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fizzigigsimmer · 6 months ago

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Back At One Part 2

Pairing: Caligator, Billy Hargrove x Gator Tillman

Fandom Fusion: Stranger Things & Fargo S5

Dom/Sub au

*Title taken from this truly sappy love song by Brian McKnight that these boys would NEVER admit was kinda okay lol.

<<<<PART I

“When is that fella of yours gonna make an honest man out of you?" Dot asks, just as Gator reaches for the pans stacked on top of the fridge, and he jerks, pulling too quickly, sending a cookie sheet clattering toward the kitchen floor - he just manages to save it. Scotty raises the cover of her book to hide her face, but his ears work just fine and he hears her snicker.

"What do you mean?" he gripes as he fumbles with the cookware. This is what he gets for trying to do something nice for his boyfriend on his birthday. "Billy's already registered as my dominant."

Which means if Gator really does burn the house down trying to make this fucking cake, Billy can have the honor of identifying his barbecued remains and save Dot the trouble.

Dot’s giving him this look though. Like she can see right through his bullshit. Let's get real. She always could read him like a book and play him like a fiddle.

“Alright, lets bake this mother fu-uuning,cake” Gator self corrects, remembering Scotty at the last minute. Shit that was close. Dot only has a few rules for when they’re together: no talking about the past when Scotty’s in earshot and no potty mouth. She literally calls it that. It’s kind of annoying though, cause the kid is like twelve right? Gator could curse in three different languages by the time he was twelve. But apparently that’s not the thing to be proud of that he thought it was when he was twelve.

“Real nice save Hon.” Dot laughs at him.

“Yeah yeah. Let’s just do this.” Gator grumbles in reply, and they do.

Dot ties an apron around Gator's waist and hands him a mixing bowl while Scotty eagerly climbs up on a stool to read out the recipe as they work. She’s only meant to be walking him through the basics of a simple white cake with Billy’s name spelled out on it, but somehow the kitchen quickly descends into chaos.

"Okay, first we need to cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy," Scotty reads.

Gator dumps an entire stick of butter and a heaping cup of sugar into the bowl. He picks up the electric mixer and jams it in after, cause that much he can figure out for himself. Only it sends a plume of sugar into the air the minute he powers it on.

“Holy shit!”

"No, silly!" Scotty giggles. "You have to soften the butter first or it won't mix right."

Grumbling, Gator fishes the hard butter out of the bowl and tosses it into the microwave. A few seconds later, there's a loud pop - because he’s a fucking idiot and apparently it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to warm butter. One glance inside confirms the worst: the stick is now a molten mess, and butter drips down the microwave door.

"Oh honey," Dot sighs, grabbing a towel to wipe up the mess. "Just grab another stick and leave it on the counter for a bit to soften."

“Jesus. Come on. Get your head in the game!” Gator admonishes himself, trying to shake off his embarrassment and the feeling of shame welling up inside of him from fucking up something so simple. “I have cooked before. I’m just -”

What? Nervous? Fucking stupid? What else is there to say when he can’t even melt butter.

Dot lays a hand on his back. She doesn’t need to say anything, and she doesn’t as she hands him a clean bowl and Scotty reads out from Dot’s phone that it’s time to sift the dry ingredients together. He upends the bag of flour over the sifter, and thinks it might be too much. It definitely is, because he doesn’t get more than a few taps in before flour has started to overflow everywhere, dusting his hands and the arms of his black t-shirt. But hey, some of it is getting into the bowl.

Somehow with Dot's patient guidance and Scotty's enthusiastic "assistance", they manage to get the cake batter mixed and poured into pans. Gator slides them into the oven, sets the timer, and leans back against the counter with a sigh, his shirt and jeans thoroughly dusted with flour, bits of batter streaked in between.

Dot chuckles as she hands him a damp towel. "Well, that was an adventure. I think Billy will appreciate the effort you put in, even if it's not perfect."

Gator wipes his hands and grumbles. "It better turn out decent after all that. I still think I shoulda gotten him something else though. Something big, to really wow him, y'know?"

Dot studies him for a long moment, and then finally broaches the subject that has been festering like a smelly turd in the corner of the room.

"Want to talk about what happened at the store today?"

No. No he really fucking doesn’t. Gator turns to snap on the faucet, thinking that he’d like to stick his head under it and drown himself right about now. He focuses intently on scrubbing the batter caked on his nails instead.

"Nothin' happened. She was a stuck-up bitch is all. Lookin' down on me like I'm nothin' just 'cause I ain't some fancy dom in a suit."

He hears Dot murmur something quietly to Scotty about going to get her things together, and grunts in acknowledgment when the twerp says a shy goodbye before slipping from the room. He immediately feels like shit, because Dot can’t really punish him anymore - it’s not her place, and she’s got too much respect for Billy to overstep - but she can take away the one thing she knows he really wants. He wasn’t ready for them to leave, but he can’t blame Dot for not wanting her kid around him when he’s like this.

Her family is not something that Dot plays around with, and Gator might be someone she cares about, but there’s a stark line between whatever the hell they are to each other and the beautiful thing Nadine - fuck - Dot, built for herself with her own grit and guts in the aftermath of the Tillmans.

He understands. He gets it. He does. And yet he still flinches when she speaks again, body somehow unprepared for her to still be there even though he would have heard her leave if she wasn’t.

"She shouldn't have treated you that way," Dot says softly. "But Gator, how you reacted wasn’t like you. I haven’t seen you do something that rash in a long time. What’s this really about?”

Gator's jaw clenches and his hands still, suds dripping from his fingers into the sink. The air grows heavy with all the things unsaid between them.

"It’s nothin'. Alright?" he mutters unconvincingly. "I lost my cool is all. Won't happen again."

Dot sighs and leans her hip against the counter next to him, arms crossed. Her eyes are filled with gentle understanding and he hates it. Hates how much it reminds him of his mom, and all the times after, when she was gone and it was Dot standing in her place, filling the void as best she could. Hates most of all that he’s never been strong enough to resist the comfort Dot offers and the temptation to fall apart in her arms. She was his safety, even when safety was a lie and she was just a kid who couldn’t do shit to keep herself safe, let alone him.

But no matter how hard Gator had tried, he’d never stopped needing someone to lean on and take him apart and clean out his rust and dust, to put back together again good as new. That’s his curse, the sub in him, which is hard to swallow most days but Billy makes it better. No one does any of that for him like Billy Hargrove does. Even when Gator makes it hard on him, Billy always knows just which way he’s bent and how to fix it. Yeah it bugs the shit out of him, but he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with himself now without it. If Billy left he’d -

Stop that shit! He flinches away from the thoughts, and reminds himself for the umpteenth time that Billy isn’t going to leave him over some dumb shit like a lame birthday gift. He needs to just quit already. Why can’t he make the thoughts stop?

"You've been doing so well lately, Gator. Really making progress in therapy, communicating better when you’re dropping... What happened today?" Dot presses again.

Gator's throat works as he swallows hard. His hands clench the edge of the sink, knuckles going white. He doesn’t want to talk about this but maybe it will help. God he hopes it helps.

"I just... I wanted to get him somethin' special, y'know? Somethin' to show him how much he means to me." His voice cracks slightly on the last word and Dot's face softens. She reaches for him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh honey... Billy knows how much you love him. You don't need fancy gifts to prove that."

"Don't I though?" Gator argues, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. "He does so much for me, Dot. Takes such good care of me, even when I'm a pain in the ass. And, like when am I not a pain in the ass, huh? You were gonna kick his ass and like send him to the Gulag. How am I worth that?”

Dot laughs, giving Gator's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Listen to me. You are a pain in the ass, but only when you’re trying so hard not to be the sweet, kind, and wonderful man I know you are. You're a good boy, Gator. You always have been. And yes, at first I was worried when I found out your Saftey-Dom had a thing for you. Who wouldn’t be?”

Gator shrugs away her very good point - doms who are employed to counsel and provide subs with therapeutic care are bound by a strict code of ethics. Billy could have been in deep shit if anyone other than Dot had found out about their relationship before Billy stopped being his therapy dom.

“I kissed him Dot, and he never let it happen again while I was still just a case.” Gator laments. “That’s what I’m talking about though, all I could do was think with my dick - meanwhile I could have seriously fucked up his life. And he still took care of me!”

“He did. Which is what convinced me he’s the best thing for you.” Dot says. “It’s because he loves you for who you are, flaws and all."

Gator shakes his head, jaw tight. "You don't get it, Dot. I'm not...I'm not good like you keep saying. The shit that goes through my head sometimes…”

He trails off, shame burning hot in his gut. He can't even bring himself to say it out loud. But with Dot he doesn’t need to.

She was there through the worst of it. She’s seen the worst of him. Shit Billy knows about, but hasn’t seen. Hasn’t really lived it, the way Dot had to live it, and maybe that’s why Gator’s been fucking everything up.

Maybe he’s trying to see once and for all whether or not someone who isn’t trauma bonded to him will stay once they see him for what he really is.

"I know I'm fucked up, alright? I know I got a long way to go before I'm anything close to the kinda sub Billy deserves.” He tries to shrug off the admission like the words aren’t sending pain twisting inside him like a knife.

But Dot, perceptive as always, cups Gator's face, turning him back to meet her gentle gaze. "Oh honey... Is that what this is about? You want Billy to collar you?"

Gator's breath hitches. Hearing it stated so plainly sends a jolt through him, equal parts longing and terror. He jerks away from Dot's touch, arms wrapping defensively around himself.

"No! I mean... Fuck, I don't know," he stammers, the words tangling on his tongue.

Dot is quiet for a long moment, letting his confession settle heavily between them. When she speaks again, her tone is thoughtful.

