/annoyance makes an unwelcome reappearance. Gator Tillman already lost you once - he doesn't plan on letting it happen again.
A/N - team !!! there was such an overwhelming response to part one of this specific story (that was originally a one shot) & I def heard you. did some thinking/plot arranging & I think this’ll be roughly 3-4 parts. so stay tuned & please enjoy! (this takes place immediately after part one - which I’ll link here when I’m not doing all this on my phone lol)
CW/TW: smut (somewhat dubious consents least emotionally), oral (f! receiving), gator being possessive (once again - fork found in kitchen), no use of y/n.
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The silence that followed Gator’s departure was suffocating. The scent of sex seemed to cling to your body as you locked your door and headed to your upstairs bathroom. You sat on the edge of the tub, feeling dirty and used in a way that soap wouldn’t fix. But terrifyingly, a small, hollow part of you felt seen in that specific way only Gator had ever managed to.
You turned the shower knob until the water was scalding, stripped off your clothes so they were a heap on the floor, and then stepped into the shower. You scrubbed your skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, his mouth, and the way he had looked at you like you were a religious artifact he’d finally desecrated.
One look in the mirror revealed the bruise on your neck - a mark he must’ve given you at some point, but you didn’t remember. It was darkening now, a violent plum-colored blotch that mocked your attempt to maintain distance. You pulled on a sweatshirt that was several sizes too big and fell into beg, letting exhaustion claim you.
To your abject horror, when you walked out into the kitchen the next morning, Gator was sitting at the dining room table, boots up on the empty chair across from him. He was drinking coffee out of one of your father’s old mugs that you’d hadn’t gotten around to packing up yet.
“What the fuck are you -“
"Feelin’ better?" Gator asked, his voice raspy and far too intimate.
"Get out.”
He smirked, taking a slow pull of his drink. "Not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Told you. I’m takin’ care of you now."
"I don't need you to take care of me. I need you to leave my house."
"’Til the paperwork goes through, it technically doesn’t belong to you yet. So I’m here to make sure nothin’ happens to it. Or you."
"You’re the only thing happening to me, Gator."
"Flattery," he drawled, setting the mug down "You know, your dad and I... We had an understanding."
You froze, your hand tightening on edge of the counter where you were desperately trying to steady yourself. "What?"
"He knew I was the only one lookin’ out for you," Gator said, his eyes drifting to the framed photo on the fridge - you, at your college graduation, smiling with a degree you’d worked your ass off for. "He knew that if anythin’ ever happened to him or your mom, I’d be the one steppin’ in. He trusted me."
“You’re lying.”
“You think I’d lie about that?”
“Oh, so you and my dad were best buddies?”
“Lot changed after you left, darlin’.”
You pressed your fingers into your temples, rubbing small circles in a desperate attempt to stave off a headache. “Maybe he trusted you to arrest the drunk drivers or something. Not to stalk his only daughter."
"He trusted me to love you," Gator countered, his voice dropping an octave. "And look at that. I’m doing a hell of a job."
“That’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
“My dad would never trust someone like you to take care of me. Or love me, for that matter.”
“I can be pretty persuasive when I wanna be. He and I talked a lot. An’ he thought I was quite the romantic at heart.”
The words felt like a twisted the knife in your gut. It brought the realization that in almost ten years, your parents had never called you. Not once. They had written a few letters, the occasional stiff email, but they had never dialed your number. You had told yourself they were just old-fashioned, set in their ways. That they didn't want to intrude.
But seeing Gator here, seeing how easily he moved through their space, how he claimed to have an "understanding" with your father... It was unsettling.
"You’re not romantic, Gator. You’re psychotic."
"Am I?" He stood and crossed to right in front of you, leaning against the counter, boxing you in with his arms. "Or am I just what you need? You ran away to the big city to be a stranger. But you’ll never be a stranger to me. I read your articles. Even bought your damn book."
"You… You bought my book?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
"First edition," he said, a smug grin stretching across his face. "Signed copy, too. Paid way too much for it. But it was worth it just to see your signature."
Gator reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm, rough against your skin. You flinched, but you didn't pull away. The memory of the night before, of the way his hands had felt on your body, was still fresh. It had felt good. And was the worst part. It had felt good to be wanted that fiercely.
"Not much for fiction, but you’re a hell of a writer," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips. "You got a way with words. But you’re wrong about one thing. You think you can just write this town - and me - out of your own story. But you can’t.”
"I’m writing my own ending now," you replied, tilting your chin up in defiance.
Gator laughed, a low, dark sound that vibrated in his chest. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.
"Sure you are, pretty girl,” he whispered.
“And you’re not in it.”
"Aren’t I?”
“What makes you think -“
“Last night. You think that was a mistake? A one-time thing?" He pulled back to look you in the eye. "That was just the beginning, sweetheart. I saw how you looked at me when you thought I wasn't watchin’. You need this just as much as I do."
"I don't need this," you said, your voice trembling. "I need to sell this house and leave."
"And I told you," his voice hardened, the tenderness evaporating instantly. "You’re not leavin’. Or selling. I already blocked the listing. Miss Linda down at the realtor’s office isn’t gonna be taking your calls anymore."
"What?" Your stomach dropped. "You can’t do that."
"I can do whatever I want," he said simply. "My dad’s the Sheriff. You really think some real estate agent is gonna cross us? You really think a judge is gonna rule against the Tillman family when it comes to zoning permits or property disputes?"
"This is illegal."
"It’s practical," he corrected. "You’re stayin’ here. With me. And you’re gonna stop fighting it."
You stared at him, the realization hitting you like a bucket of ice water. It wasn't just obsession. It was entrapment. He had cornered you legally, physically, and emotionally. He had built a cage around you. And he seemed pleased with himself.
"Why?" you asked, the tears finally spilling over. This was too fucking much. "Why are you doing this? I left. I moved on. Why can't you just let me go?"
"Because you're the only thing that makes sense," Gator said, his expression raw and unguarded for a split second. "Because everything else in this life is bullshit. The job. The town. The politics. But you... You were real. You were the only thing I ever wanted that I couldn't just… Take."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek. His thumb wiped away a tear, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"You’re the only thing that ever mattered," he said softly. "And I’m not losing you again. Not to New York. Not to some job. Not to yourself."
Gator leaned in and kissed you. It wasn't aggressive this time. It was slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly tender. You didn't kiss him back, but you didn't push him away either. You stood there, frozen, as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding into your hair to hold you in place, like he anticipated you trying to escape.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"I’m not a monster. I’m gonna give you some time," he murmured. "To get used to the idea. But don't think about runnin’. You try to leave, and I will hunt you down. Got it?"
He straightened up, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Be back for dinner."
With that, he turned and walked out the front door. You listened to his truck start up, the engine rumbling as he backed out of the driveway. You stood there for a long time, the silence of the house pressing in on you, heavy and suffocating.
But this time, the fear was different. It wasn't just fear of him. It was fear of the truth. Fear that he was right - you were alone, and he was the only person who saw you.
Running back upstairs to grab your cell seemed like a Herculean task, so you walked over to the landline phone on the wall, the old rotary dial your parents had kept forever. You hesitated, your hand hovering over the receiver. You needed to hear a voice that wasn't Gator's. You needed to know if the world outside this nightmare still existed.
You dialed your editor's number in New York. It rang. And rang. And rang.
Finally, on the eighth ring, it clicked over to voicemail. "You've reached the desk of Sarah Jenkins. I'm away from my desk right now..."
You hung up before the beep could sound.
You tried your best friend from college. Same thing. Voicemail.
You stood there, staring at the phone, a cold dread pooling in your stomach. Gator had said he had friends at the airport. He had eyes on the roads. But as you looked at the dead receiver in your hand, you realized he might have been talking about more than just physical surveillance.
And you couldn’t even leave because your rental car was still at some bar since Gator had driven you home last night. You were alone in a house that wasn't truly yours, in a town that belonged to him. The silence wasn't empty anymore; it was watching you.
You sank to the floor, wrapping your arms around your knees. Maybe you wouldn’t be leaving South Dakota after all.
The sun went down, taking what little warmth the day had offered with it. You hadn't moved from the spot on the floor for hours, paralyzed by a mixture of rage and despair. When you finally did, you hardly managed to pack anything up.
The house was dark, save for the sickly yellow glow of the porch light bleeding through the front blinds. You had debated running, truly contemplated making a break for the tree line, but Gator’s words echoed in your mind. It felt like the entire town was a cage, and he was the only one holding the key.
When the sound of his truck crunching on gravel finally cut through the silence, you didn't scramble to hide. You just sat at the dining room table and braced yourself.
He didn't knock. He let himself in with a key, bringing a gust of freezing wind and the smell of cold air and smoke with him. He locked the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home with a finality that made your stomach lurch.
"Evenin', sweetheart," he called out, his voice echoing in the hallway. He strolled into the kitchen, shedding his leather jacket and tossing it over the chair he’d claimed earlier. He looked entirely too comfortable, like he’d just come home from a long day at work. "You miss me?"
"I want you to leave," you said, your voice raspy from disuse.
Gator laughed, heading for the fridge. "Yeah, you keep sayin' that. But your eyes tell a different story." He grabbed a beef before walking over to you. "You look tired. You eat today?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You're gonna be," he said, setting the bottle down on the counter. He pulled you up from your chair by your wrist and turned you till your spine hit the edge of the kitchen table. He towered over you, that familiar, intense gaze boring into yours. "You're wound too tight. Gotta relax."
