let the good times roll
girldad!scott miller x female wife reader
summary:
Convincing Scott to settle down in his hometown of New Orleans, Louisiana, was nothing compared to convincing him that you and Ruthie Jean would be fine at your very first Mardi Gras.
(again, reader has no physical description, but it's still implied that reader breastfeeds. no use of y/n. in my lore, scott is from louisiana, so this is a taste of that while also fulfilling a request. thanks a million to @kryptidfiles on all the help i needed with this one. wouldn't have done it without you!)
Word Count: 2.7k
Having grown up in Louisiana, Scott Miller had a difficult relationship with his hometown. Being Roman Catholic was just one of those things that came with the territory, just like eating rich foods and having jazz reverberate down most streets. But moving to Cambridge for school meant he left a lot of Louisiana in Louisiana. Scott fought his accent tooth and nail at first, soon settling into a neutral lull. There was no way he could convince people he was from up north, but they didnât have to know just how deep south Scott came from. It followed him into his professional life as well. Other than the times he flexed his high standards for particularly âCreole-adjacentâ (he would never give the poor imitation the satisfaction of the true label) dishes when Storm Par made their way through the southern plains, Scott being from Louisiana never even came up. That was until he met you.
Scott wasnât always sure what it was about you that made him want to open up and be vulnerable with you, but he knows now that it was your innate need to connect with people you care about. So, when you first started getting to know him during one of Storm Parâs nights off at a random dive bar, Scott had no problem feeding you bits of himself through grumbles and poorly hidden smiles. You always made him feel comfortable enough to be himself. The moment you heard that rich southern twang in his voice, you couldnât even bother to pretend it didnât make you absolutely melt. He, Scott Miller, blushed and ducked his head, trying to hide underneath the bill of his cap. Before he could even give that an honest attempt, however, you ripped the cap off and gently tugged his hair to bring his head back up. From there, he was gone.
Years later, you and Scott are married and have settled in a beautiful home with your daughter Ruthie Jean in New Orleans. After long debates on where to plant your roots as a family, youâd finally convinced Scott that living in Louisiana with so much culture and history nearby was enough. Having his family in the same state was also a massive incentive, with you two planning for kids someday. So, when Ruthie Jean was born, all pink and wrinkly with her strong and adamant cries, Scott was so relieved knowing at least his daughter was growing up in a place he knew well; well enough to protect her most efficiently, of course.
Ruthie was born in July, just two days after Scottâs birthday. He always reminded everyone that she was the greatest birthday gift heâd ever gotten, and he always showed you his appreciation. However, having a birthday in July meant that Ruthie was a little bigger when she got to experience the holidays earlier in the year. Being only six months old for New Year's Day meant that Ruthie got to sit in the living room with her parents, showing off her newfound ability to roll over from her back to her tummy and stand on her feet with their help. Then, she got a particularly rich fill of breast milk with all the snacking you and Scott had done that day and well throughout the recent holidays. Next was Valentineâs Day, and Scott spared no expense. It was a dream come true to spoil you rotten, showering you with affection and appreciation as well as gifts and luxuries you seldom allowed yourself to indulge in. Now that he had a beautiful daughter, he had two special ladies to spoil in his life. Armed with Ruthieâs favorite teething wafers and a darling plush toy flower, Scott was excited to have the two of you to dote on every February, and every other month of the rest of his life. Valentineâs Day evening, Scott took Ruthie from you so you could treat yourself to some quiet time as you got ready for dinner. He got Ruthie Jean ready to even his own mamaâs standards. Her beautiful dark curls were carefully tied in the most darling little bows that matched the tutu red dress Scott bought just to surprise you tonight. Â
Then, just days later, it was Ruthie Jeanâs very first Mardi Gras. It had taken weeks to convince Scott that the three of you should go. He was so adamant that Ruthie was too little and too fragile; that you two could try again next year. But, damn it, your husband was from New Orleans, and now your daughter was too! Once you gave him that look, he sighed and relented. There was no use continuing the fight after you had persisted for so long. Sure, Scott was about as stubborn as men come⌠But he was always softer than butter on a hot day for you. Still, Scott was convinced that Mardi Gras was a disaster waiting to happen.
âWhatâs that?â you asked him one afternoon as you carded through the mail, your eye lingering on a package he inspected with his typical scrutiny and Ruthie in one of his arms.
âMardi Gras supplies,â he hummed casually.
âOoh!â you cajoled with an excited grin. âCostumes? Masks?â
âProtective headgear.â Scott corrected.