"Have you talked to Billy about this? About wanting his collar?"

Gator barks out a harsh laugh. "No. No fuckin' way. He'd probably laugh in my face if I did.”

Dot's brow furrows, her eyes shadowed with concern as she clicks her tongue in admonishment. "I don’t believe you really think that for a second. That Billy would laugh at you for expressing your needs."

Gator's shoulders hunch, defensive. He keeps his gaze fixed resolutely on the mixing bowl in the sink, watching the dregs of batter slowly dissolve under the running tap. The sweet scent of vanilla and butter hangs heavy in the air, incongruously cheerful.

"I didn't say I needed it," he mutters. "I'm just sayin'... a guy like me askin' for a collar. It's funny right? Like, I’m not some needy bitch who needs a collar to keep from dropping, and I don’t need Billy thinking he gets to boss me around more than he already does. Guy’s an absolute control freak."

"Uh-huh and you love it. I've seen the two of you together. The way Billy is with you... It's special. He'd move heaven and earth to make you happy. To give you what you need." Dot says. Her voice is soft but sure.

Gator swallows thickly, his eyes stinging. He blinks rapidly, determined not to let the tears building behind his lids fall. "Sure. Why hasn’t he done it then? I’d put that shit down in two seconds, but he hasn’t even tried. Y’know?"

And the reason why is obvious. Yeah, there’s the fact that Gator doesn’t need a collar, but even if he wanted one he’s too much work, too damaged.

Dot sighs heavily, like he said the last part out loud.

"Honestly Honey, I think you should think about it from his perspective. With the way you talk about it... He may not realize how much this would mean to you. Billy does a good job, making sense of what’s going on in that squirrel head of yours but he’s not superman. Talk to him.”

Gator grunts noncommittally. Because hell no. He will not be begging his dom to collar him any time soon thanks, but he doesn’t want her to worry either.

Dot says she has to get Scotty home in time to start dinner and he follows her out to the front door where Scotty is waiting with Dot's purse and her school bag. He sees them off with a wave and a promise to attend some talent show at Scotty’s school next week. Dot gives him a kiss on the cheek, urges him to talk to Billy one more time and reminds him that her mother-in-law knows the president, and really can get Billy thrown in the gulag if he really does laugh in Gator’s face.

And then he’s alone. Alone with his thoughts. Which is frankly the best way to be. Gator can think much more clearly about this now that Dot’s not here, reminding him of the past and making him feel weaker than he actually is. He can totally still salvage this situation. He’ll just make the cake really impressive. Like those 3D ones that look like real shit? Billy loves to chill with him on the weekend and watch that show where people try and guess which random item is cake or not. Gator’s usually tied up, plugged or gagged when that happens so his memories are a little hazy - but it doesn’t look that hard. It’s just cake right?

When the timer goes off Gator brings the cake out of the oven.

He whips out his phone and starts scrolling through cake decorating videos on YouTube, determined to find something suitably impressive. His eyes light up when he spots a tutorial for a realistic 3D surfboard cake, uploaded by some fruit calling himself Barry Bakes. He doesn’t really want to take advice from some dude with pink hair, a full face of makeup, wearing a sparkly crop top with the word TWINK encrusted on the front, but the cake is undeniably badass.

"Alright, let's do this," Gator mutters, cracking his knuckles. He fast forwards through the beginning of the video, impatient to get to the good stuff.

First step - carving the cakes into a surfboard shape. Easy enough. Gator grabs a serrated knife and starts hacking away at the layers, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Crumbs fly everywhere as he saws off uneven chunks. When he's done, he steps back to survey his work. It...sort of looks like a surfboard. If you squint. And tilt your head to the side.

Next up - the "ocean" frosting. Gator mixes a batch of blue buttercream, dumping in what is probably way too much food coloring, but whatever at least he softened the butter without blowing up the microwave this time.

Gator continues to follow along with Barry Bakes' tutorial, growing increasingly frustrated as each step seems to go awry. The blue buttercream frosting he mixed up is a garish turquoise color from the excessive food dye. It's also too thin and runny, dripping off the cake in gloopy rivulets.

He blames Barry, that fucking fruit, because if he weren’t so hell bent on turning everything into some kinda innuendo maybe Gator could actually concentrate on what he is doing!

"Shit shit shit," Gator grumbles under his breath, frantically trying to smooth the messy frosting over the lopsided surfboard shape he carved. It's a losing battle. The cake looks like a melted smurf.

Next, Barry cheerfully pipes delicate white frosting swirls and curls to create realistic seafoam on his perfectly smooth blue surfboard. Reminding the audience that big tips are better for piping, and everybody loves a good pipe.

Gator glares at the screen. His own piping bag is loaded with frosting that's somehow both too stiff and too drippy at the same time. When he tries to pipe, it comes out in sad, deflated spurts. He can only imagine what Barry would have to say about that.

"Motherf-!" Gator bites off the curse, chucking the piping bag down on the counter. This was a stupid idea. He's no baker, who was he kidding? He should've just bought Billy a damn gift card like a normal person.

Dejected, Gator slumps against the counter, hanging his head. Failure churns in his gut, sharp and nauseating. He can't give this monstrosity to Billy. He just can’t. Can’t bear to watch him try to hide his disappointment.

Frustrated and embarrassed, Gator gives up on trying to salvage the cake. In a fit of pique, he grabs a spatula and starts roughly shaping the blue frosted mess, not even bothering to smooth it out anymore. He carves angry slashes and gouges into the cake's surface with the edge of the spatula.

Before he even fully realizes what he's doing, the cake has taken on a new, crude shape under his hands - a lumpy, misshapen hand with the middle finger extended in an unmistakable gesture of "fuck you".

Gator steps back, breathing hard, and stares at his handiwork. The hand is far from anatomically correct, with uneven sausage-like fingers and a palm that curves at an odd angle. Globs of sticky frosting cling to the digits in gloopy turquoise clumps. The raised middle finger lists slightly to the side, like it's too heavy to hold itself up properly.

It's possibly the ugliest cake Gator has ever seen. So ugly it crosses the line twice and becomes perversely impressive in its sheer awfulness. A surprised, slightly unhinged laugh bubbles up from his chest as he takes it in.

This is what he has to show for his efforts. This fuck-ugly, lewd gesture of a cake, cobbled together from the dregs of his failure. It suits him.

“Yeah don’t know what the fuck else I expected.” Gator grumbles, despondent. He goes to the fridge to fetch a beer and tabs it open roughly, determined to drink thoughts of the stupid cake away.

He’s not crying over cake like some lame ass. It’s whatever. It’ll probably still taste good, and if Billy doesn’t like it he can throw it in the trash. They’ll order a pizza or something and Gator will ride him till his dick goes numb and call it a night. Happy birthday.

Gator stomps to the bedroom he and Billy share and pulls out the trunk where he keeps his hunting gear from under the bed, because it’s been awhile since he polished his knives and that always helps lift his mood. He takes the trunk out to the living room and gets to work. Ques up his workout playlist on his phone and connects it to the TV so he can put it on blast.

It helps a little. Allows him time not to think. But the time gets away from him, because he doesn’t even hear the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Billy's entrance is marked by the faint scrape of his boots against the hardwood floor as he turns the corner into the living room. He pauses briefly, taking in the scene before him—Gator, surrounded by an array of gleaming knives, his trunk spilling open on the coffee table, and the ear splitting rifts of heavy metal blaring from the television speakers.

A faint smile tugs at Billy's lips as the dom sets down his bag and sheds his leather jacket, revealing the broad contours of his chest hugged by a tight white T-shirt. The room is thick with the scent of metal and leather, a comforting familiarity that wraps around Billy like a second skin. He approaches Gator slowly, noiselessly, his gaze fixed not on the array of blades but on the man holding them as gently as baby chicks.

Billy casts a long shadow across the coach and Gator finally notices him. He jumps up, fumbling the knife in his hands which clatters to the floor. The music crescendos, a dramatic backdrop to the moment. Gator lowers the volume, and whips around to glare at Billy who laughs at the fright he gave him.

“Hey, Baby Gay.”

“Don’t call me that!” Gator snaps. “And don’t sneak up on me. I was like, this close to killing you!”

“Oh?” Billy arches a mocking brow. “Probably shouldn’t have dropped the knife then.”

“Haha. Very funny asshole. You’re lucky I did,” Gator grumbles in reply, bending down to pick up the fallen knife. “You know how sharp one of these babies are? With one o’ these I can cut through the shell on a coconut just like that.”

He flicks his wrist to demonstrate the ease with which he could peel Billy’s flesh off, and Billy gives him this look - like Gator is just fucking adorable - and it’s god damn condescending, is what it is. But it also makes the back of Gator’s neck tingle with awareness, and his dick try to get hard. So yeah.

It’s probably a good thing that Billy’s so distracted anyway. Because swearing at his dom is firmly against their rules on account of the fact that Gator uses it as some kinda defense mechanism to keep Billy at arms length.

Or that’s what Billy said anyway when he made the stupid rule. Gator doesn’t make the rules here, he just follows them.

“I’ll count myself lucky then. I think I’ll get a beer. You want one killer?” Billy asks, already on his way to the kitchen.

FUCK! The Kitchen. Gator remembers too late that he forgot to clean up and do something with that awful cake and scampers after him.

Billy strides into the kitchen before Gator can stop him.

His stomach knots as Billy pauses, his gaze landing on the misshapen dessert surrounded by strewn icing bags, crumbs and powdered sugar. Slowly a grin spreads across Billy's face, and blue eyes sparkle as he turns to look at Gator, where he lingers hesitantly in the kitchen doorway.