"I'm relaxed enough," you spat, trying to sidestep him, but he caught your arm, his grip firm.
"No, you're not," he murmured, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. "You're thinkin’ too much. About New York. How much you hate me. You need to stop thinking and just... Feel."
"I feel plenty " you snapped, pulling against his hold. "Contempt. Disgust. Hatred -“
"Desire," his voice dropped to a whisper. "It's eating you alive. Just like it's eating me."
He didn't give you a chance to argue. He hauled you against him, crushing his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss. It wasn't tender; it was a demand for surrender. You struggled for a moment, your hands pushing against his chest, but he was immovable. A wall of muscle and stubborn will.
Then, his other hand slid down to your ass, squeezing hard, and a traitorous spark of heat ignited low in your belly. You hated it. You hated him. But God, you hadn't been touched like this in years. You hadn't even been looked at with this kind of single-minded hunger since... Ever?
You bit his lip, hard, tasting copper.
Gator jerked back with a grimace, but he was smiling. A dark, feral grin. "There she is. Fight back. Makes it better."
"Get off me," you gasped, wiping your mouth.
"Make me," he challenged, and then he was lifting you, setting you on the kitchen table like you weighed nothing. He stepped between your legs, his hands pushing up your sweater, his calloused palms scraping against your skin. "Or better yet... Beg me."
"Never," you hissed, but your body was betraying you. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, and your breath was coming in shallow gasps.
"We'll see," Gator said, dropping to his knees.
He didn't bother with finesse. He just yanked your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion, exposing you to the cool air. Before you could process the vulnerability, or maybe kick him away, his face was buried deep between your thighs.
The shock of his tongue hot against your clit made you cry out, your back arching off the table. He ate you like he was starving, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread open for him. He sucked and licked, his technique sloppy but effective. He knew exactly how much pressure to use, exactly when to flick his tongue against that sensitive bundle of nerves to make your vision cut out.
You dug your fingers into his hair, intending to pull him away, but instead, your fingers tangled in the strands, holding him there. The moan that tore from your throat was humiliating.
"That's it," he mumbled against your flesh, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through you. "Tastes like heaven. Always knew you would."
He slid a finger inside you, then two, curling them upwards. He pumped them in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue. The coil of tension in your gut tightened rapidly, spiraling toward a release you didn't want but couldn't stop.
"Gator, stop," you gasped, your hips bucking against his face.
"No," he said simply, increasing the pressure. "You're gonna come on my face. Then we'll talk."
“No -“
“Yes.
He didn't let up. He ravaged you, his tongue and fingers working in tandem until your legs were shaking uncontrollably. The pressure built and built, until finally, it snapped. You came with a strangled scream, your body convulsing.
Gator rode out your orgasm, his mouth never leaving you until you were slumped back against the table, gasping for air. He stood up, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. He looked proud. Predatory.
"Good girl," he murmured, voice rough with lust as he reached for the button of his jeans. "Now that we've got the edge off... Turn around.”
You didn't move. You couldn't. Your limbs felt like jelly.
"I said, turn around," Gator repeated impatiently, grabbing your hips and flipping you over. He manhandled you until your chest pressed against the wood, your feet on the floor once more.
"Go to hell," you choked out, looking away from him. It was easier this way. If you didn't look at him while he fucked you over the family dining table. You could pretend it was just... Meaningless friction. Just biology.
"God, that’s a view," Gator groaned from behind you. You heard the rustle of fabric, the tear of a foil packet, and then the blunt heat of him pressing against your entrance.
He didn't prep you further or ask if you were ready. He just stepped between your legs, gripped your hips, and slammed forward, attempting to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth table surface. It burned.
"Fuck, you're tight," Gator gritted out, pausing for a moment to let you adjust. He leaned over your back, his chest pressing against your spine, his mouth hot against your ear. "Relax. Let me in."
You forced yourself to breathe, to unclench your muscles around him. As soon as you did, he slid in fully and started to move.
He set a punishing pace, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in hard. The table groaned under the onslaught, scooting slightly across the floor with every thrust. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on the sensation - the drag of his cock against your inner walls, the slap of his hips against your ass, the way he filled you so completely it bordered on pain.
"Take it," he growled, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back. "Fuck, baby. You take me so good."
His angle changed ever so slightly. and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made see a constellation of stars. A moan escaped your lips, unbidden.
"Yeah?" Gator said smugly. "You love it rough, don't you? Aways knew you would, pretty girl."
"Shut up," you gasped, your cheek pressed against the table.
"Make me," he countered, reaching around to rub your clit.
The added stimulation was too much. You felt your second orgasm building, faster this time, more intense. Your body was betraying you again, responding to his touch with an eagerness that shamed you.
"Gator," you whimpered, your walls pulsing around him.
He thrust into you particularly hard, grinding his hips, and you shattered. You came with a silent scream, your back arching, your internal muscles squeezing him like a vice as pleasure flooded your system.
Gator groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. He slammed into you a few more times, his movements becoming erratic, until he stilled with a guttural shout. You felt him empty himself inside the condom, his grip on your hips bruising.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your combined breathing. Gator stayed inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your spine. You felt trapped, pinned beneath his weight, the scent of him - sweat and sex and weirdly something fruity - overwhelming you.
Eventually, he pulled out, dealing with the condom. You stayed on the table, unable or unwilling to move yet. You felt empty now, both physically and emotionally.
Gator zipped his jeans up, then reached out to stroke your back. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
You pushed yourself up, sliding off the table and pulling your leggings back on with shaking hands. You refused to look at him.
“I hate you.”
"You keep sayin' that," Gator said, moving closer again. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were dark, satisfied. "But your body says something else entirely. Seems to know who it belongs to."
"I'm leaving, Gator," you said, trying to summon some of your earlier resolve. "I'm going to find a way out of this."
Gator laughed, a low, dark sound. "No, you're not. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, possessive press of his lips. You didn't kiss him back, but you didn't pull away. Letting him take what he wanted was the safest option. Besides, you were too tired to fight, too confused to care.
"Come on," he said, breaking the kiss and grabbing your hand. "Let's go to bed. I'm beat."
Silently, you let him lead you toward the stairs, toward the bedroom that used to be yours. You felt like a ghost haunting your own life, trailing after the man who had decided your fate.
But as you reached the landing, Gator stopped. He didn't turn on the light in the bedroom. He just pulled you inside, stripping off his clothes with an efficiency that would’ve been impressive had you not been so terrified.
"Get undressed," he ordered, sitting on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight.
You hesitated. The moonlight filtering through the blinds cast long, skeletal shadows across the room.
“We literally just -“
"I said, get undressed," Gator repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Unless you want me to do it for you."
You knew he would. And he wouldn't be gentle about it. So, with trembling fingers, you pulled your sweater over your head, then shimmied out of your leggings once more. You stood before him in just your bra and panties, feeling exposed, despite mere minutes before when he’d taken you on the kitchen table.
"Take them off," he said, leaning back on his hands, watching you with a hungry gaze.
You reached behind your back to unhook your bra, letting it fall to the floor. As you slid your panties down, you heard the foil of a condom wrapper echo in the small room.
"Come here," Gator said, laying down and patting his lap. "You know what to do."
You did. You walked over to him, straddling his lap, but facing away. Maybe was cowardly, but you couldn't look him in the eye. Not after what had just happened in the kitchen. Not after you'd let him convince you again.
You reached behind you, guiding his already-hardening cock to your entrance. You sank down on him, the stretch easier this time, your body still slick from earlier.
"Fuck," Gator hissed, his hands immediately gripping your waist. "Ride me."
You braced your hands on his knees, lifting your hips and sliding back down. You set the pace, moving slowly at first, trying to find a rolling rhythm that didn't require you to engage with him. You focused on the physical sensation - the friction, the fullness, the way he hit deep inside you.
"Goddamn," Gator groaned, his head falling back.
He slapped your ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You jolted, a gasp escaping your lips, but you didn't stop moving. The sting melded with the pleasure, creating a confusing mix of sensations.
"Faster," he commanded.
You obeyed, increasing your speed. You rode him hard, your breasts bobbing with the movement, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The bed springs squeaked in protest, a rhythmic squeak-squeak-squeak-squeak that seemed to echo the degradation of the moment.
"Shit, you're beautiful," Gator murmured, his hands roaming over your back, your ass, your thighs. He squeezed your flesh, his grip greedy. "You were made for this. Made just for me."
You closed your eyes, blocking him out. You tried to summon an image of New York - of the skyline, of the crowded streets, of the anonymity you craved. But it was hazy, distant. The only thing that was real was the heat of the body beneath you, the man filling you up, and his hands claiming every inch of your skin.
"Gator," you breathed, your head falling forward, your hair curtaining your face.
"Tell me you like it," he demanded, his hips bucking up to meet your downward thrusts.
"I..." You hesitated. You couldn't say it. You couldn't give him that.
"Say it," he growled, his hand wrapping in your hair and pulling your head back, baring your neck to him. "Tell me you love this."
"I love... I love it," you choked out, the words tearing from your raw throat.
"Yeah, you do," Gator said smugly. "Such a dirty girl, aren't you? Always have been. It’s always the quiet ones.”
