Mar 20, 2025
Tate McRae — Revolving Door directed by Aerin Moreno, choreography by Robbie Blue
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Tate McRae — Revolving Door directed by Aerin Moreno, choreography by Robbie Blue
꩜summary: his sports car doesn't impress you, but he hopes he can still make it work
꩜pairing: andrea kimi antonelli x fem! reader
꩜a/n: slight smut (18+) Bella= beautiful in italian :)
Your dad was clear; ‘Don’t mess with Kimi’.
How was it your fault if he messed with you first?
¿Alguien sabe como ser un adulto?
ʀɛʋօʟʋɨռɢ ɖօօʀ
gator tillman x fem!reader
word count: 1.8k
inspired by “revolving door” by tate mcrae 🤍
The sound of Gator Tillman’s truck had become a warning. Once, it used to make her smile. Now, every time she heard tires crunch against the gravel driveway, her stomach tightened before she’d even looked out the window. She never knew which Gator was coming home.
The one who’d stumble through the front door with that crooked grin and wrap his arms around her waist like he’d never wanted to let go. Or the one who walked in like she’d interrupted his day simply by existing.
The engine shut off, she glanced at the clock above the stove.
Three days.
He’d been gone for three damn days. No phone call, no explanation. Not even one of his half-assed texts that usually consisted of be back later or busy.
The front door swung open. He tossed his truck keys onto the kitchen counter with a loud clatter before pulling his sunglasses off and running a hand through his hair.
“…Hey.”
She stared at him.
“Hey.” Like he’d gone to the gas station instead of disappearing for seventy-two hours.
“Hey?”
He frowned, “What?”
“‘Hey?’”
“What?”
“You’ve been gone for three days.”
“Mhm.”
“Mhm?”
He walked straight past her toward the refrigerator, “Yeah.” The door opened and he grabbed a beer, popped the cap against the counter, and took a long drink. Still hadn’t answered the question.
She folded her arms, “Where were you?”
“Around.”
She let out a dry laugh, “‘Around.’”
“You gonna keep repeatin’ everything I say?”
“You got a different answer?”
He leaned back against the counter, taking another sip like they were talking about the weather, “What d’you wanna hear?”
“The truth.”
He smirked, “Good luck.”
Her jaw clenched. That damn smirk. It always showed up right before he said something that made her wonder why she stayed.
“You think you’re funny?”
“I think you’re dramatic.”
“Dramatic?”
“You’ve been gone.”
“I came back.”
“That’s not the point.”
He shrugged, “Seems like it.”
She couldn’t believe him. “You disappear whenever Roy snaps his fingers.”
His expression hardened immediately, “Watch it.”
“No.” She took a step closer, “I’m tired of watching it.”
The kitchen went quiet. Outside, wind rattled the porch swing.
“You don’t call.” He looked away. “You don’t tell me where you’re going.” Silence. “You don’t tell me when you’re coming back.” She laughed bitterly, “…now I’m supposed to act happy because you walked back through the front door.”
He took another drink, “You done?”
“No.”
“I figured.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“You make me feel crazy for asking the bare minimum.”
His eyebrows lifted, “Bare minimum.”
“Yes.”
“You wanna keep tabs on me twenty-four seven.”
“I want one damn phone call.”
“I ain’t twelve.”
“I never said you were.”
“You sure act like it.”
She stared at him. The worst part wasn’t even what he said anymore. It was how easy it came. Like hurting her had become muscle memory.
“I’m your girlfriend.”
“So?”
The single word hit harder than she’d expected.
“So?”
He set the beer down, “What?”
“‘So?’”
“I’m sayin’, so what?”
She blinked, “So… I worry.”
“Ain’t gotta.”
“I love you.”
He rolled his eyes, “There you go.”
“There I go?”
“Everything’s always so damn serious with you.”
She shook her head slowly, “No it just becomes serious every time you leave.”
He scoffed, “I always come back.” The words settled between them.
He’d stated an undeniable fact. I always come back. He wasn’t saying it to comfort her. He genuinely believed that was enough, he believed leaving didn’t matter…because he’d always walk back through the front door eventually.
And somewhere along the way…he’d started believing she’d always be standing on the other side waiting for him.
She looked at him for a long moment, then quietly walked past him, “Where you goin’?”
She didn’t answer. She disappeared into the bedroom, opened the closet, reached for the overnight bag tucked onto the top shelf. By the time she returned to the kitchen, she was folding clothes into it without saying a word.
