#feist

You were playing pool at a local dive bar with a bunch of drunks, wallowing in self pity over yet another failed date. The guy had texted much later in the day than you would have liked him too, requesting that you meet here in this crappy town you weren’t even familiar with - then had the nerve to stand you up.

Someone was getting rowdy at the bar, the police were called, and that’s when you met Gator - your world shifting on its axis as you knew it.

“What’s a woman like yah doin’ in this part of town, sweet thing?” He slid up next to you after taking care of the problem he was called in for.

You were about ready to tell whoever it was off, when your eyes landed on him and just about drooled when you realized how attractive he was.

Especially dressed up in that deputy’s uniform - brown cargo pants hugging his thick thighs, black shirt under his tactical gear that was way too small but made his biceps look heavenly.

You liked the way his eyes were trailing you up and down, a smirk plastered to that ridiculously gorgeous face of his.

“Are all the men in your town pigs that stand girls up?” You replied teasingly.

His eyebrows shot up at that, “What kinda prick stands someone like you up?”

“The kind that doesn’t know how to handle me,” you smiled coyly.

“Bet I could handle yah,” he grinned wickedly, definitely way too self assured, but you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t turn you on.

“Oh, you could, could you? Would like to see you try, deputy,” You flirted, flicking your eyes over the corded muscles that ran along his forearms - standing out due to his hands gripping onto the vest he was wearing.

You ended up leaving with him that night - found yourself stupidly falling into bed with him. You expected him to kick you out the next morning, but were thoroughly pleased when he woke you up to a trail of kisses along your neck - asking you to give him a chance to take you out.

Your friends encouraged you to go for it, stating that it was just a fact that younger guys were more confident - which meant more fun, and Gator was one cocky son of a bitch.

What you thought would just be a silly little fling, quickly turned into something more serious, and eventually the ‘L’ word was being thrown around.

Gator adored you - fucking loved that you kept him on his toes, called him out on his bullshit, and thought that your beauty rivaled the moon and stars.

It’s why when you were curled up next to him on the couch one night while watching a movie - crying your eyes out about how sweet the couple in the show was, he went out and bought you a ring the next day.

The rock now sat heavily on your left hand, feeling more like a burden than a gift.

“Ain’t doing’ that,” Gator refuses.

You stare at him in confusion, “You have to.”

“Don’t gotta do nothin’,” he scoffs, turning away from you and walking into the kitchen.

Your lips part in disbelief at his stubbornness, irritation washing over you at the fact that this is now the umpteenth time that your fiancé has refused to participate in your plans for the wedding reception you were working on - near your breaking point over him shutting down each idea you had.

You storm after him, “Why won’t you just do this for me?”

He leans back against the counter, folding his arms defensively, “Shits too girly.”

You swallow hard, willing yourself not to cry, “Dancing with your wife on your wedding day is too girly?”

“Mhmm,” he hums, avoiding eye contact with you.

“What are you going to do instead, Gator? Go smoke a cigar with your lackeys?” You bite out.

“Maybe,” he grumbles under his breath.

You shake your head dejectedly, “Gator, I’ve been to a wedding where the groom ignored the bride the whole evening to hangout with his friends. And you know what everyone was thinking?”

He doesn’t answer, choosing to stay quiet. You wait patiently, hoping for a response, but eventually the ticking of the clock on the wall makes you grow weary of his silence.

“I’ll tell you what I was thinking, ‘why the hell did she marry that asshole’?” You huff out angrily.

Gator laughs sarcastically, “Glad to know that’s what yah think of me.”

You close your eyes briefly, sighing in defeat, “What else am I supposed to think, Gator? You’re acting like this wedding is some big inconvenience to you, and I’m tired of it.”

“Yer makin’ a big deal outta nothin’,” he rolls his eyes.

“Are you afraid of what Roy will think?” You decide to be blunt, because the conversation isn’t going anywhere productive otherwise.

You knew Roy was giving him flack for marrying you - told him settling down with a ‘whore’ like you wouldn’t do him any good.