He ground his hips against yours, hitting so deep inside of you that you wondered if internal damage was possible. You moaned, your internal walls clenching around him.
"You gonna come for me again?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.
"I... I don't know," you stammered.
"You will," he said confidently. "I can feel it. You're close."
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in tight, harsh circles, matching the rhythm of your thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your body trembling on the edge of release.
"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against your ear. "Let go. Give it to me."
You did. You came with a cry, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his thighs. You slumped back against him, boneless and spent, his cock still buried deep inside you.
Gator didn't let you rest. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight and dragging you down so that you were both laying on your sides. He yanked your leg back over his own and began to thrust into you once more chasing his own end. His movements were erratic now, desperate. He buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking at the skin, marking you all over again.
"Gator," you whimpered, overstimulated.
"Almost there," he gritted out. "Just a little more, babygirl."
With a final, guttural groan, he came, pulsing inside the condom. He held you there for a long time, his chest heaving against your back, his heart hammering against your ribs. The room was silent, save for the sound of your combined breathing.
Eventually, the fog cleared. The cold reality of where you were and what you’d done seeped back into your bones. You were laying in his arms - in your childhood bedroom, no less - sweating and naked with a man who had effectively imprisoned you.
You tried to lift yourself away from him, to put distance between your bodies, but his arms were like steel bands around your waist.
"Don't," he murmured, his face still buried in your neck. "Just stay for a minute."
"I need to clean up," you said weakly.
"In a minute," he said, tightening his hold. “Jus’ wanna hold you."
It was such a bizarre, almost tender thing for him to say after everything. It threw you off balance. You stopped struggling, letting your weight rest against him. You could feel the sticky cooling of sweat on your skin, the lingering throb between your legs.
"You're mine now," Gator whispered, the words vibrating against your skin. "You finally get that, right? There's no going back. No New York. No running. Just us."
The despair washed over you, cold and crushing. Because in that moment, with his arms locked around you and his scent filling your lungs, you were terrified that he was right.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of Gator moving around in the kitchen. The unmistakable clatter of a coffee pot, the thud of a heavy boot on the floorboards. It was domestic. And horrific. You lay in bed, staring up at the water stains on the ceiling that had shaped like a bunny rabbit when you were six, and felt like you were rotting from the inside out.
Your body ached - a deep, throbbing reminder of the night before. There were bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingertips, a soreness between your legs that made you wince when you shifted, and the marks on your neck felt like they were glowing neon. You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to physically push the memories out, but they were branded there. The way you had ridden him. The way you had begged. The way you had come apart in his arms while he whispered that you were his.
What made it so much worse is that in the moment, you had enjoyed it. That was the devastating truth that kept you paralyzed under the quilt. When the stupid chemicals flooded your brain when his hands were on you, you had wanted it. You had wanted him.
What kind of person did that make you? Were you just as sick and twisted as he was, starved for touch and attention so badly that you’d accept it from a man who had made it abundantly clear he was essentially holding you captive?
"Hey!"
Gator’s voice cut through the closed bedroom door, weirdly cheerful and loud. "Coffee’s on! Come get it before I drink it all."
You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting back a scream. He sounded like a husband calling his wife to breakfast.
It made you want to burn the house down.
You dragged yourself out of bed, grabbing your robe. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror - haunted eyes, hair a tangled mess, the dark hickies standing out violently against your skin. You looked like a victim, but felt like a traitor.
When you walked into the kitchen, Gator was sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone. He was fully dressed in his uniform, the badge gleaming on his chest. He looked imposing, authoritative, and entirely unbothered by the storm raging inside you.
"Mornin', sunshine," he grinned, looking up. "Sleep well?"
You didn't answer. You just walked over to the coffee pot, your movements stiff as you poured a cup, hands trembling slightly. You prayed he wouldn't notice.
“Got a call from Roy," Gator said casually, taking a sip from his own mug. "He wants us to come by for dinner tonight. Say congratulations."
You spun around, the coffee sloshing in your cup. "Congratulations for what?"
Gator leaned back, his eyes raking over you, lingering on the marks on your neck. "For finally coming to your senses. He knows, darlin'. He knows you're stayin'."
"You told him?" The betrayal hit you like a bucket of ice water. "You told your father that we... That we..."
“Don’t get all shy on me now, sugar. Certainly weren’t last night.” He took another look at your face and seemed to be off-put by your utter mortification. “I’m kiddin’ - left out some of the more interesting details from the last few days when we talked earlier. Most of them, anyway. Don’t know if he’d approve of a woman bein’ on top -“
“Fucking hell.”
"He's happy. He likes you. Always said you were the only one with enough spine to handle a Tillman."
"That's none of his business!" You shouted, your voice cracking. "My sex life is not a topic of conversation for the Sheriff's department!"
Gator’s smile faded, his eyes turning hard. "Watch your tone. And besides, it ain't just your sex life It's ours. We're a package deal now."
"We are not a deal!" You slammed your mug down on the counter, coffee splashing over your hand but you hardly felt the burn. "I am not a possession, Gator. I am a human being who you have trapped in this fucking town. You are holding me against my will!"
"I'm protectin’ you from your own stupidity," he snapped, moving closer to tower over you, but you refused to back down. You stood your ground, your chest heaving, glaring up at him.
"You think I wanted this?" You gestured wildly around the room. "You think I wanted to come back to this dead-end town and be bullied by the psycho I spent ten years trying to forget? I have a life! Friends! A career!"
"You have nothing!" He roared, slamming his hand against the cabinet beside your head. You flinched, but you didn't look away. "You have a lonely apartment in a city and acquaintances that don’t give a shit about you! You had parents - but they didn't even care enough to call you for a decade! You have no one but me!"
The words cut deeper than you wanted to admit. They stung because they held a grain of truth. Your parents hadn't called. Your life in New York was lonely sometimes. But that didn't justify this. It didn't justify the cage he so desperately wanted to cram you into.
"I'd rather be alone than with you," you whispered, tears burning your eyes. "And I'd rather be dead than be yours."
Gator went still. The air in the kitchen seemed to drop ten degrees. He looked at you with a mixture of fury and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like hurt.
"Don't say that," he said quietly, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “Don’t fuckin’ say shit like that.”
"It's the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "You killed anything real we might have actually had when you decided to trap me here. You don’t want me, Gator. You want a doll you can play with. And I'm not a doll. I have a soul, and you are crushing it."
He stared at you for a long moment, his chest heaving. Then, he stepped back, running a hand over his gelled-back hair. He looked frustrated, like a child who couldn't figure out why his toy wasn't working.
"You're confused," he said finally, his tone dismissive. "You're still in shock about your folks. It's messin' with your head. You'll come around."
"Don't come near me today," you said, your voice dropping to a warning. "I mean it. If you touch me, I will cut you open with that kitchen knife and gut you over there where you fucked me last night.” You pointed towards the large one that stuck out of the block on the counter, then at the table.
Gator studied you, his eyes narrowing. He seemed to be weighing your threat, deciding if you were serious. Finally, he nodded.
"Fine," he said, turning back to the table to grab his keys. "I gotta work anyway. I'll be back later. And we're goin' to dad’s. Be ready by six."
"I'm not going," you called after him as he walked to the door.
"Yes, you are," he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Because if you don't, I'll drag you there by your hair. And I promise you, you won't like how that feels."
He opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. "Oh, and don't bother tryin' to leave. I returned your rental car from the bar. Just in case you got any ideas."
With that, he was gone. The door clicked shut, and the silence returned, heavier than before.
You stood in the middle of the kitchen, your hands shaking so badly you had to clutch the edge of the counter. You felt like you were going to be sick.
You spent the next hour in a fugue state, wandering through the house like a ghost. You were trapped. Stranded. Isolated.
Eventually, you sat on the sofa, staring at your phone. No signal. Just a series of error messages that made your heart sink. You tried putting on some old movie on VHS to drown out the silence, but it didn’t help much. You were truly, utterly alone. Some old Disney movie wasn’t going to fix that.
The emotional turmoil felt like it was pressing down on your chest and threatening to crush you. You felt dirty that you’d let him take you. But to be taken was to be chosen, right? And to be chosen means that maybe, just maybe, somebody cared about you. Even if that somebody was Gator Tillman. God, you couldn’t believe you were trying to rationalize his behavior.
You also felt an overwhelming sense of grief that you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel till then. For the parents you hadn't truly known, for the life you had built that was currently being dismantled piece by piece, and for the girl you used to be who would have fought tooth and nail rather than submit to anyone. Ever.
But you had submitted. You had let him touch you. Let him make you feel good.
You curled up on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest, and let the tears come. They were hot and fast, soaking into the fabric of your robe. You cried until your head ached and your throat was raw, until there were no tears left.
When the sun began to set, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange, you felt hollowed out. Numb.
You couldn't go to Roy's. You couldn't sit at that table and pretend to tolerate either of the Tillman men while they discussed your future like it was a livestock auction. But you also knew you couldn't fight him physically. He was stronger, and he was the law.
So, you did the only thing you could think of. You grabbed the steak knife from the kitchen block and hid it under the cushion of the armchair. It was a pathetic defense, but it made you feel slightly less helpless.
Around six o'clock, you heard the truck.
You were sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the TV that wasn't turned on anymore When the door opened, you didn't turn around. You just kept your eyes on the black screen.