"Is this cake trying to tell me something?" he teases, amusement rich in his voice. He leans forward slightly to inspect the cake more closely. "Is this your way of telling me you don’t want to sixty-nine later, or is it a failed science experiment? Hard to tell."

Gator feels heat rush to his face, embarrassment mixed with irritation bubbling in his chest. He knows Billy is just poking fun, yet it stings, tapping into that deep-seated insecurity instilled by years under his father's critical eye.

"Scotty was here with Dot and it gave us something to do. That’s all," Gator mumbles defensively, his words sharper than intended. Then, unable to stop the words from tumbling out recklessly, he adds, "Just thought it would be nice to share, but you don’t have to have any if you’re just going to be an asshole."

As soon as the words are out, Gator regrets them. Swearing at Billy is one thing, but lying to him breaks one of their most cardinal rules. It’s not just about respect; it’s about trust.

Billy’s expression shifts subtly; the playful light in his eyes dims as he adopts a more serious demeanor. He closes the distance between them with measured steps. "Gator," he says softly yet firmly, "That’s the second time you’ve pulled that tonight. Watch it.”

Gator snaps his mouth shut and fumes silently, hanging his head. God, Billy sounds so disappointed in him and it’s worse than he even imagined.He wants to puke.

“Did Scotty really make this?” Billy asks, and Gator can tell just from his tone that Billy already knows the answer, but he’s waiting for Gator to fess up to it. Gator shakes his head, hot tears stinging at his eyes that he blinks away as rapidly as he can.

“It’s for you.” He confesses, feeling a weight lift off his chest despite his overall misery. “I made it for your birthday, and you made fun of it.”

“I did.” Billy acknowledges too easily for Gators liking, but before he can say anything Billy goes on. “I could have handled that better. You’re right. But before we get to that, don’t you have anything to say to me?”

“No. Can’t think of anything.” Gator immediately denies, because how is it fair that he has to apologize for a little white lie when he only did it in the first place because he knew Billy was going to laugh. He knew it.

“Oh?” Billy’s face is impassive but he’s unhappy with Gators answer. It crackles in the air between them. “Do you need a reminder of the rules?"

Gator swallows hard, defiance battling with remorse inside him. He shrugs stiffly, avoiding Billy’s gaze. “Let's just forget it. I don’t need a lecture right now.”

“I’ll decide whether you do or not.” Billy’s tone is calm but carries an undeniable edge of authority—one that sends shivers down Gator’s spine and fear bolting through him all at once. “You know, I was looking forward to a nice night with my boy. Didn’t know I was coming home to a brat.”

Gator ignores the voice inside that screams for him to stop stop stop, barreling ahead in desperate angry defiance.

“Fuck you and what you want! Maybe I want a boyfriend who knows how to lighten up huh? Sorry I’m not your perfect little bitch. Go cry about it to someone else!”

His insides shake from the fear and lingering tension. Gator has just royally pissed off his dom. It’s in Billy’s eyes and the slow exhale of breath he takes. Punishment is inevitable. Gator longs to take it back but he can’t - can never take it back - and nothing will fix it. Or fix him. He’s all wrong inside and nothing works no matter how hard he tries.

But the thing is, Billy is safe.

Billy is angry and Gator is terrified and trembling but It’s nothing like it was before, in his father’s house. When the fear of a hand went bone deep and lived in his nightmares.

Gator loves Billy’s hands. They way they touch him. The way they hold him fast and glue him back together. They’ve never let him down those hands, which is why Gator is shaking like a leaf right now, terrified that they won’t reach for him.

He didn’t yell those things at Billy because he wants more space. It’s stupid, he knows, but he yelled them because he needs Billy to take over. He can’t stop himself running full speed ahead toward a punishment. Billy will straighten him out. He can trust Billy to know what to do even when he’s lost sense of which way he’s turned.

Gator’s dom considers him for a long moment, the silence stretching taut between them.

“Go in our room and get me a paddle.” Billy finally orders. Then, deliberately turning away, he starts rummaging through the kitchen cupboards - no doubt in his mind apparently that Gator will obey him.

Of course he does. Knees shaking, Gator stumbles out of the kitchen because now that he’s driven them to this point his skin is crawling with the need to make it right. He’s aching with the need to be good so bad his knees feel like jelly and it’s everything he can do just to follow the order. He wants to hit the floor - go to his belly and plead for his dom’s forgiveness but that’s not what Billy asked for.

He will be good. He’ll make Billy forget that mouthy idiot who talked back and clearly had shit for brains. He can be such a good boy. The best boy! Just give him a chance and he’ll come wagging his fucking tail.

It’s pathetic.

But it’s also a relief, when he returns to the kitchen a few minutes later with a paddle from their toy chest and sets it on the table and Billy acknowledges it with an approving nod.

“Good boy.” he says, and Gator’s knees buckle. He catches himself on the table, holds himself up with palms pressed firmly to the wood because Billy hasn’t told him to kneel yet. He forces himself to focus on Billy as the dom takes an empty glass vase inexplicably sitting next to a bag of rice on the table, and places it on the floor between their feet.

Gator watches warily as next, Billy grabs the open bag of rice and tilts it sending a stream of white grains cascading down onto the tile. He stops when the bag is empty and kneels briefly to stir through them gently with his fingers before straightening and meeting Gator’s eyes again.

“Pants off.” he orders, and Gator sucks in a breath. He doesn’t have to ask why, and doesn’t bother, cheeks hot with shame as he reaches for his belt and gets to work.

"On the floor," BIlly commands softly, when Gator is down to his underwear. The dom points to the pile of rice on the floor.

"Kneel."

And Gator folds like fucking cake batter, sweet sweet relief coursing through his veins. He puts himself at Billy’s feet where he belongs, where he wants to be and shudders, biting his lip to stop himself from begging for the dom’s touch. He hasn’t earned that. Doesn’t make him want it less, but he can be good for Billy and prove when he remembers how.

Billy picks up the paddle that Gator chose – sleek and dark, crafted from polished walnut. As Gator settles on his haunches, head lowered in submission.

“You picked the heavy one. My favorite.” Billy remarks. “That why you picked it, or do you just really need to feel it tonight? You can answer.”

“Want to feel it.” Gator licks his lips. “Want you to be happy.”

“Good boy.” Billy says, leaving Gator to wonder which he is pleased with: that Gator wants his ass beat so raw he can’t sit or Gator wanting those things because they please his dom?

“Alright Baby, are you listening? I want you to pick those up and put them in the vase. Count each one,” Billy instructs, motioning toward the scatter of grains. His voice is firm. It brooks no argument.

Gator looks down at the nearly indistinguishable mass of tiny grains and feels a rush of frustration. "All of them?" His voice is a mix of incredulity and unease. What if he can’t do it? What if he can’t be good and Billy is disappointed in him again?

“Every last one Baby boy," Billy confirms with an implacable nod. “Don’t think about it. It’s not your job right now to think. Just do what I ask you to do. Can you do that?”

Gator takes a deep breath, steadies himself on the sound of Billy’s voice and nods. He can do that. He can follow Billy’s instructions. He doesn’t have to worry about ho much rice there is or whether he can even find it all. That’s not his to worry about. Not his place. He just has to listen.

He reaches out shakily to touch the closest grain, his voice barely audible as he starts, “One… two… three…” His fingers tremble slightly; counting each grain feels like an impossible task. But Billy never sets him up for failure - not the way his dad used to. Billy doesn’t ask him to do things he’s not capable of just to fail. He asks Gator for things he knows he can do, and if he fails anyway it’s because Billy wants to be there when he breaks. He won’t leave Gator laden with shame and misery that will eat away at his insides.

As Gator focuses on the rice, Billy steps behind him. Without warning, he brings the paddle down gently but firmly across Gator's backside. The sound cracks sharply in the air, followed by another count from Gator's lips that judders from the impact.

“Four… five…”

Billy administers each swat in time with Gator’s counting—methodical and paced.

The pain is not harsh but it accumulates with each slap—the stinging warmth spreading across Gator’s skin contrasting starkly with the coolness of the floor beneath his knees and hands. Tears prickle at Gator’s eyes as he continues—his voice breaks around “twenty-nine… thirty…”

It’s more than just physical pain; it's a release valve for all he’s been holding inside. Every impact sends ripples through him, but it’s not just his body. It does something to his soul too that he can’t explain. Something he no longer wants to deny.

“Let it out,” Billy murmurs close to his ear between paddles—a soothing contrast to the sharp swats.

“Thirty-one… thirty-two…” The numbers start blurring together as sobs hitch in his throat. The task which seemed merely frustrating at first now feels poignant— slowly, bit by bit, Gator cleans up the mess on the floor, and swat by swat Billy cleans up the mess inside. He doesn’t hit Gator after every grain, that would be excessive. He takes breaks at interment periods, spacing them out so that it’s impossible for Gator to try and guess when he might start up again. The fresh sting whenever he does is brutal, worse in some ways than if he had just continued until Gator’s cheeks were numb.

“Two-hundred and ten…”

Billy pauses, placing his hand gently on Gator's shoulder as he surveys his progress.

"You’re doing well," he encourages softly, and that little praise, that nothing bit of touch, is enough to break him. Gator chokes on a sob, hot tears spilling down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them in.

“Keep going.” Billy reminds him and Gator nods emphatically, tears dripping off his chin, because he hadn’t meant to stop. He was doing so well. Billy said so. He’ll never stop. Not until Billy tells him too.

With shaking hands Gator pinches grains of rice between his fingers and continues to count aloud between sobs and hits from the paddle—each number spoken is more than just an acknowledgement of rice grains; but of his submission to Billy.