Gator watched for a second then laughed once, “…You serious?”
Still she didn’t answer. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms, “C’mon.”
Nothing.
“You ain’t actually leavin’.”
She zipped the bag shut, finally looked up, “I think that’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“You don’t think I ever will.”
The smirk disappeared, so quickly that if she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would’ve missed it.
He recovered just as fast, “If you’re gonna leave…” he shrugged, “…then leave.”
The words hung in the room. He expected her to argue. Instead she slipped the strap of the bag over her shoulder, walked toward the front door.
His eyes followed her, “…You serious?” There wasn’t any attitude left in his voice.
Her hand wrapped around the doorknob. She opened the door. Cool evening air drifted inside.
She never looked back.
The screen door slammed shut behind her. Gator stayed exactly where he was. Still staring at the doorway.
He rubbed the back of his neck, “…She’ll be back.”
He wasn’t talking to anyone, he was trying to convince himself. She always came back.
Didn’t she?
Three days.
Three days since she’d walked out of the house she’d called home for nearly a year. Three days since she’d left Gator standing in the kitchen, fully convinced she’d be back before the sun came up.
The first night at her mom’s house had been the hardest. Not because she regretted leaving, but because every instinct in her body kept waiting for headlights to sweep across the bedroom ceiling. She’d spent hours staring at the old glow in the dark stars she’d stuck above her bed when she was twelve, wondering how she’d ended up back in the room she’d spent so many years trying to grow out of.
The second day was quieter. She unpacked just enough to make the room livable without admitting she’d be staying.
The third…
The third was when she stopped checking her phone every ten minutes.
If Gator wanted to call, he would’ve. If he wanted to text, he knew how. If he wanted to come after her…he would’ve done it already.
She’d almost convinced herself he wasn’t going to.
Then she heard it.
His truck. It rolled into the driveway with the same familiar growl that had become impossible to mistake. Her heart reacted before the rest of her did, sinking somewhere into the pit of her stomach as she slowly stood from the edge of the bed.
She didn’t rush to the window, she didn’t have to, she already knew it was him. By the time she finally pulled the curtain back just enough to peek outside, the truck had been sitting there long enough for the engine to fall silent.
Gator hadn’t gotten out yet. He was still behind the wheel, both hands resting on it, head tipped forward.
For once…he looked unsure.
Finally, the driver’s door opened. He climbed out, adjusted his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and made his way toward the porch.
Three slow knocks echoed through the house. She closed her eyes, counted to three, then walked downstairs.
When she opened the front door, Gator looked up immediately, “…Hey.”
She almost smiled, not because she was happy to see him, but because somehow, after everything, all he ever seemed capable of saying was hey.
“What?”
He blinked, “What?”
“You drove all the way over here.”
“Mhm.”
“You knocked on my mom’s door.”
“Mhm.”
“So what?”
He shifted his weight, “…Can I come in?”
She studied him for a long moment, “You really think that’s where we start?”
He looked past her into the house before looking back again, “…Guess not.”
She stepped outside instead, gently pulling the door shut behind her.
Neither of them spoke. The afternoon breeze stirred the trees overhead, filling the silence neither one of them seemed eager to break.
Finally…
“You gonna keep bein’ mad?”
She let out a laugh so tired it barely sounded like one, “I’m not mad anymore.”
His eyebrows lifted, “…No?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She looked at him, “You still don’t get it.”
“What?”
“You think this was about one fight.”
“It was.”
“It wasn’t.” she folded her arms. “It was about every fight.”
Gator frowned, “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“You leave.” He looked away, “You come back and you say something awful.” She sighed, “I forgive you, and then we do it all over again.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, “…That’s relationships.”
“No.” her voice stayed calm. “It isn’t.”
He scoffed quietly, “You always get over it.”
She nodded slowly, “I know.” He looked confused. “I always did and that’s exactly why we’re standing here.”
He stared at her, waiting. She took a slow breath, “You don’t get to keep doing this.”
“What?”
“You hurt me.”
“I ain’t hurt you.”
Her eyes searched his face, “You told me to leave.”
“You left.”
“You told me to.”
The words hung between them.
Gator opened his mouth, closed it again, then “…Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
He’d never believed she’d finally choose herself over him. She looked down at the porch beneath their feet, “That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“You never thought you had to change.”
His jaw tightened, “‘Cause you’d always come back.”