Gator walked in, bringing a gust of cold wind with him. He stopped in the doorway, looking at you.
"You ready?" he asked.
You stood up slowly. "I'm not going."
Gator sighed, walking into the room. "We talked about this, sweetheart. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
"I said I'm not going," you said, your voice flat. "You can drag me if you want. You can beat me up. But I will not sit at that table and smile. I will not pretend that this is okay."
Gator studied you as he had that morning. He walked over to you, standing close enough to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You flinched, but you didn't pull away.
"You're stubborn," he murmured. "Always have been. It's annoying as hell."
"Then let me go."
"Not gonna happen." He dropped his hand to his belt, his fingers tapping against the radio strapped to his hip. "But fine. If you don't want to go to Dad's, we'll stay here. I'll order in."
“Nowhere delivers out here.”
“They will for me.”
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat," he said firmly. "You could use some more meat on your bones, little lady."
He turned away from you, heading toward the kitchen to make the call. You watched him go, your heart hammering in your throat. You had avoided the dinner, but you were still trapped. Still stuck in this house with him.
Gator ordered from your favorite place from high school, remembering your exact order with a stalker-like precision that churned your stomach. Especially considering it wasn’t as if the two of you had ever gone there together When it arrived, he set the food on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, patting the spot next to him.
"Sit."
"I'll sit in the chair," you said, moving toward the armchair where the knife was hidden.
Gator’s eyes flicked to the chair, then back to you. He knew. He had to know. But he didn't say anything. He just shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
You sat down, your hand slipping under the cushion to wrap around the handle of the knife. The metal was cool against your palm, a small, sharp comfort. You watched him eat, tearing into the takeout boxes hungrily. He looked completely at ease, while you felt like you were sitting on a live wire.
"Your dad called me," Gator said suddenly, his mouth full.
The mention of your father made your chest tighten. "He's dead, Gator."
"I know that," Gator rolled his eyes. "I meant before. Back when we were kids. He called me. That summer you went to that writing camp."
You froze. You remembered that summer. You had been fifteen, desperate to get away. Your parents had refused to pay for the camp, so you had scraped together every dollar you had earned babysitting and paid for it yourself. You’d forged your parents’ signatures on a permission slip and left via the bus station without saying goodbye to anyone, not even Gator. It had been an amazing week, even though you were grounded for the better part of six months afterward.
"Why’d he call you?”
"He asked me where you were. Said you'd taken off in the middle of the night. He sounded... Scared."
"He wasn't scared," you said, shaking your head. "He was angry."
"Don’t think so," Gator said, leaning back against the cushions. "He asked me if I knew where you went. If I knew if you were safe. He sounded like a man who was worried he'd driven his daughter away for good. Heard your mom cryin’ in the background. She was worried too.”
You raised an eyebrow in surprise. For ten years, you had believed your parents didn't care. That they’d let you go without a second thought. But Gator was painting a rather different picture.
"They never called me," you whispered, the tears welling up again. "When I was in New York. They never called. Why didn’t they call?” If felt stupid to ask him, of all people. But you couldn’t help the desperate question as it fell from your lips.
"Maybe they didn't know what to say," Gator suggested softly. "Pretty sure that after the whole runnin’ away to camp thing they thought that once you grew up ‘n left, you didn't want to hear from them anymore."
"Well, they were wrong," you choked out, the anger rising again.
"Maybe," Gator conceded. "But they're gone now. And you're back. And you've got me."
"I don't want you!" you screamed, the control snapping. "I want my mom! I want my dad! I want to go back to when they were alive and to hear them say they're sorry!"
You were sobbing now, great heaving gasps that wracked your body. You buried your face in your hands, letting the grief pour out of you. It was messy and ugly and raw. Not a display you would’ve chosen to give Gator under normal circumstances. But you were well past giving a shit what he thought of you.
Gator watched you, the food forgotten. He stood up slowly and walked over to the chair. He didn't touch you. He just crouched down in front of you, watching you cry with a solemn expression on his face.
"I know," he said quietly. "It hurts. It's okay to be mad. Hate 'em for a while, if you have to.”
You looked up at him, your vision blurry with tears. "Feels like they abandoned me. Even though I’m the one who left.”
"Yeah," Gator nodded. "They did.”
He reached out, taking your hands away from your face. His grip was firm, warm. "But you left me, too. You promised way back when that we'd figure it out. You promised we were in it together. And then you just... Vanished. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?”
"That was different," you sniffled, trying to pull your hand back, but he held on tight.
"Was it?" Gator asked, his dark eyes searching yours. "Because I remember feelin’ exactly like you do right now. Like my chest had been ripped open. Like the one person who was supposed to stay had bailed on me."
The realization was startling. In his own twisted, fucked-up way, Gator had been grieving too. He was grieving the loss of you, the loss of the future he wanted. Or maybe thought he was owed.
"I didn't belong to you," you said weakly.
"No," Gator agreed. "You didn't. But you do now."
He stood up, pulling you up with him. He didn't force you close, just held you by the arms, looking down at you with a complicated mix of lust and longing.
"You're hurtin'," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And confused. And you think bein' with me is the worst fuckin’ thing that could happen. But it's not. It's the only thing in your life that's real."
"I hate you," you whispered, but the words lacked their usual heat.
"I know," he said, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "But you'll get over it. We've got time."
He leaned down and kissed your forehead. It wasn't sexual. It was possessive, but in a strangely paternal way that made your skin crawl even as it soothed the ache in your heart.
"Come on," he said, steering you toward the stairs. "Let's go to bed. No funny business. Just sleep."
You were too exhausted to fight. You allowed him to lead you upstairs, hand limp in his. He untied your robe and tugged on a t-shirt over your body, his movements clinical and efficient. You let him pull back the covers and tuck you in.
You expected him to climb in, maybe force himself on you. But he didn't. He just sat on the edge of the bed, watching you in the dark.
"Go to sleep," he murmured. "I'll be right here."
He turned on the bedside lamp, casting a small pool of light over the room. He sat there, guarding you, like a dragon hoarding his gold.
And as your eyes drifted shut, weighted down by grief and despair, you knew that he wasn't just talking about tonight. He was talking about forever. You were his prisoner, a project. And he was never going to let you go.
Masterlist, AO3
Castiel/Dean Winchester
Word count: 5.4k
Summary:
The first few days, Dean had barely noticed.
Cas had always been… attentive. The kind of guy who noticed the little things most people didn’t—the way Dean favored his right knee after a hunt, how he took his coffee in the morning, the fact that he always preferred sitting at the head of the table for dinners. But lately, it had been dialed up to eleven.
---
Or where Dean learns a thing or two about angel biology.
Content: smut!! praise kink, making out, body worship, oral sex, cvming untouched, non-trad abo, nesting, purring, language
A/N- ya'll it's been a minute, college has been crazy but I literally couldn't get this out of my head so enjoy
The first few days, Dean had barely noticed.
Cas had always been… attentive. The kind of guy who noticed the little things most people didn’t—the way Dean favored his right knee after a hunt, how he took his coffee in the morning, the fact that he always preferred sitting at the head of the table for dinners. But lately, it had been dialed up to eleven.
It started with the coffee. Dean would walk into the kitchen and there it was—freshly poured, just the right amount of cream he used on particularly indulgent mornings, sitting in his favorite chipped mug. No big deal. Then it was his jacket. He’d tossed it over a chair with a rip in the sleeve one night and found it the next morning, good as new.
From there, it escalated. Meals were no longer something Dean got for himself—Cas seemed perfectly content to pick up food from across the globe before Dean could even think the word hungry. If Dean reached for a beer, Cas was quietly pushing a bottle of water towards him instead.
Even the clothes off his back were not safe from the angel. Dirty t-shirts went missing from the floor. Flannels disappeared from the back of chairs. Not to mention, Dean was almost positive Cas was swiping his clothes from the hamper at this point.
The thing was, Dean didn’t even have the energy to argue about it most days. Sleep had been… rough lately. He’d lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the bunker’s plaster until his eyes burned. When he did manage to drift off, it was shallow—dreams tangled with old hunts, faces he couldn’t shake. He was running on fumes, and maybe that’s why it had taken him a full week to snap.
By day seven, it wasn’t just strange—it was suffocating.
Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a plate of eggs and bacon from his favorite diner in St.Louis. Courtesy of air-angel. The angel in question stood across the counter, hands folded neatly, like he was waiting for some kind of verdict. Dean’s fork stalled halfway to his mouth.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, pushing the plate a few inches away. “Spill it, buddy.”
Cas’s head tilted, “There is nothing to spill, Dean. Is the food not to your liking?” His eyes went wide as if the idea had just come to him. “I know you have not frequented Conner’s Diner in quite some time. It must not be your favorite breakfast establishment anymore–”
Dean’s eyebrows rose as he watched the angel look increasingly more distraught.
“Stupid. So stupid, I should have known you would not like it. I sincerely apologize, Dean. I will get you something better–”
“No. No, stop it, Cas. The food is great, that isn’t the problem.” Dean interrupted, having had enough of the self-deprecation. “What I meant was, what’s wrong with you man?”
“I don’t understand what you are referring to Dean, I am perfectly well”, Cas took a breath, seeming to calm down at Dean’s assurance.
“Yeah? I know for a fact that’s bull. You’re hovering like a damn helicopter mom and I’m sick of it. For fucks sake, you would’ve thought your hamster died with the way you reacted to the idea of me not likin’ the food. If you’ve got somethin’ to say, just say it.”