Billy’s little murmurs of praise and sounds of pleasure make him feel high. Like his head is floating in the clouds.

He loves subspace. Wishes it were easier for him to reach and he didn’t have to be taken down so hard. But finally he feels the familiar edges of it and the tears fall faster as he lets himself go.

Gator sinks into the feeling of weightlessness as it rises up to take him. Billy maintains a rhythm that is both firm and considerate, attuned to Gator's responses—his body language, his breathing, his blown out pupils and slurred speech.

This is no longer about punishment. It’s a guided breakdown.

As Gator’s cries begin to subside into quiet murmurs and his ability to speak leaves him, Billy lessens the intensity of his strikes until he stops altogether.

“That’s enough. You were beautiful Baby.” Billy halts Gator’s hands woozly still trying to lift rice and the sub sags against him. “You’re always so good for me baby boy.”

He brushes his fingertips along Gator's heated skin, tracing the raised welts along his buttocks and thighs softly, and making him shiver. Gator’s mouth stretches in a dopey lopsided smile, beaming from inside and out. He soars. Works his mouth to ask Billy to do it again - he can take more - but can’t get past the mushmouth.

The room is heavy with the scent of sweat and leather, the only sound now the quiet thud of Billy’s heart and Gator’s shaky breaths.

Hands roam over Gator’s back and legs, soft, soothing caresses that glide over his flushed skin. Billy leans close, his breath warm against the nape of Gator’s neck, whispering reassurances that float through his head like feathers.

The shift is gentle, a tender transition as Gator's breathing evens out and his trembling subsides. Billy’s hands are confident, knowing exactly where to touch to bring Gator back from the intense high of subspace. With each calculated stroke on his back and whisper against his ear, Gator feels the ground slowly come back under him, the weightlessness dissipating as reality takes hold once more.

Billy finally eases back, giving space for Gator to gather himself in the afterglow of their session. He cups Gator’s face tenderly, wiping away the trails left by tears with his thumbs.

“Talk to me, Gator. What’s been eating at you?”

The use of his real name pulls Gator further out of his dazed state. He blinks slowly, focusing on Billy’s concerned face, grounding himself. “I... I’m scared,” he admits, voice still hoarse.

“Scared of what?” Billy probes gently, petting the long side of Gator’s hair now.

“I’m scared I’m not enough for you,” he confesses, dropping his gaze to where their fingers are entwined. He knows the words will hurt Billy. Make his dominant frown in the middle of his brow and start thinking of all the ways Neil Hargrove used to tell him he was a waste of space - too broken and wrong to ever take proper care of a sub. Nothing could be further from the truth. But if there’s one thing Gator knows it’s daddy issues and how they can haunt you.

But to his surprise Billy’s expression doesn’t change. He just nods quietly, still petting Gator’s hair. “Why would you think that?”

Gator hesitates, lips parting but no sound coming out. He swallows hard and shrugs.

“Listen to me Baby.” Billy says after a moment, fisting Gator’s hair between his fingers and tugging until he brings his eyes up. “You’re what I want. You. Even when you’re being a greasy dirtbag leaving your shit everywhere and blaring your candyass music.”

“Hey, lay off my Skyfire man.” Gator can’t help but smile, because Billy’s lips have curved up in amusement and they’ve had this argument a dozen times or more and it just makes him feel so good, that Billy pays attention to which albums he gravitates to depending on his moods. “They aren’t candy. Fractal is the best album produced since Reign In Blood.”

“Why are we talking about fucking Slayer, or Skyfire, right now when Ride the Lightning exists?” Billy growls, tugging on Gator’s hair until his scalp stings just the sweetest bit. “I should beat your ass again just for that.“

“Yeah. If you wanna.” he pants, eager, and Billy’s smiling mouth kisses him, hot and hungry. Billy licks into Gator’s mouth, possessive and sweeping, until he whimpers. The dom nips at his plump lower lip with a grin before pulling back.

“Don’t think you realize how sore you’re gonna be when you come down off this high babe.” He says. “But you heard me right? When I said I loved you? Cause I do. I wasn’t about to lose you before over shitty timing, and I’d never let anything take you from me now. Not Dot. Not him. Not anyone or anything. Okay?”

Gator shivers, but even the mention of his father can’t intrude on the blanket of safety Billy has woven around him, the sure way his gaze holds Gator and rings with truth.

“Yeah.” he sighs, breathless.

“Yeah?”

But it’s not good enough, according to Billy’s tightening grip. And fuck that feels good. Gator is suddenly aware of how hard he is in his briefs, but it’s strangely distant. Like he’d be happy to just sit here hard for another hour or more, letting Billy play with him.

“Yes Billy.”

“Good boy.” Billy's voice is soft, infused with a warmth that seeps into Gator's bones, coaxing his tight muscles to loosen.The room around them—their living room with its deep blue walls and plush gray couches— disappears momentarily, focusing all existence on their intimate bubble.

Billy lifts Gator’s chin so their eyes meet. "Nah nah, stay up for me Baby boy. I need you present." His thumbs brush under Gator’s eyes, rubbing warmth into his skin while he waits for Gator’s eyes to focus. "I think it’s time I show you something," Billy continues, when Gator’s gaze is clear once more.

"In the bedroom," Billy instructs softly, "In my sock drawer, there's a small white box. I want you to go and bring it to me."

Gator feels a jolt run through him. It shocks him rather unpleasantly back to reality, like he’s been dropped from a short height.

“Wait what?” he tries to ask, tries to think, because Billy can’t be hinting at what his muddled brain is trying to convince him he is. Can he?

“Shh. Don’t ask questions.” Billy warns. “And absolutely no peeking either. Just go get it.”

Gator’s movements are slow and automatic as he stands and makes his way down the hallway. This isn’t happening. Well obviously it is, he is on his way to their bedroom to open Billy’s drawer - which is strictly hands off unless he has permission - and get some mysterious box. But it’s probably like some new toy they can enjoy together. Maybe Billy went out and finally got those chains Gator found on that web store, the ones with the studs that dig into your wrists the more you struggle? He’s going to feel so owned wearing those. It’s gonna be great.

He’s convinced himself down off the ledge by the time he gets to the bedroom, but his heart hasn’t gotten the memo because it starts going double time in his chest as he reaches for Billy’s drawer. It slips open smoothly under his fingers which are trembling slightly. From fear or excitement, he isn't sure.

Inside lies a small white box, unassuming in its simplicity yet Gator just stands there and stares at it like it’s a bomb for a full minute before lifting it from its nest among Billy's socks. The weight of potential futures presses down upon him as he clutches the box in his hands.

He should be a good boy. He can just turn and go back into the living room and - Fuck it! Gator’s not kidding anyone. Least of all himself.

Before he knows it, Gator has torn off the ribbon and lifted the lid on the box to peek inside.

And there lies a beautiful black leather collar, its surface smooth and flawless except for the bold engraving of 'GATOR' studded across it in shining silver letters.

Gator stares at it in disbelief, eyes flooding with fresh tears. His heart trips over itself in his chest, thrumming against his ribcage like a caged bird desperate for flight.

The room is silent except for the sound of Gator's shallow, ragged breathing. Gator runs his fingers over the cool, shining letters that form his name, the studs scraping against the pads of his fingers sending tingles through him.

He lifts the collar, feeling its weight in his hands. It's heavier than it looks. He brings it closer, inhaling deeply—the leather smells rich and earthy. It’s the good shit. Supple and strong enough to take some serious pull, and yet the inside of the collar is lined with soft velvet, ensuring his comfort.

Something white resting on the blue lining of the box catches Gator’s eye. It’s a folded card, its crisp edge nearly taller than the sides of the box. Gently plucking it up, Gator flicks it open and scans, eyes widening at the one word message inside.

Peeker!

An unexpected burst of laughter escapes him as he wipes away tears. The simple word on the card speaks volumes, but so does Billy’s presence in their bedroom doorway where Gator finds him leaning when he looks up.

Billy is gazing at Gator with an intense mixture of emotions.

"Do you like it?" he asks, and there’s something like worry there. As if Gator might actually have shit for brains and do all that stupid stuff he’d told Dot he’d do back when he was scared shitless. All because he’d convinced himself that Billy wasn’t true - that he’d disappear like every other good thing has.

“Yeah.” Gator sniffs through his red nose, rubbing fiercely at his eyes. “Shit man. How long have you had this?”

“Since right after your birthday actually.” Billy confesses with an easy shrug. Like he isn’t just standing there admitting that he bought a collar for Gator and has been hanging onto it since September.

“Billy! It’s fucking March!”

“I know! I thought if I forbid you from going through my drawer eventually you would. I know what you’re like.” Billy said. Meaning of course he knows that no matter what, Gator eventually messes up.

But Billy says, “I guess I underestimated what a good boy I’ve got, huh?” with this soft look in his eye, like he’s looking at the best sight in the world and not his fuckup boyfriend standing in the middle of their bedroom in his tighty-whities.

Gator might be melting a little, which is why he has to sit down heavily on the bed before he crumples.

“Hey Billy?”

“Yeah, Babe?”

“I’m your sub…” Gator begins and Billy laughs, the sound loud and full of joy instead of mockery.

“No shit?”

“Come on, Billy please. Don’t be mean.” Gator whines, lifting the hand still holding the collar wordlessly and Billy finally takes pity on him and crosses the room to take it from him. Gator trembles, straightening up and bending his neck a little to give Billy room as he claps it on. He gasps a little, shuddering when Billy leans back and the heavy weight settles against his skin.