âWhat?â
Apparently, infants and children being injured by goodies thrown from Mardi Gras parade goers wasnât uncommon. Scott recalled the time a kid got thwacked by a coconut and fractured his skull as âproofâ that Mardi Gras was far too dangerous for little Ruthie and her soft, developing bones. Once heâd begrudgingly agreed to attend this yearâs Mardi Gras, Scott immediately went researching for a reputable helmet that could fit and protect Ruthie while also dampening the loud noises sure to overwhelm her little ears. Still, when he unwrapped the helmet to show you, you couldnât help but snicker with a disbelieving shake of your head.
âWhat?â he scowled. âWe can go to Mardi Gras, but not without certainty that my baby wonât get hurt.â
âYou canât always be sure that she wonâtââ
âI donât care,â Scott huffed and began his attempt at securing the helmet on Ruthieâs head one-handed, âSheâs still brand fuckinâ new; she doesnât need a head injury or hearing loss any time soon.â
âThatâs dramatic. Sheâll be fine, Scott.â
He wasnât hearing it. Instead, he handed you the baby so he could carefully strap the helmet to Ruthieâs head. The nearly-seven-month-old whined and wriggled in your arms, trying her hardest to escape her Daddyâs hands. Scott managed to get the thing on, and Ruthie Jean looked up at him, a feeling of betrayal clear on her little face. She made an indignant noise through her chubby cheeks being squished together by the helmet. You couldnât help but coo at her and laugh in sympathy, bouncing her in your arms. Your poor daughter had a paranoid protective Daddy, and now she was facing the reality of having to wear a helmet to her very first Mardi Gras.
âScott, itâs ridiculous.â You giggled, looking up at him to see him pouting back at your baby girl.
âOh, donât give me that face,â he grumbled, all too familiar with your brow crease on his daughterâs face. âYour mama couldnât talk me out of it; you wonât either, ma chèrie.â
You melted every time Scott went full-Louisianan on you or Ruthie Jean. It was most common when he visited his family or was particularly exhausted. When he woke up, eyes puffy with sleep and voice rough with exhaustion, that drawl was richer than ever, rumbling against you when he held you close and scolded you for trying to get out of bed. Sometimes, Scott couldnât be bothered to put on his facade around you or Ruthie. Those moments came more and more regularly as your relationship continued to evolve. Back when you were just dating, you could tell that Scott was hiding parts of himself from you. Not just to impress you, but just as his own defense mechanism. Watching him get more comfortable just being Scott, the man you love and the most amazing father to your beautiful baby girl, had been such a privilege and honor.
Luckily, by the time the three of you were already heading toward Bourbon Street, youâd convinced Scott to at least leave the helmet in the bottom of the stroller for the time being. Ruthie was already particularly fussy that morning, and sheâd given him enough of a pouty lip and big wet eyes for him to relent. A particularly solemn little âDadaâŚâ sealed the deal. But he made it known that the second anything flew in the air, that helmet was going on her head. He was already on thin ice with her for insisting she wear sunscreen despite the February cold, so he relented with his standard frown. Still, she was adorable in her onesie, which announced it was her very first Mardi Gras and the purple, green, and gold tutu wrapped around her soft middle. Scott had already taken about a thousand pictures of her, proud of the bows he tied into her dark curls and eager to show them off. He always loved showing off his beautiful girl. It only took seeing two people stumbling drunk in the daytime for Scott to pluck Ruthie Jean out of her stroller and keep her close to his chest. Scott never liked having you out of armâs reach, and that feeling extended to Ruthie tenfold. At least you were a capable adult; Ruthie was just a fragile infant.
Ruthie Jean looked around the colorful, crowded streets with wide blue eyes and excited squeals, her chunky little legs kicking like crazy. Scott was over the moon to hear and see his darling girl admire the festivities he grew up enjoying, but also starting to get tenser with every tight squeeze throughout the crowd. He was not a fan of the amount of people taking up the same space as his daughter and wife, so he kept pulling the two of you in closer to his chest. You tried easing his stress by rubbing his back or cooing at Ruthieâs happy giggles, but you could tell your husband was uncomfortable. Especially with the number of strangers stopping to coo at Ruthie Jean, Scott was nervous with all the variables out of his control. Someone reached out to drape beads around Ruthieâs neck before Scott immediately ducked back and gave them a look that made them smile apologetically and hand you the beads.
âScott,â you warned as you put the beads around your own neck, âRuthieâs fine; you donât have to treat every person like an imminent threat.â
âYou donât know that they arenât,â he countered with a shrug.