Gator claimed he didn’t care what Roy thought, but with each passing day that your wedding got closer, he was becoming more edgy and moody than normal. And you couldn’t help but think that it was due to those nasty thoughts his father was putting in his head.

“Not everythin’ is about him,” he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

You frown, “C’mon, Gate. Just be honest with me, please.”

“Dammit, woman! I already told you this ain’t about ‘em!” He spits venomously, voice raising to a yell.

Gator glares at you, and clearly you hit a nerve with the way those pretty hazel eyes of his directs the mean look your way. A gnawing revelation settles over you - making you realize that it’s not his fault that he was raised by a disgusting excuse of a man, but you also can’t fix the damage that’s taken root in his mind.

“I’m done,” you say quietly, brushing past him.

Gator panics, trailing after you and gently grabbing onto your arm, “What do you mean yer done?”

“I love you Gator, but I can’t change you. I’m done trying,” you whisper, pulling away from him and swiftly making your way to your shared bedroom.

He’s hot on your heels, eyes tracking your every move as you dig your suitcase out from under the bed and start to throw your things inside of it.

His jaw tightens, “Where yah gonna go?”

“Don’t know. But I can’t stay here with you anymore,” you mumble.

“Bein’ ridiculous,” he quips flippantly.

It pisses you off how unbothered he’s acting, and the words slip out before you have a chance to think about them.

“Knew dating you was stupid,” you mutter bitterly.

“The hells that suppose’ to mean?” He grits out.

“It means I should’ve known better than wasting my time on a younger guy,” you sniffle, feeling the familiar build up of tears gathering behind your eyelids.

Gator narrows his eyes at you, “Thought you didn’t care ‘bout that age gap shit?”

“I don’t! God, Gator, I’m obsessed with you. But I also want to marry someone and start a family. Maybe for you the timing doesn’t matter, but for me it does. I’m sick of feeling like I’m being strung along when I don’t have all the time in the world to screw around with someone who isn’t ready to commit,” you utter hopelessly.

He roughly starts pulling the clothes you had shoved in the suitcase back out, “Fuck that. ‘M ready to commit.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong. Why are you pushing back so much on everything I ask you to do for this wedding?” You implore, tears finally spilling over.

There’s a flicker of emotion behind that hard expression in his eyes, and for a moment you think he’ll cave - let his guard down and let you in, but it’s erased just as quickly as it showed up.

He shrugs, “Just not my thing.”

“I don’t buy it. There’s something you’re not telling me, and if this is how you’re going to act before we’re married, then I can’t imagine what you’ll be like as a husband,” you reply meekly, hating the hurt that washes over his face at the sharp words.

“Then take that fuckin’ ring off yer finger,” he snaps, tone cold - striking you right in the middle of your tender heart.

You release a shaky breath, “Fine.”

You wiggle it off, half tempted to throw it at him pettily, but instead you place it daintily on the nightstand - turning back to stuff the items that he’d taken out of your baggage back in.

You don’t think you can handle hearing any other words of fire from the man you love, so you remain silent as you continue to pack - hoping he’ll just leave you alone. He watches you for a moment more before exiting the room.

You hear the front door slam, and the steady stream of tears turn into devastating sobs of anguish over losing him - fearing that you might’ve just pushed him away for good.

Gator had never been more miserable in his life than he was without you.

He knew it was his own fault for not fighting for you. Knew that he royally screwed up when he asked for the ring back, the one that he now keeps on him at all times - hidden in the confines of his pockets.

He was keeping tabs on you - discovered you moved in temporarily with a friend, asked to work from home in order to not commute past the sheriff’s office, and his ticket to winning you back; you were planning to go to a wedding as a guest, and his name was still written down as your plus one.

Gator knew you were going to be livid when he showed up, but he was willing to take that risk - willing to set aside his pride because he was in dire need of you to forgive him, even if it meant he had to grovel a bit.

You just about fell out of your seat when Gator dropped onto the chair next to you, dressed up in a black suit jacket with a white shirt snuggly stretched across his chest - matching black dress pants that framed his long legs nicely. Your brain is on the verge of short circuiting at seeing him at all, let alone seeing him looking absolutely divine.