"You’re my sub," Billy repeats with finality."With or without this. But when you wear this, I want you to remember," he pauses for effect, letting his fingers softly caress down Gator’s neck and over the dark leather. "You’re my gift. The love you give me, makes me Gator, and I thank whatever lucky stars I’ve got that you came into my life when you did. Okay?"

A simple nod is all Gator manages in response; it’s all that’s needed. The smile that spreads across Billy's face is radiant—as if a piece has clicked into place within him too.

Carefully, lovingly, Billy cradles his chin and pulls him into a kiss.

It tastes sweet… like buttercream icing.

#billy hargrove #gator tillman #billy x gator #gator x billy #caligator #dot lyon #fargo season 5 #stranger things #fizzi writes caligator #collaring #dom/sub #tw: mentions of abuse

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steve-thehair-mamabear · 1 year ago

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Every time someone full-throats 'Dom!Gator Tillman' I die a little inside.

I mean...

#gator tillman #fargo season 5 #joe keery #gator tillman apologist #this boy is as dom as much as I am straight #daddy issues #abandonment issues #toxic masculinity #toxic men #my oc #touch-starved gator tillman

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robthegoodfellow · 1 year ago

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Picturing Billy in his early 50s crossing paths with Gator and seeing right through his bullshit macho posturing. Billy viscerally recalling himself in a similar position way back when and knowing the exact make and model of this stunted brat—and knowing exactly what he needs.

#i have #thoughts #more thoughts #age difference dom/switch billy bratty sub gator thoughts #if these two met as young people it’d be explosive #love that too #but what if they met at the ages they’d be in 2019 #billy with the benefit of years #what then #billy hargrove #gator tillman #caligator #may december

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xirayn · 1 year ago

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Fargo s5 e8 spoilers under the cut

Roy turns on the lights to the underground tunnels 'just in case' and in scenes from the next episode, we see Gator feeling his way through the tunnels. So -

Dot finds Gator, blind and broken and scared, and he leads her through the tunnels to safety.

Agents Joaquin and Meyer wanted Dot because she know all the players and they thought she could flip them, specifically calling out the son or the ranch foreman.

Well, now they have the son and what point does he have? Information. He is the snake in the garden providing access to knowledge of good and evil; Oedipus Rex killing his father by providing the FBI everything they need to bring the Tillman legacy to an end. Roy would rather have his name die out than have Gator carry it? Wish granted.

In doing this, the boy struggling to grow in the shadow of his father becomes the man who brought his family's sins to light.

#fargo fx #fargo s5 #gator tillman #And then Indira doms him into being a good boy

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doks-aux · 1 year ago

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*steeples fingers* Perhaps... Monty and Glamrock Bonnet?

#i simply think he should get dommed by a tiny girl #Mongomery Gator #Glamrock Bonnet #Monnet #that's what I'm calling it for now #Five Nights at Freddy's #Five Nights at Freddy's: Security Breach #Freddy In Space 3: Chica In Space #shipping #animatronics #mildly nsft #in the tags at least #FNAF

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steebharringt0n · 1 year ago

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not my ass already concocting a gator tillman x catholic school girl!reader story 🫠

#joe keery #gator tillman #this man screams dom #it will be sinful (pun intended)

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yandereloveraw · 2 years ago

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My Moondrop self insert had a brilliant idea on how to show that my Sundrop self insert is off limits xD

#my art #self insert #fnaf moondrop #fnaf sundrop #collar and leash #dom and sub dynamic #monty gator #monty fnaf sb #montogomery gator #master and pet dynamic #sub wearing a collar #minors please dni

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fifteen-grains-of-salt · 2 years ago

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Part 1 of a series involving my beloved characters. Make sure to check the tags!

#montgomery gator #glamrock freddy #montgomery gator/glamrock freddy #fnaf smut #dom/sub #crying during sex #fnaf security breach #bottom montgomery gator for the win

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strangererotica · 9 months ago

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ENTER THE DEN OF SIN …👇

art the clown x reader

art was here ✨devil in the details✨the art of fucking ✨miles county haunt✨blood lust ✨santa’s little helper ✨santa’s little helper part 2✨art the clown x reader x hitachi ✨afterkill

cooper adams x reader

headcanons (nsfw) ✨red flags ✨ your attention ✨my other cooper fics are posted on my exclusively cooper/trap blog @thebutchersbitch

steve harrington x reader

lesson learned ✨april showers ✨ delirium ✨ need ✨ dinner for one ✨ drain the snake ✨ baby-making weather ✨ honey ✨ afternoon delight ✨ brunch ✨ after party ✨campsite conception ✨ whiskey with a stranger ✨in the shower with steve ✨kitchen floor ✨toxic ex ✨head✨help with dessert✨nsfw thoughts✨good boy

josef (creep, the creep tapes)

episode one: billie ✨episode two: breakfast✨episode three: the game

james logan howlett (wolverine) x reader

primal fuck love ✨ swallow

joel miller x reader

definitely good ✨hands on✨five more minutes

jim hopper x reader

hopper’s sin part 1 ✨ hopper’s sin part 2 ✨ hopper’s sin part 3 ✨ under cover ✨ love spell part 1 ✨ love spell part 2 ✨ nsfw alphabet (hopper) ✨ dolled up part 1 ✨ enemies to lovers (hopper) ✨ hot lunch ✨dolled up part 2 ✨golden and alive ✨wrong✨backseat, backdoor

william afton / springtrap x reader

sick fuck ✨freak on purpose

steddie x reader

two holes, one dom ✨ wet as sin ✨the devil in hawkins ✨ two towels ✨love and treason (gladiator au)

eddie munson x reader

get off ✨bark ✨ devil eyes ✨ it’s wetter inside ✨motel sex

steve, eddie, hopper x reader

dealer part 1 ✨ dealer part 2

anthony bridgerton x reader

intensity ✨ soaked ✨ soaked part 2

mike schmidt x reader

just tell me when you’ve had enough ✨visiting mike late-night at freddy’s

gator tillman x reader

tight fit

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justmeinadaze · 2 months ago

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Hey could you write a fic with a chubby plus size reader with Gator Tillman and Michael (Hoard) plzzzz

As you wish... 😘

Push & Pull (GatorXMichaelX Plus Size Y/N)

Warning: Plus size Fem Y/N, Sub/Dom dynamics, degrading (whore, slut), bondage (handcuffs), praise, light spanking, dirty talk, jealous, possessive (kinda toxic) boys, aftercare with a fluffy ending (I guess lol)

Word Count: 1710

Your wide lust filled eyes shifted between both their angry frames as Gator and Michael towered over you while you remained bound with your hands behind your back on your knees.

You had known both men for years but you wouldn’t exactly call them friends which was part of the reason you agreed to this causal relationship the three of you found yourselves in occasionally.

One drunk night, flirty glances, and a few orgasms in the back of Gator’s cruiser led to an understanding that you were semi friends with all the benefits.

You three barely even spoke when you met up but you picked up little tidbits from the dirty talk during. In your small town, the officer loved having the power to wield his badge wherever he wished but within his own home however struggled with any kind of control. When he fucked you, he always had you pinned in some way. Whether it be holding your thick wrists above your head or positioning you on your stomach so he could lay his muscular, lean frame on top of your curvy, plump figure as he roughly pounded his hips into yours.

“You like that don’t you, little slut. You don’t touch me. I control you. You cum because I allow it. I could fill you up and leave you a needy mess. Fuck, baby. So fucking pathetic aren’t you?”

Michael was slightly the opposite in the sense that he could still be forceful and rough but it leaned more towards passionate than anything else. His thick gorgeous hands would constantly roam your body until he was close to his release, clinging to you as if you would disappear.

“Mmph—fuck. That’s it, love. So fucking beautiful… I’m gonna fill this pussy cause I know she needs it, yeah. Have me leaking out of you as you struggle to walk…feelin’ me for weeks…”

You love it; loved the push and pull of your dynamic with them. Anytime they needed you, you were there whether it be in the middle of a workday or 2 am, you opened yourself willing for them and thanked them for the pleasure.

There were no rules on seeing other people. Hell, you saw them with women all the time and said nothing. So, when Gator yanked you out of your dates car after pulling him over, you were completely taken off guard. Even more so when he handcuffed you and brought you to Michael’s house instead of the police station.

As soon as he dragged you in, he tossed you onto the floor where you found yourself now.

“What were they doing when you found ‘em?”

“Driving. As soon as they left her house, I pulled them over. You think I’d let him get very far with her in the car?”

“Wh-what’s going on?”

“Wh-wh-what’s going on?”, Gator mocked. “Why didn’t you say you were going on a fucking date? Didn’t think we’d catch you?”

“No? I didn’t think about it. We didn’t set that rule—”

The officer roughly took hold of your bicep and tugged you to your feet before shoving you against the wall where both men crowded your space.

“Look at the little whore here. Really went all out with the tight fucking dress that shows off her tits.”

“And the overwhelmin’ smell of perfume.”, Michael added as his nose pressed to your neck. “Or is that your cunt I’m smellin’?”

Pushing open your legs, his hands roughly slipped under the damp silk of your panties and his eyes widen playfully as he glided his fingers between your folds.

“Oh yeah. Little girl is so wet.”

Gator’s own fingers took hold of your cheeks, tilting your head to face him.

“Is that because of us or that pathetic boy who picked you up tonight?”

“You.”

A firm palm slapped your face makes Michael chuckle as he crumbled the bottom of your dress to lift it higher up your curvy frame as his thick digits pressed into your tight entrance.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Y/N.”

“I’m not. I p-promise—fuck—I’m not.”

“Then why the fuck were you with that asshole?!” When you took too long to answer, he smacked you again and his friend smirked as he felt your pussy clench at the action. “Answer me!”