Cas’s tone didn’t change. “I’m simply ensuring you’re alright.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Newsflash Cas, I’ve been alright for decades without a babysitter as I sure as hell don’t need you fillin’ the role.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Cas’s expression didn’t shift, but his shoulders dipped—barely, just enough for Dean to notice before he turned away. Dean felt the smallest twinge in his chest, something that might have been guilt if he dissected the feeling, but he shoved it down.
By nightfall, Dean was done with the bunker and everything in it. He needed noise, people, something to take the edge off the weird tension that had been hanging between him and Cas all week. The small bar on Main St was calling his name. He couldn’t even remember the last time he got laid.
He grabbed his keys from the war room table, but before he could make it to the garage, the sound of footsteps following him stopped him in his tracks.
“I will accompany you,” Cas said, as if the matter had already been decided.
Dean turned, brow furrowing. “It’s just a bar. I don’t need a chaperone.”
“I’d prefer not to let you out of my sight.”
There was something in his voice—not a threat, not a request, just stubborn certainty.
Dean exhaled slowly. “Cas–”
But the angel was already striding past him, trench coat brushing against Dean’s leg as he headed for the Impala. By the time Dean got to the car, Cas was in the passenger seat, buckled in, sitting ram rod straight, hands folded politely in his lap.
The bar was exactly what Dean needed—dim lighting, low music, the smell of stale peanuts and beer thick in the air. He slid onto a stool at the far end, Cas taking the seat beside him without a word.
Dean ordered the house whiskey, savoring the first sip when movement in his peripheral caught his attention. A perky blonde approached, her steps confident, a smile already tugging at her lips. She leaned against the bar, close enough that Dean could smell her perfume. Something vanilla and flowery.
“You here alone, handsome?” she asked, her tone smooth, practiced.
Dean gave her his classic crooked grin. “Guess that depends–”
“Leave him alone.”
The voice cut through the hum of the bar like a blade. Dean froze mid-sentence, the woman blinking in surprise as she turned toward Cas.
“Excuse me?” she said, her tone edged with offense.
“You will not speak to him,” Cas replied, voice low and sharp, eyes locked on hers with a glare that could’ve smited her where she stood.
Dean turned fully toward him now, disbelief rising like heat in his chest. “Dude, what the hell?!”
“She was—”
“She was talking to me,” Dean snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t get to police that.”
The stool screeched against the floor as Dean stood, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances. “You’re outta line. Back off.”
Something flickered in Cas’s eyes then—hurt, raw, and unguarded. His mouth opened as if he was going to argue, but no words came out. The muscles in his jaw worked once before his face crumpled, just enough for Dean to see the shine of unshed tears in his eyes catching the dim bar light.
“I see,” he said, voice thin and uneven.
And then he turned, the trench coat flaring briefly as he walked toward the door. Dean didn’t follow immediately—he just stood there, pulse thudding, unsure what the hell had just happened.
By the time he made it outside, the parking lot was empty of one rebellious angel. The Impala’s passenger seat sat vacant, the air in the car colder somehow. Dean gripped the steering wheel, the echo of his own voice—sharp and cutting—bouncing around in his head. He couldn’t shake the way Cas had looked at him before walking out. Something was seriously wrong with the guy and Dean was more than worried now.
His hands tightened on the wheel the whole way back, leather creaking under his grip. The more he thought about Cas walking out like that, the more it burned him up. First the hovering, now the jealousy act? What the hell was Cas’s problem lately?
But under all that frustration was a knot of unease. Cas hadn’t been angry when he left—he looked defeated. Dean hated that look, and he hated even more that he couldn’t get it out of his head.
By the time he pulled into the bunker garage, he was wound up tight. He slammed the Impala’s door and headed inside, muttering under his breath.
The moment the bunker door swung open, a voice came out of nowhere like a gunshot.
“You absolute inconsiderate jackass!”
Dean flinched, drawing his gun at the noise. Past the barrel stood Gabriel. 5 feet 8 inches of smug posture and pissed-off eyes. The lights of the bunker flickered faintly behind him, the angelic equivalent of pacing like a caged tiger.
“…Gabriel?” Dean blinked. “Why the hell are you here?”
Gabriel stepped forward, the usual playfulness in his face replaced with pure fire. “Oh, I dunno, maybe because you just stomped all over my baby brother’s heart like it was a cockroach in your kitchen? Ring a bell?”
Dean scoffed, stowing his gun and shuffling further into the room. “What, are you serious? I didn’t—”
“Oh, you did,” Gabriel cut him off sharply. “You fucked things up Winchester-style, and I gotta say—chef’s kiss—just when I think you’ve hit the ceiling on being emotionally tone-deaf, you grab a ladder and keep climbing. And that’s really saying something coming from me.”
Dean’s brows drew together. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened—”
“I know what happened,” Gabriel snapped, jabbing a finger in his chest. “I know because I could feel it. You know how bad things have to be for him to call to me? This isn’t the ‘oh, Dean was mean to me today and that hurt my feelings’ kind of sad. This is ‘I’m calling the only garrison member I have left because my world imploded’ sad.”
Dean’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “I know he’s been off recently but–”
Gabriel’s head tilted, studying him. Then something in his face shifted—realization dawning like a slow, painful sunrise. “For my father’s sake please tell me Cassie told you.”
Dean scowled. “Told me what?”
“You don’t know,” Gabriel said flatly.
Dean’s voice sharpened. “Don’t know what?”
The archangel let out a slow, dramatic sigh and rubbed his temples. “Every few million years, angels hit something we call a mating period. Cosmic clockwork—bam, all the alarms go off, and suddenly you’re compelled to comb through Earth looking for your one-and-only mate.”
Dean blinked. “…Your what now?”
“Your mate,” Gabriel repeated impatiently. “As in, your other half. The peanut butter to your jelly. The one person in the universe you’re meant to bond with for all eternity. Sound familiar or should I get out the sock puppets?”
Dean made a face. “So what… Cas wants a girlfriend?” The thought made something tighten in his chest.
Gabriel stared at him like he’d just confessed he didn’t know how doors worked. “He doesn’t want a girlfriend, you muppet. It’s biology. Ninety-nine percent of the time, angels go looking for a mate and don’t find squat, end of story. But if they do? That’s when the fun starts.”
Dean snorted. “Fun for who?”
Gabriel’s grin turned sharp. “For the lucky bastard who triggers the angel’s secondary gender. Cas? He’s an alpha.”
Dean blinked again. “…Like… alpha male? What is this, a wolf thing?”
Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, genius. Alpha as in: once he’s locked onto his mate, he’s wired to take care of them in every way. Physically, emotionally–” he paused, giving dean a smirk, “sexually, you name it. He’d get obsessed with making sure they’re safe, fed, comfortable—basically nesting around them like a mother hen on steroids. Hence the coffee, the jacket, the food deliveries from halfway across the globe. You following Deano?”
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “So… he’s just in a caretaking mood? That’s what all this is?”
“Caretaking?” Gabriel scoffed. “That’s the understatement of the millennium. He’s been running a one-man ‘make mate happy’ campaign because every part of him is screaming that’s his purpose now. And when an alpha gets rejected by their mate—”
“Rejected?” Dean cut in, his voice hardening. “Who the hell would reject Cas?”
Gabriel just stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching until it was unbearable. Then he said, slowly, like he was speaking to a child, “You. You rejected him.”
Dean’s stomach sank. “…What?”
“You are his mate, moron. Are you really this dense?” Gabriel asked, exasperation dripping from every word. “The gifts? The hovering? Clothes going missing? The laser focus on your wellbeing? Not ringing any bells? He’s desperate to take care of you, and you’ve been swatting him away like a mosquito at a barbecue.”
Dean’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His brain was still stuck on me?
Gabriel’s smirk faded. He stepped in closer, his voice dropping, no humor left in it. “Yeah, you. And this isn’t just him being moody, Dean. If an alpha gets rejected by their mate, it’s not like a bad breakup—it breaks them. He’s already calling out to me, which means he’s… slipping.”
Dean swallowed hard. “Slipping?”
Gabriel’s gaze locked on his, deadly serious. “If this goes on, he’s going to shut down. Withdraw. Stop fighting. I’ve seen what that looks like— you don’t come back the same.”
The air between them felt heavier, like Gabriel had just dropped a weight onto Dean’s chest.
“I don’t care if you’re confused or scared or whatever your excuse is,” Gabriel said quietly, but with steel in his voice. “If you want to fix this, you need to go to him.”
The angel paused, looking at Dean seriously. “But if any part of you is unsure about this, leave him be. Angels mate for life, and he undoubtedly won’t make it if you reject him down the line.”
Dean didn’t say a word to Gabriel when he turned and headed down the hall. He could still feel the archangel’s eyes on him, but he kept moving, boots echoing against the bunker’s concrete floor.
His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense. Gabriel’s words rolled around in his head like gravel in a tumbler, sharp edges knocking into him every few steps.
You’re his mate.
The idea was insane and he could already feel himself start to brush it off—chalk it up to Gabriel’s usual brand of needling. But the more he thought about the past week… hell, the past few years… the harder it was to ignore. Cas showing up after every hunt to check him over. Cas remembering the smallest details about him—things Dean didn’t even think he’d said out loud. Cas taking blows meant for him without hesitation.