Knowing your husband, you dragged him by the arm to guide him through the crowd. Scott wanted to stop you, but settled for wrapping the arm that wasnât cradling Ruthie Jean around your waist as he followed. He was confident that he was close enough to both of you to step in and protect his family if he needed to. Fortunately, you had done your research ahead of time and knew of Scottâs favorite spots to eat and drink at during Mardi Gras. You continued to lead him into a historic restaurant both he and his mother had told you about before, smiling to yourself in satisfaction when you heard Scott sigh in relief behind you. Something about the familiar aromas and decor paired with the feeling of you looking after him so personally brought him a distinct type of comfort. No one ever saw him the way you did.
Due to your marvelous thinking, Scott relaxed in a booth with you and Ruthie. You ordered him his favorite beer on tap before he even opened his mouth, and he thanked you with a kiss to your temple as you continued scanning the menu. Ruthie was bouncing on her toes on the solid plains of Scottâs thighs, squealing at him with a gummy smile. He was so relieved to be somewhere so comforting with the two people he cherished most, eating food that tasted just like his childhood. You took photos of him and Ruthie snuggling in the booth, making sure to send a few to his mother. The day somehow got infinitely better when you offered Ruthie the slice of lemon provided in your glass of water. Scott watched with delight as his daughter enthusiastically gummed at the lemon slice for a moment, suckling the juice for just a second, before her pudgy little face twisted at the sour taste. Neither of you could help but laugh at her reaction before Scott pretended to get mad because Ruthie pretended to cry. When you just peppered kisses to the babyâs chubby cheek instead of letting her get upset, and her giggles returned, you were happy to feel Scott relax beside you.
Your daughter was content to be drooling on her Dada in any environment, but she adored the environment of the restaurant. Every member of staff and fellow diner who passed by and happened to catch Ruthie Jeanâs eye couldnât help but smile or coo at her as they continued on. Her white onesie was easier to see in the restaurant since Scott let her take her puffy jacket off and people were happy to see her enjoy her very first Mardi Gras. She was drinking up the attention, filling their little corner of the dining room with the most heartwarming giggles and squeals. Then, when the food came, her blue eyes were wide with exhilaration. The smell and look of the delicious food in front of her led to some heated discussions between her and Scott on whether or not she could have some of his plate. It was always as if Scott could speak baby babbles, he always knew what Ruthie Jean was telling him. Thatâs what he insisted, anyway. At first, he didnât want to risk her choking on anything; she was too little. But with enough grunts, smacks, and whines, Scott relented and carefully fed her whatever was soft enough.
âWeâre going to have to bring her here more.â You said mid-meal, already obsessed with the food and atmosphere as well as how much Ruthie was loving it too. âYou can tell this is her Daddyâs favorite place because she loves it here.â
âIâll bring you two here whenever you want, baby,â Scott said to Ruthie Jean but made sure to give you a small smile over the babyâs head. âI wouldnât mind makinâ it a regular thing.â
âAs long as you donât act like everyone and everything around us is going to get us killed.â
âIâll never stop worryinâ about my girls,â he scoffed at the absurdity, taking his hand from Ruthie to take a drink. âThatâs my job, makinâ sure nothinâ happens to either of you. Iâll see that tilâ the end.â
âWeâre fine, Scott,â you reminded him with a gentle smile.Â
âJust let me worry,â Scott exhaled but couldnât fight the way his dimples and sharp canines gave his contentment away. âLet me protect you both.â
âFine,â you relented after a moment, pretending to think for a moment, âAs long as you pick up the billâŚâ
âWho do you take me for?â he scoffed again. âMy cardâs already in your wallet; need me to get it out for ya?â
âNo, I got it,â you grinned and fished his card from your wallet to flash to him, âJust making sure you knew I was using it.â
âYou better be using it. Every dollar I make is for the two of you, you have to spend it yourself until Ruthie Jeanâs old enough to do it with you.â
âYou already spoil her rotten,â you shook your head, âYouâre gonna go bankrupt if you keep giving her such high standards.â
âSheâs never settling for shit,â Scott asserted with a shake of his head, taking another drink, âNeither am I.â
Having grown up in Louisiana, Scott Miller had a difficult relationship with his hometown. But now, it was yours and Ruthieâs hometown too. With the two of you, he was starting to see that New Orleans was a beautiful place that helped shape him into the man he is today. You were his soulmate; you gave him his child, and you brought him back home. Then, as if you couldnât do any more, you dragged him back to Mardi Gras. So, yes, Scott was set on spoiling Ruthie and you rotten. He loved the two of you more than anything, and he was never going to slack off on showing it.