“He asked!”

“Oh? Is that all it fucking takes, you little whore.”, Gator growled as he gripped your hair and walked you to his bed where he threw you on to your back.

Michael climbed onto the mattress above you and yanked off your dress while the officer ripped apart your panties leaving you exposed for both men.

“You want to act like a little slut, baby, then we can treat you like a fucking slut.” After tossing his vest and gear to the side, you listened as Gator messed with his belt buckle and shimmied his pants to his ankles before grabbing your chunky thighs in his massive hands to pull you closer to him.

The obscene sound of him spitting into your cunt fills the room and you moan loudly as he aggressively guides his cock inside of you setting a brutal pace.

“Open.”, Michael commands as he taps your lips with his own dick and you oblige as the salty taste of his precum hits your tongue.

“Fuck—look at her. That’s right…take our cocks like a…good…little…whore!”, Gator growled, slamming his length deep inside you between every word causing your eyes to roll as the other boy does little thrusts of his own as he slides effortlessly along your flat tongue. “Do y-you think he can take care of you as well as we have?!”

When you try to shake your head, Michael’s fingers cling to your hair as both boy’s seem to match frequency, pumping into you at the same time causing you to clench and choke over them both.

“Good—good girl.”

“You’re ours. Do you understand?” The time between the other man pulling out and Gator’s patience is short as he grips your chubby cheeks roughly between his fingers as his hips roughly pound into yours. “I said do you understand?! When I ask you something you fucking answer, little girl.”

“Y-Yes, Sir. I-I understand…oh—”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare cum yet. We’re in charge of you and we decide when you get to cum.”

“Please…”, you whimper, feeling his stern eyes scan over your face as you struggle to control the need to let go. “I’m sorry.”

“Cum, baby. Squeeze my fucking cock when you do.”, the officer whispers as his upper half falls flat on top of you.

You do as he asks, now with permission, and your body trembles underneath him as you come undone. Palms splayed out above your head, he rolls his hips till you feel them sputter and his spend warm your insides.

You wait patiently for it…the pull that follows the push.

After Gator tenderly kisses your cheek, he moves out of the way to allow Michael to maneuver you however he wished. Once you both were further up the mattress, he clung to your back and spun you around till you were on top of him, straddling his waist.

Lifting your body up with your knees, he held his shaft for you as you gradually sunk down onto his length.

“Mmph, fuck.”, Michael groans as he balances his palms on your hips to help guide you as you steadily begin to bounce. “Fuck, you feel so good, babe. Why would you even want someone else?”

“I-I-I don’t.”

A palm spanked your behind making you wince and on impulse, you picked up your pace.

“Liar.”, Gator scolds.

Emphatically, you shake your head as you feel the coil begin to wind once more within your belly.

“You never—mmph—never…”

“Never what, love. Tell us.”

“You never…t-truly m-make me…yours.”

Falling into the nook between his neck and shoulder, you inhaled the man’s cologne and cigarette smell as his hold on your waist tightened and he thrust up into you as you groan in his ear.

Michael overwhelmed your senses as he pumped his cock firmly inside you at a rigorous pace.

“P-Please, baby, fuck.”

“Yeah? Cum for me, sweetheart.” Holding you tightly to his chest, a string of ahs leave your lips as the coil snaps and your pussy quivers around him. “Fuck, pretty girl. That’s it.”

Continuing to whisper small praises, his grunts of pleasure soon follow as his release spills inside of you.

As soon as you feel the metal fall away from your wrists, you shakily push up onto your knees as Michael adjusts himself to a sitting position.

“Jesus, Gator. I fuckin’ told ya we need to stop using your deputy issued cuffs.”, he huffs in annoyance as he takes hold of your wrist and displays the little indents in your skin.

“She’s fine.”, he replies lightheartedly as he takes your hand and guides you to the shower.

Once you’re clean and in one of Michael’s large tank tops, Gator places you between them before quickly checking his phone to make sure no one on the force had called or needed him.

“I see you with girls to.”, you blurt causing them both to glance your way. “I assumed it would be ok to go out on a date because…you’re also seeing other people.”

The officer blinks as he sighs, placing one of his arms behind his head.

“My dad schedules dates for me. ‘Suitable women to start a family with’ he says.”, the man growls as he rolls his eyes. “I fucking hate it. They are so goddamn boring.”

“Same, kinda. Michelle thinks I need ta settle down.”, Michael adds as he turns to face you.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”, the man countered making you smile. “We’re allowed to be shy, love, but…we do like you.”

“A lot.”, Gator confirms. “We weren’t sure you would want to even be seen with assholes like us.”

“Speak for yourself, mate.”

You giggle at their banter as both men smile at the sound. Scooting towards the officer, you rest your head on his chest as you tug Michael’s arm around your waist.

“I don’t mind being seen with asshole’s like you.”

##########

Gator Masterlist/Buy me a Ko-fi! ☕

This is my first Michael story so I dont have a masterlist for him :P

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 months ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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muldermuse · 1 year ago

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Naughty List (Gator Tillman X F!Reader)

Gator comes round to reader’s house on Christmas Eve to get his gift.

This is in the two sinners world.

18+ only!! Smut ahead!!! Fic includes sub!Gator, dom!f!reader, oral (f recieving), mentions of wax play and piv sex, teasing language, use of restraints, dry humping, use of underwear as a gag, mentions of spanking with belt, panty kink????, brief aftercare. Reader fucking loves being mean to Gator hahaha I love her (me).

This is the completed version of this lil ficlet. And apologies, I was going to post it on Xmas day but I was too drunk and merry to edit and write. I’m not 100% with this one but it was fun fun fun. Like all the two sinners stuff is. Thank u all for reading and engaging with the series. ❤️ u all.

Ok seeing Gator on Christmas Day is out of the question. He’s spending the day with Glenda and Roy reciting their favourite psalms and thanking the lord for a bountiful Christmas. Glenda goes all out at Christmas, it’s obviously her favourite holiday and she constantly updates her Facebook with pictures of a content looking Roy and an exhausted looking Gator. No doubt, Glenda will have made him a piece of her artwork and bought him some novelty socks. He’ll smile at her and press a kiss to her cheek but you rejoice in the knowledge that thoughts of your Christmas Eve are running through his head.

[sent at 13:30] You: got your Christmas present at my house. Door will be unlocked for when you finish at 6. I’ll be upstairs 🎁

[received at 13:42] Gator💩🐍: am i on the nice list?

[sent at 13:43] You: no. See you at 6 💋

***

His Christmas present is you- OBVIOUSLY. But it’s a version of you that Gator only really gets when he begs and even then, you don’t always give it him. He asks for this when you eat his ass or when he’s had a week of getting non stop shit from his daddy or Glenda.

He wants you to turn him on that much his brain switches off.

He wants you to be in control and dominate him.

You’re wearing a red lace set with garters and pointy red heels. It’s nearly pitch black by the time Gator arrives. You’ve left one lamp lit downstairs to guide him up but, honestly, he knows the layout of your home like the back of his hand. In the bedroom, your curtains are open with the twinkling of outdoor Christmas lights provide occasional flickers that illuminate your white linen bed sheets. A cinnamon candle is glowing by the door and nearly blows out when Gator enters as dramatic as ever.

You’re sat at the end of the bed waiting for him and you smirk as you take in his expression- seemingly enthralled by your red look.

“Crawl to me, baby” your voice is low and by the way Gator drops to his knees without hesitation and a look of relief on his face- you already know how tonight is going to go.

He’s slow in his movement, keeping eye contact with you as he crawls towards your open legs and stopping a few inches from your panties. His eyes are fixed on the damp spot on your red underwear and his shuddering breaths are filling the room. You run your hands through his slicked back hair as you try not to recoil at the unnatural feeling of brushing your nails through hair gel.

“Y’wanna taste?” He looks up at you with the most love sick eyes you’ve ever seen, he nods slowly as he brushes his tongue over his bottom lip. You grip his hair in your hand as you push him into your panties, “make me cum with my panties still on baby- y’don’t deserve to taste properly just yet”. He groans as he pushes his face further into your pussy. He’s messy with it and you can feel his spit dripping down between your legs. It feels so good and the knowledge that he’s desperate to please you brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Take my panties off and make me cum on your tongue Gator, don’t let me down” you throw your head back on the bed as you feel Gator rip your panties down your legs and throw them across the room. He’s that desperate to make you cum he’s moaning into your pussy as he eats you out and you know he’s palming himself over his cargos. Your back arches as you clamp your thighs around Gator’s head and cry out as you cum.

He’s pressing hot kisses to your thighs as your pussy clenches around nothing, you can feel your breathing begin to regulate again as you come down from your high. Your hand smoothes over his ruffled hair, “that was so good Gator. You did such a good job…good to know you can do something right”. His smile drops at your final sentence. On trembling legs you head over to your closest to get the box that Gator both wants and dreads. The box is full of sex toys, restraints (some crudely made and some from a hidden sex store in town) and things that you’ve seen at a local store and thought could be fun and sexy. Jax has contributed to the box, he bought some candles and teased you for hours by slowly dropping hot wax over your chest whilst fucking you softly. Gator was devastated when he found out and had begged you to do it to him the next day. You weren’t as gentle and he fucking loved it.

You can hear him kicking off his boots and unzipping his cargos.

“Did I tell you to get undressed?”

“No but uh- I thought…”

You softly kiss him, tasting the remnants of your cum on his plush lips. “Don’t think baby, I know how hard that can be for you. Just lie on the bed dressed how you are now- hands above your head”. Your voice is authoritative and Gator never wants to disappoint you when he’s in this headspace.