Dean had always figured it was just who Cas was—loyal, protective, maybe a little too intense. But what if it had been more than that?
He stopped halfway to Cas’s room, leaning against the wall like the realization alone had stolen all of his breath.
The truth was, it had been Cas for him for a long damn time. Longer than he cared to admit. But with world-ending apocalypse after another, it was never the right time.
But in the quiet hours after a hunt, he could admit to himself that if there ever was an ‘after’ for him– It was Cas. Maybe that's why he never told him, because Cas’s inevitable rejection would put an end to all those ‘after’ dreams. He was a coward all the same.
Deep down, Dean had done nothing because he had been certain Cas didn’t feel the same. Couldn’t feel the same. He was an angel, and sue him but he always thought Cas’s devotion was just… duty. Friendship.
But if Gabriel was telling the truth—and Dean had a gut-deep feeling he was—then he’d been dead wrong. Cas wasn’t just hanging around out of loyalty. He wanted Dean. Chose him.
And Dean had been pushing him away.
He clenched his jaw and shoved off the wall. The decision was already made, even if it scared the hell out of him. He didn’t care about the “alpha” thing or the mating season or whatever else Gabriel had said—if Cas was hurting because of him, then Dean was damn well going to fix it.
He reached Cas’s door, the weight of everything sitting heavy in his chest. For a moment, he just stood there, hand hovering over the wood, trying to piece together what he could possibly say to make this right.
Then he knocked.
There was no answer.
Dean knocked again, a little harder this time. “Cas?”
Nothing.
He could hear the faint sound of movement on the other side—maybe the shuffle of feet, the rustle of fabric—but no response came. The silence sat heavy between them, and Dean felt it deep in his chest. He knew he’d screwed up. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t known what was going on—he’d still hurt Cas. And if Gabriel was even half right about this whole angel biology deal, then a simple apology sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it.
Dean let out a slow breath and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned his head back, staring at the door across from him.
“Hey, Cas,” he said quietly. “You got your ears on?”
The only answer was the faint hum of the bunker’s air system. Dean huffed a humorless laugh and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Really hope you do,” he muttered. “’Cause… I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you. Didn’t mean it.”
He exhaled, shoulders sagging. “I realized I never actually thanked you—for everything you do around here. For me. You always look out for me, even when I don’t ask. Especially when I don’t ask.”
His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Gabriel told me what’s been goin’ on. You should’ve told me, Cas.”
He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the floor between his boots. “I get why you didn’t, though. You probably thought I’d be pissed or… weirded out or somethin’. But I’m not. Not even close.”
Dean swallowed hard. The next words felt like glass in his throat. “You’re wrong about me bein’ mad, Cas. I’m… honored, alright? You—you always deserved better than me. Hell, you still do. But whatever’s left of me…” He looked back up at the door, voice barely above a whisper. “…It’s yours, angel.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the latch clicked.
The door swung open.
Cas stood there.
And for a second, Dean forgot how to breathe.
The angel didn’t look like himself. His trench coat was half-off one shoulder, tie hanging loose, hair a wild mess like he’d been dragging his fingers through it in frustration—or something else. There was something raw in his eyes, something unrestrained that sent a jolt straight through Dean’s chest.
“Cas…” Dean started, his voice catching somewhere between relief and awe.
Cas didn’t answer. He just looked at him, unreadable, then stepped aside. “Come in,” he said roughly.
Dean hesitated for a heartbeat, the air between them already crackling, then crossed the threshold. The second the door clicked shut behind him, Cas was there—close enough that Dean could feel his body heat, the faint hum under his skin that was almost too much to stand and not nearly enough.
Their eyes locked. Neither of them moved. The air felt tight, charged, heavy with something Dean didn’t have a name for.
Cas’s hands trembled at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he was holding himself together by a thread. “Did you mean it, Dean?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
Dean swallowed hard, throat dry. “Yeah. I meant it.””
Cas’s eyes closed, like the words physically hit him. When they opened again, they burned with unrestrained grace. “Do you understand what it would mean?”
Dean’s pulse jumped. He didn’t, not really, but the way Cas was looking at him made him want to. “Guess I’m about to.”
Cas’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering through his face—longing, fear, reverence, all tangled. “You don’t understand. It means I want to know you, Dean. Completely. To learn you again and again until every part of you is carved into my very being. Until there’s no discernible difference between you and I. I want to make a home around your soul, to keep it safe, wrapped within me for all eternity. To know you in ways humans call ‘biblical’. I want in ways you cannot fathom. I want to possess you—not in the way of bodies, Dean—but in the way that every fiber of me reaches for you. Does this frighten you Dean?”
Dean’s breath caught. He should have been afraid—should have backed away. He didn’t. He wasn’t quite ready to dissect it yet. Every part of him was keyed to the sound of Cas’s voice, the impossible devotion threaded through it. Worship, his mind supplied, and he shook his head no.
Cas stepped closer until their chests brushed, breath mingling. “You say yes to me, and you will never go without. You won’t be forgotten or left behind. You will be mine, and you will never have another, in life and in death. Knowing this, do you still want, Dean?”
Dean’s heart hammered. He wanted to say something profound—but he’d never been good with words. His mouth was dry and his body was thrumming like he’d been caught in a current. The worst part was how good it felt, that pull toward Cas, that surrender blooming under his ribs. It terrified him. It thrilled him.
Dean was a man of action.
One heartbeat he was standing there, the next he was surging forward, fisting Cas’s coat and pulling the angel’s mouth to his. The impact was messy—teeth clashing, breath mingling, a desperate sound breaking from Dean’s throat. Cas didn’t move. He stood there, rigid, his eyes wide open as though he couldn’t quite process what was happening. Dean pressed in harder, lips working against still ones, a frustrated growl rumbling in his chest.
Then he pulled back, just a breath away, panting. “Yes, Cas,” he whispered, voice raw. “Fuck please— my answer is yes.” The words trembled with something too close to pleading.
And then Cas was moving. The air between them snapped, charged. His hand shot up, strong fingers curling around Dean’s jaw as he drove him backward, pinning him against the door with a force that stole his breath. The thud echoed in the small space, and Dean felt an embarrassing amount of blood run south.
“You do not need to beg for me Dean.” Cas purred, voice low and dark with something that made Dean’s knees weaken..
And before Dean could think of a response, Cas’s mouth was on his. This time there was nothing hesitant about it. Cas kissed him like he’d been waiting centuries for the chance, all heat and purpose. His grip tightened, tilting Dean’s head just so, and Dean’s gasp melted into a low, helpless sound as Cas’s tongue slid past his lips, slow at first, then deepening.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact—the rough drag of lips, the heat between them, the faint tremor in Cas’s touch as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed this. Like Dean could ever deny him again.
Dean clutched at his coat, pulling him closer, matching every movement. Breathing became secondary—irrelevant—because all that mattered was this.
Cas shifted, and Dean felt the hard press of Cas’s arousal against his hip, his own response stuttering to life in return. A low sound, half-growl, half-moan, rumbled from Cas’s throat before he broke from Dean’s lips, trailing down to his neck. His mouth found skin, hot and insistent, leaving a messy constellation of kisses and bites in his wake.
Dean’s hand found Cas’s hair—soft, he thought hazily—and he fisted it, needing something to hold onto as the world narrowed to the heat between them.
“You got a thing about marking me up, angel?” Dean huffed, the words breaking on a groan when Cas bit down harder.
Cas lifted his head, eyes dark, one hand sliding lower until it cupped Dean’s ass. The sudden touch drew a startled yelp from Dean.
“Yes,” Cas said, voice rough as gravel. He tugged Dean closer until their erections aligned, the friction pulling matching groans from both of them.
“When I imagined you like this,” Cas murmured, words spilling hot against Dean’s lips as he rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate grind, “I thought I’d take my time. Draw it out. I’d touch you until every breath you took was my name—until you forgot everything but me. And only then,” his voice dropped, “would I let you cum on my tongue.”
Dean’s head hit the door with a dull thunk. His breath stuttered, pulse thrumming against the marks already forming on his throat. “Fuck, Cas—”
“But now,” Cas interrupted, his tone trembling with restraint, “I find I only want to please you.”
He leaned back, eyes flicking over Dean’s face as if memorizing every twitch of need before sinking to his knees. The loss of his warmth drew a sound from Dean—half protest, half plea. Cas’s fingers snapped, and their clothes vanished, leaving nothing but skin, heat, and the sharp pull of air between them.
Dean gasped, eyes tracing every line of Cas’s body. The way the light hit the curve of his shoulders, the swell of his chest, the strength in his arms– Dean felt his dick pulse, moving on its own causing the other man to smirk. Dean swallowed hard, words caught in his throat, because damn if Cas didn’t look… perfect.
Cas looked up at him from his knees, eyes burning with devotion and hunger in equal measure. “Beautiful Dean. Every part of you… exquisite and mine. My Dean.” his hands rose to Dean’s thighs, caressing before pressing his lips to his pelvis bone, mouthing at the skin. “Will you let me taste you?” he asked, voice low, reverent.
And Dean couldn’t think of anything he’d ever wanted more.
His hands found their way back to Cas’s hair, tugging him closer as his hips jerked forward instinctively. “Cas… fuck yeah…” he gasped, voice breaking under need. “I want you to.”