She swallowed hard, “I know.”
Silence. Long enough that she wondered if he’d simply walk away. Instead, he looked toward the driveway, then back at her. The confidence he’d walked up with had disappeared somewhere between the front gate and the porch.
“So…” he scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “…You done with me?”
The question landed softly, almost awkwardly.
Like the words didn’t belong in his mouth.
She looked at him, really looked at him. At the man who drove her absolutely insane. The man who could make her laugh harder than anyone she’d ever known. The man who could disappear for days without thinking twice. The man she’d loved enough to keep forgiving.
She didn’t know the answer. Not anymore.
Instead of speaking, she stepped past him and sat down on the porch swing. The old chains creaked under her weight.
She stared out toward the road.
A few seconds later, she felt the swing dip again.
Gator had sat beside her. Not close enough for their shoulders to touch.
He glanced sideways, “So…that a no?”
She let out a slow breath, “It’s an…” the words caught somewhere in her throat, “…I don’t know anymore.”
He nodded once, “…Fair.”
Silence settled over them again. Cars passed somewhere in the distance. A dog barked across the road.
Neither of them moved.
Then, so quietly she almost missed it, Gator shifted his hand across the wooden seat between them.
Not enough to grab hers but enough for his pinky to hook around hers.
She looked down at their hands. He kept staring out at the road like nothing had happened.
She could’ve pulled away. She probably should have.
Instead… she let her finger stay exactly where it was.
The revolving door hadn’t stopped spinning. Neither of them knew if it ever would, but neither of them pretended it wasn’t there.
TATE MCRAE Revolving door
Thinking the unthinkable
On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!
Time and again, I find myself thinking about radium suppositories: specifically, I get to thinking about the day that the consensus shifted from "radium suppositories are great" to "stop putting radioisotopes up your ass."
The thing is, people really liked radium-based quack remedies. They drank radium-infused water, smeared radium cream on their faces and bodies, and yes, rammed radium suppositories up their assholes:
https://maximumfun.org/episodes/sawbones/radium-girls/
The fact that this made whatever ailed you sicker didn't deter the radium true believers: if you're getting sicker, then you must need more radium.
When I think about the debate over radium, I imagine that the people who understood that radium was really bad for you must have run up against critics who told them they were being unreasonable. "You can't tell people to stop using radium. Tell them to use suppositories with less radium. Tell them to use them less frequently. But you can't just tell people, 'stop putting radium up your asshole.' They won't take you seriously."
About 20 years ago, I started pitching various institutions that reviewed consumer tech policy on the idea that they should reject any product that had DRM. After all, DRM didn't just restrict how you used a gadget today, it provided a facility for nonconsensually, irreversibly field-updating that gadget to add new restrictions tomorrow. How could a reviewer in good conscience say, "Go ahead and buy this device if you need this feature," if they knew that at any time in the future, the gadget's maker could take that feature away and leave the buyer with no recourse?
Here's the warning I (half-seriously) suggested magazines run alongside such products:
WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.
https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill
No one took me up on my offer. Over and over again, magazine editors, managers of nonprofit review outlets, and indie gadget reviewers told me that it was unrealistic to publish a roundup of, say, this year's portable music players with the recommendation, "Just don't buy any of these. None of them are fit for purpose."
In other words: No one wanted to publish, "The correct amount of radium to stuff up your asshole is zero."
But the correct amount of rectal radium for you to administer is "none" and the correct car for you to buy today is none of the cars:
https://foundation.mozilla.org/en/privacynotincluded/articles/its-official-cars-are-the-worst-product-category-we-have-ever-reviewed-for-privacy/
This isn't the first time the correct automotive recommendation was "don't buy any of these cars." Back before seatbelts came standard in cars, the correct car was "don't buy a car." Sometimes, the correct answer is "none of the above." Even if that makes you sound unserious, the alternative is that you counsel people to put radium up their asses in a bid to seem "reasonable."
Today, DRM-infected products are routinely downgraded and bricked:
https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/5/24236237/ftc-software-tethering-letter-consumer-reports-ifixit
Even when companies face public uproar over these disastrous decisions and vow to reverse them, they can't, because these downgrades are one way:
https://www.stereocheck.com/news/music/unfortunately-you-cant-revert-to-the-old-sonos-app-anymore/
Luminous Revolving Doors Grid A 10x10 grid layout with custom looped particles each playing from a random frame.
More info + Digital Archive + source file