As soon as his hands are placed at your headboard, you click pink fluffy handcuffs around them and make sure that they are tight. There’s something about the sight of your local Sheriff tied to your bed with novelty pink handcuffs that you love. You’ve taken a picture before and when you really want to fuck with Gator you’ll send it to him when you know he’s working with his daddy. You look at Gator, a silent check in to make sure he’s okay and he replies with a quick nod. He looks fucked out already, his lower face is red from the lace rubbing against it and his usually perfectly placed hair is disheveled. He looks desperate and that’s exactly how he wants it. You retrieve your panties from the floor and sit over Gators clothed cock.

“D’you really think you’re on the nice list this year baby? Can you tell me anything nice you’ve done for me?”

You slowly start to grind against his hard cock. When you look down, you can see a wet spot of his pre cum soaking through his cargos. You can feel him thrust up to try and get some friction to his achingly hard cock. You quickly rise so he gets nothing.

You grip his cheeks so his lips purse out “this isn’t good boy behaviour, Gator”. You inch closer to his face, “if you move again without my permission, you can fucking crawl home to her and fuck your fist to thoughts of me like some pathetic fucking loser”.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’m f- I’m so sorry” he can’t think straight. His hands are in tight fists at the top of the bed and the sound of his breath filling the room. In and out. In and out. Probably trying to slow his breathing so he doesn’t cum when you start to grind down on him again.

The red underwear is quickly pushed towards his face. “Can you smell my cum baby? You were so good at doing that. Y’want another taste?” He nods as the balled up fabric is shoved into his mouth. You watch in awe as his eyes roll back whilst the makeshift gag stifles his moan. Rotating your hips slowly, you start to rock against his hard cock.

“Y’know when Jenson was round here a few nights ago. He left his belt, he was desperate to get his pants off as soon as he came in the door”. The fabric of Gator’s cargo is beginning to feel damp, you know it’s a mix of his pre cum and your arousal covering his work pants. It feels so good for you so you can imagine Gator’s getting close to cumming. His eyes are locked onto your body, watching your hips steadily swirl against him. “I was thinking I could use his belt on you, maybe could’ve bent you over the bed and used it to spank you”. His eyes screw shut and you can’t help the laugh that slips out. His body is stiff with tension underneath yours.

“Gator,” you chide, voice high and mocking “are you gonna cum thinking about me using some guys belt on you? Thinkin’ about me punishing you?”. He thrusts up and rather than backing off him you press your pussy harder against him. Rocking your hips back and forth on his cock and hearing him whimper through the lace underwear in his mouth. You lower your lips to his ear as you order him in a whisper to “cum in your pants before I send you back to your girlfriend and daddy”. He thrusts one final time against you and moans loudly as his eyes screw shut. His hands are in tight fists as he pulls off from the headboard and breaks the handcuffs into two pieces. With his now free hand, he pulls your underwear out of his mouth with staggered breath.

He’s cum in his pants; the already dark fabric now a darker colour around his crotch. His hands are covering his eyes with the broken restraints around his wrists like pink fluffy bracelets. You hear him curse under his breath as his breathing starts to normalise. He’s usually a bit vulnerable when you take control so you’re more affectionate than usual. Normally, after he cums you’re both in a hurry to leave, not wanting to stay in each others vicinity to enjoy the post orgasm bliss. It has to be different when it’s like this and you both silently know it. He sits up on the bed and you get in his lap again, slicking his hair back down and helping him get out of the now broken handcuffs. You press a soft kiss to his forehead and he grips your hip as a wordless thank you.

Before he leaves, you hand him your panties with the smell of his spit and your orgasm still on the fabric. He smirks as he tucks them into his back pocket.

On Christmas evening, he sends you a picture of his hard clock with your panties wrapped round it. It immediately turns you on as you can picture the scene. Glenda and Roy will be asleep in their rooms as Gator is fisting his cock with your underwear. His lip will be red from biting with him trying to keep his moans from slipping out. He’ll be thinking of you and it makes you feel fucking great.

[received at 23:49] Gator🐍💩: [image attached]

[received at 23:49] Gator🐍💩: best Christmas present this year

#gator tillman fanfic #gator tillman fic #gator tillman smut #gator tillman #gator x reader #gator tillman x fem!reader #fargofx #fargoedit #fargo #fargo fx #fargo season 5 #fargo s5 #roy tillman #joe keery smut #joe keery x reader #joe keery #gator Tillman x reader #two sinners works

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yourfavoritewitchbitch · 1 year ago

Text

Gator Tillman x Fem! Reader

Valentine's Day Blurb from the Badge Bunny AU

Valentine's Day is one of your favorite holidays! You're a little bratty when you think things aren't going your way. Gator takes matters into his own hands.

Special thanks to @starksbabie for all your help! 😘

18+ Only! Minors DNI!

Warnings: Reader is referred to as "Bunny" or "Bun". Fluffy and sweet moments. Porn with plot. A little bit of Dom!Gator/Sub!Reader. Spanking. A hint of orgasm denial. P in V (wrap it before you tap it). Creampie.

Word Count: 3K

Valentine's Day was a few days away. One of the few holidays you secretly enjoyed.

That bitchy facade you carried around melted away this time of year. You'd had boyfriends in the past that went all out. Roses, fancy restaurants, some nice jewelry.

In no way were you expecting that this year. Gator was not a mushy, lovesick puppy that followed you around. He was very rough around the edges, but he could surprise you with how gentle he could be.

You weren't even sure if he remembered what day it was, having to remind him when Halloween was this past fall. Maybe it was the way he was brought up. Roy only recognizing Christian holidays in his household when Gator was a child.

Henry was letting you decorate the bar to your liking. Paper hearts on walls. Red and pink garland strung about.

He just shook his head putting some more glasses away as you hummed to yourself hanging another paper mâché heart from the ceiling.

It was a slow lunch giving you plenty of time to decorate.

“What do ya’ think, Henry?” You called over to him.

“I think it looks like some lovesick fool threw up in here, but it could be worse.” He chuckled, heading to the back once more.

It was then your lovesick fool walked in the door, the little bell above his head announcing his arrival as you caught his eye. Grin plastered across his handsome face at seeing you.

“Hey baby!” You shouted, climbing down from the ladder to meet him, throwing your arms around his neck for a hug and a quick peck.

“Hey sweet thing.” He had his arm slung around your waist, keeping you close to him. “Look at this place. All your doing, huh? Bunny has a heart after all.”

He laughed as you batted his chest, moving out of his grasp.

“Oh stop, you'll ruin my reputation saying shit like that.” You moved to go get him his usual Mt Dew as he sat in a booth.

“No Andy today?” Sitting the soda in front of him as he grabbed a straw from the front of your apron.

“Nah, he's off. Takin' his fiancé away for the weekend.” You nodded, thinking it must be nice.

You'd secretly held out a little hope he might surprise you with something.

The 14th rolled around. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. Picturesque. No snow today and the sun was shining.

You'd slept in. Gator saying that he had something to do a little later but kept tight lipped about it, as usual.

You eased out of bed, letting him sleep in a little longer. You'd been waiting to surprise him all week.

You made heart shaped pancakes, burning the first few and throwing the evidence promptly into the bottom of the trashcan. Hoping like hell you didn't set the smoke alarm off ruining the morning.

Adding chocolate chips to his and fresh strawberries to yours, they were finally done.

You'd just finished setting the plates down when you heard your bedroom door finally swing open. He grumbled, making his way down the hall.

Sleep mussed hair sticking up and across his forehead, eyes barely open, blinking when he noticed the table was set.

“What's all this then?” He asked, with a groggy voice.

You smiled, “It's for you. Happy Valentine's Day!”

“You did all this for me?” He grinned, looking over the table and looking back at you. Your hands splayed on your hips, thoroughly proud of yourself.

He rounded the table, pulling you in by your hips kissing you softly.

“I'm so glad you didn't burn the house down.” Chuckling as he pulled away.

“Shut up.” You giggled along, pushing him toward the table. “Sit down, before it gets too cold.”

He immediately grabs the syrup, eyes twinkling like a kid on Christmas morning, smothering his cakes with the sticky sweetness.

It made you wonder how many times growing up he actually got to indulge himself as he took the first bite, humming around his fork.

“Bunny, these are fuckin' amazing.” Humming, around another mouthful.

You smiled, as you dug into your own plate.

He wolfed down a second helping before cursing to himself after checking the time.

“Fuck. I've got to get a shower.” He huffed, putting his cleared plate in the sink, kissing your cheek before heading down the hall.

That blissful little bubble you created burst. Duty calls… again.

“I love ya’ Bun. See you this afternoon.” Kissing your cheek once again and he was out the door, while your hands were deep in the sink washing the dishes from this morning.

You typically had Sundays off to laze about. This one was no different. Tidying the house up a bit before watching a little reality TV to pass the time.

You definitely weren't trying to distract your thoughts of Gator leaving without so much as a cheesy card or even a box of chocolates for you. You'd seen half expected one of those gas station roses that were actually thongs rolled up to look like a rose. At least that would mean he actually thought about it.

It's a stupid, made-up holiday, right? At least that's what you kept telling yourself.

You'd grown a little more frustrated as the day went on.

You finally got a text from him a couple hours after he left.

Should be back in about an hour. We have the afternoon to do whatever you want.

You just responded with a quick “sure,” leaning back onto the couch cushions making yourself more comfortable.

The rumble of the truck engine pulling in woke you. You’d drifted off after texting him back, finding the couch much too comfortable and the TV a relaxing background noise.

He shot through the front door, immediately clocking your messy hair and half lidded eyes.

“Take a nap, sweet thing?” Coming over, rubbing his knuckles across your cheek.