Cas’s eyes fluttered shut, a ragged breath escaping him despite needing none, before he lowered his head. Dean felt the heat of Cas’s mouth press against him, soft at first, testing, teasing, sending a shiver straight through him.
Cas’s tongue flicked lightly, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made Dean groan and arch, hips jerking. He sucked gently, lips sliding over every sensitive spot, then pulled back just enough for his teeth to graze the tip in a teasing nip before sealing his mouth over Dean again, warm and wet, each movement meticulous.
Cas’s hands weren’t idle. One gripped Dean’s hip to steady him, while the other brushed over his thigh, pressing him closer, teasing, ensuring every nerve ending was alight.
“Fuck… Cas… oh God… this feels so good… you’re so good,” Dean moaned, voice ragged, spilling praise as he babbled. “You… you’re amazing… perfect… fuck…”
Dean watched as the angel’s eyes rolled back for a heartbeat, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he swallowed around Dean. Breath ragged, Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s hair. “Oh… did you like that? Being told how good you are?” he teased, voice thick with heat.
Cas didn’t pause. His lips moved with even more devotion, tongue swirling, sucking, coaxing moans from Dean, answering every word with trembling, worshipful hums. “Yeah… that’s it… that’s my Cas… so fucking good…” Dean groaned, hips jerking helplessly.
Cas stiffened, fingers bracing against Dean’s hips, lips slick and perfect, a quiet tremor running through him. Slowly, deliberately, he slid a hand down to his own leaking erection, letting out a desperate, guttural sound.
Dean’s eyes widened, breath catching. “You gonna cum for me, Cas?” he whispered, enraptured, watching the angel stroke himself.
The bunker lights flickered, and Dean couldn’t hold back any longer, his own release building uncontrollably. “Come on… I want you to. I wanna see you, Cas…”
Cas’s reaction was instantaneous. Thick ribbons of cum shot out onto the bunker floor as Cas moaned around Dean. Sparks showered from the flickering lights, shards of glass scattering, plunging the room into darkness. The only illumination came from Cas’s eyes, glowing with grace—intense and unblinking.
And then Dean felt it—Cas’s grace, warm and insistent, reaching out to him, wrapping around him, and unmistakably him. Deep in his bones, Dean knew.
This was Cas.
Dean let him in.
The recognition hit like fire. His body responded instinctively, hips jerking violently as he thrust into Cas’s mouth. A high, ragged moan tore from him as his orgasm ripped through, spilling into Cas.
Cas moaned again, shakily holding Dean as he came once more, cock releasing onto the floor, as the taste of Dean filled his mouth.
Dean’s knees buckled, and he sagged into Cas, trembling, chest heaving. His body still burned from the intensity, but now the bond between them pulsed like a living thing. Cas pressed soft, insistent kisses to the side of Dean’s neck—no words, just the heat of their connection. A shiver crawled down Dean’s spine.
Cas blinked, and Dean realized the glass was cleared. The bedside lamp clicked on, flickering to life.
“So—” Dean started, lips curling into a crooked smile, breaking the silence. “Did you really just pop the lights giving a blowjob?”
Cas rolled his eyes, then moved, lifting Dean effortlessly—arms under his back and knees. Dean barely had the strength to protest, too spent to argue. “Woah, Cas… hey… don’t—” he started, words dissolving into a ragged breath. “…Don’t tell Sam about this,” he managed, voice weak but teasing.
Cas’s lips curved into a soft smile, eyes lighting with something unreadable. He hummed in response. No words, just that deep, masculine sound that made Dean’s face heat.
Dean’s arms slipped around Cas’s neck, letting himself be carried. Exhaustion from lack of sleep finally settled in, the fire of earlier simmering down to a soft, hazy warmth.
They crossed the room, Dean’s head resting against Cas’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “…Is this… a nest?” Dean murmured faintly as Cas approached the bed. The pile circled the center of the mattress, an impossible mound of feathers, soft fabrics, and Dean’s own clothes, all woven together. Dean’s exhausted brain registered it slowly. “…Oh… that’s… that’s where my stuff went,” he said softly, voice trailing.
Once on the nest, Cas lowered him gently, still holding him close, positioning Dean on his chest. Dean let out a contented groan, eyes fluttering shut.
“This is nice,” he murmured, voice threadbare from exertion.
Cas pressed him closer, one arm curling around Dean’s back, the other brushing across his hair and shoulders. And then—a sound rumbled low in Cas’s chest.
A purr.
Dean froze, chest fluttering at the vibration against his own ribs. “Cas… you’re… purring?” he whispered, half-laughing, half-moaning, incredulous at the sound that was both absurd and achingly intimate.
The purring stopped suddenly and Dean felt the angel freeze under him. Dean opened his eyes and shifted to look at Cas, only to see the angel bright red and refusing to meet his gaze.
“I apologize. It is an angelic response, I will try to refrain.” Cas murmured, obviously embarrassed.
Dean brought a hand up to Cas’s jaw, guiding him to meet his eyes. “Don’t be sorry” Dean spoke quietly, “feels good Cas.”
Cas’s eyes widened, the purring starting up again, louder this time, causing Dean to smile. Cas pressed his forehead to Dean’s temple, hands moving with slow, deliberate care over Dean’s spine and arms, cupping his head against his chest.
Dean’s eyes fluttered closed. The purring was hypnotic, grounding, soothing in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. His hands rested on Cas’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall, the low rumble resonating straight into his core.
Cas’s fingers twitched in Dean’s hair, thumbs brushing gentle circles along the nape, coaxing every tension out.
Dean let himself melt into Cas’s chest, every thought dissolving except for the thrum of warmth and devotion under his hands. “Yeah… yeah, this is perfect,” he murmured. “Just… stay like this please.”
Cas’s lips curved into a tiny, tender smile, one that touched the corner of his eyes “Of course, goodnight ol monons”.
Dean’s head tucked further into Cas’s shoulder, chest rising and falling against him, every heartbeat a promise of warmth, safety, and devotion.
For the first time in what felt like hours—maybe even days—Dean allowed himself to relax completely. He was home. And Cas—purring, silent, protective, all-consuming—was his.
Just realising how easy it would be to win any discussion with basically anyone on the Z team (expect Flambae really, I mean unless your a dude to) just by flashing em
I mean literally any of them including Coupè she ain’t immune. Chase would just argue with you for the love of the game knowing damn well you’ll flash him-he does not even care if he’s arguing about grass being purple to ragebait you (I need to crack that youthful old man carnally)
I mean need I bring up Sonar? Really? You want to confirm what we all know? Real water is wet and fork found in kitchen moment buddy ol pal.
….
Sonar would wanna slobber on em.
Brother is googling the stupidest possible topics to argue to the point his search history has questions like “how argue to get boobs” like brother in Satan you are not slick. He is willing to say climate change isn’t real just to see em.
Punch up? Oh that Irish man is not safe around me. Rubbing my hands like a fly consumed by biblical greed rn fr fr on god no cap. He is literally just out here like
He’s just out here for the love of it. And honestly? Me to king who would refuse titties? (Says the person who cried from seeing a naked lady in her figure drawing class. I twas a wee lass in those days)
Robert? Oh honey he is THE baiter of rage, he is gooning and baiting. He’s literally the king have you seen him with Flambae? Like bro just kiss already you want each other so bad it makes you look stupid.
Oh baby sweetie tootsie-MALEOVA. It’s like a deer seeing road lights-she can be as suave and flirty as she likes but none of us are immune to sudden titty exposure. Tail shoots straight up, eyes trained on them Cupid kettle drums like a sniper trained for this moment. She’d go feral over tig bitties I know it in my soul
summary: You and Rafe were high school sweethearts that continued into college however Rafe went down the wrong path and you found out you were pregnant. 4 years later finds you and Rafe trying to navigate co-parenting your 3 year old son while overcoming life’s obstacles and past experiences.
word count: 2.5k
You sent a tired smile in your son’s direction as you watched Asher play with his tractors on the kitchen table. He had refused to eat dinner unless he could bring his tractors with him. You had said no at first because the kitchen table wasn’t a place to play, especially when you and Rafe were eating dinner but Asher had been grumpy all day, fighting you on everything you asked him to do so you gave in. Had Rafe been there when it happened, he would have taken your side and Asher would be frowning in the seat he currently sat in. But Rafe wasn’t there. Because you two didn’t live together.
One of the cons of co-parenting, you thought bitterly. He had only shown up 30 minutes ago for dinner. Some meeting he had ran later than he expected. As usual. But he had promised Asher he would come for dinner and if that man makes a promise to his son, he always kept it. It was something that made your eyes tear up if you thought too much about it because you knew Rafe could be a cold hearted, stern, unforgiving man until his son was involved. Then he would bend over backwards, reschedule or even leave meetings just to make sure Asher was taken care of. Nothing was keeping him away from his son.
“You gotta eat your dinner buddy. Put the tractors down. You can play after you’ve eaten a few bites,” Rafe sent a look Asher’s way. He was using his dad voice and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t do something to you. His deep voice sending shivers down your arms, settling somewhere deep in your chest close to where your heart was. When Rafe took that tone, Asher always listened.
“Okay daddy.”
Asher clumsily picked up his fork and started scooping his mac and cheese. He was making a mess and proceeded to get it all over his mouth but he was eating his dinner, finally. You’d take a win where you could. He would take a bath after dinner anyways.