Your jaw nearly unhinges when you see his hair - falling in loose waves outside of that damn hat he normally wears - free of the pomade that he typically keeps it slicked back with. The only other times you get to see it soft and disheveled like it is now is when you wake up before him on slow mornings, or when it dried after a late night shower - letting you run your fingers through the strands lovingly.

The ceremony was being held outside, and the sunlight streaming down bathed him in a soft glow - highlighting the moles and freckles that graced his skin.

“What,” you stutter, “what are you doing here, Gator?”

“Got invited,” he replies, throwing an arm over the back of your chair.

“Yeah by me, and if it wasn’t clear your invitation has been revoked,” you seethe.

“You gonna kick me out?” He tilts his head, lips quirked in a playful pout.

The music cue starts before you can respond, and when you feel his fingers skim along the length of your shoulder, goosebumps blossom along your flesh, and you know you’re about to be tormented from being forced to sit next to him for the next thirty minutes.

You’ve tried to avoid him the whole night, despite the fact that his name card is next to yours. He hasn’t made it easy to ignore him; hands brushing yours when he got you a drink, hovering nearby when you turned to talk to a group of people you knew from college, constantly trying to get your attention.

It’s much later now, and when the bride and groom finish their first dance and open the floor up for couples, Gator stands up, holding out his hand to you - ticks his head in that direction, a silent request for you to dance with him.

“Thought dancing was ‘too girly’,” you snark, mocking his own words.

“Maybe I changed my mind. Now get yer cute butt up and come dance with me,” he commands sternly, hand still extended expectantly.

You glance around nervously at the people watching from your table, not wanting to make a scene or seem like a bitch for turning him down. You sigh, albeit a bit dramatically, and take his hand. The familiar feel of his fingers locking with yours ignites an ache under your ribs - settles weightily in your gut.

He guides you, hands moving yours to wrap around his neck before his own slips down to hold your waist. He starts to lead you, and you feel like you’ve been rocketed into some dream world because there’s no way Gator Tillman is dancing with you after the fit he once pitched to you about it.

“You know how to dance?” You ask, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

He spins you, before pulling you tightly back in, “Been practicin’.”

You startle, “What?”

He smiles wryly, continuing to move with you, thumbs tracing circles against your hipbones, before his hands sneakily glide down to rest against your ass.

“Gator,” you warn, firmly moving his hands back to your waist.

“C’mon, baby girl, you're not being any fun,” he practically whines, the pet name rolling off his lips easily.

You hate the way it still has an effect on you, “Don’t call me that. And stop acting like I’m still yours.”

“You’ll always be mine,” he remarks, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your breath hitches, completely stunned - not knowing who was standing in front of you, but it sure as shit wasn’t the man that was busy breaking your heart just a few weeks ago.

“Wanna marry yah,” he confesses, lips grazing by the shell of your ear.

A wave of dizziness rushes over you, “Where was this attitude a month ago, Gator?”

“You left me. Gave me the biggest fuckin’ wake up call of my life,” he reveals, lips inches from yours.

“I can’t marry a man who’s too afraid to stand up to his daddy,” you blurt, not wanting to upset him, but needing him to know where you stand.

He swallows harshly, shaking his head, “Wasn’ ever about what Roy thought of you, promise. I jus’ freaked out. Don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what? A relationship? Commitment? Because you were doing pretty well with both until you asked me to marry you,” you confide, fiddling with the back of his collar anxiously.

He sighs heavily, “Was worried about messin’ everythin’ up. That I’d be a shit husband who don’ know how to take care of you and what yah need.”

“Gator, I didn’t need you to have it all figured out. I just needed you to choose me,” you admit, hands coming down to rest against his chest.

“Lemme prove ‘m ready now, that ‘m choosin’ you,” he pleads.

Maybe it’s foolish, but god do you miss him, and you relent - yielding to his temptation.

You give a tiny nod, and with that small gesture, Gators drags you out into the dark courtyard - fresh air wafting over the two of you.

He pulls your body against his, leans your back gently against the brick wall, hands reaching up to cup at your face - fingers unexpectedly caressing sweetly along your neck.

You’re longing to kiss him, but want him to know he’s not off the hook for how he treated you.