“So, what if I did?” You grumbled.

“You're always grumpy when ya’ wake up.” Planting a kiss to your forehead. “Did you wanna go out later?”

“No.” You shook your head, running the back of your hand across your eyes.

“No? Thought today was your favorite?” He grinned.

“Yeah, but you don't seem to care about it so neither should I.” Throwing the blanket off you, as you stood.

He rolled his eyes, letting a hard breath out through his nose, knowing exactly where this was heading when you'd sent that text.

“So that's it, huh?” Following you down the hall. “Thought I just forgot about it? Bunny, you should know me better than that by now.”

You huffed a laugh. “Do I? Not so much as morning fuck? I mean I thought I would at least get that. You jump at any chance to get your dick wet any other day. No stupid holiday needed.”

“God, you are such a fuckin' brat when you don't get your way.” He grabbed your arm, making you turn to face him. “I had some shit to do. I couldn't just bend you over the table and fuck you over the pancakes, could I?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, refusing to look at him even as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

“Bunny, quit with the fuckin' attitude or I'll make you quit.” His voice was a little more gravely, going straight to your core knowing exactly what that meant.

A game you usually liked to play. Pushing his buttons until he caved, being a little rougher than usual. Spanking your ass until you were welted, then railing you into oblivion.

“No Gator, I'm not in the fucking mood for your shit right now.” You tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he held you tight.

He leveled his gaze, “Oh, but I bet you are. Bet she's already drooling f’me. Need me to bend ya’ over my knee? Give you somethin’ to whine about?”

His hand traveled from your lower back to your ass, grabbing a handful before pulling off coming back down with a harsh smack.

“Ahhh, Gator!” You arched forward, hands planting firmly on his chest. You looked up when he hissed at the contact.

“What was that?” Running your hands across his clothed chest. He grabbed your hand, keeping it in place.

“Maybe if you weren't bein’ such a whiny ass, I would show ya’. I uh… I got a little surprise.” He grinned, crooked smile that you adore plastered across his face.

“Show me then.” You whispered. “I'll be good. Promise.” Looking up through your lashes, doe eyes he couldn't resist.

“Fine.” Stepping back, removing his jacket.

His fingers reached the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, your eyes trailing his toned stomach up to his chest. His left peck was partially covered at the top.

“You got a new tattoo?” You deadpanned. This is what he had to do today?

“Yeah. For you babe.” He lifted the tape at the edges to slowly reveal his new ink. Bunny was written there with a Playboy bunny graphic.

“Really Gator?” Voice showing no hint of amusement.

“What? You don't like it?”

“It's not even my name. At least I have your name. And the Playboy bunny? Seriously?” You laughed out, but when you looked back at him, he almost looked hurt.

“It's what I call you. You're my Bunny, that's never going to change.” He huffed out while you were still laughing. “You know what, I'm done with this fuckin’ attitude. Bend over the table.”

“Now.” He added, when you didn't move.

Shit. You knew the tone. You'd pushed too far.

“Gator, I…” You stopped when you looked back into his eyes that were almost black.

“Bend. Over. The. Table. I'm not going to tell you again.” There was a glint in his eye, followed by a devilish smirk.

You quickly nodded, padding over quickly. Planting your hands firmly on the wooden tabletop as you bent at the waist, pushing your ass up into the air barely covered by your sleep shorts.

His boots loud against the linoleum flooring as he came to stand behind you. Close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him but barely grazing you.

He brings his large palm to rest on your cheek, kneading it softly only for a moment. You knew it was coming.

He landed one hard smack, jolting you forward, the edge of the table already digging into your thighs as you let out a soft moan.

He quickly slid his hand back over your ass, soothing the burn slightly. He bent over to get close to you, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he spoke.

“You wanted this, huh? A heavy hand and a hard cock fixes you right up, huh sweet thing?” He kisses your temple before continuing.

He slid his fingers underneath the waistband of your shorts pushing them down past your thighs as they pool in the floor around your feet.

You knew the drill, as you leaned over dropping to your elbows to brace yourself anticipating another heavy blow that didn't come. Instead, you rocked forward when he ran a finger up through your folds.

You let another wanton moan slip past your lips as his thick digit circled your entrance.

“Fuck, you're soaked,” pushing in slightly, before moving it quickly away. “You didn't think it'd be that easy, did ya’?”

Another hard smack to the other cheek.

“Fuck Bunny, how many you need? 10 more? 20?” You whimpered at his words.

“I… I don't know, sir.” Your voice came out a little weak, already sounding wrecked.

“Fuck, she's got manners.” He growled. You used that title sparingly, but he fucking loved it. Hearing “sir” roll off your lips in that sultry tone made him weak in the knees.

“We’ll do ten since you're being such a good girl. Count em.”

“Yes sir.” You hummed, as he laid one more smack to each cheek.

“Two.” You huffed. The welts were already forming.

“Three.” You bit your lip briefly, distracting you from the sting.

“Four… mmhmm five.” A tear rolled down your cheek.

“Six. Fuck.” Your nails dig into the surface of the table, trying to grasp anything to ground you.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.” In quick succession, as your legs started to give out, knees buckling as your thighs shook.

One last smack sent you reeling.

“Ten.” You choked out.

“That's it baby. Now, let me take care of you and this pretty cunt.” He said, undoing his pants taking his aching length from its confinements.

Pulling your hips up, he gave you no warning before his cock was nudging your sopping entrance. He pushed in slightly before completely burying himself to the hilt in one swift motion. There was no resistance with how wet you were.

“Fuck, Gator.” You hissed out but arched your ass further into him. The sting of being stretched out so suddenly, almost borderline painful, had a few more tears running down your cheeks as your pussy clenched around him.

“Fuck, always so goddamn tight. Fuckin' pussy was made f’me.” He pushed you down, hand between your shoulder blades, cheek now resting on the cool surface of the table.

He pulled back, only to snap his hips immediately back into yours with such force the table scooted across the floor.

He set a brutal pace, your moans were high pitched and whiny. The angle had your ass further in the air and his cock hitting that sweet spongy spot with each thrust. You knew you wouldn't be able to hold back your orgasm if he kept going.

Your arousal was dripping down your thighs, and coating his balls that were slapping at your puffy clit with each rock of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls in the small space.

“Sir, please. I'm going to… Can I please… “ you were begging, as it was building. That pressure slowly creeps up your lower belly, tingling up your spine.

“No, Bunny!” He growled, fingertips digging further into your hips pulling you back in time with his thrusts.

“Gator, I'm… I can't.” You sobbed, trying to pull in a deep breath.

“No, baby just wait. I'm… fuck … almost there.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip, as your pussy began to clench around him.

“Gator, please, fuck…” you cried out.

“Come on Bunny, come on my cock.”

No sooner than he got the words out, the damn inside you broke. Clamping down around his cock, as he began to fill you full. Your eyes were shut tight, fireworks exploding behind them.

Your walls pulsed around him, milking every last drop, as he let out a string of incoherent words before collapsing against your back.

“Goddamn Bunny,” he panted as his cock kicked up within you one last time making you whimper.

He gently moved off you, removing himself, holding your hips steady as you got your feet under you. You knew you'd feel this one for a few days to come.

He pulled you up, as you wrapped your arms around his neck completely blissed out, eyes half lidded as he smoothed the hair from your face.

“Feel better?” He chuckled lightly.

“Mhmm… much.” You hummed.

“Good, sweet thing. Now go take a fuckin' shower and get dressed. I've got a surprise for my girl.” His grin grew wide with your confused expression.

“You really thought I'd forget Valentine's Day? After everything you did for me? Everything you do for me?”

You smiled, looking down at his new tattoo.

“Thought this was my gift?” you giggled, tracing just under the new ink. It was endearing. He wanted to match what you'd gifted him this past Christmas.

“Part of it, yeah. Now come on.” He pecks your lips, before dragging you down the hall.

You showered, examining the angry, hand shaped welts on your ass in the mirror, knowing it would be a pain to sit on any hard surface for a couple of days, but it was worth it. You just smiled to yourself, wrapping a towel around you.

You were standing in front of the mirror when he came to stand in the doorway, watching your after shower routine.

You could feel his gaze as you met his eyes through the mirror.

“What?” You smiled up at him.

“Just thinking how pretty y’are. But I feel like something's missin’.”

He moved his hand from behind his back revealing a small velvet box.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

“What's that handsome?” You tried to speak evenly though your heart was beating so hard you thought he might hear.

“Close your eyes.” You gave him a pointed look. “C’mon. You'll like it.”

You slid them closed, as he walked behind you. You felt the coolness of a thin chain come to rest on your collar bones. You breathed just a tiny sigh of relief, as he clasped it to, kissing your bare shoulder.

“Perfect.” He said as you opened your eyes, a tiny gold chain that held his initial “G” hung delicately around your neck as you examined it thoughtfully tracing the small letter with your fingertip.

“You don't like it?” He deflated a bit when you didn't say anything.

“It's perfect baby.” You turned around pulling him in for a kiss.

“Promise?” He pulled back, slightly, lips ghosting yours.

“Promise.” You giggled.

“Good, since you won't let me knock ya' up, at least this way everyone’ll know your mine.” You rolled your eyes, hand batting at his chest as he laughed.

“God, you're ridiculous.” Pulling him in by the collar for another kiss. “Ruining a perfectly sweet moment with that damn mouth.”

He let you finish getting ready, then drove you to the little diner you frequented weekly. Sharing a couple of burgers and milkshakes, it was the perfect way to end the day.

“Happy Valentine's Day Bunny.” He grinned, catching the glint of his initial on display for all to see as he held your hand from across the table.

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