“So I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Rafe cleared his throat, looking up from his plate to glance at you across the table.
“What’s that?” You furrowed your eyebrows. Rafe was shuffling in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. He seemed nervous which was out of character for him which in turn made you start overthinking. He only got like this when he was about to bring up a topic you wouldn’t like.
Rafe looked to his left, making sure Asher was somewhat preoccupied with his dinner and tractors before looking back at you, “There’s this charity ball our company is throwing next month. Suppose to be a big event, raise money for a charity of our choosing, that kind of thing,” Rafe stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued, “I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”
You were bringing the fork to your mouth for another bite as the words left his mouth and the shock of what he said made you unconsciously drop your fork. It landed with a loud clattering sound against the table before bouncing off and hitting the ground. The sound got your son’s attention and he looked your way with a wide eyed expression.
“Mommy, you made a mess!”
You felt stuck. You couldn’t move, couldn’t acknowledge your son speaking to you, couldn’t look Rafe in the eyes, couldn’t do anything but think about what he said.
He wanted you to go with him to this charity ball his work was throwing which meant dressing up and showing face in front of everyone he worked with. Or rather, that worked for him. He was the CEO after all.
But you weren’t together. You just co-parented with him which worked for you and you got no complaints from him about it. It wasn’t perfect by any means but it was what worked for your family. You got along great after Rafe cleaned up his act once Asher was born but you never got back together. It was too difficult to think about a relationship when Asher was a newborn and Rafe was dealing with sobriety. Instead, you both settled into this routine of taking care of Asher and raising him. That’s all your life revolved around anymore.
“You have to clean up your mess, Mommy. I’ll sing the clean up song for you!” Asher was unaware of the silent crisis you were having as you tried to get your brain to catch up to the current moment and do something.
You were vaguely aware of Asher signing ‘clean up, clean up’ over and over as he attempted to clean up the mess on the floor but you felt frozen. Going to a charity ball with Rafe would certainly give everyone the impression that you were back together and you didn’t know if you were ready for that life. It was also an event that didn’t extend the invite to little children. That thought alone broke you out of your trance.
“No one would be able to watch Asher,” You finally made eye contact with Rafe.
Rafe visibly let out a breath, like he was expecting a different response from you, “I already asked Sarah. She said she wouldn’t mind staying the night with him just in case we came back late.”
“Aunt Sarah?!” Out of the corner of your eye you saw Asher stop cleaning and his singing stopped abruptly.
You winced. He loved his Aunt Sarah and it had been awhile since he spent time with her. You just don’t know if you could leave him alone after what he went through.
“Yeah buddy, how’s a sleepover with Sarah sound?”
“Wait a second, Rafe. I didn’t say I would go,” You frowned. He was assuming you would go and in turn getting your son excited for no reason. You weren’t sure you wanted to go to a charity ball with Rafe and you damn sure weren’t thrilled about having Asher out of your sight.
“Why wouldn’t you? We’ve got someone to watch Asher. It’ll be fun,” Rafe said, smiling gently at you.
You had no doubt it would be fun. His company was known for throwing big parties and supporting a lot of the local charities. They always went above and beyond. The parties were extravagant and the talk of the town. All the food and wine was imported. Everyone who was someone attended.
“There’s just a lot to think about. It’s not as simple as you make it seem,” You stood from your seat at the table and squatted beside your son to wipe down the floor.
“How is it not simple?” Rafe scoffed. He was shaking his head as he pushed his food around on his plate with his fork. He was getting frustrated by your lack of giving in so easily.
“You know why. Going to a party like that is a big deal. People will talk,” You send him a look over Asher’s head.
“Mommy I talk!” Asher poked your arm as he grinned at you.
Despite the rising tension in the kitchen, you smiled at him, “Yes baby, you do. Why don’t you go play with your tractors in your room before bath time?”
“Okay!” He quickly grabbed his toys off the table and zoomed down the hallway to his room.
With Asher out of the room, you stood and grabbed the plates from the table, dinner long abandoned. You walked over to the sink to set the dirty dishes down gently before turning back to Rafe. You leant against the countertops and crossed your arms against your chest.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go with you.”
“But why? Give me one good reason.” Rafe stood from the table now, walking closer to you. He stopped a couple feet in front of you, not wanting to overcrowd you. His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked annoyed.
“For starters, Asher will be left alone-“
“He won’t be left alone, Sarah is going to watch him.” Rafe cut you off, raising both of his eyebrows as he looked pointedly at you.
He was right. You knew Asher wouldn’t truly be alone but in your mind, if you or Rafe weren’t with him he might as well be.
It had been 6 months since Asher was physically abused by the person who use to watch him during the day while you went to work. He was doing so much better since it happened but you found yourself frozen in time and unwilling to move on. It was hard to when all you could picture was Asher in the hospital. You still had nightmares about it. You just wanted to protect him at every waking moment and you couldn’t do that if he wasn’t right beside you.
“Rafe, I just think it’s best if I stayed with-“
Rafe groaned cutting you off once again. He drug his hands over his face and leaned his head back to face the ceiling, collecting his thoughts. He stayed that way for a couple of seconds until he tilted his head forward to look at you again. His face softened as he saw your wide, teary eyes and he knew this ran deeper than just going to some stupid charity ball with him. He knew that wasn’t the main concern.
Rafe took a calculated deep breath and started walking to you, speaking softly, “I know you have a hard time leaving him with someone else since it happened but he’s better now. His therapist even said he’s making good progress,” Rafe raised one of his hands towards the hallway, pointing to Asher’s room, “You can’t keep hovering over him waiting for something bad to happen. You need to live your life too. I want what’s best for both of you. You know I would never put him in harms way and leave him with someone I don’t trust. Sarah loves him and she would do anything to make sure he was taken care of,” He was speaking so quietly now, like he was scared to run you off.
You squeezed your eyes closed. You were trying not to let the tears fall. You knew he was right, you needed to live your life but Asher was your life. He represented everything that was good in your life. Your heart clenched at the thought of leaving him alone for more than a second.
As you started to breath heavier and faster, you felt Rafe’s hands hovering over your shoulders. You could sense his hesitation until you opened your eyes and found him standing right in front of you.
His hands finally made contact with your shoulders and he gave them a gentle squeeze before letting them trail down your arms. The faint touch of his fingertips as he drifted down to your hands had you relaxing into his touch. You didn’t even realize how tensed up you had been.
Rafe’s fingers threaded through yours and you felt a light blush rising on your cheeks. It had been a long time since you were so close to him. It was an unspoken rule that you weren’t intimate in any way with each other, scared it would lead to something else but you allowed yourself this one moment with him.
You would be lying if you said you weren’t losing yourself in his comfort.
“Come with me baby,” Rafe softly whispered. He was so close you could feel his breath on your cheeks.
At the mention of the nickname you hadn’t heard in years, you let out a soft breath of surprise. He was making you feel emotions you had pushed deep down for years. He was your first kiss, first love, first everything. He was the father of your child. He was in your life daily and when he was holding your hands while calling you baby and pleading with you to go with him to some party for work it was hard to say no.
You found yourself nodding, unable to speak. You were so entranced by him and his warmth. The simple gesture of him being so close to you was calming you down and making you lean into him. Your forehead gently rested against his chest where you could hear his heart beat. It was beating at a faster rate than what you considered normal which had you smiling softly.
You glanced up at him and saw his face was already angled down in your direction. Your nose briefly brushed against his and warning bells were going off in your head to back away before this went too far but you couldn’t care to listen to them.
His blue eyes were staring right into your own, holding your captive. You held your breath, physically holding yourself back from leaning up and closing the distance. Rafe seemed to be debating with himself as he searched your eyes. It felt like time stopped as he finally came to a decision. Just as you thought you saw him start to lean down, you heard a gasp from the hallway.
You both untangled yourself from the other quickly, Rafe dropping your hands as you stepped back from his chest and put some distance between the two of you. Your eyes found your son standing in the hallway with his Spider-Man toy in one hand and his favorite tractor in the other.
“Are mommy and daddy kissing?!”
“No!” You and Rafe said simultaneously. You started shaking your head while Rafe cleared his throat.
Asher looked very confused as he looked between his mother and father.
“It’s getting closer to bed baby. Let’s go get ready for bath time,” You stepped forward, trying to change the topic and get out of the kitchen where the atmosphere still felt charged from the earlier interaction.
Asher instantly groaned and let out a whine, stomping his little foot against the ground, “I don’t wanna go to bed.”
Before you could say anything to tame his oncoming temper tantrum, you heard Rafe speak behind you.
“Don’t give your mom an attitude. You know better. Now listen to what she said and go get ready for your bath.”
Asher’s head instantly dropped to his chest as he turned and slowly walked toward the bathroom across from his room. It was disheartening to see him so upset but you were grateful Rafe stepped in. You found yourself growing tired with each passing second and weren’t sure if you could handle one of Asher’s temper tantrums right now.
You turned toward Rafe and mouthed a ‘thank you’ as you followed Asher down the hallway. Rafe nodded in your direction and you saw him busy himself with cleaning the rest of the table off as you stepped into the bathroom.
As you turned the faucet on to get the water warm enough for your son, the realization of what you agreed to finally hit you.
You would be attending the most anticipated party of the year as Rafe’s date. It would also be the first time in years you and Rafe did something together without Asher tagging along.