“You can’t ever act like you did towards me again. You hear me?” You state slowly, wanting it to sink in.

He mouths at the spot below your ear, “I know. Was a real dick to you, baby girl.”

“I mean it, Gator,” you assert.

He hums against you, the sensation causing butterflies to twirl animatedly in your stomach, "And I believe yah, sweet thing.”

Your hands tighten in the fabric of his shirt, “Good.”

“Don’t know what I was thinkin’ lettin’ you go,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

You fight to stay composed, “You weren’t.”

He nuzzles his nose against the column of your throat, plush lips littering marks against your exposed collarbone, “Yer right, baby girl. Wasn’t thinkin’, ‘m sorry.”

You’re sufficiently lightheaded at his touch - own fingers twitching to bring him closer to you.

“How sorry?” You ask breathily.

“So fuckin’ sorry,” he murmurs, lightly biting your exposed skin, tongue soothing the sting and your resolve crumbles - cracking so easily when it comes to him.

You wrench him upwards, eagerly slotting your lips against his. It's messy, desperate, and his lips working with yours is like a balm - soothing the jagged lines that had been stitched across your chest when you left him.

He hooks an arm around your lower back, pulling you flush to him - other hand shooting out to grasp your thigh and hike it up against his. You whimper against his lips when he pushes a knee in between your legs, bringing the two of you impossibly closer.

“You gettin’ needy, baby girl?” He teases, breaking away briefly.

You make a high pitched whine of protest, lips chasing after his - greedily capturing them again before softly sinking your teeth into his lower lip. Gator grunts at the contact, and you take advantage of his mouth parting to ease your tongue against his own, deepening the kiss.

Bursts of white spark behind your closed eyelids when you feel the hand that's wrapped around your bare thigh inching higher.

“Want you,” you tell him, hands slithering down to his belt buckle.

“Hmm, not ‘ere,” he nips at your throat.

“Stop teasing me then,” you hit him lightly in protest.

“Let’s go home, need to get yah out of this tight ass dress,” he palms at your backside.

The way he’s looking at you has your head going fuzzy, desire and lust mixed with something more - an undertone of adoration.

You smile at him, hand coming up to swipe fondly at his chin, “I missed you, Alligator.”

The nickname causes a rare blush to dust over his cheeks - curling up to his ears, but he’d never admit it if you pointed it out.

“Missed you, sweet thing,” he kisses you again, slower this time, a hint of reverence - like he can’t believe he gets to call you his.

When you break apart you pepper his face affectionately with kisses. He complains about you smothering him, but you know he secretly loves it by the weak attempts to get you to stop.

“Take me home,” you conclude with another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

With a swift goodbye to the bride and groom, Gator helps you get settled in his deputy’s truck, promising to get your car for you tomorrow. He opens the passenger door and buckles your seatbelt for you - and he claims you coddle him.

When he pulls to a halt at the next red light, you lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, “Thank you for trying for me.”

Gator drops a hand to your knee, giving it a quick squeeze, “Next time we’re at one of these things, it’ll be ours.”

He fumbles for something in his suit pocket, before pulling out your ring - slipping it back over your finger before pulling your knuckles to his lips.

You thread your hand with his, “And you’ll dance with me?”

“I’ll do anythin’ if it means gettin’ you out of a pretty dress and into my bed at the end of the night,” he says playfully.

“Gator,” you chide.

He snorts, “Just kiddin’ baby girl. Course I’ll dance with yah. Not willin’ to screw this up by bein’ a jackass.”

“Gonna show you just how thankful I am for that,” you tease, delicately palming at the crotch of his pants.

“Fuck me, can’t do that while ‘m drivin’ baby girl,” he groans.

“Technically, you aren’t driving right now,” you smile slyly.

And when Gator pulls the car over to the side of the road because neither of you could wait till you were home, he shows you just how sorry he is - repeatedly begging for your forgiveness. Which you graciously give because while he may have his faults and issues that he needs to work on - he’s the man that you love, and it’s hard to say no to a pretty man when he gets on his knees for you.

Divider credits to @sweetestpeacreates